#I am so long winded sometimes I never get to the meat of the story

[rtnortherly]

Tierney, and Where the Story Began

Recently did a series of polls to decide on my Baldur's Gate 3 Early access character. What we landed on was this:

Tiefling, Trickery Cleric (Tymora), with an Entertainer background.

This is them, as decided by popular vote:

And this is their story, as I have decided. Some of the details might not apply so well once I get into the game, but I have had so much fun coming up with this story all the same. I am already very attached.

(TW: Depression, abandonment, grief)

~ I was born Tierney, in a small hamlet southeast of Loudwater to a solitary trapper who spent more time in the foothills of the Greypeak Mountains than amongst other folk. I grew up understanding the quiet solitude of the vast world around me, and the few times we ventured into towns to sell leather and furs and meat I always found to be bizarre and almost fantastical. The rhythm and closeness of it all seemed almost supernatural to me.

For the most part though, my mother and I kept to ourselves. She raised me alone, but I never felt the absence of other people. The land was too full of life for that, and mother was too good at telling stories for me to grow bored or dwell upon loneliness. Some of the things she would tell me she’d declare were history, sometimes heart breaking and cruel, sometimes powerful and undeniable.

“The bones of our world,” she call them.

Other times the tales she wove were strange and silly, impossible things full of wonder and humour. I would laugh and laugh and insist that I did not believe a word of it and that she could not fool me.

“Why, my little rabbit’s foot,” she would say, winking at me over the fire, or as she set traps, “anything is possible. Don’t you know the world is vast?”

That was before she got sick.

I’d thought I had know solitude before, that it was a comforting friend. Without her I realized what it was to truly be alone. I tried to be like her, I did. I tried to be content under the open sky and among the trees. I looked for serenity in the dirt under my feet, and the nip of the wind across my face. I told myself stories by the fire and as I set traps, sang songs she used to sing. But with no one to rely on except for my own self, the world began to feel a little too big and a little too indifferent and cold.

The twilight caw of the carrion birds began to contort into eery and eldritch scream. The barking of foxes and coyotes began to sound a little mocking and hungry. It was odd to find the shadows of the forest haunting, twisted and dark when once they had been cool and welcoming shade.

And then came my thirteenth winter, not even a year after my mother’s passing. It was a cruel and terrible long freeze. Prey grew ever more scarce, and what I did manage to catch in my traps often got scavenged by other creatures and I found myself more and more often trying to fend off the starving forest creatures, patrolling my trap line in the bitter cold, exhausted and with a constant cough and sniffle.

And then, when spring should have already been easing back the thick snowfall, but was continuing to hide its face, the large cats began to come down from the mountains, ravening with hunger.

I remember going out to check my traps, mind foggy with a fever I couldn’t shake, and stomach hollow with hunger that my dwindling stores of grain could not sate. I remember the blood, the torn carcass, and the low, yowling growl that drifted somewhere between warning and hunger.

I remember thinking that my luck surely had run out that day.

The rest is a blur of snow and fear and branches clawing at my face. The cold burned in my throat and lungs, and my ribs ached with the beat of my heart.

There is no outrunning wild beasts. Especially not as a sickly child, half starved and near delirious from fever. It didn’t matter how well I knew the woods, not with the snow hungrily devouring my awkward, gangly stride. I wasn’t so foolish as to think that climbing a tree would help keep me away from a mountain cat, that I could out last its patience in the cold.

But I ran all the same, and I prayed to whoever might have been listening.

I’m sure it was the luck of the devil that sent my tumbling head over heels down the steep embankment that overlooked a cold mountain creek, frozen over for months. It left me with cracked ribs, a dislocated hip, and a concussion that did nothing for the fever. I was told later that I bounced off of no less than three rocks and four trees, and rolled off a drop of at least eight feet, and I was lucky the snow that had built up over the frozen stream cushioned my fall somewhat. And most of all, I was lucky for Crusoe.

He never would tell me what he was doing out in those woods, all on his own. He’d just wink and tell me how very fortunate I was that he had been. He’d tell me that I was lucky he had been born with a knack for little tricks and magic, and that the mountain cat was too clever to risk a fight with a person who could apparently hurl fire at it. Wild animals are like that. They won’t risk the damage of a fight for a morsel of prey when they’ll have better, surer chances elsewhere.

And then he carried me, a strange and unconscious child who’d all but fallen from the sky back to the nearest town to be healed. It wasn’t an easy process. It took more than a couple weeks to clear the fluid off my lungs, and to keep the fever from coming back. Never mind that I was malnourished and had bones that needed mending. Out in some small hamlet that was still locked in by the long winter there was no magic healing for me. I had to do it the hard, long way. To this day my hip aches in the cold.

As for Crusoe, I don’t know why he stuck around, not really. He was as much a stranger as I was to the little hamlet, supposedly a traveler by trade. He could have left me there, a problem for the townsfolk to solve. Maybe he pitied me, maybe he took one look at the horns crowning my skull, and the dull embers of my eyes, and knew I would not have an easy time fitting in. Maybe it was some noble sense of responsibility that made him want to see me well and looked after with his own eyes. Maybe it was something else, some other thing he wanted to cling on to.

He never spoke of his family in all the years that I knew him after all, and there were times I saw a weariness in his face that made my chest hurt. For all the connections he made, for all the people he spoke to, I wasn’t even sure if he had much in the way of friends. He was always happy to listen, to share a drink and a laugh, but with the exception of the months it took me to heal he never stayed bound to one place for very long.

When the spring finally came, we left together. We’d not discussed it. I just woke up one morning to find that he had packed our things and was told that we could eat on the road. He had seemed to be in a rush, but when I asked about it, he told me that he’d gotten an itch in his feet and if he stayed any longer he thought he would go mad.

Over the course of the next six years we travelled up and down the Sword Coast, drifting from one place to the next. I learned a lot from Crusoe in that time. He was a thespian by nature, and used his talents for storytelling to make his living. He was impressed by my own repertoire of tales, and taught me to expand on that. I learned to change my tone, how to pace my words and adjust the tempo of my speech. I learned to act, to give life to my characters. I learned to breathe from deep in my chest, to project my voice far and wide—something we found my devilish heritage gave me quite the advantage at. I learned how to shift my expressions on a coin. I learned to improvise, and I learned how to listen and remember.

Most of all, I learned to never forget that all the world was stage (that seemed to mean different things to Crusoe, at different times, and I’m not sure I’ve uncovered them all yet).

But then, just as I was about to turn twenty, something changed. I couldn’t quite put my thumb on what gave it away, the moment I truly noticed, but one day it was as if suddenly Crusoe’s stage was a little different than mine. As if he was reading from a script that I did not know, and looking out at an audience I could not see.

Perhaps I’m simply imagining things in retrospect, trying to find some through line, some explanation for the change, but I look back on those times and I wonder if maybe his smile was a little strained, if I caught him staring blankly into the distance, some half formed and frozen expression on his face that I couldn’t understand. When I woke up in the night, on the side of the road, why had he still been awake staring up at the stars, or maybe into the deep darkness between them, so very still that I’d wonder if he’d turned to stone.

I may never know, because I woke up one morning, in a backwater town with an inn that had little more than three rooms to rent, to find Crusoe and all his things gone.

For a while I thought that he might come back so I stuck around, doubtful and confused. After several weeks of telling stories for meagre coin that grew more meagre by the day, I decided that maybe if I hit the road I would cross paths with him. Maybe I’d find him standing in a town square, his eyes alight with mischief and merriment, a hoard of small children gathered around him with faces contorted in awe. Maybe I would find him sitting on a stump by the side of the road, the end of his pen caught between his teeth and ink on his fingertips. He would look up in surprise, flush with embarrassment for being caught. We’d fight. He’d make excuses, and I would sulk and stew in bitterness. Things wouldn’t quite be the same, but we would make it work and maybe I would finally learn about some of his stories. The ones he never told.

Four months later I found him in a small seaside town, emaciated and stuck in a coma in a small church that was little more than a shack with a shrine and a loft. He was being tended to by the young priest and herbalist who tended to the church, and she told me that he had washed up on the shore one morning, covered in strange injuries. The fishermen had brought him to her for healing, but she had not been able to do anything for him, because he was cursed and it was far beyond her abilities to undo whatever fell magic had bound itself to him.

I stayed for a time, fearing he would simply slip away the minute I wasn’t looking. Lorelei, the priest, said that his condition was very unstable, and that he was clinging onto life by only a thread. All I could think of was that look in his eyes as he stared into the space between the stars, and whether maybe that hadn’t been the case for a very long time.

I tried to find answers for where he had been, and what had made him this way, but all of his things were gone, lost to the sea no doubt. The only thing that was left was a a strange metal amulet that Lorelei warned me not to remove, as trying had stopped his heart and forced her to resuscitate him—something she wasn’t sure would work a second time. Other than that, he had a two faced coin in his pocket, which both Lorelei and I determined was utterly mundane as far as our limited abilities could discern.

I sat by his sick bed (I tried so hard not to think of it as his death bed, but it grew harder as time passed and he wasted away more and more), flipping that two faced coin over and over in my fingers, and I talked. I told stories we had told together a hundred times or more. I asked questions that I had always been to afraid to ask. I whispered accusations, and I begged, and I bargained, and I almost gave up hope.

I think I almost would have gone mad sitting there in that chair, if not for Lorelei, who dragged me outside one day to help her with her rounds in the town delivering medicines and checking in on the people.

Maybe it was because it was all I knew how to do, but on one such venture I found myself telling a story to a child who sat by the fountain and stared with sad little eyes at the other kids and fiddled with the pinned up legs of his empty trousers. And then I told another one, and another, and at some point I might have cried.

It was nightfall when I stopped, the parents coming out and urging the crowd of tiny faces that had collected around me to return home breaking me out of my daze. Across the way, Lorelei looked on. She came and sat next to me and we spoke for a time, late into the night, far away from Crusoe’s sick bed with the stars shining down on us both. We spoke of many things, and many of them were very embarrassing for me, fears that had snaked along my thoughts since my mother had left me, but had bared their fangs since Crusoe had left.

And so Lorelei told me about faith, and she talked to me about chance, and she talked to me about fate. And then she slipped the coin from my fingers with a tiny little grin, and tossed it into the fountain and told me that at the end of the day, it was all a gamble. It was just up to us to rig the odds.

I can’t say when my path found me. It simply happened gradually over the the following years, as I helped Lorelei with her duties during the day, and local legends and all many of accounts regarding vile magics during the day, hunting for a solution. It happened gradually, with every coin I’d toss into the fountain, and every late night by Crusoe’s sick bed pouring over books and texts I’d uncover from the church’s lacklustre library, or buy from travelling merchants. It happened on my short forays to nearby towns as I chased rumours and hunted for scholars and arcane practitioners. It happened with every bruised knee and rattling cough I watched Lorelei tend to.

It happened with ever fragile bit of faith I cultivated in myself.

It happened with every time I held on to Crusoe’s hand and thought of all the things I would say when I got him to wake up.

It’s been more than six months since I have seen him last. I found a lead, and I will chase it down, come hell or high water. Lorelei will keep him alive until I return, and when I do, I’ll wake him up, and we will tell each other our stories.~

#writing #creative writing #character background #baldur's gate #baldur’s gate 3 #game character #bg3 #bg3 mc #dnd character #cleric #tielfling

[library-of-ohara]

How would the straw hats react to reader being a mind reader? Please and thanks

Request by @cyborg-franky

Sanji Sanji is sweating because every time he has an intimate thought about you or anyone else, he can feel eyes on him. You glare and he fidgets under the intensity of it, wondering if you will blurt out the dirty thoughts to anyone else.

Every time he thinks it’s safe to think about how good the woman at the bar would look without their dress, he has to stop himself, turning with a wide eye and seeing you glare at him while sipping your drink. Just ruins the boy’s entire life.

Usopp Another one who just opens and closes his mouth when you are around because after he lies and tells people these big, impressive stories that didn’t happen. You side up to him and ask him why he lied, you are so casual about it too.

Every time he’s about to lie to anyone, you raise an eyebrow, and he just laughs loudly and pretends like it was all fun and games. Now whenever he wants to talk to someone, he literally looks around to see if you are about

Chopper

He is so amazed! That’s a great power to have! He bounces up and down and is just giddy and asks you all about it. You sometimes read his mind and it goes from dumb stuff like ‘I want candy floss’ to something like complex potions to cure all manner of illnesses.

Robin She terrifies you. She’ll be sat there reading a book or just casually sitting at the bar, elbow keeping he propped up, hand on her cheek, her smile just slyly grows as your eyes do when you read what’s on her mind. She loves to mess with you.

She’ll purposely think of something dark or downright filthyand chuckle softly when she gets the reaction, she wants from you.

Nami Oh, you stopped doing that. You completely turn off your power when it comes to Nami, she can somehow always tell when you are in her head, and she’ll turn around with her hand outstretched and tell you the show was more money than you have.

Zoro Zoro’s mind is boring, it’s full of a collection of very ‘Zoro’ things such as booze, hating Sanji, working out and his swords. Plus, Zoro never thinks anything that he wouldn’t say out loud, he’s no fun and he knows that’s how you think and always smirks and thinks ‘nice try’

Franky Franky’s mind gives you a headache if you stay there too long. His face might often say ‘head empty’ but he is always thinking loudlyto himself and has so many projects flying through his head. So many complex designs, schismatics, maths, it’s all very exhausting for you.

Brook Brook doesn’t care if you read his mind so he’s very chill around you, he’s normally just humming inside his mind, and you hate that he can get songs stuck in your head. Like a constant source of the sound, if he’s not humming in his head, he’s humming out loud or thinking about asking if he should ask someone to see their panties.

Jinbei I imagine it’s very serene in there, like a little koi pond with the sound of wind chimes and you just get lost in there until he stubs his toe or something and it’s like a loud internal scream. Same when any of the crew does something stupid and poor Jinbei has to pick up the pieces.

Luffy “THAT’S SO COOL.” He’ll yell at you. The entire reason you’re on the crew was that Luffy found out you can read minds and he needed that on his crew like right now. He’ll sit there and always go “What am I thinking now?.... and now?... and now!!” and it’s always ‘wow that’s so cool’ or ‘I’m hungry, I’m going to ask them to get me meat…”

#authorofohara #franky writes #headcanons #straw hat pirates #nami #usopp #nico robin #cyborg franky #zoro #sanji #jinbei #brook #luffy #soul king brook

[your-highnessmarvel]

From Bleak to Bright Part Six

All other parts on on my masterlist, link provided below.

AN: damn okay wow i REALLY loved writing this part ommggggg

Warnings: angst, language

Enjoyed this and want more? Send in your requests!

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MASTERLIST

PART SIX

You went to bed late, tossing and turning, replaying Loki’s words in your mind like a mantra. He couldn’t eat too. He suffered just as bad as you did. You fell asleep somewhere around two in the morning, clutching your sheets. The dreams took you back to him, momentarily dropping you in a reality you knew could never exist when you woke up. 

The sky was a deep purple - like a bruise - when you woke up. You lay there, staring at the ceiling. You knew sometime during the day Steve and Nat and probably Bruce would listen to the call from Loki last night. You groaned just at the thought, sighing under the covers. 

You got up and showered, mentally preparing yourself for the day. When you got out, there was a missed call from an unknown number. You entered the contact as Idiot, then opened up the messages to text him. You weren’t sure if Loki had bought a burner or a full phone, but you tried anyway.

Stop calling me.

You didn’t wait for an answer. You got dressed in a green hoodie and black jeans, pulling your hair into a ponytail. 

Your phone dinged.

Do you prefer we talk here?

Oh so Loki had an iPhone. Texting in blue texts and all. 

You debated answering, wondering if it would just spur his insanity. You left your phone in your room, deciding that it would only be a distraction. 

You went down to the kitchen, eating breakfast alone, enjoying some peace before the storm. 

And here it came.

Bruce came barreling through the dining room, eyes round, wide, fear written clear on his features. 

“Loki called you last night!?”he exclaimed, leaning over hands on the table.

That was quick. “The line’s tapped,” you answered, fighting a blush, gulping down the last of your cereal. “And he didn’t say anything about where he was or whatever.”

Bruce sighed, hanging his head. “Did you do what Nat and Steve trained you for?”

You shrugged. “He saw me coming.”

“That was to be expected.”

You struggled with the lump in your throat, fighting the want to go to Bruce and wrap your hands around his shoulders. Tell him everything would be fine. That Loki would never get you. 

But you weren’t so sure about that. 

Instead, you sighed, playing with the last Cheerio floating in the milk. “Bruce,” you began, biting the inside of your cheek. “How - how am I going to do this?”

He looked at you, all that older brother worry written clear on his face. “It’ll be fine,” he said, covering his hand with yours. “We’ll all be there to back you up. He won’t hurt you.”

It came out all in a rush. “But that’s not what I mean. What am I going to do about the fact that he’s my fucking soulmate?” You heaved, fighting tears brimming in your eyes. 

Bruce stood there silently, then took a seat, dusting off imaginary dust from his dark blue t-shirt. “Y/N,” he started, voice low, serious. “The soulmate bond is... the research proves that it’s mostly based off the animal instinct to provide better genes to your progeniture.”

You frowned. “Ew.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s what the science says,” he chuckled, trying to hide the reddening of his cheeks. “And I know that there are stories out there about people finding their mates and it all goes well, but sometimes, it doesn’t. Nature gave you the most perfect match for yourself, but evolutionarily based, it’s all about babies.” 

“Oh my God, Bruce, stop being so gross.” You played with your cereal, fighting your blush. You didn’t want to imagine yourself making babies with Loki because then, that’d be all you thought about. You didn’t want to go there. 

“My point is, little sis,” he continued, tone soft. “You don’t have to fall in love with him. You don’t have to do anything. Trust me. You can get over the bond.”

Nat had told you that you simply got used to the emptiness. Wouldn’t that make you... miserable?

There was a burning in your chest, spreading slowly like melting butter down your limbs. It was longing. 

Bruce got up without a word and left you to your one-Cheerio bowl and coffee. You stared out the window, at the greying sky, the rising sun, the freedom of the world beyond the trappings of the Avenger’s compound. 

Nothing kept you, really, from leaving. There was no law keeping you here. You could actually walk out and find Loki. You weren’t the criminal. 

He was. He was a war criminal. A psychopath. A mass murderer. You could leave here, go find him, tell him you’d stay by his side, but at what cost? Losing your family? Your friends? A normal life? It’s not like Loki would play the good boyfriend and bring you coffee at work. He’d burn the place down for a stupid reason like they didn’t give you enough vacation days. 

All this thinking had you boiling at barely nine in the morning. 

And the one person you wanted right now was Loki.

You cleaned up your dishes methodically, then rushed back upstairs to your room. The sun was now out and shining through your windows, and you used the light to gather a few items into a bag. There was no one in the hallway, which gave you all the peace you needed. Most of the Avengers were out dealing with whatever Loki had unleashed on the city, and the other half, like Nat and Bruce, were downstairs in the computer lab.

You grabbed a baseball cap and loosed out your ponytail. You grabbed your phone. Heart pounding, knowing you must have less than fifteen minutes before you were found, you sent a quick text.

Number. Now.

It took a few seconds until a reply came in. It was a phone number. You quickly scribbled it on the back of your hand, deleted the messages - even though you knew it was futile - and left the phone on the bed.

Something wild was stirring in your chest, something akin to adrenaline. Your blood roared as you leaped out of your room, quietly down the hall, down the stairs, hands trembling as you exited the front door. 

If only Nat and Bruce were here, it could give you a head start. 

You slid into the garage through the side door and took the keys to the Jeep. It was a thirty minute ride to the city, and you were not about to take the Maserati.

You slid into the Jeep, breathing erratic, and threw your bag into the passenger seat. The second the garage doors were open, you sped out. 

The Jeep wasn’t the most fast car, but it took you the edge of the property in a matter of seconds. You’d never driven like that before; wild and fast, but you had to get away as fast as possible. The country turned into the suburbs, blurring by you, but you only had eyes for the distant, gleaming horizon of New York city. 

You kept looking in the rearview mirror, but no one was tailing. A frantic tremble had begun in your fingers, urging you to press just a little more on the gas pedal. 

When the city began to manifest itself, molding out from the horizon, you ditched the Jeep by the side of the road. You left it visible enough and grabbed your bag, hitching it on your shoulders. Leaving off at a small jog, you left behind not only the Jeep but also the life you could have had if you’d never met Loki. 

There was a tenacious voice reminding you that Bruce would suffer from this. 

But the pull in your belly, deep within your chest, was calling you elsewhere.

You made it through the back streets of the city, slowing your pace to a walk. By now, Nat and Bruce would have noticed you gone. They would have seen the message you’d sent to Loki and his response. Maybe they’d try contacting that number, but you knew for a fact, Bruce would be in a car on his way here. The Jeep definitely had a tracker. 

You went into a Deli Meats, catching your breath in the doorway, your heart hammering vehemently in your chest. 

You asked to borrow the phone and they had a fucking honors system so you bought a sandwich and dumped it in your bag. No appetite. 

The phone only rang once before he answered.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in New York,” you answered, breathlessly.

“Have you been running?”

“Obviously.”

There was rustling on the other side of the phone. “They know you’ve left,” he said. “They’ve tried tracking this number.”

“And did they succeed?” you asked, heart in your throat. 

“No.” He inhaled sharply. “I want to trust you, y/n,” he mumbled. 

“Then come and get me,” you replied, your mouth dry, your heart hammering. “I’ll meet you wherever.”

He laughed, more like a hum than a chuckle. “Okay.”

He gave you an address on the other side of town, and told you not to call a taxi or an uber. He said if you made it there on foot, without any intervention by either the Avengers or your brother, he’d know they hadn’t found you. Or that you weren’t being followed. He had eyes everywhere. 

You thanked the clerk and left in a hurry, mentally replaying Loki’s instructions on the directions. Just the sound of his voice had been a relief, like taking a long, deep breath after being under water for so long. 

Something sharp had lifted from your ribs, where there’d been an imaginary knife twisting. 

The day had warmed, the city had awakened, and there was no way to identify you within the crowds moving steadily. You kept your eyes to the ground, the cap low on your brow, your hair around your face. 

The address Loki had given you was a subway’s sandwich, squeezed between a Moroccan restaurant and a hair salon. You frowned. Was this the right address? It was closed, the sign hanging in the door, the lights off in the store. 

You pulled on the door slightly, and it opened, your heart leaping as a wind of fresh air swept against your hot cheeks. 

Stepping inside, the eerie silence greeted you. No one was there. Only silence and the dark store. A fridge where they kept the cold drinks hummed, the blue light beckoning. You went to it, ripping it open wildly and grabbing a water bottle. As you chugged it, you pulled a rolled dollar from your pocket and put it on the register.

“No need for that.”

You jumped, spilling water all over your green hoodie. With a curse, you set the bottle on the counter and grabbed for the napkins. 

“I’ve got it.”

He was close now, and you could smell pinewood, your senses invaded by him. You looked up. He smiled, his lips pulling gently at the corners. Your heart was hammering wildly, but you swallowed, looking down at him as he looked down at you. He wore the same all-black ensemble as two weeks ago, his short raven locks pulled neatly behind his ears.

He was a specimen. 

His hands, which you swore were previously empty, came up with a green t-shirt. “More fit for the current weather,” he said with a quirk of his brow. 

You licked your lips, carefully reaching for the garment, fingers grazing his. A short shock slithered through your arm. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled, feeling heat crawl into your cheeks. 

You motioned for him to turn around, and with a roll of his eyes, he did. You quickly changed, discarding your hoodie in the trash. Once you were done, he turned and took one good look at you.

“Wow,” he said, making your heart sputter back to life. 

“So, what now?” you asked, both to dispel Loki’s current fixation and to actually know what was the plan. 

He straightened. “I have to get you out of the city.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “Where?”

But he didn’t have time to answer. Something came crashing through the front windows, loudly, sending a million little shards of glass flying. As quick as lightening, Loki came rushing to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, shielding you from the tiny little projectiles. 

You felt the heat of him, the pressure of his arms, his front against yours, your cheek against his chest. You smelled him everywhere. You sensed him on every inch of yourself. He invaded your senses, and for a brief instant, that nagging pull in your belly ceased. 

And as quickly as he came, he vanished. When you opened your eyes, fingers trembling, the smell of him clinging to you, he had changed his attire. The illusion previously placed on him, the one of the elegant man dressed in all black, had made way for the God. 

Long, golden horned-helmet on his head. The same green and gold breast plate, the black trousers. And in his hand, a golden staff, the tip gleaming menacingly, a blue light hovering within it’s extremity. 

Standing before you both, on the glittering pieces of the broken window, was Thor and Tony. The former stood in the light of day, his hammer raised, light gleaming off of it threateningly. Tony stood, arm erect, suit gleaming red in the mid-morning sun. 

“Nice work, kiddo,” he said, the helmet coming undone, revealing his face; stricken with fear and concentration.

Loki turned a glare on you, eyes dark, and your insides burned. Tony was making it look like you had a hand in this. That you’d betrayed Loki.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Loki took one step towards you and grabbed your wrist.

Thor roared something like, “Loki no!” But Loki was faster. Quicker than Tony’s blast you heard charging, quicker than Thor’s hammer. In a flash, the tip of Loki’s staff glowed a clear, crystal blue, and your entire world vanished to black.

SO, WHO’S EXCITED FOR PART SEVEN???

tags:  @subtlemalice @yallgotkik @buckyandlokirunmylife @kaz11283 @legolas-bromance @shylittlemountain @tofeartheunknown @feelmyfckngsoul @kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay @caffiend-queen @tomhollandsslilslut @lady-loki-ren @nathan-no @rosaline-black @abundanceofcarolines @my-own-oracle @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream @marvelouslovely @drbaureid @bored-as-hell-666 @youhavemyfantasticbeasts @theinfinitenerd @toe-vind-ek-jou @ink-and-starlight @blank-bakabane @sunshineonloki @holaamishamigos @palegoopbearlight @heyarely16 @pleaseexecuteme 

#loki #Loki Laufeyson #loki fic #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki imagine #imagine loki #loki oneshot #soulmate au #lokixyn #loki x yn #loki x you #lokixyou #lokixreader #loki x reader #angst

[an-annyeoing-writer]

vulnerability. – chap. 1.

Read the prologue here

Story info:

Pair: Byun Baekhyun x Reader

Rating: +18 for mentions of s*x and violence (future chapters)

Genre: angst, smut

Chapter info:

Release date: 16th May 2021

Word count: 3 727

Warnings: mentions of trauma (nothing descriptive)

Vulnerability Masterlist || Fanfiction Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Taglist:

@shesdreaminginoverdose @mybiasdashboard @marimsun @byuns-asscheeks @multi--kpop--fanfics @vunv @making-me-blush @skittlez-area512 @bloopbloopkai @byuns-asscheeks @baekyeonoreo @kimcarinaa

Please, always comment on the newest chapter if you wish to be added to/removed from the taglist. I will be also checking the tags, so if you're shy – feel free to leave a note this way.

Previous (Prologue)

Chap. 1.

Living in a small apartment close to the city center was not always convenient.

You regretted you couldn’t buy all the pretty things that you saw in stores or on Pinterest, because they’d easily overwhelm the limited space. Your neighbors constantly reminded you that they’re a few meters away from you, with screams, children’s cries, music, or chopping meat at 2 AM if that’s what a particular neighbor decided to do.

Fortunately, as the time passed, you got used to most of it and started to appreciate the small space, almost effortless to keep clean, close to both your university and the workplace, and the city center – an area that was always restless during the long days and nights that you spent watching it through your tall window, as if waiting for someone to look back at you.

Despite the comfort of living alone that you tried to indulge in, you couldn’t help growing lonelier and lonelier with every passing day. At the very least, your job and university often took the worries off your mind, and they eventually became your whole life, an existence that focused on never-ending effort in the name of better future, as though there was nothing in the present worth fighting for.

You studied finance; you didn’t give it much hope at first, but it ended up becoming interesting as you started connecting the dots and realizing how broad and important this topic was. Yet, as any newborn financier, you used your secret knowledge in the mysterious field of retail. In other words, you worked part-time as a cashier in a convenience store. Twenty four years old, on your way to getting that famous Master’s degree, already more than halfway through the process, yet – education without experience mattered nothing, as you realized the very moment you started looking for your first job, unable to keep counting on your parents. Not like you wanted to stay in touch with them, anyway.

Adulthood was difficult; the small apartment, due to its location, costed more than your whole family’s used to in your hometown. A small scholarship kept you set up with electricity and water fees, but for WiFi you needed to depend on a close-by library with a good signal; it turned out to have the connection good enough to reach from at least one place in your apartment, the one you coincidentally used for occasional observations. You weren’t sure whether you discovered the WiFi while sitting or if you developed the observing habit upon having to spend your time there over any other place. The only downside of this solution was that some sites were blocked after a scandal over men in the library performing actions other than polite studying, with the help of library computers. The event was outrageous to some, but primarily it became an object of jokes and memes all thorough the city, and maybe even country-wide to some extent. Either way, in times of need, your phone still had its meager data transfer. Good enough.

It was Saturday now; Saturdays were good but busy, because you worked at nights, then slept the shift off, and after you woke up, you could go and study all that you missed throughout the week, if for any reason the classes didn’t sound appealing enough or something else happened, distracting you from them. You spent Saturday afternoons either by the window of your room (where the WiFi reached) or just went straight to the library – a place way more spacious than your own apartment, and quieter as well. The only issue was, that you couldn’t snack in there and you ought to stay quiet. You decided to go with the latter and set foot towards the library.

Therefore, when your phone suddenly rang there, a few faces snapped towards you in obvious disapproval; you cursed internally, before you even managed to pull the phone out of your pocket, because you panicked so much that your hands shook at the initial attempt to do so. You got up from your seat and quickly disappeared between the bookshelves, where the people staying by the tables wouldn’t hear you so well anymore.

“Hello?” you whispered into the phone.

“Hello. Am I disturbing you?”

Your heart dropped as you recognized the voice, although you weren’t completely certain if you recognized it well, it sounded a bit different through the phone. The number was unknown on your phone, but there was only one person that could be calling you today.

You took a few seconds to compose yourself; less than you actually needed, but just enough so that the silence would not turn awkward.

“Um… I can’t talk loudly, but that’s okay.”

“I can call you later.”

“N-no need to, I’ll just whisper.”

“Okay, then.” He was quiet for a few seconds, but you heard some shuffling on the other side. “Do you have time tonight?”

The question was sudden, so you weren’t completely sure, if you did. But your mind felt too empty to figure that out, anyway.

“No. I mean, yes. Sorry, I meant I don’t have plans. So, um, yes, I’m free.” This didn’t sound professional at all. However, you heard quiet laughter on the other side and exhaled almost audibly in relief; it was the first time you heard him laugh with you, and it served to calm your nerves like a wave of calmness coming over you.

“Well, do you want to meet? I’m going to a museum and I don’t feel like going alone. What about that?”

“A museum? That… sounds nice.” When was the last time you’ve been to one? What a perfect opportunity to make a fool out of yourself. “What time?”

“Around six? If that’s okay with you.” If you remembered well, it had to be around three now.

“Sounds alright, where should we meet?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay. Thank you.” What were you exactly thanking him for? Hard to tell. But you heard him laugh again; you felt like he’s mocking you, but you quickly realized it couldn’t be the case – a warm voice like this couldn’t be ill-intended.

“Sure thing, you’re welcome. We’re set up, then?”

“A-actually, I have a question, if it’s not a problem.” You bit on your lip, knowing than in less than ten seconds, you were going to probably embarrass yourself in front of an educated and serious adult.

“What’s the matter?” he asked politely.

“So, um… What should I wear?”

* * *

You were grateful for the few tips given by Byun Baekhyun at the end of your conversation, because otherwise you’d either be underdressed or overdressed. You ended up wearing a more elegant university attire, something you usually wore for exams, but which didn’t make you appear too formal; a long, woolen skirt that was your private treasure due to its ability to keep you warm even in winter (and it was still spring; the weather was questionable), as well as leather shoes, a beige shirt and a thick, knitted cardigan. You felt quite modest; something told you that it wasn’t a regular date. You didn’t feel a need to reveal anything, or to focus on your feminine attributes. You just felt like it wouldn’t serve any purpose. As long as Baekhyun was concerned, you had an impression that he’s more interested in your mind than in the way you look – the clothes you wore last time, just a little bit revealing and suggestive, had done nothing to save you. You wanted only to look appropriate, and you were sure you managed to achieve at least that.

As you found out soon enough, he wasn’t particularly dressed up, either. A button-up shirt without without a tie – bow or neck type – and jeans, made of high-quality denim, not like the ripped through or worn out ones people sometimes wore. And a suede coat. Although he wasn’t dressed up to look attractive, it would be difficult not to feel attracted to him. Byun Baekhyun had his own aura of independence and considerate distance connected with subtle proximity, and this time, you had the chance to appreciate this harmony, working perfectly for him, highlighting his soft masculinity. Even more so, when you noted a small, gentle smile that appeared on his lips when he spotted you leaving your apartment block.

“Hi there” he spoke.

“Hi there” you replied.

“The museum is nearby, so I didn’t take the car, is that okay?”

It was probably too late to change the means of transport anyway, so the question was pointless. But no, you didn’t mind.

“It’s okay. What museum are we going to?”

He put hands in the pockets of his coat and tilted his head to the side, observing as you approached. You crossed your hands over your chest; it was a bit colder than you expected, and the skirt only warmed you up at the bottom, the wind still reached the top.

“You should put on something warmer. It’ll get even colder on the way back” he spoke. “Go back and get yourself a jacket, I’ll wait.”

You wanted to oppose and say it’s alright, but you didn’t; it didn’t feel right to argue with him. You only nodded and went home to retrieve a better outwear; you were back in no time.

“So? Which museum?”

You looked up at Baekhyun: the man walked by your side, or – in fact – you were walking by his; he stayed in control of the situation, but resonated with warmth and peacefulness rather than the coldness and stillness you experienced last time. And especially as he spoke, you found yourself easing into the conversation more naturally, and your initial fear quickly turned into innocent shyness upon the older man’s presence.

“A complex of museums nearby. There’s everything there, a historical museum of the region, one about the history of mining worldwide, and an art museum. I wanted to see the last one, I heard they unveiled a few new pieces since the the last time I went. You’re not local?” He glanced at you with polite curiosity.

“Not really. I moved here to study” you explained. “I know the nearby area, but I’m not too… um, social. I only know where to do the cheapest groceries and where they sell the best bread.”

“Where?”

“Behind the river, by the intersection with the highway. It looks small but really, you should try it out. Especially their cinnamon rolls.”

Baekhyun hummed.

“That sounds nice. I can recommend the best pizza in return.”

“You eat takeouts often?”

“Yep.”

“You’d save money if you cooked for yourself. Pizzas are expensive.”

Another warm laugh reached your ears, and through them, your heart as well.

“I’ll save money if I spend the time for cooking on working instead.”

“Okay, that’s a valid point. But homemade food is healthier.”

“Depends on where you buy your takeout.” He seemed to have an answer to your every doubt. “I wouldn’t trust just any restaurant, you know? It’s basically what my diet consists of.”

“Variety is also important. Don’t argue with me on that.”

“I won’t. But I won’t take you for a pizza, if that’s your stance on that.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want it” you remarked right away; he replied with laugh, which you found yourself copying naturally.

The conversation flowed smoothly, reaching more or less unimportant topics: the city life, current events, your university, possible career, Baekhyun’s interests – you found out he likes music; it’s too sad to work in silence – and the museum you were going to.

The place you felt initially quite neutral about, brought you more peace than you expected it to. It looked harmonious and the lights were soft. No one hurried through the gallery, and the paintings, although not so interesting at first, you soon learned to appreciate, trying to catch onto small details that, you could tell, Baekhyun already knew by heart, but he smiled every single time you pointed at something specific that caught your attention, even if it was as silly as matching colors, or realistically portrayed lights – these were your favorites.

And, slowly but surely, you got accustomed to the pretty sights, excitement turning into relaxation, and even Baekhyun himself seemed more content than you thought he’d be in your presence.

“You’re different,” you spoke as the two of you sat on a bench in front of one of the tall, monumental pieces; this one was a modern painting full of splashes and mixed colors, soft browns, yellows, and greens, so big that it definitely wouldn’t fit in your bedroom – the first thought you had upon seeing its size.

Despite the painting being in the very center of the gallery, you were the only ones watching it now.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re different today than you were yesterday” you elaborate. “Less… intimidating” you tried to put your thoughts into words.

Baekhyun laughed in response; the laughter was soft and warm, which made you exhale in relief – you feared that he’d feel offended at the remark.

“Yesterday was different. I needed to test you.”

“What do you mean?”

He stared at the painting as he leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees and shifting a little bit, probably thinking how to say the thing he had to say, without causing misunderstandings. You stared at him, completely having lost interest in the painting by now, ready to hear out whatever was to be spoken.

“People often come to me because they’re attracted to me. Well, not blaming them” he grinned; you rolled your eyes a little, but it did relieve the tension, most likely according to his own intention. “However, I’m not interested in romantic relationships. If you come to me expecting a date, you’ll get disappointed. And you won’t be able to handle what it is truly about, if I’m the only thing keeping you interested. It’ll be a hassle for the both of us.”

He glanced at you only briefly, ensuring that you’ve heard him so far before shifting his eyes back forward.

“So I’m always like this at first, just to see how determined you are, and how you behave under pressure. Then I leave you for a few minutes so you have the time to reconsider and leave if willing. That’s a safety measure for you.” He stopped for just a few seconds. “And you – all of you – always check what’s on the other side of the sheet. That’s a safety measure for me.”

“Safety measure?”

“Trust is the basis of the whole deal. If you don’t admit, that you looked at it, it means you’ll keep hiding things later on as well, and I can’t have that.”

“So if I…”

“Yes. If you didn’t correct your statement, we wouldn’t be here right now.” The words sounded ominous even despite the calm tone that Baekhyun used.

“I understand.”

You actually did; the strange aura of yesterday’s meeting finally started to clear out, leaving the simplest facts that all fit into the bigger picture. Yet, you still didn’t know enough. There were more things, more questions, each of which demanded an answer of its own. However, you were still unsure of your stance, and of what Baekhyun had planned for you – for the both of you.

“Will you accept me, then?” you asked finally, breaking through the silence.

“I don’t know yet” he replied in an honest tone, finally reciprocating your gaze. His features were soft, you could tell, he tried not to hurt you with his words. “You’re a nice girl, but I’m not sure if it’ll work out. I need more time. Primarily, I need to get to know you better. And I feel like you need more time, too.”

You nodded slowly.

“Could you, um… tell me more about it?”

“About what I do?”

“Yeah. You didn’t tell me much last time. You mostly only asked questions.”

“True. I may answer some of yours, if you’d like. What are you interested in?”

You cleared your throat; some questions seemed more intrusive than the others and you preferred to leave them for later.

“What would you want to do with me, if we set up a um… a scene?” Is that how you professionally call it? You didn’t remember all that well; you were, in fact, with no experience, only the Internet and your own curiosity to lead you forward – the temptation to explore your interests had been progressing in silence up until now.

“Well, depends on what would be suitable. I do different things with different people. Sometimes, it’s about what they like, and sometimes about what I like, and, the most often, it’s about what we both like. Everyone needs a different approach. I enjoy finding the right approach, and exploring it. It’s different when you start with a virgin, different when you start with a brat, different when you start with someone experienced, different when you start with someone with trauma. The last type is a person I don’t like engaging in. It’s a vulnerable ground and the person often seeks relief instead of therapy. I’m not a therapist. I’m a dominant.”

You took your time to analyze his words and put them all together in your head before you spoke again.

“You wrote something like that on the sheet. That I may have trauma.”

“That’s different,” Baekhyun was quick to elaborate. “Everyone has trauma of sort. Childhood traumas are more common than you think. I meant specifically trauma that comes from similar ground as the one I’m on. It’s not the case for you. According to what you said, you’ve never had any experiences like this and never engaged sexually or romantically.”

Pointing that out hurt a little; yes, so what if you’re 24 years old and a virgin? You had the right to choose your pace. But, you quickly realized, it was your own insecurity poking at you, because Baekhyun sounded anything but judgmental. He didn’t seem particularly impressed either – and you were thankful for that as well. You’ve seen enough men sounding excited when a woman was discovered to be unexperienced. You hated that even more than those who made fun of you; and in the long run, you just learned not to overshare. Telling Baekhyun this truth wasn’t the easiest, so having him say it so casually was definitely weird in your ear.

“However, that’s also a vulnerable point. You don’t know what you’re getting into. It looks different on the screen or in the books than it is in real life. I’m not going to reject you just because you’re new, because everyone’s been at some point. But you must understand, it’s a responsibility, and I don’t want to take one I’m not capable of handling.”

“Have you ever been with someone else like that?”

“With a virgin?”

“…Yeah.”

“Yes. Once. But I didn’t handle it too well back then.”

“What do you mean?”

Baekhyun rubbed his chin, pressing his lips together in slight uneasiness. But you didn’t revoke your question – maybe you should have, for the sake of his comfort, but you felt that the answer wouldn’t be meaningless to you.

“She wanted to be exclusive,” the man finally answered. “I tolerated her for too long. I should have broken the deal as soon as I started seeing red flags, instead of ending up sleeping with her. It made everything only worse.” He spoke quietly, making sure people passing by at times would hear no word. You heard everything clearly, though. “That’s why I’m more picky now. Breaking the deal is not a good thing if it comes from one side. It may leave the other devastated, that’s why I’d rather reduce the risk in advance.”

He looked at your face, seeking understanding and acceptance. You nodded slowly, trying to keep your face as neutral as possible. You didn’t want to add to the pain already displayed on his own. But you appreciated his transparency.

“Does it mean that sex is not always involved?”

“With me, it rarely is” he admitted patiently. “I’m not against it, but I usually do other things. People rarely expect it, and I never pry. Mainly, because in this particular case, I do expect exclusivity. So, as long as no sex is involved, I know some of my subs are dating other people, or even engaging with other doms. However, for safety reasons I demand health checks prior to intercourse, and so on. Not just for me, but because I’m not exclusive myself.” You wondered if his choice of vocabulary was meant to make things less awkward. “However, actual sex is only one of the possibilities. Sexual pleasure that doesn’t involve direct touch may be used as a tool for training, for rewarding and for punishing, even as entertainment… not necessarily to the person it influences. As I said, it depends on who it’s done with. And it may take different forms, too. What’s your stance on that?”

“I don’t feel like I’d be able to as much as undress in front of someone who’s not my doctor” you answered almost instantly, the answer obvious to you, a matter you’ve thought about enough. “Although… well, I suppose it takes time. I’m not against the idea, just… you know.”

Baekhyun only nodded; you glanced at him, feeling a need for any reply that’d soothe you a little.

“I understand. That’s okay.”

You figured it out now; using more formal language made it less embarrassing to listen to. It’s like he tore the words off emotions and left facts only, and you found yourself easing into saying more and more, your embarrassment dissolving as well. No judgments were made.

“Is there anything else you want to know?”

“A lot, to be honest. But I think I know enough for now.”

Right as you said the last words, a sound echoed in the museum, in a soft female voice saying that the museum will close in fifteen minutes.

You took one last glance at the huge painting in front of you, but you felt like, at this point, you wouldn’t find anything new among the random stains and splatters. Baekhyun got up from his seat on the bench and so did you. You spotted him hide a small yawn behind his hand.

The day was coming to an end, and so was your small date – as un-date-ish as it could be.

* * *

Please, reblog if you enjoyed, it'll help me a bunch!

Author's note: hope you're enjoying it so far! Trying to give it a bit sense before more things happen, and, hopefully, this chapter clears it out a little bit. Feel free to talk to me if anything is unclear!

Next (Chapter 2.)

#exowritersnet #kdiarynet #bbh-net #exosnet #exo baekhyun #exo bbh #bbh x reader #bbh #exo #byun baekhyun #exo fanfiction #baekhyun fanfiction #exo x reader #baekhyun x reader #vg: vulnerability #vg: exo #vg: baekhyun #vg: series

[toxicbubblegum212]

Maze runner ~ The girl that broke all the rules ~ Part 1

Want more visit my masterlist

Masterlist Here

~ Back story ~

You got lost in the maze a long time ago. You have no idea how long it been, you estimated around a couple years. It was very hard being cut off from all the people that you loved especially Alby. He was like your big brother when you first came up in the box.

You regret that day that you aimlessly ran into the maze. You were upset cause everyone doubted you and treat you like a nuisance. But this was your opportunity to change, to improve or die trying at least.

Everyone in the Glade gave up on you a long time ago. When you ran into the maze you were only 13.

~ In the Present ~

(your currently 16)

You were running around the maze as usually, enjoying the wind brushing against your cheeks and licking at loose strands of hair. You grew to like the Maze, sure you would never get out of it but why would you need to.

You arrived at a large crack in one particular wall, it was small enough to squeeze in a human but not any where near close enough for a griever which made your home perfect.

You make your way through feeling the cold cement press against your back. Once on the other side you met the marvellous wonder you called The heart of the maze. It was stunning, there were crystals scattered all over the cave, they glowed and shone bright like the stars in the sky. You found peace and comfort in the beauty of this cave. However that doesn't mean you still don't have times when you think back all those years ago. When you could remember Newt and Alby when you arrived in the box. How kind they were to you compared to all the other boys that slowly appeared. Sometimes you look a crystals and they remind you of them.

You look through your supplies, noticing that you might need to find or make new clothes. Food was never a worry, there were many exotic fruits that grew on the vines around your area. Once sorting through all your stuff you finally decided you might as well call it a day. You made your way over to your make shift bed, curled up and went to sleep.

(a couple hours later)

"Help ME MINHO!....MINHOOO shit!!!" you heard shouting echoing through out the maze. Sit up quietly sneaking your way over to the crack popping you head out. "THUD THUD THUD!" footsteps?..no its a Griever! You quickly start trying to locate where the commotion was coming from. You peak around a corner leading into section 3, you couldn't see anything till something caught your eye. Two eyes staring back at you from under some vines in a cut out hide away.

You head quickly starts whipping around looking left, right, up and down. Before you finally made your way over "Hey come on we can't stay here forever." you yank them out and start tugging what you now knew was a boy back to your hide out. "Wait please we must find my friend!", "He ditched you i don't see why you wanna go back for him" your voice was laced with venom. The boy looked a bit upset.."Fine but don't be surprised if i leave you behind." A smile appears as you follow him further into the maze. You did not like this idea one bit, Grievers where crawling all over these parts of the maze. But Surely enough you find the boys friend a muscular asian guy, he looks very tired and weary. "Alright follow me" you wave them over, "Wait who are you?" the buff boy asked "Thats can be answered later, if you wanna survive the night i suggest you focus..." he grew silent.

You successfully reached the wall crack without bumping into anymore Grievers. "After you" you gestured towards the entrance. The two looked at each other a bit sceptical. "Fine i'll go first!" you step through as the others closely followed behind.

"WOW this place is amazing!" The buff boy stated out loud and proud, "How could i have missed such a beautiful place?" both boys look astonished at the sight before them. "Do you live here?" one of them asked. "Why of course how else would i have survived this long" you chuckled flopping down on your bed of fur skins. "My names Thomas..whats yours...um if you don't mind me asking" the boy looked down shyly. "Y/N my names Y/N". The buff one's face looked shocked"..no way! Are you THE girl from the Glade! You name's engraved on our wall!!" the boy looked very very excited ecstatic even. "Sorry how rude of me my names Minho" he smiles softly. "Its fine and yes i was from the glade...thought it was a very long time ago." Both of them smile brightly at you. "We have heard stories about you Y/N" Thomas spoke. "The Glader's say that you ran into the maze when your only just 13, they said that it was your own stupidity that was your greatest down fall. And nobody even thought about the possibility the you could be alive." Thomas now looked a bit sad speaking such harsh words.

"Well you know what Thomas...there a bunch of assholes!" you huff. Minho chuckled in amusement "You could say that again". "Come with us back to the Glade Y/N!" Thomas pleaded. "NO!" "Why not?!?" Thomas questioned. "Cause...i don't want too! If i wanted to go back there i would have done so a long time a go!" you state sternly.

"I heard about how some of the boys treated you in the glade, and im truly sorry. But things have changed and im sure everyone would be happy to see you." Minho chimed. "How did you two even get stuck in here in the first place.?" Thomas laughs at Minho's sharp glare "It's cause this Greenie wanted to go sight seeing...in the maze!" he says sarcastically and a very annoyed tone.

"Well lets discuss it over some dinner shall we" you get up walking deeper into the cave to go retrieve some vegetables, meats and fruits.

The boys eyes lingered on you, "She is so important to the people of the glade and she doesn't even realise it ." Minho states "I agree, i think she gives us a good fighting chance to get out." Thomas responds.

You came back with some bowls of nice warm stew. The three of you sat eating, laughing and just genuinely enjoyed each others company. " Oh um feel free to sleep on my bed" you spoke. "What about you?" Thomas looked concerned. "Im not sure but ill be fine" you smiled. "No please stay it makes me feel bad" Thomas pleaded once more. "Fine" you were starting to think that Thomas is annoying but he means well. Which in return made you smile.

As the finished there meals you took there bowls and asked them to get comfortable on your stash of fur rugs. When you came back of course they made room for you and it had to be in the middle. Thomas pats the spot encouraging you. You made your way over and proceeded to start curling up in furs and trying to drift off to sleep.

10 minutes pass and Minho's sleep soundly. You could now see his features. You admit Minho was decently handsome and his personality was charming. "Hey..." you heard Thomas whisper grabbing you attention. You turnover towards him "Hey whats up Thomas?" Thomas eyes looked beautiful in that moment, you could see all the pretty colours around the cave reflecting. "I am the Greenie back at the glade, i ran into the maze too and im probably gonna get into a lot of trouble....my point is you and me are one in the same." you stay silent continuing to listen. Thomas leans closer resting his forehead on yours. "Y/N i just wanna hold you...i know that might sound strange but since you dragged me out of those vines i can't help but marvel at you." you smile a big wide genuine smile. "You look pretty when you do that" Thomas commented he slowly wrapped an arm around your waist pulling you closer to him. You didn't fight it, his chest was very warm and surprisingly strong. "This is your safe place, if you ever need it feel free to come find me" Thomas said finally looking back up into your eyes. To your surprise Thomas kisses your cheek, then he slowly goes for lips and starts progressing down wards. You can feel passion and love admitting from him. He kisses you softly along your jaw line, neck and collarbone. "All i want is you Y/N...."

Like for part 2

#Maze runner #maze runner x reader #Thomas #Minho #Alby #Thomas x reader lemon #Minho x reader fluff #Maze runner x you #tmr #tmr minho #tmr thomas

[wannaholdhandswithfictionalmen]

Omg can you do aether or venti? Ik aether isn’t like the most popular character but I love him ;-; how about reader falling asleep on them?

A/n: First of all this is adorable and I did both for you lovely Anon. 💕💕 Hope I did okay with writing Aether. Putting it under read more because these basically turned into full drabbles.

Genre: Straight up fluff

Warning: None

Word count: 1,056

Aether was astoundingly resolute in every adventure you embarked on together, there was always more to do, quests, commissions from the adventurer guild, people who needed help. No matter who it was the small task to the toughest challenge -- oh, a chief needed help hunting, so you spent hours searching for boars and wildlife scared off by Hilichurls. Bringing back even more raw meat than asked for, just in case.

An old woman wanted apples from a tree too tall for her to reach. Aether would climb up and toss them down to you, for you catch them in the basket you held. A small village was getting harassed by Hilichurls, well it was time to wipe them out. A haywire ruin guard was wreaking havoc after treasure hoarders set it off. It would be handled.

Aether wanted to help so much, it was one of his  endearing qualities to give, give, give every bit of aid to others. And there was no one you'd rather spend your days with giving him your own support while he offered his own to every passing stranger. However without a doubt it was exhausting all at the same time.

It made you worry because for aether there was always one more ingredient to gather, material to collect, creature to fight, dungeon to explore. His particular energy seems endless and always moving forward -- it squeezes your heart in a serpentine grip, tighter, tighter, would he push himself too hard? Would he just keep going and going one day and leave you behind? Too slow to keep his pace. 

Today you and Aether have kept very busy, chasing the vague hints in all of Teyvat from some ancient myth said to lead to a grand treasure. You had fought through Hilichurls, treasure hoarders, Fatui agents all racing against each other to find the fabled treasure. It's midday, and your muscles ache fiercely, beyond sore. New bruises and cuts cover your body. 

Aether turned to you, looking you over, brows furrowed with concern, his usual silent stoic determination softens as he gazed at you. 

"Let's rest for a short while." 

"But the treasure?" 

"It can wait. Venturing into danger while tired will do us no good." 

Aether sets up a small camp quickly, sitting down he beckons you to join him. It's a surprise when you seat yourself beside him. It doesn't take long for the depths of your fatigue to hit you full force like a fatal blow from a ruin hunter. Feeling how heavy your eyelids are you can't keep your eyes open and this close you know Aether hears your yawn as you lean against him, sleepily mumbling. "The- the treasure it's very- super important." 

Aether simply smiles, listening to your breathing slow down, seeing your head resting against his shoulder. He brushes his fingers over your forehead, easing the remaining tension in the furrow of your brow with a gentle rub. 

Treasures will come and go, but you? There is only one (Name). Aether wants to make sure you are taking care of yourself, he knows you work hard to keep up with him on a daily basis and you never complain. Always worrying over him, having his back, defending him. You mean so much, words almost feel inadequate to encompass how much he appreciates and adores you. 

"You are far more important. Rest well." 

Venti was spinning some tale of his past, he was open to sharing as you knew of his true nature as a god. It was always exciting to hear each one, Venti as a bard knew how to weave stories that had you in the moment as if you had been by his side even then, witnessing it all with him yet through him. Wonderful and fantastic glances back to centuries ago and sometimes Venti was very forthcoming and certainly proud with his own tales of giving freedom to others, the chance, the choice to change their lives for the better. 

You enjoyed hearing every single one, perhaps his most earnest and enthusiastic listener. 

Venti found one of his new favorite things was seeing your eyes full of glee and wonder at his tales, hearing you gasp in surprise or shock, giggle in amusement. Oh and seeing you smile, wide and bright. He liked that too. 

You were always eager to listen to him, tell a story or sing a ballad new or old. Venti enjoyed the feeling of you watching him so intently. 

Today however, you are too tired, fighting through several camps of Hilichurls, getting attacked three times by those annoying treasure hoarders, a elemental mishap when Venti accidentally pushed you into Cider Lake with a misdirected gust of wind and you spent an hour or so drying out your clothing with your own flames. It was a trying day, still fun though nothing was ever dull with Venti.

You couldn't stay wide awake not even for Venti, you felt your eyes drooping low, blinking rapidly as your head kept falling forward snapping awake just as soon as you fell asleep. Eventually sleep was the foe that bested you today and you leaned on Venti, your cheek pressed on top of his head, his soft hair serving as quite the pillow. 

"And-" Venti paused in his retelling when he felt the weight of your body slumping over on him, confused at first, he shifted slightly, stilling once he heard how slow, soft your breathing has gotten. 

Venti bites back his instinctively gasp of was my tale that boring? Realizing you had looked rather exhausted during the final trek back to Mondstadt. "You are very lucky that I am so fond of you," Venti mumbles with a playful roll of his eyes. "It is quite rude to fall asleep during a bard's tale, an insult to my skills really." The content grin on his lips really seals the deal, anyone else might have offended him but you never. 

Venti thinks he should wake you up, get you somewhere far more comfortable to be resting but he also wants to stay like this for a bit longer, he thinks this is adorable.

"Just a few more minutes." Venti reaches for your hand, entwining your fingers with his. He hums a tune while watching the sparkling stars lit up the night sky. 

#Genshin Impact #Genshin impact fics #genshin impact reader insert #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact aether #genshin impact venti

[magnoliabloomfield]

Gally imagine part 6

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five

It wasn’t until I was laying in my lumpy bed that night that things started to occur to me. It finally hit me, maybe all the things he said I should change were things he noticed... no, that was dumb it was all just basic stuff.

Except for the pants dance. He’d come up with that specifically and he’d turned fifty shades of red. Maybe that one meant something to him personally.

I found myself grinning in the dark and slapped a hand over my upturned lips, embarrassed for no reason. I tried to ignore the thought of Gally being attracted to me and the sprinkly feeling it gave me deep inside, and also shoved away the thought I had that he was cute and tried to get to sleep. But I don’t think I stopped grinning all night.

I paid attention to Gally from the corner of my eyes after that. It was hard to find out how observant someone was of you and not let on that you were trying to observe them right back. It was terrifying but some how a victory whenever I’d look up and make direct eye contact with him, the thrill when either he looked surprised before averting his gaze like he hadn’t been watching, or would hold my gaze until I was the one who couldn’t handle it anymore.

Sometimes I’d be brave in the lunch line and give a brief greeting as I passed him, usually a simple “Gally” and a nod with a barely contained smirk. Sometimes he’d surprise me and sit at the same table, usually when Newt was there as well since they were pretty good friends which was unexpected to me for some reason. But they would talk and it would let me pop in some appropriate questions about things around the glade and stories of before I got there. It got me more accustomed to talking to Gally, broke what was left of the ice after the laughing in the woods.

I was really figuring out that my first impression of him wasn’t very accurate. He was serious, but about his work because they had to do it safely and make it safe for everyone to use. He seemed mean but it was because he was protective and as I was out of the ordinary I was seen as a threat at first. He liked order and peace, and it was quite vital to maintaining their precarious life there, but teenage boys were always on the verge of anarchy and madness. Gally was forced to mature faster and had to put the fear of death into the new guys who had delusions of slacking off. Gally wasn’t uncaring, he was just... aggressively caring.

Every time I learned something about who Gally was I’d notice something else, like the peppering of freckles on his skin, how one side of his mouth would go higher than the other on the rare occasion he would smile, or how full and nice his lips were. With every nice new thing about his personality he became better and better looking to me.

It was like getting to know a big dog that had growled at you. You let them sniff you and you make sure they’re ok before you try to pet them, you read their body language, and while you may find they have very soft ears and you’d like to mush their cute face up, you are a little intimidated to, they could change their mind and growl at you again if you weren’t careful.

I could tell he was feeling odd about figuring out what to call me since I never had remembered my name. Most called me Greenie still, others called me Girly and of course Newt called me Muppet, but I saw Gally decide that he could not call me that. We found out what he wanted to call me at the bonfire when the next Greenie arrived.

The fighting circle had seemed scary and dumb when I’d first gotten there and they tried to proceed with it like life was still normal, but now it had a certain appeal, at least to watch.

Gally was an effortless powerhouse, but he didn’t just throw it around because he could, he conserved his energy and strength so he could have longer endurance. He waited for a good opening before he exerted himself. He was pretty much an undefeated champion. It was a spectacle and as much entertainment as I was going to get around here.

Gally was red faced but hadn’t broken a sweat when he was looking for his sixth contender. While his back was turned I felt someone grab my shoulders from behind and thrust me into the circle.

“Hey Gally! Fresh meat!” Whoever it was yelled and the other boys cheered louder than I’d ever heard them before.

Gally looked surprised then amused when he turned around and saw me.

I gave a fake and nervous laugh. “Oh, no, no. I didn’t- I wasn’t-“

“Too late, you’re in the circle now,” Gally said and I could tell he was having fun with this and making up rules.

The boys barred me from leaving, compacting themselves together so I couldn’t break through. I could feel Gally pacing on the opposite side of the circle, eyeing me up for the kill, I could tell.

“I don’t know the rules,” I tried to argue as I felt my heart trying to crawl up my throat as I turned back toward Gally.

He started taking slow steps toward me, the glower in his eyes had my lungs struggling to do the simple job they usually could do in my sleep just fine.

Gally made a sudden motion where he lowered a little and spread his arms a little wider like he was about to rush me and I jumped, taking a half step back. He broke into a chuckle and the fullest smile I’d ever seen on his face which he quickly tried to hide by looking down.

“Just stay in the circle as long as you can,” Newt told me from the sidelines after making his way closer to me.

“That’s not actually helpful,” I said, flicking him as I passed, trying to stay as far from Gally as he slowly stalked me around the circle. “What’s he allowed to do to me? What am I allowed to do to him? What can’t I do?”

I was only about 70% convinced Gally wouldn’t actually hurt me, but I knew I wasn’t getting out of this without something happening to me and I had no idea what it could be. And I knew I couldn’t do a single thing to him. I could try, but it’d be an embarrassing failure.

Finally tired of playing cat and mouse with me, Gally closed the space between us. He caught my wrist and ducked, throwing me over his shoulder. I felt the wind knocked out of me as my organs got rearranged from the pressure of his shoulder in my stomach, but the sensation of his hand gripping my lower thigh was overwhelming.

I felt him walk me a short distance before setting me down ever so gently on the outside of the circle. As he straightened up, right when his eyes were level with mine he paused.

“Don’t get carried away, Princess,” he said softly just for me and then... and then he winked. He smirked at my wide eyes before he straightened up the rest of the way and took a few steps backward, back into the center of the circle. I could have caught several flies with my open mouth.

Part 7

#will poulter #will poulter protection squad #gally #the maze runner #maze runner #fanfic #tmr #Gally imagine #tmr Gally imagine #Gally tmr

[haunthouse]

welcome to a meta that, in retrospect, seems glaringly obvious, but that has hit me like a freight train this morning. we’re talking about the lonely as a ghost story.

ghosts as an entity are inherently about disconnect. but kaylee, i hear you say, ghosts are dead people, wouldn’t that make them in the end’s domain? but when it comes down to it, death is a good framing device for ghosts (and yeah, it’s necessary to make ghosts), but people don’t tell ghost stories just because they’re afraid of death. ghost stories are told because ghosts are irrevocably disconnected from the living in a way that terrifies us — sometimes they’re intentionally scary, knocking shit around or yelling boo!, but a lot of the time they’re just... there. and that’s the terrifying part. something that’s there and shouldn’t be; something that can’t interact with the world around it and is completely, utterly, terrifyingly alone.

ghost stories are about isolation, about being a person without any of the framework that being a person requires, without society or connection or love. being unseen and unheard and unknown to all around you — and trying so hard to reverse all those un-words, to be seen, heard, known. that’s exactly the domain of the lonely!

and onto the meat of this meta: all nine lonely-centric statements (and the journey of one martin blackwood) through the lens of ghost stories.

(spoilers for mag170 at the end, but each episode section is clearly marked, so feel free to skip it if you haven’t gotten that far yet!)

MAG013: ALONE

the first lonely statement we get (and also the first in-person statement! which is such a good inversion of the lonely being about lack of connection! jon doesn’t do a great job of comforting naomi, but he does stay with her as she gives the statement when she asks!! that’s beside the point but it is something i really love), and right off the bat, the ghost vibes are off the charts.

truly i am feeling absolutely idiotic for not really thinking about the ghosts-lonely connection before now because this statement? peak ghost story.

naomi’s fiance dies. naomi has several near-death experiences (crashes her car, then is hit by another car and winds up in the hospital), which is also a staple in a lot of ghost stories; nearly dying is set up as a way to get the living closer to the realm of ghosts, able to interact with them more clearly. it was a dark and foggy night in a graveyard, and standing at evan’s (open, empty) grave, naomi hears his disembodied voice leading her home.

when ghost stories are told from a distance, they’re about the horror of it — disembodied howling, faces in the window that keep you up at night. but when they’re told by someone close to the now-ghost, they’re love stories. it’s my grandmother hearing her father’s breathing one last time after his death, giving her a chance to say goodbye. it’s a familiar and loving presence, comforting you. that’s what naomi’s story is — the ghost of evan showing his love for her one final time.

MAG033: BOATSWAIN’S CALL

so, ships are meant to be places of community, right? ron @gerrydelano​ has a really good post about this regarding shanties. but ghost ships are an established trope of ghost stories: the inversion of what a ship should be, lacking all life and community, silently traversing the waters on its own.

the tundra is a ghost ship. it’s quiet (”very quiet... it was like they were doing everything in their power not to think about each other”) — the people there move around one another as if none of them are there, all so taken by the lonely. their cargo containers are empty. all they’re transporting on that ship is the ghosts of those aboard.

this episode falls into the trope of ghosts want the living to join them — though there’s still a mourning atmosphere when sean kelly is taken fully by the lonely, that final bit of life on the ship extinguished. (”no one said a word, but i could have sworn a few of my shipmates were crying.”)

MAG048: LOST IN THE CROWD

this one’s one of my favorites! andrea nunis’ statement deals with different kinds of loneliness — she begins it with explaining that she prefers to travel alone, but later, that loneliness is something terrifying. she’s in a crowd of unrecognizable people, unable to fit herself into the world she’s seeing — she’s completely separate from the rest of the world. she’s a ghost. 

“it wasn’t italian being spoken ... or any other language i recognized. the more i listened, the more i realized it wasn’t a language. there were no words, it was just noise.” “their faces were a blur, each and every one of them.” and, the crowning point: “i tried to talk to them or to shout, to scream at them, but there was no reaction.”

by being taken in by the lonely, andrea’s been turned into a ghost. she cannot interact with or even recognize her environment, and that’s the real horror — it isn’t just being alone, it’s being surrounded by something that should be familiar; a crowd is something she’s been in a thousand times, as someone who travels a lot, and people are the most familiar thing in the world, like looking in a mirror! but it isn’t. everything is strange and she is outside of it all and that’s what a ghost is.

and her connection to her mother is what pulls her out. people have talked at length about how love is the antidote to the lonely so i won’t go on too long about that, but the connection between that & ghosts’ relationships to the living often being what keeps them around is sure something.

also, after getting out of the lonely andrea says “i made sure i was always in sight of at least one other person” — and there’s something to be said there about needing to be seen to be real. 

chiara @red-reys​ brought up this feuerbach quote which fits very well: “that which i alone perceive i doubt; only that which the other also perceives is certain.” being the only one to perceive something (for example, a ghost), or the only one who is utterly unperceived, is a very lonely thing — it isolates you entirely from those who do not perceive it. being perceived, or having someone else see what you see, can give you an anchor.

wow i’m sure that won’t come back later!

also, far be it from me to talk about this statement without mentioning gerry keay. because it means something that he’s the one to give andrea the tools she needs to pull herself out of the lonely. gerry is someone completely lacking in human connection, who is literally haunted by the ghost of his mother and later is seen as a ghost himself. gerry doesn’t have friends; he tells jon “i always wanted my friends to call me gerry,” but in a tone that makes it clear he didn’t have anyone who could’ve. and of course he didn’t. a life so entwined with the entities and cut so short, a life so ruled by the cruelty of others that he certainly did not want to rope anyone else into. 

though gerry’s never directly stated to be affected by the lonely, he’s certainly lowercase-L lonely at the very least, and he’s certainly got enough experience with ghosts to understand the lonely. 

gerry is the trope of the helpful spirit. he’s the ghost who’ll give you directions on a deserted road and disappear when you turn around. he gives jon the information he needs to understand the entities, he gives andrea the information she needs to not become a ghost.

MAG057: PERSONAL SPACE

alright so this one is, admittedly, more cosmic horror than anything else, but if y’all’ve seen any of my comics you probably know i’m very passionate about space ghosts & haunted spaceships. and as such, i’m extremely interested in how the daedalus mission echoes ghost stories.

carter chilcott’s story pretty directly acts as a ghost story — unable to communicate with the others on the ship even when he tries, unable to interact with the world to the point of looking out the window at one point to find the world entirely missing. this is all stuff i’ve said already about the other statements, so i’m glossing past it, because what interests me more is the daedalus as malicious architecture.

because the daedalus was created specifically for this union between vast, lonely, and dark (all of which i think have significant ghostly tie-ins). everything about how the ship itself and the mission came to be is a mystery, even to those involved — manuela says “i don’t know how he convinced the lukases and fairchilds to help finance the project,” “i don’t know if they were working on rituals of their own,” “exactly how the launch was arranged, i couldn’t tell you.” 

a piece of the traditional haunted house is a sort of timelessness, and mystery inherent in its building. hill house in shirley jackson’s haunting of hill house “seemed somehow to have formed itself, flying together into its own powerful pattern under the hands of its builders... it was a house without kindness, never meant to be lived in, not a place fit for people or for love or for hope.” the oldest house in the game control is malicious architecture at its finest, and it’s called the oldest house. it predates people. it exists as a giant piece of brutalist architecture smack dab in the middle of new york, but no one knows why or how it came to be. as a real-world example: the winchester mystery house is wrapped up in mythos about its creation. was sarah winchester just a lonely old woman with a hobby for architectural design, or did she create endlessly spiraling staircases and doorways with a steep drop into the yard to keep ghosts away? who knows! we sure do like to speculate, though.

yes, i’ve talked about this in tma metas before. highly recommend jacob geller’s control, anatomy, and the legacy of the haunted house for more of this content.

even manuela dominguez, the only person on the daedalus mission who actually knew what she was doing and wasn’t just there to be a victim of entities they did not understand, does not know how the mission came to be. 

and the entire purpose of this spacecraft is to be malicious to its inhabitants! the very architecture is meant to make the people within into perfect snacks for their respective entities! the station is cramped (”so cramped that i could only fully stretch out in the section used to exercise,” says jan kilbride), but when the vast takes hold it’s suddenly endless — “a hollow pretense of a shell that did nothing to separate me from the void.” (cue me shouting about how much trust we put in the places we live, and whether or not that trust is warranted, how easily it can be turned against us!)

a few other bits of this statement that really echo ghost stories: “twice i was woken up by the sound of the door opening, only to find it as tight as it had ever been. throughout the daytime i would occasionally hear footsteps, which shouldn’t even have been possible in zero gravity.” and then the empty, ghostly spacesuit that floats past chilcott’s window — there are so many stories about disembodied wedding dresses or mourningwear walking the halls silently, so why not a spacesuit?

i started this section saying this statement was more cosmic horror than ghost story but i’m finishing it by saying this is actually one of the clearest representations of haunted architecture in the whole podcast. (other examples off the top of my head include upon the stair & a cosy cabin, the latter of which i actually already wrote a meta about.)

MAG092: NOTHING BESIDE REMAINS

the moment i started thinking about the lonely-ghosts connection i remembered this episode, because it’s so clear. complete disconnect, existing entirely alone in a shadow of the world you once knew, unable to interact with the living in any way.

very small bit but. “as the cab pulled away, it seemed to have no driver that i could discern” vs the theme of ghost carriages in older ghost stories. i am looking directly at it.

barnabas bennett can “almost think i hear the mocking joy of my friends, but there is nobody here.” he can see evidence that life continues around him, unseen — “i know that what is done by those i cannot see might be felt here — i have found glasses broken and pages torn that were not so the night before.” just as a ghost is unseen to the living, the reverse is true: bennett can see others having an impact on the world in small ways, and his letter is found by jonah, but he can’t really affect the world in any real way.

MAG108: MONOLOGUE

this one is so exciting to me because theater ghosts are a huge trope in ghost stories! theater people are some of the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet! especially regarding ghosts having an impact on their shows — there’s the superstition regarding The Scottish Play™, the tradition of leaving a ghost light on onstage to appease the spirits. there’s that time all the kids in my production of brigadoon when i was in middle school circled around the makeup mirrors to play bloody mary and got thoroughly chewed out by the adults in the cast. theater’s full’a ghosts!

(i think it’s something about the intense amounts of history behind it — and how, in playing a part that a thousand people have played before, you’re echoing their exact words, becoming a repetition of those long gone. and on a stage, blinding lights in your face washing out any view of the audience — you could, technically, leave the stage and interact with the people down there, but it seems pretty entirely impossible when you’re up there. you’re being perceived but can’t see in return. you’re essentially a ghost putting on a show for the living on a loop.)

the statement-giver for this one, adonis biros, echoes a lot of those sentiments, actually. “your words heard by no one — and in that no one, an entire universe.” “have you ever had stage lights in your eyes? ...you can look out into the audience and see nothing at all. just you.”

i said before that “when ghost stories are told from a distance, they’re about the horror of it — disembodied howling, faces in the window that keep you up at night.” the disconnect between the anonymous audience and the singular actor onstage makes the distance here extreme — so this is the sort of ghost story that’s unquestionably a horror story, focusing on the most chilling aspects of ghosts. their inhumanity, their anonymity. the theater masks adonis sees in the audience are “empty. it was a hollow shape of a man that had no life, no presence to it.” even adonis himself says he “had no doubt that what i had seen was some sort of specter or omen.”

he sees a “masked mockery of a human figure” in a window while walking at night. ghosts looking through windows is enough of a trope that once, when i went on a ghost tour in williamsburg, at least half the stories were about people seeing ghostly faces in windows, and i completely freaked out when i saw someone moving around in one of the houses before realizing, oh, some of them are still actually occupied.

this one’s undoubtably a collaboration between stranger and lonely, but i think that intersection’s one of the best for ghost stories — something not-quite-human-anymore, if it ever was, haunting you.

MAG150: CUL-DE-SAC

a lot of the bare bones of this statement are things i’ve already covered, so i’m not gonna go too in-depth on it. herman gorgoli’s statement is about disconnect (from alberto, and then from the rest of humanity), about isolation, about houses-gone-wrong (his and alberto’s house in cheadle, which he views by the end as a place imprisoning him, and the titular cul-de-sac).

we’ve seen the malicious architecture trope in the form of the daedalus already, but this time it’s on earth. it’s something that should, by all rights, be familiar. the houses in the suburbs are all the same, but it’s at least a sameness you know. but they’re all bereft of any irregularities, ghostly echoes of what a house should be.”there were no lights on in any of the houses.” he even finds a dead body in one of the houses — but the woman who’s body he finds is not the one haunting them.

it’s herman haunting the neighborhood, until his love for alberto brings him out. herman making his way through houses he cannot interact with in any meaningful way, whos details he cannot interpret. “how many corpses lay waiting behind the placid facade of this endless false suburbia?” he wonders, and i have to imagine he’s also wondering if he’s already joined their ranks, if he’s the haunting in a haunted house.

and connection brings him back and the houses are no longer empty, no longer waiting for a ghost to take resident in their hallways.

MAG159: THE LAST   (& martin’s journey in season four, generally)

we’ve all analyzed 159 within an inch of its life but i’m here to do it again, with the context of martin’s whole journey into the lonely. because the lonely turns people into ghosts. the lonely takes away humanity and life and leaves a hollow echo in its wake.

literally the powers lonely avatars have involve turning invisible. what else is often associated with invisibility? ghosts. checkmate. i’m running out of steam a bit but i swear these are good points i’m making. trust me.

what makes ghost stories so good is that even if the narrator is not a ghost themselves, just experiencing a ghost puts them at a fundamental disconnect from society. it’s something disbelieved by so many people. (there’s parallels to be made with mental illness here, but i... don’t really feel like making them right now. they’re definitely there, as is the very potent lonely-depression connection that made ep170 hit so hard for so many of us.) in hill house, the more eleanor is wrapped up in the goings-on of the house, the less she’s able to relate to the other people there. the closer martin becomes to the lonely, the less he’s able to talk to the people around him — he’s told not to talk to them by lukas, but he’s also just... unable to relate. their experiences are different than his, at this point.

nicole @brunetteauthorette99​ said something really good in our conversation about this, about ghosts “being stuck in... spaces that have moved on without them, reenacting their defining moments in life over and over again without the possibility of change.”

martin is stuck in the institute. he probably has an apartment, but we don’t see it, and i can’t imagine he as he is by season four has put much effort into decorating it or making it feel like a home. every place is impersonal — somewhere he exists without really living.

and the institute moves on without him. jon goes into the coffin and martin doesn’t know until he’s already in there. and martin can impact his environment only in small ways — leaving tape recorders on the coffin in an attempt to anchor jon home, leaving the tape of jon’s victim for melanie, basira, and daisy to find. he will not or cannot speak to or touch other living beings, just move objects around in a desperate attempt to get a message across, a ouija board of tapes and post-it notes. his moment of rejecting the lonely’s plans in 158 is dropping the knife peter has given him — another expression more through his interactions with his environment than any human connection.

martin says the lonely always had him, and with how much his story revolves around people who may as well be ghosts, that’s true. his father disappeared and left only the image martin had of him in his mind, only the echo he himself provided in the mirror, the ghost of someone who hurt him overlaid on his own reflection. his mother was only present so far as she could be malicious, disapproving; a vengeful ghost, taking out the revenging instinct she had for martin’s father on martin. and then everyone else martin cares about dies — sasha’s gone and not!sasha acts as her malicious echo for a while; tim dies; jon dies. and yeah, he comes back — but he’s different. a ghost of sorts. martin’s already pretty ghostly by then, too.

so martin is, essentially, a ghost throughout season four, and probably beforehand, as well. jon literally! asks martin! if he is a ghost! in season one! which brings us to 159: “are you real?” martin asks the first living person he’s really talked to in who-knows-how-long. because martin doesn’t feel real, so how could anyone else be? “nothing hurts here” may be a contradiction of the literal experience of ghosts we see in tma (gerry saying “it hurts, being like this”), but is a very real perception of ghosts in ghost mythology as beings beyond pain, beyond the suffering of being alive. sometimes they exist to cause others that suffering they can no longer feel, but a lot of the time, they’re just melancholy, having forgotten what it’s like to be a person or hanging on just enough to yearn to return to that feeling of life.

“i’m the reason he... i did this to him as much as you,” jon says. in ghost terms: martin died for him. of course his connection to jon, then, would be the only thing able to bring him back.

mag159 is an orpheus/eurydice story — people have made posts about that before, i’m sure, and i have too, how jon and martin invert the orpheus archetype by being saved rather than damned by the act of sight. and it feels obvious to state it, but for clarity: eurydice dies. orpheus, alive, tries to save eurydice from the underworld, where she is a spirit, a ghost, an echo of herself.

MAG170: RECOLLECTION   —   (SPOILER WARNING!)

this episode is the reason i’m making this post, but i may as well copy-and-paste the entire transcript for this section, because there is truly not a single part of it that doesn’t resonate as a ghost story. 

the lonely house as a malicious location. the chairs are all uncomfortable, the house is large enough that just by wandering it (as a ghost might) martin grows tired enough to sit in them regardless. the decorations are wrong — all the rooms are the same and martin doesn’t like it, said he doesn’t know “why i’d decorate my house like this.”

it isn’t a small house. there’s a reason a lot of ghost stories take place in twisting mansions where you can never quite find your way back to where you started. ghost stories thrive on that isolation, that loneliness — if you see a ghost while you’re alone, are you sure you’ll be believed? doesn’t that just isolate you further? architecture can twist around those within it until they’re trapped, doomed to haunt it themselves. “it's such a - such a big house, my house, there must be other people!” martin says. 

but the only others in the house are ghosts like martin. 

“hundreds, thousands of lost souls, wandering the halls. hollow memories, with eyes full of tears. i’ve seen them. they’re all trying to remember.” 

“i found someone else, wandering around. they were all thin and gray. faded. like they’d been here for ages.”

the ghosts cannot remember their names, why they are there, whether or not it is their house they exist in. they’ve become near-inseparable from the fog around them and the architecture that holds them hostage.

and the house itself, it takes all of that, and its quirks — the size, the chairs, the decorations, all of which martin openly does not like — are all made from the people haunting it. the house is wrong because the people within it can no longer change it. martin’s comment on the decorations sticks with me because it’s such a simple example of this: presumably, he could affect the house in some way in the past, but he no longer can, and he’s stuck with the results of his past mistakes, echoing over and over from room to room. the impacts remain even when the people have faded so far as to be practically nonexistent.

and once again: love is what makes him remember, over and over. he remembers jon, and then the lonely steals that memory — but the remembering is what’s important, because the act of loving anchors martin, and it helps him remember who he is, repeating his name over and over.

ghosts lack identity. whether it’s because they’ve been forgotten by all who knew them in life, whether it’s because it’s too painful to hold onto that when they can no longer do anything with it — we assign names to ghost stories, connect them to the living, but there’s always a disconnect there.

and that’s what helps jon find him, helps martin keep himself from fading out again. and even jon says “you were faint” upon finding martin. martin was a ghost haunting that house.

but not anymore.

the lonely is a ghost story. the lonely is about people who’ve become unmoored from human connection and their own identities, who haunt places, or who’ve been lured into places that are hauntings in and of themselves and have no choice but to take up residence as ghosts within those walls.

and ghost stories, often, are love stories. love keeps us tethered to life, and love is what saves people from the lonely, over and over again.

#the magnus archives #tma meta #martin blackwood #the lonely #mag170 #kaylee.txt #kaylee.meta #dfgkjngfd HELLO i didn't mean for this to get quite so long but ty if anyone actually reads it!!!! #this is longer than most fics i write. whoops.

[ajbwasntwriting]

Daughter!Reader x Negan, Reader x Daryl: Chapter 5. Secrets hurt

First | Previous | Next

Listen I don’t know why I decided to give each chapter an artsy title I just did. Also as anyone following this may have noticed this story isn’t gonna be regularly updated but rather updated when I have something I’m proud enough to post though I am determined to finish this series, just school comes first. I hope you understand.

I’ll only post more chapters if previous chapters get a good reaction so if you enjoy this please heart it, reblog it, and/or reply to it. Interaction inspires.

if you wish to be added to the tag list please dm me. All chapters can be found under the tag AJ’s Negan’s Daughter AU

The winter continued like that. He’d bring you food and you’d give him goods, even visiting multiple times a week. Sometimes he’d tell you about the stuff, holding up a jar of applesauce ‘from The Kingdom. The guy who runs it used to own a tiger’ or loaf of bread ‘the hilltop grows the grain, but Alexandria makes it.’ You would hum and nod along, knowing he was just trying to convince you to come back. Mainly because he’d ask if you wanted to come back with him and you would be ‘grateful but happy where you are’

You had asked him to start making lists so you knew what to find and you always tried your best to deliver. Cloths, blankets, kitchen utensils, baby bottles-

“Baby bottles?” you asked, pointing at the item on the list. He nodded.

“John and his wife are pregnant and we don’t have enough to go around.” He explained from the comfort of your couch, feet up on the table.

“But you have some?” you continued, not believing what you were hearing “You have...children? As in...babies?”

“Yea. I keep telling you we’re building a society.” he laughed at your bewilderment. “You’d fit in gr-” your mind ran as what you knew was coming ‘Here it comes again. No never works with these people. How do I get him to shut up?’

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” you cut him off, smiling. You turned to your kitchen unit, pulling out a large bot, a can of vegetable soup, and salted beef that Daryl had brought that day. “You’ve brought me so much it’ll probably go bad before I can eat it all.”

In that time he had stood up and walked over to the kitchen, now leaning on the counter. His sudden appearance made you hold your breath “When did ‘get out’ become ‘stay for dinner’?” he asked, seemingly amused.

“When you stopped understanding what ‘I don’t wanna be part of your group’ meant.” You retorted, cutting up the salted beef with a dedicated kitchen knife. “Are you staying or not?” you turned to him, stopping your cuts for the moment. He nodded with a shallow ‘yeah’, making you smile then go back to cutting. You poured the meat and soup into the pot, placing the lid on top. “Some snow on top to water it down and we’ll be sleeping with full stomachs tonight.”

You had him carry some bowls and a ladle up to the roof. Within an hour the fire outside was lit and the food was cooked atop four bricks you were lucky enough to be able to upgrade your cooking fire with, the old lamp now repurposed into a weapon. There was no conversation but you didn’t feel like you needed it. The wind was calm, letting Daryl look out over the city. “Do you know where the museum is?” He asked while you were stirring the soup.

“A couple of blocks down,” you called back. “Why?”

“Me and a few others are planning on raiding it in the summer” he answered, not turning back to you.

That’s when you realised something. You had heard about all these friends. Carol, Michone, Saddiq, Rosita, Eugene, Henry, Ezekiel, Lauren. He’d mentioned them in passing, saying how they made something he brought you or appreciated something you brought him. Yet he always came alone. It would’ve made more sense if Rick was doing these deliveries, you’d met him before the winter. Sure you stitched up his leg.

The two of you were sitting in front of the fire as it fizzled out when curiosity got the better of you. You swallowed the food in your mouth.

“Why are you always here alone?” you asked, he looked up at you from the other side of the fire. “It makes more sense to have people watching your back but for the past month or so you’ve been visiting me on your own. Why?”

“That’s how it is” he scoffed between mouthfuls.

“That’s how what is?” you snapped.

“You’re allowed to be all secretive but I’m meant to have my cards on the table.” he cut back. You thought it over a second, then went back to eating. You both finished up as the fire mellowed, taking your leave back inside. You carried the pot while he held the bowls. Back in your unit, you piled the dishes into the sink.

“I should get going,” he said, going to pick up his back.

“Y/N!” you nearly yelled. “My name is Y/N,” He looked back at you incredulously. A tense silence fell over you both “Before this,” you waved your hand to motion to the apartment “I was with a few people...including my father. We managed to secure a building, kept the walkers out but after some time new people arrived and a few of them got...Protective, I guess. Including my old man.” You crossed your arms and leant against the sink, the floor now far more interesting than the man in your apartment. “People died keeping me safe when they didn’t need to, all ‘cause my old man refused to let me help, but we were still bringing in new people but not everyone was helping, either cause they weren’t allowed to or didn’t want to. That caused anger to boil in the group and then...more people died.” Thinking back on the Sanctuary tears began to flow, but your voice didn’t shake and your body stayed firm. “I ran away and I’ve been hiding ever since ‘cause I know they’ll kill me if I’m found.” You finally looked back at Daryl who had been hanging on to your every word. You wiped away your tears. “You said I can’t be secretive, well there it is.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“You don’t wanna go home” you cut him off. “You don’t like where you rest your head, that’s why you’ve been spending more and more time out here with me. I get it.” you pushed off the sink, leaning under it to pick up a jug of water to do the dishes with. “You can leave or you can stay the night. I don’t mind.”

You turned your back on him to focus on the dishes. He picked up his things and left without another word. ‘That’s it’ you thought as you scrubbed the pot, now getting more aggressive with it, ‘you fucked up Y/N.’

The following morning you woke up, opened your bedroom door, and saw a familiar red-neck on your couch. You couldn’t stop the smile that plastered your face, but you did grab some clothes from your closet then went back to your room to dress. This time when you left he was up. “‘Morning” he croaked as he stretched. “This couch was a lot comfier the first time.”

Your relationship continued like that for the next while. He’d visit you more regularly, stay for dinner, and usually, he’d stay for the night. You got tired of the complaints about the couch and cleared out the second bedroom. You liked having him visit and were willing to facilitate it. He’d even begun leaving a few things there. Functional stuff like arrows for his bow and fuel for his bike. You found him some clothes and extra blankets, and a bigger bag to carry stuff home.

You didn’t ask why he didn’t want to be with his people. After keeping everything a secret for so long it didn’t feel right, but you could guess. Between your family and your time in the army, you had developed a skill in reading people, a skill you noticed he also had. Maybe that’s why every second didn’t need to be filled with conversation. Though you wish it was so you could know more. He was kind, there was no question of that with everything he did for you without even knowing your name. Though when he came to your apartment he was tense, and he was never happy to leave. This made you think he was going somewhere he didn’t want to be, but he had to be. He always talked so highly of the settlements, trying to get you back there. He must be going someplace else.

The winter passed, your garden began to flourish again, and the walkers thawed. You thought after the winter Daryl would stop visiting but he still showed up. He didn’t come as often for a time, saying he wasn’t gonna make the trip unless he had enough to offer you. You frowned at this “Do come out” you ordered him. “You’ve got people relying on you. Children and everything and I’m able to find stuff in the city you need.”

“I don’t wanna leave you short. Our deal ya know-”

“Screw the deal, Daryl.” you huffed “You’re my friend and I wanna help you”

“Oh we’re friends?” he commented, with a cheeky smirk “Didn’t you try to kill Rick.”

‘So Tara told them’ you thought. “Yes,” you said “In a friendly way.” normally he wouldn’t find that funny, but these past few weeks escaping away to your hide-out had given him a chance to get close to you. “Come and visit me when you can, please? I got nobody else to steal my food.” That afternoon you both search for some last pieces for Daryl, having to go deeper and deeper into the city. You talked about his group’s plan to go to the museum and raid it for seeds and old machinery. You saw first-hand what a crack-shot he was with his crossbow, you whistled as another went down “Not bad bow-boy. How’d you get so good with that?”

“Before all this” you started, walking ahead to pull the arrow out of the dead one. “Me and my brother, Merle, used to move around a lot. We used to hunt sometimes for sport, sometimes for food, but he’d always make it a competition. Decided to learn a quieter weapon so I could beat that son of a bitch.” Another two walkers approached as he spoke. He shot a bolt through one of them while you took the other down with your knife. “After that, he never helped hunting again”

“Sounds like a sore loser” you commented, pulling the arrow out of the walker's head and handing it back to Daryl. He took it and reloaded the bow.

“You have any brothers or sisters?”

“Nah” you shook your head, keeping a lookout while he reloaded. “My old man said I was a miracle baby. Mom was always sick. They thought they’d never have any. I used to hate it but after hearing how Merle left you in a cell while he ran off with your girl, I’m glad.”

“Ahh, he wasn't all that bad,” he commented, walking alongside you.

“No one is as bad as they seem when you know them. At least that’s what my superior officer said”

That evening he couldn’t stay, but he left with a heavy bag and that made you happy. As the evening descended you went back to your unit. The following week would be quiet since Daryl had his big raid coming up. Though you didn’t realise how quiet until you were in the midst of it.

You had scavenged a few things. At this stage, the apartment building had been picked dry but you had a few children’s cloths and some old bandages from first-aid kits that had seen better days. As usual, you had piled everything in Daryl’s room. As usual, you were reading another book. As usual, it failed to entertain you since you’d read it about three times now. As usual, you fell asleep on the couch, not completely though because you heard the front door open.

You sat up sharply. “Dary-”

Thwack

~ Tag List ~

@softsebastian​

#twd daryl #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #The Walking Dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #twd #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #twd reader #twd x reader #twd reader insert #daughter reader #negan x daughter reader #AJ's Negan's Daughter AU

[oristromboli]

If You Be Our Star, We’ll Be Your Sky | 2

Chapter 2: Shine Like Stolen Gold

Stories aren't meant to be lost and forgotten.

When a timid bird comes knocking at his den, the dragon seizes the rare opportunity presented.

(Smut this chapter: Zhongli/Reader)

So, really, come on. When Aether is cooking some minty meat rolls or sticky honey roast, is it so hard to believe that he thaws their frozen meat to make up for when they lack the ingredients otherwise? Paimon really can’t complain, her mouth waters at the thought of it and a childish smile creeps on her face as her eyes glaze over.

Behind her, Aether is throwing his face in his hands in mortification at the realization that they ran out of chilled meat for goulash. Paimon vaguely registers your voice laugh-crying at Aether that now, they must go fight some unreasonably angry grandpa boars for their next meal.

Yep, the fairy rubs her belly completely content. The sticky honey roast was totally worth it.

She yelps when Aether grabs her ankle to pull her down to their level of reality. “Alright Paimon, think you can handle the cold without that goulash? We ran out of Frostshield Potion a while ago too, which reminds me, can you ask Lisa if she can make more?” Aether turns to you, and you take out your journal to note the next task with a little side note, circled twice: ‘Check all inventories before walking into deadly weather. Obviously.’

Paimon nods, though she puts on a big show of rubbing her arms with a cheeky grin. “Paimon will be okay! The sooner we get off this mountain though, the better.” Nobody disagrees with her, but some hours into climbing the mountain and Paimon is grumbling once again. This time though, it’s not about the cold, oh no.

Aether gave her the golden Seelie to hold and act as a firefly while she scouts for the next torch.

You would laugh harder, really, you would, but every breath you take in this frozen wasteland seems to burn your lungs even more. The sensation reminds you of how Venti once spoke sparkly-eyed about a Snezhnayan drink called Fire-Water that ignites the body while freezing their breath. If not for your collective appearances seeming to be ruefully young for this world, you’re certain that Aether and Venti would have somehow convinced Diluc at this point to import the drink just for them.

Though, come to think of it, you’re not entirely sure if you want to see the havoc that would indubitably follow the drunken duo. After all, you already remember how Aether was shy of throwing a dumpling at Zhongli when he enthusiastically ordered wine-soaked rice balls instead, and that was when Aether was sober.

Your commission involves collecting some of the old books left behind in the libraries littered throughout Dragonspine for the researchers at the base of the mountain. While normally not a difficult task, the blizzard appears to be picking up just to spite you three. If only there was… Aha! “Aether! Paimon!” The two turn at your calls and frantic waving, pointing to the cave just to your right. All three of you missed this hidden entrance – that’s it, time to go inside and wait out the weather. If none of you caught this, then most definitely the visual conditions were progressing from bad to fucked. Stars, you can’t even think beyond trying to get warm.

While Aether kneels to light a cooking fire, you shuffle forward and take stock of your surroundings. All in all, the walls certainly saw better days, but there is no shortage of old books to rifle through for information. Paimon is a step ahead of you though as she floats (wobbles) towards you, carrying two books that are double her size at least. Through your combined efforts, you manage to find a decent number of books to ferry back for the researchers while Aether finishes cooking some jewelry soup.

Gods, the speed Paimon dive bombs for her bowl rivals the hawks over the Liyuen mountains. Magpies are cute and dive too, right? Maybe Paimon is part magpie, with her big eyes and penchant for swooping the unfortunate souls who wander too close to her food.

You shake the thoughts out as you consume your own dish. The silence among you three is not unwelcoming, though you can tell Paimon is itching to say something. Bracing yourself, you take in a deep breath and –

“Do you and Aether ever visit old worlds again?”

Choke on your food. You choke on your food, all elegance and style gone as Aether is clearly not expecting such a question either. Paimon huffs, though she looks more concerned about the wasted food Aether spat out rather than Aether himself.

“We, uh…” Aether coughs, hitting his chest a bit before going silent. There is a shift in the atmosphere, even the embers in the fire long ago dying to merely whispers of warmth. Golden eyes mellow as Aether looks hazy, distant all of a sudden. “We don’t go back usually, no. Why do you ask?”

Paimon scratches her head. “Well, Paimon noticed that every time we come here, there seems to be more to the story of an old kingdom here. The paintings and the books… It’s like they wanted to be remembered, but they weren’t.”

You close your eyes, ears straining as Aether attempts to formulate a proper response. “It’s… We,” he gestures between you two, “We don’t belong to any world. We never did.”

The wind picks up, nearly deafening. What a confession, the wind whispers. What a blessing of freedom.

What a burden.

“You remember how I told you that we were travelers? Well, our people are tasked with, ah, watching those we encounter. We try to learn all of the stories and knowledge of our charges; to our people, that is worth more than all the golden Mora in Teyvat.”

“Oh! Oh! Is that why you’re so glowy and yellow?”

Aether laughs, shoulders relaxing a bit. “Yeah, I just took all the wealth of our old worlds and made it a part of my outfit. That way I’ll always be rich.”

“Ehhh? But why waste treasure like that?”

“Because I’m the real treasured cutie here,” he deadpans, proudly puffing out his chest, only to duck when you and Paimon immediately throw your spoons at him. The atmosphere is lighter now, happier.

You don’t hear the wind anymore, just Paimon and Aether. Only them, always them.

“Anyway… That’s the great paradox of our duty, though. We learn best by walking among them, but never with them. But we try not to visit the same place twice. Stories, once ended, always make way for another chapter. Each new world we walk into, we carry with us the knowledge of all worlds past and try to understand why people act the way they do. We were never mortal, so it’s…” He trails off, unable to complete that sentence.

“Paimon doesn’t get it though. Why do your people watch, if they never actually participate? Isn’t that the whole point of reading a book versus building a library?”

Aether stops, stunned into silence. You close your eyes tightly. Sometimes, Paimon’s naiveté can really hit the mark on all things wrong in a system.

When you were born into the universe, you were simply given one duty: to watch and record. The blinding brilliance a new star is meant to guide, acting as the light in the night sky. However, the only answer your elders gave was that it was the will of the primordial force guiding you all. Your family promised you then that you would find more explanations in the mortal realms, for no star is truly alone.

These answers still elude you, though, as they do Aether. How long have you been lost like this?

Did you stop counting your age because of your immortality, or because you refused to face another year no closer to the truth?

Nobody remembers who came before. Nobody talks of the distant, quiet stars above your own people, separate from their arrogant claims.

“There is a saying from one world we traveled to,” you begin carefully, “that says ‘you can never go home.’ It means that when you leave a place, you can never come back to the memories you made there. Nothing will be the same, because you will have changed in your journey.”

Paimon floats gently down between you and Aether. It is then you notice she still cradles the Seelie, her wide eyes reflecting the golden light that pulses. She kindly reaches for Aether’s hand and gives him back their newest companion before softly smiling. “Not all journeys are bad ones though, right?”

“Paimon,” Aether breathes, “I – “

“Like our next journey to get the heck outta here! Paimon’s hungry.”

“And there it is,” you laugh. Standing up, you offer your hand to Aether as you pull out the map. He leans forward before tapping a point near the camp full of adventurers. Paimon squints and nods, then disappears in a show of light. It’s beautiful, you admit to yourself. All the light, the warp of space-time, the blessed departure of squeaky Paimon. Really brings a tear to your eye sometimes.

“Hey,” Aether says, grabbing your arm. “Are you okay?”

You raise your eyebrow at him. “You’re the one who answered her question. Are you?”

He laughs and looks away. “Yeah, I am. Just shocked that Paimon used up her daily brain power allowance in one go.”

 ---

 Later, when you three stop by Wangshu Inn, Aether strides to the edge of a balcony from one of the many layers and can’t help his wandering thoughts to Paimon. He never cared much for deeper probing and purposes to his journey, he left that to you and Lumine. Adventure and fun always drew him instead, the promise of being chainless. He saw the ability to travel between worlds as a blessing, one where he can be untethered to nearly everything. No, he’s sure his sudden obsession with Paimon’s question is just because he didn’t expect Paimon to be so insightful. That’s it, it has to be.

He thinks of Lumine, of how she would have thoroughly enjoyed this view.

She is always the one reaching out to the locals, to guide and let them follow her back to the path of righteousness – or whatever was deemed lawful during that time, at least. Different worlds, different definitions. At least here, he tries to do what’s right by the people and helping with their (endless) errands. That’s what Lumine would have wanted. What does he want, though?

Well, for starters, he wants to find his sister, his other half, his twin star. Aether smiles to himself as he counts off all the nicknames he has for his little sister, how he plans on releasing Paimon on Lumine to see what the little fairy’s new nickname for her would be. A frown graces his lips though as he follows that thought, of names and designation and purpose.

It’s no secret that the Vigilant Yaksha established here his… home? Home, Aether decides, if only to avoid the sadder options. He remembers Xiao’s long conversation with him beneath the floating lanterns, of how Rex Lapis gifted him his name to give him renewed meaning and life. To protect those he once consumed.

Aether hopes that the adeptus can find that peace one day; as someone who travels worlds, who has seen that darkness between the stars, he knows the shadows are no welcoming place. Still, his heart warms when he remembers Xiao’s tireless watch, knowing that the spirit will come to his aid should Aether ever call his name. He never had someone do that for him, if he was being honest, that level of attentive care. It was always his people helping others.

It’s nice, he thinks. Real nice.

That’s why he resolved long ago to offer the same protection to the adeptus, much to the latter’s scorn, but Aether really didn’t care to listen to his grumbling, he was going to help, damn it. Aether thinks back to Venti, to the bard’s soulful flute and insistence on freedom from chains.

When he goes back inside, he muses, he’ll ask you to write a new quest: ‘Introduce Xiao to Venti.’ Somehow, someway, he plans on helping Xiao out of that darkness that Lumine fell into. Maybe this is his own redemption. Penance for lifetimes of no responsibilities, no cares, no duty to uphold for a singular cause. Look at where it got him now. He’s lost without Lumine as a tether.

He’s not going to give up on Xiao, damn all the others that did. Xiao never gave up on Liyue, so why should Aether?

The blonde turns when he hears your approaching steps and smiles. You return it, bringing him a bowl of sweet almond tofu. Not your own cooking – Aether would have heard the commotion first – but he’s grateful, nonetheless.

“There’s some jerk bullying a kid!” Both of your ears piqued at that, but you don’t bother trying to contain the fit of giggles at the ridiculous statement. You’re sure that someone would have dealt with the jerk by now, anyway.

“Who bullies a kid anyway? It’s like kicking puppies,” you mumble around the food in your mouth. Come on now, that’s a new low, even for Hilichurls.

Aether looks down and spies Paimon with two bowls of sweet almond tofu, full speed ahead like the devil himself is on her heels. Only, when he discovers the figure behind her, the flash of green and smoke and a spear trying to turn Paimon into a kebab, he nearly chokes again on his food.

Hey. Hey, wait, that’s –

“Shit,” he grumbles, “that’s my idiot.”

 ---

 The sun is kissing the horizon by the time you three make it back to Liyue Harbor. Your daily commissions complete and with enough Mora for the week, you nearly make it back to your inn before you catch the unmistakable lilt of a deep voice in the air. Zhongli?

Aether and Paimon catch on, and after a second, make their way to the source of the sound. The former Archon spots you three and his eyes crinkle before he stands. “Oh? I didn’t think I would see you here.”

Be still, beating heart, and thank the stars for the fading light casting everyone with a soft glow to hide your flush. You close your eyes, listening to Aether and the archaeologists ramble about Lord of Geo this, God of Wealth and Commerce that, something about the catalytic power of Mora.

When you open your eyes, you find Zhongli’s own on you instead. Huh?

Aether kicks your foot lightly and you turn to him, blinking again. “Hey, saddle up. We’re going on another adventure.” You deflate slightly; to be honest, you were hoping for a chance to rest and reflect on the conversation with Paimon. Stars, you can’t handle more of this right now, not in this… state. Mentally you’re flailing, trying to keep thoughts buried while you open your journal to mark the next task, because with thinking came emotion and with emotion came trying to understand why Paimon’s question stung you. You always believed these idle thoughts to be private questions, private sins about your loneliness in your duty. How far from the path have you two strayed for even an outlander to notice?

Still, you bite your trembling lip and nod. Back to work like always.

 ---

 You grab Zhongli’s hand as he hoists you up the cliff, your own arms quick to turn to jello. In front of you, you can hear the Fatui agent and archaeologist bickering over something, but you’re frankly too tired to care. Aether’s voice cuts through, trying to make peace. Or, really, trying not to pummel them both, but who cares about nuances? You say tomato and Aether says ‘gimme a sword.’

As you sigh and stretch your back, Zhongli smiles at you before observing the ocean once more.

Your throat is parched, but that’s not the first thing you think of. “I miss him,” you say, “Tartaglia.”

He nods. “I do as well. Are we selfish in desiring his company over his duty?”

You hum. “Well, it’s only natural to want to see your friend again, right?”

Zhongli blinks. “Indeed. Friend.”

Curious. The old god wanted Tartaglia to stay, to study him, thrilled in discovering a mortal so foolish for the first time in many millennia to challenge the Lord of Geo. A selfish want, yes, but present nonetheless.

He thinks he hears Guizhong. “Morax,” she chides, “you cannot hoard people.”

Did you want Tartaglia to stay for something else? He was certain you understood his own desire for the man with your gift mirroring his symbolic chopsticks, even if the Harbinger did not. Is Zhongli’s courting too old-fashioned?

“Ye-ap,” you smile. “He was a good partner-in-crime.”

Not for the first time, Zhongli thinks that perhaps, something is lost in translation.

“Indeed.”

 ---

 Forget Dragonspine. Things have somehow gone from fucked to holy stars keep it together don’t cry don’t cry –

“Your legacy? Your legacy,” you begin, voice shaky. Zhongli turns to stare at you, like… Like… “No. No, you do not get to look at me like that, like you’re Morax. Morax wouldn’t do this.”

Aether and Paimon whip their heads to look at you then. You stop and turn upwards, eyes searching, and take a deep breath to calm your nerves.

Clouds cover the night sky. Cowards.

“We are tasked with remembering, yes. You know this. But don’t you dare imply your legacy was for naught.”

Zhongli’s lips tighten. A single tear falls when you look back at him.

“Mora transforms, yes? Maybe then,” you start and begin waving your arm around, gesturing to the ocean before you all. “Maybe this is a transformation. No god that passes is ever truly gone in Teyvat, so don’t you dare say that something so sacred has departed Liyue. She lives on in her ideals, her beliefs.”

The old god turns to look at the ocean. He thinks back to Ningguang and Guizhong. “Like a cycle? Is this what you have learned on your travels?”

You nod. “Morax knew there was power in mortals, there was potential. As the God of Wealth, does it not logically follow that he would understand that mankind is divinity transmuted? When these men come and go, their souls return to the divine. Nothing is ever truly gone.”

He scoffs at that, but nothing infuriating. It sounds more disbelieving. Still, he turns to you, though you don’t see it. “Rain that rejoins the river into the great ocean is no different than the clouds that made it.” His heart aches. Why does his heart ache? “Perhaps, when the clouds form once more, we shall see the revival and birth of gods anew.”

When you look at him, Zhongli is already gazing back out at the see, a distant memory washing across his eyes. You know of his connection to Guizhong, know of his pride to discover that her tablets still stand strong when you and Aether stumbled across them.

Suddenly, your heart falls in your stomach and you feel sick. “Come on,” you mumble to the other two present. They nod and you open the map, once again deciding that tonight is just too much.

Zhongli stares long and hard at the spot you three stood in, then turns to the stars above as they emerge from cover. The ring in his hand is gently twisted, around and around. He thinks of Aether, of Paimon, of you. Of how, no matter how close to the heavens a mountain dares to try and touch, it can only wait for the light to warm its barren earth and the rain to form once more.

The stars only twinkle back.

 ---

 All right, well, the plan to stay in your inn and once again contemplate Teyvat’s frankly depressing history just went out the window. Literally.

You jump from the bedroom and open your glider to land in a hidden corner to not attract too much attention. Moments like this, Mondstadt is perfect for you; the drunkards leaving the tavern at this hour would just look at you glide by and raise their mugs in understanding. Life is like that sometimes.

Aether and Paimon long ago fell asleep, you made sure of that. It’s annoying that your exhaustion is now to the point where you can’t even fall asleep, thoughts dance just out of your reach, and even the ocean breeze as you shuffle close to the docks no longer tickles your senses.

When you hear your name called, you stop and turn around to find Zhongli ten paces behind you. Ah  shit, here we go again.

“I was hoping, though not expecting, to find you out. You appeared distraught when you left, so I went to Bubu Pharmacy to retrieve some medicine.” As he walks closer, you stand up straight and look at the bag in hand. He holds it out to you and you smile at his amber eyes, pupils in slits as he presents his gift to you with all the grandeur of a cat dragging a mouse to its master.

However, when you open the bag, you stop and look back at him. “Chamomile,” you say, voice flat.

“Yes.”

“You got me tea.”

“Yes. Is something the matter?”

You sigh and rub your eyes. “You could have gotten this at a regular herb shop and not been robbed blind.” He winces as realization dawns on him, nodding along, but then.

Then you start giggling.

It’s stupid, it’s so stupid and your mind is tired beyond reason and here you are laughing at the God of Wealth spending his money for you and got robbed for it. You cover your mouth, but you feel your wrist gently pried from your mouth and you gasp as Zhongli examines at you inquisitively. He smiles too. “Would you care for me to brew this tonight?”

You nod and babble what you hope to be a thank you, incapable beyond reason of any coherent thought, save for one. Food. Flipping him around, you instead take him towards the nearest food stands still open at this hour – at least feeding drunkards is universal – and lead him to the most appetizing.

It doesn’t escape you that his hand glides down your wrist to grasp your fingers gently.

 ---

 Some hours passed and you both settled long ago in front of Wanmin Restaurant for a gamble of Xiangling’s choice of mystery dish. When you first discovered this new weekly option, the three of you had widely ranging reactions: you politely tried to hide your shudder, Aether more openly grimaced, and Paimon was dragging you both by the collars as you desperately dug your heels in.

Conversation flows easy between you two, and you click your chopsticks at Zhongli as you take another bite from a perfectly cooked chunk of meat. “I think you would benefit from some hobbies other than work, you know.”

He arches an eyebrow and puts down his cup of baijiu. “I am attempting to integrate a mortal life. Is it not logical to work within Liyue as one?”

“Well, yes, but actually no,” you drawl and smile behind your cup at Zhongli’s expression. “You should do other things, too! Enjoy life, take long walks, play some xiangqi, meditate – “

“Dear Celestia,” he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am not some grandfather you need to care for. I am old, not dying.” Vaguely, you register a quiet grumble and a why do I even bother.

“What was that, hmm?” You raise your hands to cup your ears, hoping to draw out more of his frustration. Instead, Zhongli’s lips curve up at you with a combined expression of haughtiness and mirth.

“Apparently, I am not the one who requires hearing aids.”

“Touché.” You swipe the bottle of baijiu and pour a small shot for yourself. “D’ya remember in the immediate aftermath of it all, Childe kept bowing and calling you zu fu? I personally think he was on to something.”

The ancient god only grouses as he pours himself another drink. “My temptation to indulge his battle lust then has never been so appetizing. The argumentative fool.”

You shrug. “He was looking to get a reaction out of you. It worked, didn’t it? The great Rex Lapis irritated by an incessant fly! Oh, the scandal that would cause, the humiliation.” Dramatically, you throw your hand over your forehead and lean back, the spitting image of a damsel-in-distress in one of Lady Ying’er’s lustier novels.

Zhongli smirks then and laughs low, a purr more than anything, before gathering his empty dishes to leave a bag of Mora in the center of the table. You’re proud, you really are, though you bite your tongue from any more comments on the old god remembering his money for once.

It’s a while before you both speak again, a silent agreement between the two of you to finish your bottle before moving on. He is the first to break, though you don’t expect the next words. “When I took the seat of Geo Archon offered by Celestia, I never thought this day would come.”

Tilting your head, you scoot a bit closer. He glances at you, posture pristine and relaxed, though you feel rather than see the tension in his taut body. “Why?”

“Because,” he begins, pursing his lips as he thinks. “I am – we are – immortal. Therefore, I suppose I simply did not see an end to my duty.”

“How sad,” you murmur. His eyes dim, so you put your hand on his shoulder to ground him before he sinks further into his memories. “Duties should only be taken when you see a future for it, rather than a lack of an ending. When the day came, I am glad you recognized the need to put down the mantle.”

Zhongli’s eyes burn into you, and realization dawns on you as you think of the potential reason for his intensity. Is it because of - ?

“I’m really sorry for my behavior at Wangsheng, really, I am. You were burdened with a seemingly never-ending duty, it wasn’t fair for my anger to cloud my judgment.” You try to look away, but Zhongli’s hand placed over yours keeps you still.

“Your frustration was reasonable.” He pauses for a second. What was that look in his eye? “You observe those around you just as I once did, though I have stepped into the story. Are you and Aether able to put down your duties as well?”

You quickly withdraw your hand and look away, biting the inside of your cheek. Not him too. “I don’t know,” you breathe. If Zhongli wasn’t so close, he wouldn’t have heard you. He takes a deep breath before offering his hand. Taking it, you both stand, and he releases you as he begins walking away from the restaurant.

“I believe we still have some tea to brew, yes?” You grin at his question, warmth settling in your stomach. Tea. That sounds nice.

As you travel with him, the silence stretching once again, you can’t help but think of Zhongli’s eyes once more. Bah, damn your crush, he only looked at you as a god would a pleading mortal, he’s beyond your realm of comprehension and –

You try to stamp the disappointment before that thought keeps going further. Exhaustion begins to creep in your bones, you’re certain the late night is the cause for your distress, but that doesn’t stop your cynicism.

How could a god understand the burden of stories, of keeping records tirelessly? He’s the God of Contracts, but your contract doesn’t end.

Damn the pity in his eyes.

 ---

 (It wasn’t pity, something whispers. Compassion. Tenderness. Wrath.

All things must be fair, Zhongli thinks. Your contract never was.)

 ---

 By the time you’re in his apartment and sitting at his table, you’re sure you’ve spent the better part of ten minutes gaping like a fish at the luxury of it all. Each item’s quality is beyond description, truly, but you still fumble about in your mind trying to find the words anyway. Rich? Decadent? Unnecessary but very nice? Paper lamps are littered around you, both hanging in the air and on side tables, and you can’t help but notice the soft, hazy golden glow the light casts over the room. Somehow, you’re sure you smell incense burning somewhere…

The colors are earthy in tone, but what surprises you is the abundance of plants – mostly silk flowers and glaze lilies - along the windows and corners carefully placed, following the patterns of feng shui. Stone walls curve around, and the plants appear to rest in the embrace of the circular patterns carved within, perfectly matching the decorations. As the hand-carved furniture, laced with golden accents and filigree, weave into the background, you can’t help but appreciate the apartment’s forest-like ambiance. His den is warm, welcoming, and soft, a far cry from the image of a Geo Archon. All that’s missing is some art and –

There it is. That tapestry Childe bought the day you received your own token.

Before you can stop it, the quiet voice in your mind croons at the memory of him.

You’re only snapped out of your thoughts when Zhongli returns with a tea set and places one cup before you to carefully pour before joining your side. He blows the tea before sipping it, all the serenity afforded to an ancient god.

You pause, smile lost now. “I’m sorry.”

Amber eyes open and scrutinize you. “For what? You have already apologized before for nothing, starlight.”

Rolling your head side to side, you lower your gaze and find solace instead at the steam rising from the tea. There goes that damn nickname again. “For disrespecting your wishes. Your legacy is important to me, but what’s important to you is that you… You…”

It doesn’t have to be said. Zhongli pauses and puts his own teacup down. “You and Aether once informed me of your people’s duties in recording stories. My hope is that my time as Zhongli marks the end of Liyue’s need of me, to close that chapter in Morax’s story.” You frown at that.

“As Zhongli?”

“Yes,” he breathes, smile small but distant, “you were right on the cliff. Morax would not have made the decision Zhongli did. I am no longer that god.”

You reach over and grab his hand, his eyes meeting yours again. “If you are no longer him, then why is Zhongli the end of Morax’s story and not the beginning of his own?” He only makes a soft rumble in response, and not for the first time do you marvel at how lost he appears. “Your journey as Zhongli is not another contract. You shouldn’t start this journey the same way you started your duties as the Geo Archon.”

“Oh?”

Suddenly, Paimon’s question rings clear in your head. “As immortals, we naturally process things slower, we have more time to. Time is given to us to see the future and learn, not to dwell on the past. Otherwise, we waste this gift,” you murmur. Gods help you; you think this next statement is going to kill you but it needs to be said. “I’m sorry about all those you’ve lost.”

Great, just great, way to bring up his old friends. Still, you felt the need to blurt it out, if only so someone could say it to him once. Just once.

Zhongli’s hand turns so that his palm faces yours and his fingers entwine in your own. It’s a long time before he speaks, and if it wasn’t for his gentle grasp, you were sure that the former Archon was furious.

He must be using his elemental powers, he has to be. Why else are you petrified?

His eyes move, looking through your hands. Beyond, beyond. What does he see?

“They would have wanted me to move forward. I honor their memory through remembrance, and hopefully now, movement. All things must return to dust, though I do not rush the journey,” he eventually replies. Only, you look closer, and his eyebrows are barely furrowed, the only sign on his otherwise perfectly composed face of the emotion lurking underneath. “I do not know how she saw fit to be my mentor, to guide such a bloody god out of the battlefield. She saw a nurturer, where I saw only the destruction my hands have wrought eons ago.”

You don’t have to ask to know who he refers to.

It’s stupid, it’s bold, it’s desperate, but you’ve already gone this far, haven’t you? You bite your lip and ask gently, selfishly, “May I remove your gloves?”

He looks to you and nods, relaxing his grip and not bothering to hide the confusion carved all over his face. As you slowly peel off his gloves, you see his dark hands lined with geometric patterns glow dimly, the shade matching his own amber eyes. Fuck, he’s so beautiful, the statues and paintings of him do him no justice; the muscles along his arm flex in reaction when you begin to trace his fingers, inch-by-inch, from the tips to the palm. Reverence fills your eyes as you suddenly understand why so many mortals threw themselves to the floor beneath him in worship.

These are just his hands, though. Should you ever be blessed to see him fully, by the stars, you think you would die and ascend to Celestia right there.

You feel his steady gaze on you, but you don’t care. Home stretch, here we go, how much further can you test these boundaries?

“Do you ever wish you could have changed the outcome?”

He scoffs. “Wish? A god does not wish. What Celestia commands, we obey. Seven seats there were, and so the fighting began until seven victors remained.”

“Sure, but I mean, that’s in the past now. A name both defines a purpose and limits it.” A sentiment both you and Aether share, for those who traveled countless worlds surely held countless names. Zhongli fondly remembers his first encounter with Alatus, but he frowns, nonetheless.

“I will forever carry the scars as the former Geo Archon. I may leave Morax behind, but I can never forget that I am still him, buried beneath this visage and burdened with the weight of that knowledge.” He clenches his hand again, but you spread them out and begin slowly tracing the golden lines along his palm and forearm.

“Hm,” you hum, “that’s odd.”

“What do you see?” Zhongli says, voice pitched an octave lower than before. Subtly, you feel your core heat and you rub your thighs together, though not enough to draw attention.

“Your hands… I don’t see any blood, just these flowers you’ve cultivated,” you beam, eyes flicking to the silk flowers and glaze lilies permeating the room. Maybe it’s the scent, or the lingering baijiu in your system, or the fact that Zhongli’s eyes are on you, but you feel drunk and bold and stupid so you bring his hand up to your face to snuggle. The anxiety in your stomach melts when you feel his rough hands against your cheek. “Warm too. They’re no different than a man’s. Than Zhongli’s.”

When his lips part, your eyes follow the movement and he stares at you for a long time. Those eyes flicker between yours, fully present and watching you now as they pierce your own.

Are you leaning in, or is he? Fuck it. “Kiss me,” you rasp, pleading and hopeful.

You groan when he moves forward and finishes that thought, deftly moving his other hand to your hip to rub small circles with his thumb. How are his lips so soft? All you can feel is his movements against yours, though you register him eventually breaking apart. His pants mingle with yours, and gods if he doesn’t come back you’re going to throw a bitch fit.

“Was that alright?” he murmurs. Ever the gentleman, you bemoan. Instead, you opt to whine lightly as you drag your unoccupied hand up his chest, cooing at his own gasps as you creep farther up.

“Yes, please,” you whisper, “Please, again, let me –“ You reach over and begin unbuttoning his shirt. Zhongli leans back slightly to allow you more access – though the cheeky god turns his head and peppers your forehead with kisses along the way -  and you move both hands to wrangle off his garments. After a few minutes of fumbling, you manage to bare his upper chest, but you pause in appreciation.

Oh, oh stars, you thought you were going crazy for his hands. Truly, you feel like a debauched Sister to Barbatos when you took all of Zhongli in; his hair tussled, lips mumbling something, and his eyes – fuck they are following your every motion. It’s almost predatory. You register somewhere that he’s still rumbling something, but you raise your eyebrows and dig your hands into his chest again, twisting the silken fabric. “I d-don’t, I don’t speak Liyuean, what was that?”

He laughs, solid and rich and you’re in deep. Zhongli takes one of your hands to kiss the palm, then the wrist. His eyes flutter open and look at you again, all mischief and pride still lacing his perfectly composed features.

It’s not fair, you think. Some stupid divine gift of being perfect all the time.

“I spoke Common, dear,” he replies and slowly kisses up your arm before moving to your shoulder. You tense as he leans forward, all but nuzzling your cheek as he whispers, “I asked if you would prefer to take this to the bedroom?” He says something else after, and this time you’re sure it’s Liyuean as he concludes by gently, playfully grazing his teeth over your cheeks and jaw and neck. 

Two can play that game.

You mumble something in response with your own native tongue, all chirps and purrs and light tones. Zhongli pauses and turns back to look at you inquisitively, single eyebrow arched. It’s endearing. “I said that tonight, you’re mine.”

He smiles and you suddenly feel the world spin as – oh fuck are you being lifted? You were trying to be smooth with your earlier statement, corny as it sounded, but this. This fucker literally swept you off your feet.

Yeah, not fair at all.

“Then, dear starlight, allow this old adeptus to humbly offer himself to your whims.”

“Hmm,” you purr, “You offer? Sounds awfully sacrilegious coming from a former Archon.”

As you’re taken to his bedroom, Cor Lapis eyes make a show of inspecting your body he carries before eventually meeting your own. “I am no longer that Archon.” His voices dips even lower, sultry and husky and possessive. “Tonight, I am Zhongli. I am yours.” You gasp as he sits down on his bed and pulls you back in with another kiss, light nips and moans. The debilitating arousal that hits you soaks your undergarments as you realize that this god, Prime of the Adepti, is begging for more on his proverbial knees.

Yeah, you think as you open your mouth and welcome him, this works. His tongue is warm and silky; somewhere, you feel his hands making quick work of your clothing, so you try to return the favor. After you unceremoniously toss his clothes – and ignore his offended puffs – you lean back, admiring the now shirtless Morax as he spread his legs further, nearly coy if not for that devilish smirk. His brown and gold marks extend all the way to his shoulders, reminding you once more of all that those hands have achieved.

Maybe… Maybe will do to you later too, you think, suddenly shy. When you feel cold air strike your core, you shiver, only now realizing that the god stripped you quickly without your notice.

Seeing him spread out like this, legs apart and chest bare, you can’t help but wonder how the statues littering Liyue do him no justice, not by a long shot. You sink to your knees before him, and he makes a confused sound, leaning forward only to halt when you place a hand beneath his naval.

“I thought you were the one to be worshipped tonight,” he mumbles, though clearly not opposed.

“Mm, my whims, right? I just – “ You lean forward and trail your lips up his thighs. “ – really – �� Another kiss, closer, closer. “ – want to taste you.” His breath stutters as you kiss his bulge, relishing in his earthy scent. Somehow, he always still smells of silk flowers, an undercurrent to what you experience now. You glance up at him and undo his pants; as you reach forward, you let just enough of his cock through before you shift forward and let him slide into your hot mouth.

Morax growls at you, and oh fuck that’s doing something to you as another wave floods you, settling low and deep to soak your thighs. He bucks his hips slightly to reach further into your hot mouth and you rush to keep your hands on his thighs. Not that it would help, really, but it reassures you that somehow, you’re still in control. As you move forward to further take him in your mouth, you simultaneously strip him of his last clothing and pull it down to his ankles before he kicks it away somewhere. Truth be told, you’re torn between making this as slow and reverent as possible or drink from him like he’s a fountain in a desert.

You settle for somewhere in between as you slowly move your head back and forth, swallowing around him when you can’t take any more, and you lift your hands to stroke what’s left. Stars, he’s thick and long, your jaws ache just from taking him this much.

As you pull back, a trail of spit connecting his leaking head to your lips, and you flush when you realize – “Only halfway?”

Zhongli chuckles above you and cards his hand through your hair. “It’s okay, starlight, we can – “

“No.” You interrupt him to take his throbbing cock again, but you begin tracing a warm and wet line down his shaft instead, and he groans low. You’ve wanted to taste him for so long and you’re sure there’s some bullshit adeptus aphrodisiac in his precum, because gods above he tastes exquisite everywhere. Somewhere above you, Zhongli is writhing and panting as you take his head again to swallow around it, drunk on his noises. The saltiness in your mouth only encourages your efforts, determined to give him the best performance he’s ever had.

You lay your tongue flat against his frenulum and he jumps, barely incoherent as he tugs incessantly. “Wai – nnngh – wait, I-I’m close, I’m… Haah.”

Warmth blooms within as you release his cock with a pop and look at him, eyes hooded. “I want to taste you,” you slur. “All of you.” He looks stricken as you resume your ministrations, and soon you feel him throb more insistently. Zhongli is a God of War, right? Maybe… Maybe if you do this –

You drag your nails fierce and unexpected down his hips and thighs and he cums, hard. Suddenly you’re forced to hold his legs for purchase as you swallow, it’s all you can really do as you feel his tight grip hold you in place to face-fuck you and you milk him for all he’s worth. Which, y’know, you’re fine with too. Your eyes flutter closed as you hear soft coos and praises tumble from his lips, and you release his cock to look back up as it twitches lightly, already missing your wet mouth. Between the two of you, you’re not sure who looks more drunk.

 No, actually, you’re sure that you look more drunk, because even though Zhongli’s eyes are deep in reverie as watches you stand up, he looks like the perfect image of serenity. His bed is vast, linen sheets with a ridiculously high thread count and shimmering amber patterns over the black base, and his headboard is a deep grey with Cor Lapis geometric decorations littering it almost haphazardly. You realize that the design mimics his throne in the Geo Archon statues.

Around the room, you suddenly notice more silk flowers and glaze lilies, with a window spanning nearly  the entire wall to your right with a view of Liyue only afforded to royalty. There are jade statues and crimson tapestries framing a weapon rack hanging on the wall to your left with multiple spears adorning it, each likely worth a king’s ransom.

And here you are, standing in front of Rex Lapis as he moans your name and nearly pouts for more attention. How many have seen this great emperor laid so low?

Suddenly, you yelp as the man grows impatient and grabs your hand to pull you to him before rolling over you. His glowing eyes narrow as he growls, though it isn’t threatening so much as restless, and you keen when he lowers his mouth to your neck. Ah, there it is, that dominating Archon present once more.

Zhongli’s lips trail kisses as he travels down the curve of your throat to your sternum, before shifting to one breast and flicking his tongue over your nipple. You jolt and moan again, louder when he bites, then nurses it again with kisses to sooth. Then, you feel it, those skillful and calloused hands as one traces your hips before reaching your core. You whine and lift your hips, grabbing a fistful of Zhongli’s hair as he moves to your other breast. “Please, please, please.”

He smiles against your skin as one tickles around your folds, suddenly in the mood to go slowly and tease. Right when you are about to complain, a digit touches your clit and you whine as you jerk your hips again. Only, the sly fucker moves his hand back with your hips so you never feel that pressure tending to your need. You moan out his name, an absolute mess as he massages you idly like he has all the time in the world.

Well, technically, you both do, but you want it now, damn it.

When he moves his head back up to your neck to begin kissing again, you snake your hand around his throat to pull him in close and seethe, “If you keep playing with me, so help me I will – “ The words die in your mouth as he suddenly plunges a finger in and moans at how tight and silky you are, the wet noises drowned out by your cry. Zhongli never breaks eye contact as he watches exactly how you come undone from just one finger.

You can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed at how easily he calls your bluff with the overwhelming relief that comes from him stoking that fire deep within. He twists his hand around and a lazy smile graces his lips, the pristine image of composure while you’re twitching and mumbling underneath. You claw at his back and moan incoherently, desperately looking at him and hoping he understands.

Oh, oh he does, but Zhongli purrs regardless when he leans forward to whisper in your ear, “Words, darling, use your words.” Right when you begin forming them, though, he slides another finger to join the first to cut you off. Cheeky bastard. A third quickly joins, and you throw your head back, noises growing in your throat when you feel yourself getting closer, closer, yes there -

The god looks at you and frowns lightly as he tuts. “So loud,” he says, and you feel his fingers leave you as you clamp around nothing, right at the precipice. Zhongli laughs, silvery in sound, when he spies your frustrated bearing, about a threatening as a kitten’s, and he nips your jaw with a quiet, “Open wide.” When you oblige, you feel him slide his fingers in your mouth, and you move your tongue between them to taste yourself. He moans appreciatively and you smile as you lick again. You never thought you could be into this, but with him? Fuck yes you can be.

“How do you taste, little one?” You sigh at him and smile but pause again when you spot that glint in his eye, the one that spells all sorts of trouble for you. When Zhongli withdraws his fingers, you watch as he gracefully climbs down your body, all slow movements and muscles flexing like an elegant beast.

A dragon, really.

His eyes flick up to yours as you watch, thighs twitching around his head when he leans in closer to kiss your velvety folds. You close your own as you squeak and feel his laugh, before you throw your body up when you feel his tongue slide deep into your pussy without hesitation, the top of his mouth wrapping your bud in a furnace. God of the Stove? Something, something, something –

Your hips struggle to meet his lips, but you feel one hand hold you down with his growling. Stay put. “Ohhh, f-fuck, please – “ You try again and this time, his nails dig deep into your skin and you hiss with pleasure. His other hand creeps up and slides a finger in to match his tongue, and stars you suddenly can’t breathe.

When you look down again and see his golden eyes just fucking watching you, intense and concentrated, you realize the inevitable. “Nnngh, f-fuck I-I’m – “ you stutter, barely having enough wherewithal to warn him, “I’m g-going to –“

The devil smirks wickedly and he sucks on your clit, and you’re tumbling. Gods above, something tears through you as you cum with a ragged, hoarse cry of his name as euphoria streaks through you unforgivingly. Your muscles spasm and you grip the sheets harder, all too aware of your limited mobility and it’s like your body made your orgasm all the more intense, knowing it can only express itself there. White-hot pleasure concentrates around the god’s head, and you can’t figure out if the heat is from you or him.

Each spasm has you releasing more wetness from your cunt to Zhongli’s mouth and he groans deeply, lapping it all the while he finger-fucks you through your orgasm. When it gets to be too much, your oversensitive bud begging for a gods-deserved break, you lightly swat at his head to stop drinking you; he only purrs softly into your folds before slowly withdrawing his fingers.

When the former Archon sits back up and slowly, deliberately licks each of his fingers as he makes eye contact with you, your throat seizes. “Fuck,” you breathe. Oh, oh gods, if you were native Teyvaten, it’s him you would worship, you would throw yourself down and suck him dry all day if he would let you, ride his thighs on his throne, fuck he’s so sexy, so handsome, so fucking good to you –

Only when his eyes crinkle with pleasure did you realize you… You were saying those things out loud, each one of those statements tumbling and traitorous.

You quickly look away, mortified and all too aware suddenly of your current situation, the fact that you’re in bed with him. You’ve harbored a cru- fondness for him for so long, you lost yourself to the ecstasy before being brought back to reality.

Zhongli frowns and crawls forward, gently taking hold of your chin to turn you to him. His eyes. Stars, they’re so warm and welcoming and… Tender. “Starlight,” he rumbles, “Was that… All right?” Stupefied. You’re stupefied as you realize this ancient god thought you were embarrassed of him, of his performance somehow and not your own childish blunderings.

“Y-Yes!” you squeal and immediately wrap your arms around his shoulders. He falls forward with an oof as your legs find purchase around his hips, and you begin trailing kisses down his cheek and jaw to his neck in an attempt to rectify this. “Y-yes, that was so good, I-I just… I can’t believe you… We…”

Zhongli chuckles and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “Well, perhaps we can keep proving you wrong?” When he bucks his hips, your pussy feels electric as you realize the angle you’re hanging off of him allows his cock to slide just outside of your slit. Again, you’re sure you would’ve been more embarrassed at the fact that you’re practically a sloth hanging off of him, but, well, come on. Who doesn’t want to climb this tree?

As he’s slowly rocking and coating his cock with your slick, back and forth and whispering sweet nothings between kisses along your temple, you realize belatedly that he’s asking for permission. “Please,” you mumble.

He doesn’t need anything more as you feel his hips angle, the tip poking just the entrance. When he slides in, slowly at first and barely the head inside you, you wheeze. “B-Big,” you huff unceremoniously and Zhongli pauses, waiting for you to adjust.

You both stay like that for a moment, breaths mingling, and you feel his back muscles flex under your nails. Eventually, your eyes open and you see how his are tightly shut and he’s painfully biting his lip. All those centuries carefully cultivating a strong discipline is being tested, here and now, and stars he looks to be in terrible pain as he holds, waiting for you to adjust.

Hm. A thought strikes you, lighting in your head with a faint ping.

Slowly, to not startle him – though his eyes snap open anyway when you touch his shoulder – you creep your hand up and go to the back of his head. He looks at you, curious and distracted for a moment while you reach for his ribbon. When you pull it undone, eyes scrutinizing his every movement to see if he enjoys this, you card your hand through his waves as they cascade around you two.

Then, you tug. Hard.

Shit, that does it as Zhongli sinks his head to your neck and groans, low and open and raw as he thrust his hips further, suddenly sinking in half of his length into you. You gasp and hold on to his hair tighter when he pauses, but you only tug again – lighter, this time – and he gets the hint. Slowly, the god begins rocking his hips once more; this time, he works inch-by-agonizing-inch into you.

You have a hard time breathing as his girth practically splits you open and glides along, your hips already aching from how wide you spread them to accommodate his size. Nothing about him is soft, it’s all hard planes of muscles and jagged edges, and yet. And yet. When he leans forward to capture your lips again, it’s all you can think of when you think of him. Soft.

The obscene noises your pussy makes around him is silenced as he slows, finally reaching the base and hips meet your own. You have to give him credit, those gentle kisses were excellent distractions, because you’re not sure if you could have survived otherwise. When you lean forward to nip his bottom lip, he hums and begins to draw back before rocking back in.

It’s torturous, really, it is, the way his cock rolls along your velvet walls hitting every nerve point with deliberation. He wants to drag this out as long as he can, and impatient as you are, you want him to instead be going faster. Amber eyes meet yours, and neither of you have to say it. It’s now a fight for control, for who can direct the pace of this little skirmish.

For every whine and lift of your hips, his own draws back to match you. “I… Have raised – urgh,” Zhongli starts, grunting when you nip at a spot on his collarbone, “Liyue meticulously… L-little one, let me b-b-hhuild – “ You lap at another spot as you claw his back. “ – you, worship you.”

“Mmmno,” you reply, huffing in protest when Zhongli captures your mouth again and begins exploring it with the same vigor he did your cunt. When you realize that, you squeeze at the memory, but he only groans and shifts for a deeper angle. You let out a noise somewhere between a chirp and a squeal as he begins hitting that one spot. “I-I a-a-am not… Hah… Not a sta-tuueee to worship and erect, Zhongli.”

He laughs. “Interesting choice of words.” You barely hear him though as he begins thrusting with greater power, and you keen as you feel yourself approaching the edge again while you clamp harder around him. Each thrust from his hips punches a slight gasp out of you, and feel teeth drag along your jugular until you’re meeting his piercing eyes. His golden pupils are slits now, absolutely proud and feral. Thank all the gods in all the worlds above because Zhongli doesn’t stop, doesn’t tease you this time. Instead, he guides you to that precipice with the same slow determination he promised.

“Hh-haah, oh fuck,” you whimper, “I-I’m - !”

He kisses your temple and murmurs, “I know.”

Any annoyance you feel at his haughtiness is swept away when another orgasm is drawn from you, and you gasp, tugging his hair needily. His rhythm doesn’t change, only the intensity, but that’s all you need as you feel your pleasure building in waves. You knew this was coming, but you don’t expect how quickly it arrives nor the duration.

No, while your first orgasm was passionate and blazing, striking you like lightning, this one made you feel as though you are in a boat on a turbulent ocean. Each wave you crest over only gets higher, your euphoria growing as you bite his shoulder in an attempt to hide at least some of your cries, but you fail utterly. The noises coming from your core as it floods are downright obscene, and… Shit, is he talking?

“ – lovely, perfect little one, pretty thing just squeezing around my cock, aren’t you? Good girl, you are perfect -”

You sob and nod vigorously, yes you are a good little girl, just keep pounding Zhongli and you’ll be good for him all night. “I – I,” you start, quite uselessly if you’re honest, and he looks at you curiously but doesn’t stop his movements. “I – I… Am still… I-iiiiiin cont-rhhhol.”

“Yes, you are,” he coos and leans forward to kiss you, his hips finally, finally moving slightly faster. Only slightly, though.

Are you, though? Are you really? Because as Zhongli smirks at your debauched expression, drool coming out slightly and covered in blooming bruises, you wonder if this is another one of his games to make the other think they were the victor all along. You wouldn’t put it past him.

“T-then,” you croon, “f-fuck me harder, Zhongli.”

“Mm?”

“H-Harder, faster, oh stars,” you whine, “I need it, p-please, I can take it!”

His eyes become hooded, and suddenly, you feel him pull out. Hey, hey wait, that’s the exact opposite of what you want. It isn’t long, though, and you’re flipped on your stomach with a stone grip yanking your hips up for him. Instinctually you arch your back and mewl as you present yourself, and you hear a string of Liyuen curses fall from his mouth as he palms one of your cheeks before you feel a slap. Oh, that one drew a loud moan.

You feel brave and look over your shoulder, only to be devastatingly aroused at the sight of him inspecting your dripping hole. “Filthy,” he murmurs, clearly pleased with his handwork as his other hand strokes his cock. Zhongli’s eyes meet you then and he smiles, shifting closer, clearly not wanting to waste time.

In a single thrust he’s sheathed fully inside you again, and you cry out as you feel both hands move to your hips in a bruising grip. He begins pounding in earnest, mumbling more praises under his breath, but you don’t register it, all you feel is him, just him.

However, it isn’t long before you’re frustrated. Not with him or his divine cock, but you feel like you’re missing something. You grumble, wanting some of the icy pain you gave him inflicted on you too. “Z-Zhongli!” you cry, turning around again and determination written on your face.

He doesn’t miss a beat in his movements as he meets your stare again, perfect eyebrow arched. “I can take it,” you grouse. “I can take you, don’t hold back, please. Stop treating me so gently. Be rough with me, I’m begging you, be a beast and use me. It’s you and me tonight, remember?”

The god suddenly freezes, eyes wide as saucers at your demand, and you barely stop an embarrassed wince from creeping on your face. Shit, was that too much? Except, when he smiles, all teeth and eyes glowing with pleasure and long eyelashes fluttering, your heart suddenly shoots into your throat with anticipation and no small amount of fear. “Very well.”

He leans forward to kiss the small of your back as he pulls out, your pussy clenching around emptiness once again. Before your very eyes, you watch scales erupt from his shoulders and you feel claws pricking your hips, sure to draw blood if they pressed any further. You vaguely register a sudden weight to your right; gasping, you watch a long, draconic tail wrap around your hand, flicking with all the excitement of a pleased cat. However, when you look back, his whole being seems to have grown larger and you feel small; the dark brown coloring of his shoulders bleeds now to his pecs and journey – delicate like paint strokes – to his naval. You don’t miss fangs grace his open smile and Cor Lapis antlers rising from his head, shy of scraping the ceiling. They glow rhythmically with the markings on his arms, pulsing like a primordial heart. Stars, it’s truly a radiant crown befitting the Prime Adeptus, Morax, emperor of Liyue.

You swear to yourself then to never ever ever tell Zhongli your original intent, not on your fucking life. Truth be told, you meant something more along the lines of biting, scratching your back or something, never in your wildest fantasies did you think he would take your dare so literally.

Well, maybe in your wildest fantasies, but that’s a secret between you and the stars.

When your eyes take in all the glory that is Rex Lapis, your breath hitches when you finally spy his cock, practically weeping with pre-cum and twitching to be back inside you. What gives you pause is the fact that, well, every part of him grew with his transformation. Not only the length and girth, but the very appearance shifted, looking more draconic. Ridges line his darkened member and like his arms, there are golden markings glimmering along his shaft that throb in time with every other.

Immediately, you hear two sides inside you war: fuck yes fuck yes fill me completely and can that even fit or will I die first?

What a way to go, you decide, and shyly meet his eyes again. The entire time he sits under your inspection, he is rigid and chest slightly puffed. He preens under your appreciative noises, and when you finally match his eyes again, there is a renewed hunger lurking in those amber depths. “Last warning,” he rumbles.

You feel the vibrations of his voice, deep and shattering like a rockslide, and another wave of arousal practically seeps out as you moan. The leak doesn’t escape his sharp eyes and he smirks, taking this as your approval. Grabbing his cock in one hand and holding you steady with the other, he begins the slow breach, and oh fuck does it hurt in the best way possible. Some of the loudest cries from you yet are quickly silenced as you bury your head into your arms, only to come out again when one of his hands snake around your hips to begin steadily rubbing your clit. You feel a slight jut and you’re pushed forward, but he doesn’t move. Instead, Zhongli’s head rests between your shoulder blades panting hot and wet while he focuses on getting you to relax.

“M-move,” you mumble, and he growls in response and presses just an inch further before stopping again. You whine, an impatient brat, and try to take more of his cock by rolling your hips back. Hissing, you feel his claws pierce skin as his grip tightens to keep you in place; you choose to ignore the warning and try again, only to yelp when you feel a sharp bite to your shoulder.

You’re pretty sure that if you move this time, his fangs will draw blood, so you still. Okay. Okay, yeah, nope. You’re not in charge anymore. You may have won the battle, but it’s only fitting that Rex Lapis won the war.

“H-How far?” you ask, almost scared of the answer.

Eventually he releases his jaws and begins tenderly licking your skin – is his tongue forked? – and he hums. “About a quarter of the way.”

“A-a quarter of the - ?! Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you sputter. You grab his tail and tug on it insistently, trying to get his attention. “Hey, pull out a sec.”

He doesn’t move.

“Zhongli.”

Grumbles.

“Zhongli.”

The god pulls out, and when you turn back, you can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips at the expression he wears. Liyue’s denizens will surely kill you if they ever saw how you reduced their once mighty Archon to a pouting mess. “Good boy,” you coo. You hear a deep purr rise from his chest, and you lean forward to kiss before shifting around and grabbing his shoulders. “Now, turn around and lay on the bed.”

You don’t have to repeat yourself as he quickly lifts you again – not fair – and twists around so that you’re straddling his waist while his tail curls around one of your feet. When he settles back against the headboard, watching you intently for your next command, you marvel once again at the failure of the statues to truly capture his glory.

Biting your lip, you dig your hands into the brown scales framing his shoulders, but quickly fumble around for different purchase as some of his scales jut into your hand. When you finally find a good position, you release a long sigh and Zhongli curves his lips up before pulling you close for another kiss.

“We don’t have to,” he says when you break apart.

“No, we do, we have to,” you drawl, somber expression contrasting his amused one. “It’s the law, I demand it.”

He huffs, indignant, but offers no further protest. When you look down, your thighs begin quaking as you realize how close his cock already is. You reach down and take it, giving it a firm squeeze around the head and feel him buck into your hand. Eventually, you balance yourself over the head and begin the slow descent into madness.

Because holllyyyy stars, feeling his cock spear you like that is enough to make you become dizzy with pleasure. Still, you made a promise to yourself, so you sink further and work him in deeper. The ridges brush against every nerve ending and you curl your toes, electricity shooting up your spine as you cry out in raw pleasure. Zhongli digs his claws into your hips again and leans forward, snarling at the sensation of you fluttering around him.

By the time you reach the base, you’re a quivering mess; when the god moves his hips to readjust, you openly sob at his cock resting deep and filling you so completely. “Look at you,” he coos, and you feel one hand drag to your stomach. When you look down, you gasp as you see a thick bulge pushing out, marking you in exactly all the ways that Zhongli is filling you. “Taking me so well.”

His fingers drag along your stomach, idly moving in circles. Or diamonds? They feel almost... Purposeful. Hissing, you move forward as you hear him hum something in a language foreign to you while the skin around your belly burns before slowly soothing.

You kiss him again, allowing his tongue to snake in and explore your mouth anew. Deciding to take a page out of his book, you roll your hips against his instead of moving up and down, though he doesn’t seem to mind if the noises he makes are anything to go by.

You can’t help it, you break the kiss and fall forward against his chest and keen when he grabs your hips to begin moving earnestly himself. It’s clear you’re no more than a cocksleeve, legs gone and you can only hold on for the ride. One of your hands winds up to grapple his antlers for stability, prompting greater speed from him. Your voice begins rising in pitch, and the fire within begins burning anew, quick and merciless once again. Zhongli takes one hand and claws his way down your back, marking you and tearing you apart like you’re his prey and you love it. Soon, all you can hear is your heart hammering in your head; you sink further into that dream of bliss, all sense quickly departing except for full –

“One more,” you hear somewhere distant, beckoning. “Grant me one more. Cum for me.”

And that single word yanks you back to the present, growls and moans ringing loud and clear around you as your orgasm tears through you unexpectedly. Oh, how you obey your lord, because that orgasm somehow reaches new heights the previous one didn’t, and you begin openly crying. You register a forked tongue lapping at the salty streaks down your cheeks, but you don’t care, you’re only focusing on your pleasure burning all other thoughts away and rendering you mute. The vivid energy bleeding through you compels your body to release what little wetness you have left, and just barely, Zhongli’s cock pounding away at you glides easier.

You feel nudging at your head, and you roll it to the side instinctually, bearing your throat in submission to lick a hot stripe along your jugular as his hips move faster, singular focus in seemingly rearranging your insides to make more room for him, for all of his godly power. At his final thrust, he sinks his teeth into the crook of your neck and shoulder in determination, but you long ago lost any serious feeling outside of your oversensitive core. Instead, you lift your hand to card through his hair as you feel his hips roll into your own slowly, hellbent on filling you completely.

Zhongli just keeps cumming and cumming, and a nearly unbearable warmth builds low in your stomach, but the amount is enough that it eventually gushes out of around his cock. When he feels wetness seeping out, he release your shoulder and grumbles, soothing the wound with slow licks. One hand caresses the stretched skin of your stomach around his cock again, handling it with the tender care of a doting lover.

Huh. Lover.

You giggle, stupid and dreamy, and Zhongli smiles with you. “Come on, little one,” he says and begins lifting you off. Oversensitive and raw, you both wheeze at the sensation of the ridges catching again until you’re off and empty and – oops. Mixed cum floods out of you; pink dusts your cheeks, but he merely hums and stands with you. The world spins around you as you are placed on the bed with your legs nudged apart. A few moments pass before you feel a warm, damp cloth wiping at your sensitive core and thighs – ah, there are some bite marks there too – and you sigh, perfectly content with all the stress of the day thoroughly fucked out of you.

Though your eyes are closed, you’re still lucid as you feel yourself gently manhandled and lifted. When you’re placed back down, you whine at the loss of the silky cover, left with the downy blanket underneath. “Forgive me, dear bird,” Zhongli laughs, “But I feel you would not appreciate sleeping in our mess.”

“I forgive you,” you say, and open your eyes when you feel the bed dip. Zhongli settles in next to you back in his human form, and of course, perfect as always. Smiling, you move closer to him, making a pleased sound when he takes this opportunity to begin brushing your hair with his fingers.

“We should go to the pharmacy tomorrow for your wounds.”

“Aw, and cover the marks?” You smirk when you hear his breath hitch.

“You cannot say such things to an adeptus, starlight.”

“Oops.” After some minutes, Zhongli stops and rises out of bed. Your hand shoots out to grab his and you look at him pleadingly. “Where are you going?”

“Ah, I am going to brew some tea. Something to soothe the muscles.”

“Of course you are,” you grin and release him. You’re content to let him fuss over you both. Quietly, you hear soft singing emerge from another room, the words foreign to your ears but pleasant nonetheless.

You feel soft inside.

 ---

 “Will you tell me of your friends one day?”

The former Archon stops and looks at you. “My story is a long and complicated one. Entwined with many others.” A red thread.

You nod. “That’s okay,” you hum. “I have all the time in the world.” A pause. “You remember them, yet choose to not be remembered yourself. Left to be debated and fought over. Why?”

Zhongli pulls the blanket over both of you and wraps an arm around you, whispering into your hair like some dirty confession, some dirty sin. “You remember. Is that not enough?”

“I suppose so,” you mumble. What are friends for?  “I hope, before we leave, I can tell your story again and again. Maybe I can move the heavens, make a constellation for you. Permanent and guiding. Even if you don’t want its name remembered, it will still be there.”

He laughs and closes his eyes. She would defy the heavens?

You close your eyes too. After all, that’s what friends do. They remember each other.

 ---

 (Morax’s heart flutters when he hears we. Can he join? Will Celestia allow it?

Certainly, he can collect the wealth of the heavens to pay back Childe, he muses. A practical decision, of course.

Or perhaps Childe can come collect them himself.)

 ---

 Dust is in the air, clouding his vision. The young god coughs and shuffles forward, hand calloused and tight around his stone spear.

Compassion, he muses. She always preached of love, of tenderness. Where was compassion for her?

Morax keeps walking, dust growing thicker and dark like the night. Obsidian lays around him, shimmering with promises of vengeance. He has failed. Guizhong trusted him to lead without her? They were never his people, they were hers. He was merely the guardian, the infallible stone statue.

And now, their Archon.

When he falls to his knees, he feels warm drops fall on his face, only to realize belatedly why – it is blood. The blood of the countless beings he’s slaughtered for her, as her people watched in horror as he attempted to water the earth with it.

Suddenly, he feels a cool breeze pick up. A rolling storm gathers and relentless rain replaces the blood on his face.

His hands remain stained. Cold. Godly.

The rain doesn’t seem to mind.

Before he stands, the water washes away some of the earth in front of him. Morax leans forward to grasp a shimmering stone. The sun’s warmth floods his hands, but he only grips tighter and cradles it close to his chest as he watches the rain pelt the earth.

 ---

 Zhongli’s eyes blink open, though he still feels the weight of sleep and the taste of dust in his mouth. The sun has not quite risen, but the sky turning brighter tells him the world is still asleep. You are still asleep.

His eyes soften as he looks at you hiding your face in the crook of his neck, hands tucked to his chest. However, the dream lingers in his mind, and he can only move forward to wrap tighter as he settles his arm over your body in a protective stance.

A dragon and his hoard.

He remembers Tartaglia’s question. Do you have a hoard, Rex Lapis? Do you safeguard gold? Maybe I can see it one day in your den. How insolent and forward, he thinks fondly.

Though, eventually, his mind strays to your conversation earlier, of his own misgivings about Celestia.

He remembers the last time he tried to hold something so divine – so fragile – in his mighty grip.

“Please,” he murmurs to the empty room. “Please.” Zhongli, for the first time, feels he understands the mortals on their knees before the gods. But he doesn’t pray to Celestia, he prays to her.

He tries to forget how his heart ached when the Snezhnayan ship breached the horizon, gliding on the calm ocean to take its chaos elsewhere. How the sunset took all the light and warmth from Liyue Harbor that day. How fierce and angry you were with him.

Zhongli closes his eyes, resolved in his conviction that, though you may forgive, you will never forget his manipulations of Childe back then. Tartaglia’s insistence on chipping away his stone armor both infuriated and endeared to him, so he respected the Harbinger as a deserving rival. How could the Warrior God do anything less?

You mumble, and he pulls you in closer.

Despite it all, Zhongli begs to keep this moment to himself, away from the burning and punishing gaze of Celestia. He is thankful that you returned to him, thankful you deemed his presence worthy once more, thankful that his wait for the dawn paid off. This is enough, he thinks, just to hold you. This is to protect you – something he failed to do for the last divine he cared for. It’s safer for you.

(It’s safer for him.)

As he coils tighter around you and exhales a deep breath before closing his eyes, he can only pray that this moment remains hidden.

After all, who could forgive an earthly dragon – a God of Greed  - for the sin of stealing one of heaven’s golden stars?

 ---

 In Dihua Marsh, the cresting dawn’s light dances along the earth. The wind whispers to the flora and carries the dusty earth with it, parting the grass to allow the sun to warm the previous cover. Water from a nearby creek has long since fertilized the earth, and there lies a single green sprout.

It’s a glaze lily, the first in many millennia who once belonged to that rare breed that opened only for her.

-

notes:

y'all ever see that image of a hamster eating a very large banana? yeah

1) Baijiu is a type of liquor that originates in China! Furthemore, "zu fu" is the formal term for paternal grandfather in Standard Mandarin, xiangqi is a type of Chinese chess, and feng shui is the principle of decorating one's living space to allow better harmony of all energies within.

2) Up until the past century give or take, it was traditional in ancient China for the emperor to have multiple wives or concubines in order to ensure a male heir. Since Liyue is essentially China and Zhongli was its emperor for 3700 years, I imagine the concept of monogamy to be very foreign to him whenever he desired a lover. As much as i love headcanoning Zhongli as a himbo, i'm pretty sure he's so old-school he doesn't realize his blatant courtships and desires aren't being recognized lol. old himbo?

3) The exchange of betrothal gifts between the families being married is customary before the ritualistic courtships continued, and any partnership without equal exchange (Liyue) was considered extremely dishonorable

4) I wanted to sneak a reference to the fact that zhongli’s story quest is the first one we got that’s not named after his constellation, so his constellation’s name is not important to him, but recording ancient history is

also i appreciate any tips on my writing because fun fact! this is the first time i ever wrote smut _(:3」∠)_ luv y'all

#zhongli #zhongli x reader #childe #childe x reader #zhongli fanfic #childe fanfic #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #aether #genshin zhongli #genshin aether #genshin childe

[thewarriorandtheking]

Once Upon a Time

This little story was inspired by the prompt from @writersmonth:

Prompt 25. Fairy Tale

I know it’s not August anymore, but it took me this long to get it where I wanted it (I just can’t write fast), and it turned out kind of cute. So I am posting it anyway...😎

This story features a very young Thorin Oakenshield...who must have led a very sheltered life as the future King of Erebor. 

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

Once upon a time, there was a great city under a mountain, and in it there lived a prince. Now, he was a very special prince, and the king took great pains to keep him safe. He decreed that he should not venture out of the city, but always remain under the mountain where he could be well guarded. The palace was large and beautiful, with rooms beyond counting, and the city was grand and orderly, with wide streets and plazas and fountains and many people coming and going. The prince was very happy there and never bored. He had his brother and sister to keep him company, and was kept very busy by his tutors. A curious boy, he was always exploring the halls of the palace, the side streets, the mine tunnels that went on and on. Sometimes he heard men talk about the Wild, the land outside the city, but when he asked if he could go there he was always told ‘When you are older.’

One evening the prince was walking back from his weapons class, swinging his sword, when he saw a group of workmen come out of a door he had never seen open before. The prince waited until they were out of sight, then crept closer. It was a very ordinary sort of door, the type that led to a closet or a boring storage room. He touched it and it swung silently inward. The workers had not closed it properly! He could see a long, low tunnel leading up. The prince thought he had explored every part of the palace, but this was new. He quickly stepped inside, feeling for the latch in the dark. Spotting a still glowing torch on the floor, he waved it to get it blazing again.  

It was a small passage, just three men wide and a man and a half tall, the sides smooth and finished. He followed it a long way, it went up and up, sometimes very steeply, with several changes of direction. The prince began to wonder how long he had been walking, looked back the way he had come, and just at that moment the floor fell away in front of him. He grasped for something to break his fall as he tumbled down a short flight of stairs, then hit a door that gave way at his touch. Suddenly he was lying on something soft and damp, a dim silver light shining in his eyes. The air was sharp, he could smell damp earth and many other things he could not name. He lay still for a long moment, trying to comprehend where he was. It had to be the Wild, but it was stranger than he had ever imagined.

After a moment he sat up and saw a wall of smooth stone in front of him. The door had closed! This was very bad because doors that led to the Wild were invisible when closed. For some you needed a password, for others a key, but if you did not know exactly where the latch was you could never open it. The prince became very afraid. He was outside his city for the first time with no idea where he was! No one knew where he had gone, they might not find him for days. He felt like crying, but then he remembered that princes do not cry. Princes are strong, and decisive, and do not feel sorry for themselves.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” A low gravelly voice.

The prince looked around and saw a group of goblins materialize out of the shadows. They came up close around him, poked him with their swords.

“A Dwarfling!” One of the others sniffed. “Not much meat on it, but it will make a meal.”

“What’s it doing here?” Another asked. “Where’d it come from?”

Now you must know that goblins are cruel and wicked creatures. They live underground, the same as the prince’s people, and also mine and forge and can make clever things, but they are lazy and untidy in their ways. They have great love of gold and precious things, preferring to take them from others than to work at finding it themselves. The prince knew about goblins, all children were told the stories. He stayed silent, thinking furiously. He had his sword, but he could not defeat all of them. And if he tried to fight, they would kill him for sure. He had to think of another way to escape.

“It has fancy clothes,” another goblin said. “Maybe it has gold, too.”

“We can’t stop,” said goblin who had first spoken. “Tie it up and bring it along!”

The goblins tied his arms and legs, not very well, one of them slung the prince over his shoulder. They started down the mountain on a narrow path. You must remember, this was the first time the prince had been in the Wild and it was all very strange and new to him. This was the first time he had traveled under the open sky, heard the wind in the trees, seen the slopes of the mountain he had lived under all his life. He had heard about these things, but they were quite different in real life. The goblins seemed to be in a hurry, he saw the sky was turning grey and guessed the sun was soon to rise. The prince worked at his bonds, trying to loosen them, while he listened to their talk.

The goblins were from the Misty Mountains, where a great many of them lived. They were on their way to the Iron Hills on some errand and were not at all happy about it. They grumbled about having to go so far, and didn’t anticipate being well paid for their work. This gave the prince an idea.

“You will have gold, if you take me with you to the Iron Hills,” the prince told them. The goblin carrying him almost dropped him in surprise.

“I thought you gagged that thing!” Said the first goblin, who seemed to be the leader.

“You were the one in such a hurry,” grumbled the other. “Gold, you say?”

“Gold. Silver,” the prince said. “My father will pay a rich reward.”

“The only reward we will get is the loss of our heads,” replied the leader. “Which we will also lose if we are caught on this mountain. Now, gag the Dwarfling and let’s get moving!”

“I want to hear what it has to say,” said another goblin. “Might make this trip worth it.”

The prince looked at the goblins around him. He very much did not want to be eaten, and he had an idea how he might trick them. He could see he had their attention, now he had to come up with a story.

“My father is king in the Iron Hills,” he told them confidently. “I am a prisoner here, to force my father to keep an agreement and to pay tribute. By chance I found a tunnel that led here, but I have no way to get home.”  

The goblins looked at each other. “If your father would pay to get you back, what would the King Under the Mountain pay to keep you, I wonder?” The goblin leader asked.

The prince let his eyes go wide, shaking his head. “You must take me to the Iron Hills! I cannot go back there! My father will pay double!”

“I say we eat him,” said the goblin who had been carrying him.

“Not so fast,” said the leader. “How do we know you’re telling the truth?”

“The sword you took from me,” the prince replied confidently. It had been a gift from the King of the Iron Hills, it was in their style. “And this ring.” He offered them the ring he had received for his eighth birthday.

The leader drew out the sword they had taken from him, another grabbed his ring. They stood examining them closely and talking amongst themselves, their captive momentarily forgotten. The prince had already freed his hands, pretending he was still tied he worked at the ropes on his ankles. As he listened to the goblins arguing he saw two things: the sky was turning pink and there was a wide road of stone just a short distance below him. He was fairly certain he could get to the road before the goblins caught him, but which way should he run?    

The goblin’s voices had been getting louder, the leader wanted to take their captive to the King Under the Mountain, the goblin who had been carrying him was complaining they had nothing to eat for days, another wanted the ring. The prince took out his purse, which he still had because the goblins had been in too much of a hurry to search him. Inside were some gold coins and quite a few gems he had acquired by doing well in his lessons. The prince decided it was now or never. He tossed them into the circle of goblins and saw them go down in a heap, grabbing at the gems, punching and kicking at each other. Quick as he could he slid down the slope to the road, then hesitated. Where was his city?

A big black bird flew right by his head. “This way!” It called to him.

The prince ran after the bird, hearing the shrieks of the angry goblins. He didn’t dare look, just ran as fast as he could. Then he saw a flock of the black birds flying up the road towards him, and right at his pursuers. The prince looked back, the goblins were close behind, flailing at the cloud of black wings that surrounded them.

“Hurry, hurry!” The bird he was following came back and circled around. The prince put his head down and ran, his heart pounding in his chest. As you know, Dwarves are small, but also strong and fast. Over a short distance one can easily outrun a goblin, especially if there was a threat of being eaten.

As the sun was rising the prince ran out of the trees. There before him were the great gates of his city, sunlight just touching the top. They towered over the mountain vale, intricately carved, braziers lit, flanked by huge statues of his ancestors. The prince stopped and stared.

“Have you not seen it before?” Asked a voice at his feet. The prince looked down at the bird he had been following. He saw now it was a raven, wearing a necklace of fine golden rings.

“No. I have never been outside the gates. It’s beautiful,” he said. He looked back over his shoulder, there was no sign of the goblins. “Are we safe?”

“The sun is up,” said the bird, wagging its tail. “Now they will look only for somewhere to hide.”  

The prince could see the road he was on led to the gate. Feeling much relieved, he started walking. The raven kept pace beside him.

“Thank you for your help,” the prince said. He knew that Kings used ravens to send messages, but he had never spoken to one. He guessed by the necklace this was a special bird.  

“It is my honor, your highness,” the bird said. “Though you did most of it yourself.”

“I guess I did,” the prince smiled. He started to feel a bit proud of himself that he had escaped the goblins. “Who do I have to thank, noble bird?”

“I am Carc, chief of the King’s ravens,” the bird replied.

The prince told the raven all that had happened as they walked to the city gate. As he talked the prince began to realize how much trouble he was in. He was not supposed to be outside the city, he had lost his sword, and his ring. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been gone.  

“What is wrong, your highness?” Carc asked.

“I’m in such trouble,” the prince said. “I will be sent to my room for a month!”

“Why would your father do that? These goblins kidnapped you, hoping to hold you for ransom,” replied the bird, blinking his eyes. “If there is fault, it is on those who left the door open for the goblins to find.”

This made the prince laugh. “Clever bird! I name you Carc the Wise, and I will bring you whatever treat you desire!”

“My only desire is that we meet again, your highness,” said Carc, bowing low. “In better circumstances.”    

Upon his return to the palace, the prince did not get sent to his room after all. The story was already spreading through the city of how he had been kidnapped and cleverly made his escape. His father was especially proud, and told the story to everyone he met. The prince got to eat desert for breakfast, and his siblings were very jealous.  

Sometime later, he was able to sneak into his grandfather’s study to give Carc a juicy mouse. When the prince was older, Carc showed him the paths of the mountain, and taught him the ways of the Wild.

But that is another story.

#thorin oakenshield #thorin fanfic #writersmonth2021 #prompt25 #the young prince #fairy tale #the hobbit #erebor #fanfiction #writing challenge

[bokutosbubblebutt]

Chapter: Happiness || Teaser

——————

To be honest, it was really a miracle how you got there. You never expected that your parents would allow you to leave the house, to go outside, meet other people, start a life.

After never ending discussions, trying to find a compromise, they really said yes.

"We will try it a few months and if we are satisfied, if they can keep you safe, you can stay!"

You never felt more happy in your entire life. You finally could go outside, start a life, meet people, make finally friends and maybe even fall in love. Something you had dreamt about since you started reading.

Even though there was a high chance of being forced to go back to your place, the place that was supposed to keep you safe from every injury possible, you tried to make the best out of it. Even though there was a high chance of getting hurt and accidentally killing yourself, you tried your best to enjoy it.

Nervous but excited you were standing in front of your new teachers office, Mr. Aizawa. You already read about him in a superhero blog. He was the one, who could easily erase the quirks of his enemies and then capture them with his weapon. Pretty impressive, in your opinion. Simple but very effective.

It was really early in the morning. The classes usually start around 8:20 and it was 7:30 now. Already a bunch of people came across your way. You greeted everyone nicely and smiled at them but they all seemed to be in a hurry and stressed. Well, it was the first day of a new school year and taking care of such a big school with so many future pro heroes must be really complicated.

The school. Overwhelming! The campus was gigantic and had so many buildings, grounds and areas. You barely ever left your house, so it happens that you even got overwhelmed by only visiting the shopping center sometimes. Such a big place with so many different individuals made you panic a bit, and since you weren't used to being surrounded by people, you may suffered from social anxiety but the excitement and your curiosity made you gladly forget about it.

Your only concern right now was that you just tried to not get lost in here.

The whole atmosphere was completely different than at home. Here, it made you feel free like living an exciting life full of many people and different activities. At home, it was like a constant feeling of not being yourself or more like not knowing yourself.

And it smelled different here. It smelled like something sweet and dangerous, but quite serious as well. The sweetness definitely came from a lady that walked past you a few minutes ago. You recognized her immediately by her hero costume. It was the pro hero Midnight. For some reasons you've always looked up to her. She just always did what she wanted, not caring about what others think or tell her, sometimes you wish you could be like her but no, not in your situation.

Nervously you stared at the ceiling, trying to count the blue and white stripes on the metallic plates and not taking care about the things that happened around you. The counting helped you focus on one thing and made you forget about your nervousness.

"You need to go to Mr. Aizawa as well, right?" a deep voice made you snap back to reality and loose your concentrated trance.

A tired looking boy with really dark circles under his eyes was staring at you, scanning your appearance. He looked pretty buff and intimidating at the first sight. His indigo hair was standing up in all directions and made him look really tall. Awkwardly he turned his body towards the door and back to you.

"No taking?" He asked again and stared confused at you. The boy tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. Again his eyes scanned your body. Since you fiddled with your fingers the whole time, your hand caught his attention. A scar was going down from your middle finger to your wrist.

He had never seen you before. He would remember such a sick looking girl. You were really skinny and pale. You had completely grey eyes and light grey, almost white, hair, which stopped straight above your shoulders. Your whole appearance was ghost like and, to be honest, kinda sad. You looked so skinny, your cheekbones clearly defined, a big gap between your legs and like it would only take one little blow, probably just a little refreshing wind in the summer, to make you fly away. If you had a little bit more meat on your body, you would look prettier, he thought but that was just his opinion.

Perplexed you looked at him in shock, still not fully realizing what he just said to you. He's going to be the first person you ever had spoken to besides the people your parents hired and your online friends. He is the one, the first one.

"Uhm, no, I mean yes. I-, I am just nervous. Birfst, I mean first big day, you know."

you stuttered awkwardly and blushed in embarrassment. Amused the boy smirked and leaned back against the wall.

Great, the first sentence and you immediately fucked up, you thought. He probably must now be thinking that you are stupid and not able to speak, great.

Again you were staring at the ceiling, counting how many stripes the pattern had to make you forget about what a nervous wreck you actually were right now and he was silently watching you. Again he was trying to remember the person who was standing in front of him, trying to find out if he had seen you before but such a sick and sad looking girl was someone, he definitely would remember.

After waiting some more minutes the door suddenly opened and a man with long black hair and eyes that looked like they would fall shut every second, was standing in the door frame. Mr. Aizawa.

"Come in" he said and walked back into the room.

The boy turned around and walked into the room as well. The office was really messy and many stacks of papers were laying around. It smelled like coffee in here and the morning sun heated up the air, making the little dust particles that were floating around able to see. It was this kind of mixture that gives you a headache if you stay in here for too long.

„You two are the only one who are going to transfer to Class 2-A." he explained and sat down at his desk, trying to find something.

Both Class 2-A? The boy must be one of your new classmates then, you thought. You just hoped that he's not one of those school bullies, who make fun of others, will steal your money and put you into the toilet like you already have read about in some books. 

„I already filled out your forms and put them together in your folder. The only thing you need to do, is designing your hero costume but I can't find the sheet for it right now. I'm gonna be right back. Please go trough it and check if we missed something" he handed you your folders and then went through another door.

Your folder was pretty thin if you compare it to the other one. Well, obviously because there was not much information about you so far. Only your stats like height, weight and birthday and of course a description of your quirk.

Quickly you read through everything and checked if there were any mistake and surprisingly there was one. Just a small one but still something you better don't forget.

Curious you were eyeing the other folder and tried to read the boys' stats. After he went to the next page, you finally could read some single words if his quirk description.

"Your quirk is brainwashing?" you suddenly asked and smiled at him in excitement. „How cool! You must be pretty powerful with that, hu?"

Shocked the boy looked at you because he didn't expected you to speak so loudly. He thought you were more shy and quiet, your appearance didn't matched how you talked.

„Uhm, not really." he answered and closed his folder.

„I think it's a pretty cool quirk. How does it work?" you asked the next question and turned your body towards his, grabbing the arm rests of your seat.

„If someone answers me I can activate it." he explained and put the folder back on the desk, still shocked and not knowing how to act.

„But you can control when you activate it or not?"

He simply nodded and looked at you.

„My name is Y/N L/N but you can call me (Nickname). Nice to meet you!" you laughed with a big smile and offered your hand to shake it.

„I'm Hitoshi Shinsou, nice to meet you."

———————

So this is the first chapter of one of my stories I am currently writing on Wattpad

It’s called Chapter: happiness

If you liked the first chapter and are now interested in what’s going to happen next, here’s the link

#cute #fanfiction #comforting #fluff #my hero acadamy #reader #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha shinso hitoshi #shinso hitoshi #shinsou fluff #shinsou hitoshi #wattpad #y/n #reader insert #shinsou x reader #shinsou x you #shinsou x y/n #hitoshi shinsou #Bakugo #Deku #Crack #Class 1A #angst #angsty #drama #fanfic #denki kaminari #katsuki bakugo

[invaderlynx]

Booker and La Campagne de Russie

I just watched The Old Guard and honestly, it was one of the best movies I’ve seen in a VERY long time. Of course, now I’m having all sorts of thoughts about the whole thing and particularly about Booker because his backstory intersects perfectly with my historical interests. I know that all the immortals in The Old Guard have experienced all sorts of terrible trauma, but because I am a history major with an affinity for the Napoleonic period, especially the Russian Campaign (and because Booker is my favorite character), I’d like to give you guys an idea of just what sort of torture he faced even before the pain of losing his family (also for fair warning, I have not read the comics):

Please place yourself in Booker’s shoes. You are one of over 600,000 men mustered to march into Russia. You’re serving in an army you never wanted to join, taking up arms for the glory of an empire that’s never done anything for you. You’ve been separated from your three beloved sons and your wife whom you love more than life itself, and have been sent off to fight in a foreign land that’s nothing like the home you’ve left behind. That much becomes evident immediately. 

The invasion starts in the summer of 1812 and it is hot, unseasonably hot. You feel it, laboring as you are under the thick heavy materials of your sweat-soaked uniform. Each step is its own torture in the heat as you struggle through mud left behind by hard summer rains. More than a few men kill themselves at this point and although this is just the beginning, you can hardly blame them. Some of your comrades get the bright idea to start discarding some of their extra layers of clothing—underthings and the like. Perhaps you join them, anything to lighten the load. You can’t be expected to carry all this over the long miles ahead. You’ll live to regret that decision.

The fighting itself is worse than the conditions. You never quite get used to the violence. No matter how many times you’re thrust into battle, your mouth still goes dry, your heart still thunders as loud as the military drums’ tattoo, you still choke on that thick gunpowder smoke. You nearly threw up the first time you killed with a bayonet. You remember sticking the man in between the ribs, a swift stab and he is bleeding out. It is only then that you see his face and realize just how young he is. He is a boy, maybe a few precious years older than your eldest. He cries as he falls. You didn’t speak Russian at the time but you didn’t need to to recognize the word “Мама”.

The only thing that makes it possible to keep putting one foot in front of the other (besides your family, of course) is your comrades-in-arms. Against all odds, you’ve found friendship here, men with whom you can share stories and jokes and drinks. You find a few men of around your own age with families, wives and children that they lovingly speak of, but many of these soldiers are young, young enough to be your sons, far too young to be out here slaughtering and being slaughtered. Over your meager meals you tell stories of home and it is enough to hold off the impending horror, at least for a moment. When that doesn’t work, you turn to drink. You drink an awful lot.

The conditions of this foreign land are mercurial at best and your woes are only compounded by your lack of proper supplies. The Russians have been scorching nearly everything in the wake of their retreat, making it difficult for you to forage for food. Your search parties turn up very little by way of provisions and your food supply continues to fall in tandem with the temperature.

Borodino is hell. You see the man to the right of you receive a cannonball to the chest and fall in a spray of red, you see the man to the left crumple as a shot rips through his handsome, hard-lined face. One of your friends, one of those boys that you’d come to regard as a surrogate son who was barely old enough to grow hair on his chin, catches a bullet in the leg. He dies in agony four days later, one of the thousands of casualties of that damned battle. In your lowest moments, you wish you would have joined him.

You were never a particularly happy man, even before the war. Prone to fits of melancholia, they would have said back then. Your darling wife and your three sons certainly helped to alleviate that heavy, aching emptiness that resided in your chest, but it never went away, not fully. It resurfaces with a vengeance now. Sitting with your gun in your hands and far too much liquor in your belly, you think about ending it all. How easy it would be to put a bullet in your brain and finally die. In the end, it’s your family that saves you again. You may not want to live for yourself, but for them- for them you can keep fighting. Besides, Moscow is only 70 miles away and once you take the ancient capital, Russia will have no choice but to surrender. That’s what everyone is saying and you force yourself to believe that it’s true.

Moscow was a lie. You took the capital but there was no peace. There was no food either. The Russians took it all when they abandoned the place, leaving almost nothing for your starving army. Nothing but liquor, which you are very grateful for at least. Your superiors probably aren’t, you think wryly as you raise the bottle to your lips and drink, drink, drink.

Moscow passes in a drunken haze for you. You drown yourself in Russian booze, drinking yourself absolutely insensate. There are entire days you spend propped up against the wall of some ramshackle Russian establishment, surrounded by empty bottles, too drunk to even stand. You remember bits and pieces, shattered memories drifting in and out of the fog. The looting and the things you took (a fine scarf, a silver flask, maybe more), a ladies’ fur shawl wrapped about your shoulders to keep out the chill, the burning heat of a terrible fire and the screams in French and Russian, the acrid taste of bile in your mouth as you splutter sick all over yourself only to raise the bottle to your lips again for another drink. In the end, you’re forced to leave Moscow as the position becomes untenable, the abandoned city burned to a shell of its former self. You never do learn who first started the fire, even years after the fact. 

The retreat is hell on Earth, worse than anything else that came before. La Grande Armée is hardly an army any longer, you’ve lost practically all discipline. By now, you’re just a bunch of exhausted, cold, starving men who want nothing more than to just make it home alive. Most of them won’t. The temperatures have dropped to below freezing at this point and you are wishing more than anything that you still had those infernal layers that caused you so much pain in the summer months. The clothing you and your comrades drunkenly plundered in Moscow—silken scarves stolen from abandoned trunks, heavy furs pilfered from store inventories, ladies’ shoes that hurt your feet but do a better job of keeping out the slush than your tattered boots—help, but not enough. Your fingers stiffen to near icicles in the cold as you try your damnedest to massage even a little warmth back into them, your face is wind-chapped and scabbed. You feel as though your very marrow has frozen, and you are one of the lucky ones. Men freeze to death in their sleep in less than an hour. Fifty men will sit down at a fire and only the twenty or so closest will ever get back up again. You all begin to loot the bodies of the dead and—as you grow more desperate—the dying as well. Corpses are stripped naked and left in the snow as the survivors squabble over their threadbare uniform pieces. Sometimes the corpses still twitch and moan but you try to ignore that.

There’s no food either. In addition to freezing, you’re starving too. The lot of you fight and quarrel over moldy crusts of bread, and in some cases even kill each other for them. The more clever turn to other sources to fill their writhing, empty stomachs. Some eat their boots, but there isn’t much leather left in any case. Some carve their meals off the horses as they walk, tearing bits of bleeding flesh off of the warm, moving flanks in a short-sighted attempt to get even a few morsels of meat in their bellies. Others, in mad desperation as the march (if you can even call it that any longer) wears on, turn to each other.

Perhaps you take part in this, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you sidle a man out of the way to get closer to the fire, perhaps you take a coat off a corpse that you don’t know for sure is dead yet, perhaps you accept a piece of meat that you do not quite know the origin of. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

In the end it doesn’t matter. You die anyway. You don’t really remember how it happened the first time. Maybe you were finally picked off by the advancing Russians, maybe it was exposure, exhaustion, starvation, sickness, any of the hundred ways that you could die in this frozen wasteland. All you know is that one moment you were on your feet, shambling mutely forward, the next you were lying on the icy ground, gasping air back into lungs that had fallen completely still. Four faces are burned into your memory and from one you can still hear the gurgling, watery screams.

That’s when the dreams start, after that first death. Though, you wouldn’t classify them as dreams, they’re far more alike to nightmares. You see that screaming, drowning woman often. You feel her fear as she slams her body against her metal coffin. Even awake you can’t get the sound of her choking out of your head. Sometimes there are soft moments interspersed with the horror. You see a woman with short hair (it reminds you of a coiffure à la victime) laughing, you see two men resting in each others’ arms, foreheads pressed together gently, blissfully happy. To be quite honest, these ones hurt worst of all because they make you regret ever waking up.

You die a few more times before you finally decide to desert. You can’t take it anymore. That tyrant Bonaparte has abandoned this army, why can’t you? You take flight under the cold cover of night, trying to get to the Russian border. You don’t make it very far. You are dragged back—aching, tired, and hungry—and are hanged by the road as a deserter. Perhaps there still is a little discipline left in these ranks, at least enough to allow these soldiers to kill their comrades in the name of orders. You have to wait three days for the road to clear before you can finally run. In that time your body is almost entirely picked clean by looters. You continue your desperate trek back home in spite of it all and die many more times in the weeks (or was it months?) that follow. It never gets any easier.

 It’s near the border into Prussia that you finally meet one of the figures from your dreams. Perhaps it is the woman with the short hair who offers you a drink and a coat to put around your shoulders, and tells you bluntly but not unkindly that you’re immortal. Perhaps it is the curly-haired man who helps hold you upright when you stumble and is careful and caring with his words as he gently explains the situation. Perhaps it is his lighter-haired lover who catches you when you fold in on yourself from the weight of his words and offers you affirmations and condolences in a voice reminiscent of a priest. Whoever it is, they ask you to come with them and explain that there are others like them- like you out there.

“What about my family?” you stutter out, almost unconscious of the words as the tumble from your mouth “My wife? What about them?”

They favor you with a sad smile and try to explain, but you will hear none of it. They do not stop you when you tell them that you are going home, and you are glad for it.

With the supplies they give to you, you manage to hobble your way back home. You’ve been taken for a dead man, you realize, everyone you pass seems to think you’re a ghost. You don’t care. You only have one person on your mind.

Your wife answers the door dressed in black. She starts to cry when she sees you and throws her arms around your neck. You nearly crumple, weak as you are. “Bastien, Bastien,” she sobs against your shoulder “What happened?”

That question fills you with icy dread. Your stomach drops as you realize you cannot explain to her what you’ve been through, not in a way that she’ll understand. Even if you explain the immortality and she believes you, she won’t understand the horrors you’ve seen. No one will. A soldier’s burden.

You stay silent and instead cradle her closer as your boys appear in the doorway. You have them and, for now, that is enough. You won’t forget, you will never forget, but for now at least you have this.

#there we go #i made myself sad #you see what this poor bastard had to go through #it does not excuse what he did #not in the slightest #but it explains why he wants to die at least #there are very few things that i would want to go through less than the russian campagne #the old guard #tog #sebastien le livre #booker #andromache the scythian #yusef al kaysani #niccolo di genova #quynh

[rottenappleheart]

I finished “Heaven’s Vault,” that archaeology/alien translation game that everyone was so excited about before it came out, and then I never heard of again. I think I know why. 

Short version: it seems as though it was made by people who were very good at the worldbuilding/linguistics parts, and not very good at making a video game.

Long version:  I did enjoy the game, eventually.  Beat it in just under 20 hours, feeling fairly good that I hadn’t missed anything major and had done everything I could find to do before the end. I also see now that there’s a New Game+ which gives the opportunity to spin things out again in a different manner, with more information, and this really neat article (spoilers ahoy) talks about how the mere concept of a NG+ is part of the worldbuilding (the Loop religion centers around the idea that everything that has happened will happen again.) 

The learning curve was very steep at the beginning, because of the aforementioned gameplay problems getting in the way of the “meat” of the game. Some low points:

The controls are extremely janky and remained frustrating throughout. I had to turn the mouse sensitivity to its very lowest setting to avoid spinning like a top, and the restricted camera angles often send you walking off in a direction you never meant, leaping back and forth through doorways when you just wanted to enter (or exit) a room, etc. 

The mandatory and constant “sailing” minigame, while beautiful, is aggravating and not as fun as I assume the developers thought it would be, given how much you have to do it. Whereas Wind Waker’s equally mandatory and equally constant sailing is a feature of the game, here it was mostly a lengthy interruption between the snippets of actual content. Except that bits of the story are also spun out in conversations between Aliya and the robot Six on these sailing interludes, so you’re encouraged not to skip them, the few times you are even given that option.

The graphics are... odd and awkward, unfortunately. The developers tried a very neat thing with (beautiful and detailed) 3D rendered environments, populated by (also beautiful, but jarringly animated) 2D hand-drawn characters. Who don’t have feet, but kind of fade into invisibility just below the knees, so as to avoid rendering walking animations, I guess. It’s very strange. There’s also no “collision sensor,” so your 2D player character is constantly clipping through other 2D NPCs, which sometimes interrupt everything you’re doing for a 15 second animated scene where they greet you, then walk away. There’s no way to avoid this. And when that happens, it overrides and cancels any ambient but plot-relevant discussion you were having with Six, which was deeply frustrating.

Speaking of which - there are a lot of strange, time-consuming transitions. Walking out of one section of the Elboreth marketplace into another takes another 10 second scene triggered by you entering a doorway, just to show you walking through a side alley. Every single time. When you show artifacts to a colleague, he will walk all the way to the other side of his office and walk all the way back before offering the same dialogue as every time before. Realistic, to grant him time to check his data? Yes. Extremely frustrating as an element of gameplay? Also yes.

Also, my game glitched multiple times, everything slowing to an infinite limbo as a triggering event failed to trigger, requiring a full reset. Any interaction with Oroi, for whatever reason, had a 33% chance of glitching. 

All of this adds up to a game that creaks and clunks, and is deeply frustrating to play. These are all things which seem fueled by bad design/poor planning, and it takes away from the GOOD parts of the game. Namely:

It’s really beautiful (once you get over the 2D/3D intersection.) The music is lovely, and all the designs are top notch. I really enjoyed spending time in these various worlds and discovering their history. (Actually WALKING through the worlds, less enjoyable, but...)

The development of the story and the character interactions is mostly organic and nuanced. Like a Bioware game (I’m sorry to reference them but it’s the easiest comparison), your responses to different plot events and side characters, and the order in which you discover things (or even what conclusions you draw! there isn’t necessarily a single right answer!) shapes the narrative. Unfortunately, it quickly becomes obvious when the NPCs have run out of interactions for you... such as when you take a twenty-minute sail to revisit your home planet, suffer through endless clipping issues and mandatory transitions, only for your contacts there to have zero dialogue options. (Whoops, this was supposed to be the “good” section.) 

The translations, which are the heart of the game, become really fun after the first few. Initially, you have ZERO information when you are given your first line of text to interpret, and have to guess blindly. In a little bit, you are given more information to determine whether that first guess was right or wrong. It’s a little frustrating, but I think what the developers were going for is that Aliya is already roughly familiar with Ancient script, and whatever initial guess she makes is about 50/50 correct. Each new line of text you uncover builds on the glyphs you already know. It became very fun to make more educated guesses - ah, I recognize the symbol we identified as “Gods,” so maybe combined with this other symbol, it might be “Prayer” or “Temple” - something related. Or when you start breaking down the “me/you/we/my/your/our” glyphs, it all makes SENSE. That was the fun part I eventually couldn’t get enough of - parsing out what Ancient meant, and piecing together the story behind the Nebula.

I genuinely did gasp when I figured out A Big Thing about the world story.

I really love stories about robots. Long-suffering, mildly sarcastic robots who are trying very hard to keep you alive while you do stupid things like climb down cliffs they can’t follow. I am very glad I was warned about the risk of losing Six forever and could avoid that particular path, because I think the last third of the game would have been a real bummer without Six as a companion.

Do I recommend it? Yes... mostly. Yes, with the caveats above about how clunky and frustrating the gameplay is. I probably will replay it in a while, taking advantage of the NG+, but not right away - I need to play something less inherently frustrating.

I wish there were more games like this, but I also wish it had been better developed, so that the good parts of it could really shine.

#heaven's vault

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

fic writer interview (tagged by @portraitofemmy)

name: it says Hth on all my fic, which wasn’t originally intended to be An Unpronouncable Symbol of My Own Design, but lol I guess it is now!  You can just tuck your tongue behind your upper teeth and gently hiss like a tired, elderly serpent. Or you could call me Milo.

fandoms: The Magicians is the only fandom I’m currently writing for, although I’ve recently dabbled in Supernatural and Schitt’s Creek. My AO3 page says I’ve still written more Stargate: Atlantis than anything else, but The Magicians is set to overtake it soon!

two-shot: 13 O’Clock and In the Hands of Yes in SGA are set in the same reality, which you’ll only notice if you’re alert to one throwaway joke at the end of Yes.  Or if you’re following me on Tumblr, I guess!  Bonus content!

most popular multi-chapter fic: Pretty Good Year recently pulled out ahead of long-time champion In the Hands of Yes, so a hearty congratulations to Clan Hanson-Waugh-Coldwater!

actual worst part of writing: Deadlines.  My brain really, really rebels against deadlines, which sucks because I love participating in challenges and shit!  But the second I *have* to finish something, my whole internal governing circumstance becomes that webcomic penguin going Well, now I am not doing it.  And then suddenly I do have to do it, and I’m panicked and stressed and miserable.  I should stop agreeing to do deadline-based projects!  But I wanna be where the people are!  It’s a conundrum.

how you choose your titles: my titles all fall into one of two camps -- they’re either called “a song i listened to on repeat (while writing this story)” or “Theme.”

do you outline: typically, but I don’t feel real beholden to the outline.  The first half of a longer story is usually nearly identical to the outline version, and after that, less so.

ideas you probably won’t get around to, but wouldn’t it be nice: I don’t like retiring ideas, because sometimes they catch a second wind!  I do have some old Supernatural projects, before I decided writing Supernatural wasn’t really my destiny, and some of them were pretty good!  I had a Lisa Braeden-centric story I liked, and a really sweet post-Purgatory Found Family with a lot of Benny content.  Both of those would be really good stories, but as the years go by they seem less and less likely.

callouts @ me: Eliot Waugh is not actually as intimidatingly omnicompetent as I inevitably write him to be, I’m just a simp.  He’s never going to fuck me.

best writing traits: I think I strike a nice balance between drama and comedy.  Consistency of tone is overrated.

spicy tangential opinion: Dean Winchester is a bad cook.  Like, he cooks, but he cooks things that are basically impossible to fuck up, like burgers and eggs and frozen burritos.  He’s never baked a fucking pie in his entire life, nor does he have any plans to start.  He was impressed when Jody served him meat with vegetables on the side.  People who can only love the cottagecore fanon version of Dean Winchester don’t love Dean Winchester at all. 

Thanks for the tag, Em!  I don’t know who else has or hasn’t been tagged -- how about? @akisazame or @trickymxtape

#hth fic

[thechekhov]

You guys have been asking for it so HERE it IS! An advice thread about comic-making for people who wanted to know my process.

Answering it every time with something like “JUST START!” and “do whatever!” is probably pretty discouraging to people who are legitimately lost, so I wanted to make something a bit more cohesive. This series of posts will be done over time, on different topics, and I will link each part when I make it.

1) Thinking of a story (this part) 2) Making characters  3) Drafting pages (coming soon) 4) Presentation (coming eventually, we hope)

So, without further ado, let’s get STARTED! 

*Disclaimer: I am NOT professionally trained. I have no creative writing degree, nor a comic-making or art degree. I am literally just sharing my own process and my own thoughts to help others, because they wanted to know. If you have beef with how I do things, that’s fine. Criticise away!

Q: I want to write a story. But I don’t know where to start.

Good! Start with that. Not knowing.

No, I’m serious. Not knowing is what gets us places. Not knowing gets us thinking. And we have a LOT of thinking ahead of us. 

Many storytellers admit that most of their writing starts in their head. Most of us go through our day in a sort of half-conscious haze, doing everyday things on autopilot, running errands while barely conscious of what the hell is going on. Inside our heads, we are writing. Well, not really writing. Imagining. 

I personally am a painfully visual person. When I have an idea, it’s like a goddamn AMV in my brain. I imagine the scenario like a movie, and most of it moves along on its own. I’m not really writing it as much as I’m just directing it - changing the camera angle, asking for a re-take when something feels a bit off. Then, I go home and try to write it down on paper, or draw it, and then I tear at my hair and go “THIS ISN’T LIKE WHAT I IMAGINED AT ALL, i’M A FAILURE” and then I go have some tea, calm down, try again, rinse, repeat...

So, what if you’re having trouble imagining? Well, you need practice. (You DON’T need visual memory, or the ability to visualize. You can think in words, conversations, concepts - whatever. It’s all a part of the imagination.)

I would start with a scene from a book or movie you really like. Just start with what you already have. Maybe it’s a calm moment. Maybe it’s the middle of a battle. Or the middle of an argument. Go there, immerse yourself into that moment, and then think “...but what if...?”

The “what if...?” is important. Keep that in your toolbelt. It’ll help us many times throughout this journey.

Stop thinking “I’m gonna write a story”. Start thinking ABOUT the story. Just start imagining, as hard as you can.

Q: I have a general idea of what happens, but I can’t seem to get it together into a plot.

Sometimes, it helps to write things down. It doesn’t need to be prose - just make it loose and to the point. Not even full sentences. Just “____ happens” and “___is sad” and “_____ dies”. Put them all over the page. Then, go through and connect them with a line. 

When I write plot, some of my brainstorming looks like this:

I think maybe if you spend enough time and channel this guy

...you will know what the hell I was trying to do here. But the point is, it’s not for the audience. It’s for ME. So it’s allowed to be messy. You can see how I labeled some concepts and connected them with string. The numbers are actually for chronological exposition. I was trying to keep track of which things I wanted to reveal first, and which would come later. 

Q: I know I should plan, but I can’t do it. I just wanna write! 

Good! I was also like this at one point. Actually, I hate planning on paper. I lose interest. (I still do it sometimes, but only for the most complex stuff.) 

So, if you don’t want to do it - don’t!! Who cares. 

Start writing. Start drawing. 

But leave yourself room to re-arrange. Learn tetris. Play tetris. (it’s a good game)

When I write/draw I often go in for the meaty parts first. I like this one quote:

which is basically - BASICALLY - the most succinct description of writing I’ve ever seen. 

The thing is-- The thing IS!! the REASON we read is JUST FOR THOSE EMOTIONALLY HORNY MOMENTS!!! Literally the only reason anyone is THERE, in the story, is to experience that peak of emotion, whatever it might be. It could be the excitement of a chance meeting between two characters. It could be the thrill of battle. It could be the pain of loss or misunderstanding. 

The rest of it? I’m sorry to say, but the rest of these things are just bridges. And yes, bridges can be LOVELY. They are absolutely important to have. But we can’t pretend that we don’t read some long drawn-out stories all the while thinking “but I really don’t care, can we please get on with it?”. 

So, don’t be afraid to focus on the stuff you just want to write. Because most likely, it’s the stuff other people want to read. Just get the meat and potatoes of it out there - fill in the salads later. 

Q: I’m not getting any new ideas. Help!

Drop it. 

No, I don’t mean the story - although I suppose that’s also an option - I mean the idea. 

I hear you - you dOn’t hAVE ANy!! But the thing is, ideas are all connected. If you have one idea, the rest cascade from it. If you get to a dead end in your story, you’re not on an island - you’re at the end of the road. You DO have somewhere to go - you can go backwards.

And yes, like dogs, authors sometimes have trouble with the concept of walking backwards because it’s uncomfortable and we get tangled up in the leash of the plot we’re on. But that doesn’t make it impossible to teach you a new trick. (Don’t give me those puppy eyes.)

If you have no new ideas, then you need to walk back to your last idea and ask yourself “how is this leading to a dead end?”. Or the last idea before that. 

“My character is stuck in an abandoned building but I have no idea what should happen now. I’m lost. :( ”

No you’re not. Your character is - why the fuck was she in the abandoned building in the first place? Why did she go there? Who sent her? Who is she? What are her motivations? Take the time dial and wind it backwards until you are at a fork in the road and try the other road. 

Rince, repeat.

Q: How do I get people to like my story? 

You don’t.

I’m sorry, but no amount of ‘please read this!’ or ‘CREATORS NEED REBLOGS, NOT LIKES’ will get people to engage with your story any more than they already are, aside from, well, their own volition.  

Some people just straight up won’t click with your story. Some will. Some will click HARD but will miss the point entirely. Some people will love it dearly but never, ever, EVER say a word to you. 

That’s just how people are. You can’t blame them for not being your Dream Audience. That ain’t their damn job. And as a content creator, unless you’re being commissioned to do something very specific, it also ain’t YOUR damned job to be a crowd-pleaser! 

Write what you love. Connect where you can. The rest will follow. 

That’s about all I have for writing - more will be added later! 

Cheers.

#chekhov gives advice #chekhov writes a text post #how to comic part 1