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2lim3rz · 2 years

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Hi! I’m the anon who wrote the ask about remembrancer!reader and I’d like to say that while the original idea was that the chaos gods just saw you as easily corruptible due to being around Lorgar’s legion. I’m now imagining that the chaos gods took a look at Erebus “I’m so in need of acceptance and attention that I killed and stole the identity of a child when I was 10-12 years old and haven’t stopped since” WordBearer and thought “hey maybe he needs to chill?” And set him up with the local unrealised potential psyker that they were already trying to convert (you)

Also him feeling/sensing your dreams? Now what about him growing to sense all your strong emotions? Cause for him it’s:

Pros: understanding you better, having more shared experiences due to feeling what you’re feeling

Cons: after a while he cant be alone because your emotions are a part of him now and without them he feels like a piece of him is missing.

And you know when you said how the reader would try to leave once he showed his true colours to them? Imagine if he felt how scared you were, how strongly you resented him for it? He wouldn’t let you leave, he’s smart and has a lot of plans on if you tried. But of course you wouldn’t try?? You wouldn’t just leave him? The fear and anger is just a temporary emotion and he’s sure that you’ll love him and stay with him so please tell him that’s the truth (he knows his gods can be cruel at times but they wouldn’t go and deprive him of you?). Please say you adore him for who he is and get all of this over and done with because he can’t be around you without crying (he thinks it’s because of your feelings. He’s 60% right)

In warhammer not only the reader suffers but also the love interest!!!

Hello Erebus anon! Everyone suffers in 40k, which is why I'm going to publish my half-done Daemonculaba fic. Yes it exists. You're all going to read it. I swear it's not as cursed as it sounds.

WARNINGS: Some descriptions that definitely lean to that this is abusive, gaslighting, Erebus is very unstable. Come to me for fluff later but still keep in mind that this is not a happy thing happening at all.

He felt it.. small mental touches at first. They were so easy to ignore (doing so many rituals and being in contact with the untouched tends to leave the mind.. open to many things) but.. they were different. Soft. Warm. Unintentional.

The same feelings he had with you. In fact, at first they only occurred when he touched you. The skin-crawling unease.. the shivers of happiness.. The jolts of pleasure that you ran through his veins.

Then it grew to the same room, and while the distance was still.. admittedly too small for his liking still, he could feel it.

Yet that night.. that wretched night.. He was called many things behind his back, after all. A spoiled brat was certainly one of those.

"No." it was the only other noise in the room aside from the shuffling of hurried packing and your choked sniffling. For a moment your hands would freeze. When did the door open? How did.. you changed the password..

Turning around, you looked up into that deceptively handsome fade and pressed your back against the desk. You felt your heart bolting in your chest, everything was.. heavier and stronger around him.

"Ereb..Ere..Erebus I'm not discussing this with you." you choked out, turning back around, shoving whatever article of clothing was in your hands next. You didn't even have the heart to demand your things from him. The next shuttle was in your claim and you didn't care of they left you on the next planet.. not that they would. The Word Bearers were so good about ensuring the planet could still function after they conquered it.

"You're not leaving." his voice was.. so hushed. You froze in your fear, the only sound now being a quiet hiss from the First Chaplain behind you. Were your hands always trembling?

"..I..I am.." you whimpered. Ignoring the heavy step behind you and the door closing. This was it. This was how you were going to die. Murdered by one you felt so close with.. You should had paid attention sooner- Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath and gritted your teeth. You were standing your ground this time. No more being pushed or told little lies that meant nothing!

"I'm.. Tired of this. Tired of doubting if anything about you is true. I don't.. I don't even know if the Erebus I'm talking to is the front or the real one. If- If there was even a real one!" in the middle of your speech you closed the suitcase and lifted it. Turning around and moving to walk around the Astartes covering up the bulk of your room.

Only to drop it with a shriek. His hands moved so fast, grabbing your arms in a grip so tight it was painful. Looking upwards to those foreboding eyes of his. Expecting the anger. The ferociousness.. not.. Erebus's eyes were wide. You felt a shaking in his hands that stopped. He just.. stared at you. Neither moving.

"Let.. let go.. M-my shuttle's going to-" "No one is leaving." he whispered, his left hand sliding down your right and gripping your suitcase. Yanking it from your grip as you cried out. Why did he flinch? You doubted he cared at all-

"Stop looking at me like a monster!" he abruptly snarled, letting go of you. You stepped back and fell to the ground; scrambling back and pressing yourself against the nearest wall. "Don't.. don't worry, I'll have all of this fixed." just as quickly his voice was quiet, gentle.. Manic?

A soft chuckle bubbled from his lips as he knelt before you, taking your shivering hands even if you tried fruitlessly to pull them away. "Erebus-" "Don't worry, my little dewdrop," you winced at one of the pet names he used on you, the deserts of Colchis never left him. Even now. Even as he lowered him self so that his.. eyes stared into yours.

Wide with.. a mixture of emotions that made him look wild. Insane even. Eager, angry.. fearful. Why.. why was he scared? "I'm with you. Nothing is how you think it is-" "But-" "Shh.. shh, look, it's a misunderstanding. I'm going to fix this for you. Don't.. worry about hiding from the others, they know your mine."

A sob choked out from your lips as you half heartedly tried to pull away. The blurs of tears made it hard to see how Erebus's own eyes were misting over.

"Stop. STOP THAT!" he bellowed "You're not supposed to cry! Stop looking at me as if I did something wrong!"

His voice was so angry, wrathful even. Yet he still kept it measured, as if worried he'd hurt your ears.

"I can-can-can't!" you hiccupped out the words and thrashed your arms. Kicking out with your legs to try and force him to let go even though logic screamed at you so angrily at your foolishness.

"I'm not a monster!" why was he so insistent on that?! You just wanted to leave! Just wanted to go to your home! To leave Erebus and the Word Bearers behind! Forget gathering historical evidence for the analogs of Imperial history. Forget it all!

"You're not leaving me!" he roared into your face, letting go for bare seconds before you were wrapped in his large arms. Shoving you into a crushing hug as he trembled around you.

"Ere-bus.. Ereb-bus you're hurting- You're hurting me-" you wailed. Even though your own hands were tangling themselves into the robes he wore. "You're hurting.. m-me-"

Erebus said nothing, yet you felt the way his hearts were booming drums in his chest and his heavy breathing.

"You are not.. leaving. Please.. please tell me you love me." only your own silence broken by choked sobs answered him. "Tell me. Please." his voice was stern now, you swore his painful grip tighter..

"I.. I.. l-love..you.." you whimpered out. Knowing you sounded too similar to a kicked dog.

"I love you, too." he whispered into your ear. You knew his relief was all too real.

#erebus #erebus 40k #warhammer 40k #2lim3rz writes #gaslighting #manhandling #erebus x reader #x reader #reader insert #volatile hearts au #VHA #erebus VHA

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poetdreamerfool · 2 years

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2022 Freestyle Series #28

Black Atlas ii

The blunt did burn The world did turn I watch I learn; Soliloquy away I ain’t concerned-- I don’t listen to parrots I don’t retweet or reshare it Blunt in my mouth Like bugs with his carrot Whats up doc?

Wassup pops? I did it my way I Mastered my craft Without a sensei

I pray That my enemies send their evil same day So I can convert it To the Strength of hercules And power through my darkest hour

A Baggie full of Something sour; Me, Ebony in an ivory tower; I’d die a battle Before I’d live a coward.

black seed to a concrete flower with a priceless imagination and self expression as his super power

drip Majestic Resisting arrested; Cops pop We slide To the side like electric;

Show no weakness; A throne is just chair-- Life ain’t no crystal stair Equal ain’t the same as fair.

Unprepared, Running scared, Running man, no face no hands In the fire out the pan;

Out of luck, On the cusp; In school I sat in front of the class But the back of bus--

No child left behind School to prison pipeline We Anonymous and forgotten I, The black man, misbegotten An afterthought of an afterthought in A universe So perverse;

Contra guns The way The words disperse

You can hear The African bones In every verse

You can hear All the times I stole 20 out my momma purse

You can hear The desperation and fear

the power To comprehend and the will to persevere I eat hate and nourish my body

Riding shotty In something gaudy Call it potty Cause I’m the shit Or cause I smoke weed Whichever fits

You can keep your Stones and sticks bring the blitz I’ll get the pass off in the nick Of time. I got greatness written On my heart like valentine Be mine through art My former self I dearly depart Am I the flame Or the spark?

I know I’m chosen I can feel that shit in my quarks in the booth I got my fin out the water like sharks And that its only a matter of time before I make my mark Spent most of my life in park Or neutral Every decision Is crucial My way with words Is particularly unusual Up next On the usual suspects Poor choices and An The ending you’d expect And a Preoccupation with excess

Avant garde with my old shit Street fighter flow Fuck a punchline I’ll give you a whole kick Niggas spring one leak And they tossing The whole ship The jakes screaming freeze Ain’t that some cold shit

Kung lao Off the top Heart blacker than noob saibot Keep it subzero What other choice I got When they playing the game on easy And each of my fights is the boss I don't always win but I'm never at a loss no hope-- just swagger. no cloak-- just dagger. never staggered; still, my gaster is flabbered; my queen got a ring-- she's Saturn; nocturnal and she goes in patterns. imploding and elaborate-- like a story with 40 cliff hangers and a question at the end.

we don't break, we don't bend;

the answer is up to the reader. as the audience leaves the theater; bending like an elbow creatures looking like "hell no!" (pinned to reality with a badge) yell through a robot it's a white privilege to be sad.

rad; a 1000 cuts, 10,000 scabs thank god my skin is black or you would see all them motherfuckers-- then my existence would become a critical race theory. I know they scared but do they know the effects of knowing the answer to the question "do they fear me?" it's eerie being frankstein's monster; walking dead-- lit, eating pitchforks and fire and picking gold out my shit-- think quick; Atlas shrugged then did the splits.

in and out the Lazarus pit; feelings like a rubik's cube; searching for the feeling that scooby snax gave to scooby doo; pulling masks off monsters-- the correlation's bonkers they keep going

like they can't stop, they won't stop--

some wordplay over a beat box is my detox for the redux of a world so toxic; been through it all; no necromancer but there's some skeletons in my closet that got skeletons in their closet that got skeletons niggas act like they ride but they don't; peloton that I'll never forget; elephant, never out my element: suffering, survival, development. grow. violence is manure; death is the sun. we all reaching-- keep reaching. but don't reach for that gun

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kaiticn · 1 year

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how to stop yourself from being swallowing by the beast of internalized frustration:

haha tricked ya. I have no fucking idea. Recent events have inspired me to think about why I avoid conflict. I've known that I simply don't like it -- I don't like feeling hot and angry and the kind of suffocation that is brought upon the kind of mad people who don't succumb to damaging methods of release, like screaming & swearing & punching things.

When I get mad, like really mad, I do indeed feel like doing all of those things. And in another lifetime, I have acted upon it, and from experience, I know just how much more effort it takes to simmer those feelings within yourself than it is to execute them.

To some degree, I can empathize with those who are constantly outwardly bitter and hateful and aggressive -- and that's because, even if only for a moment, it really feels good to release that from your system so it exists anywhere else in the world that isn't your own heart mind & soul.

Over the last couple of years, I have tried better to undermine that urgency of temporary fulfillment to instead privilege lasting impacts & the state of my relationship with others. Talking it out is a great way to communicate & label the emotions, but nothing truly holds a candle to creating a real scene. Knowing this, I've explored outlets which equally satisfy the need to convert that raging build-up into something performed: be it walking or running, exercising, cleaning, shovelling (seasonal), or even singing.

{tw: child abuse}

I haven't always done this though -- I grew up in an environment where words became weaponry; yelling & screaming felt like the only way to get your feelings or point across (even though it never did, successfully). I've been slapped, hit with hands or anything that could be grabbed at the moment it was deemed necessary. From the long-term experiences of these conditions, I've learned to be petty and spiteful.

You get back at them in a world where you cannot get even. Only slowly, though. In those small, petty ways that would always ensure an outburst from the opposition. And to guarantee that emotional deterioration meant to guarantee routine. The degree of wrath I would face felt like the effectiveness of my strategic ploy was proven. It became a personal challenge for me to further deconstruct the familial relationships that never felt solidified, to begin with. I made it feel like less of a serious problem when I turned it into (un)friendly competition. It became a game; it became rewarding.

{end of tw}

Despite my work to undo this behaviour, I've always carried it with me. The truth of the matter is that I know how to get under people's skin.

I know not only to stand my ground but to sabotage. To make waves. To be, for all intents and purposes, "difficult". I've been conditioned and provoked into such states of retaliation that it feels like so much more effort to combat anger and frustration. And despite the coping mechanisms I've clearly laid out, I can't help but feel, at the moment at least, that swallowing my anger becomes counterproductive as it swallows me back. I'm trying to deal with that, but I haven't yet.

Imposter syndrome lovingly invites itself into the picture when I consider this fact: if the angry/petty person lives within me, is that just who I am? And am I being fake by covering it up & not acting upon it? I try to combat that mode of thought with a notion proposed by Carl Jung: You can only know your capacity for good once you wholly know of your capacity for evil.

In other words, I can be truly 'good' if I acknowledge & accept the ways that I can be sinister and choose still to look the other way.

TL;DR -- I don't want to be an angry, bitter person. I want to communicate openly, and encourage progress & resolutions. I try my best to avoid situations that would incite anger. If I avoid feeling mad, I avoid the chance that I may again invite my pettiness into the world.

P.S: that's really hard to do with roommates <:)

#journalling #journal #writer #blog #blogging #pissed off #annoyed #breaking the cycle #childhood trauma #may be triggering #angry

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jangofctts · 3 years

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Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one)

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to.

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you—

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible.

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here.

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction.

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.”

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning.

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.”

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either…

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow.

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are.

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?”

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it.

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you.

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air.

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter.

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more.

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.”

Touching.

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow.

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.”

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen.

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor.

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.”

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three.

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand.

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop.

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.

You scowl. “It’s fine.”

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose.

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums.

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel.

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face.

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep.

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.”

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin.

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward.

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.”

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you.

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw.

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers.

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not.

Whatever.

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare.

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need.

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp.

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet.

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides.

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away.

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off.

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no.

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head.

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat. Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts.

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter.

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise.

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans.

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world.

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

#well it aint that good but it honest work wkerkjehr #my writing #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #fanfic #star wars #sw #star wars fanfiction #jangofctts

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evelxtus · 3 years

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holy sht i need more zombie childe i love it msldmfn-

He tries to bite you while you sleep.

\\Zombie!Childe x GN!Reader.\\

Warnings: zombie activity.

Type: scenario.

Words: 633.

_Hi hi! You want more zombie childe, you get more zombie childe.✨ I'm so glad you like the idea so much, it's so fun to write😫_

The little campfire kept you warm and gave you light in the dead of night. You were lying on the ground, quite uncomfortable, and using your backpack as a pillow.

"I still don't know how I'm trusting you. But I guess if you don't stand guard, I'll never be able to rest." you were saying as you removed the muzzle and ties from his hand.

Childe devoted himself to watching you, sitting on the ground keeping a little distance from your side.

"Well, good night..." you whispered closing your eyes.

How could you sleep in that situation? I don't know, but in a matter of minutes you were completely defenseless, immersed in the world of dreams.

Everything was quiet for a few hours, but it couldn't go on like this for long. And less if you have Childe by your side. Zombie Childe.

His hungry gaze landed on a fixed point on your arm.

That meat, soft, so appetizing to look at, how good your taste would have to be... Besides, if he converted you, everything would be easier for him. And for you.

Or was he just being selfish?

The zombie approached you slowly, crawling silently to your side. His gaze is fixed on your skin.

"No... I shouldn't..." he looked away for a moment. "No, yes I should... it's for the best... for us, Y/N..." his long, cold fingers ended up caressing your skin, and he slowly raised your arm.

"You will convert sooner or later... I... I should..." He brought your arm to his mouth, and when he was about to close his jaw, a strong jerk stunned him.

"What are you doing! Get away from me!" you woke up with a start, pushing the zombie aside as you sat down and grabbed the weapon next to you.

"Y/N..."

"Get away!" you yelled at him again. "I'll kill you... if you make any strange move."

The boy crawled back, giving you space. He was a zombie, he was dead, and his consciousness was not much... but he felt something inside when you said those words to him.

"It was... for you... I want the best... for you..." he replied looking at the ground.

"Oh yeah. Getting infected is the best for me." your flaming gaze pierced the zombie. "You're a traitor. What did I expect from a stupid zombie?"

"If we get... to a shelter. With more people. They will finish me off..."

You looked away. He was right. If you managed to save yourself, that would mean the doom of your new partner. But if you become like him... You shook your head.

"Don't be silly. I can free you before we get there." you answered dryly.

The boy opened his eyes, dejected. "Set me free? But the deal... was to protect you... forever."

"There is no forever in a zombie apocalypse, Childe." you declared, dropping your weapon.

The boy's blue eyes glowed with the fire from the campfire, despite remaining dull and devoid of any emotion. "Yes, there is." the zombie muttered, approaching you again with caution.

"Just... let me... bite you..." You didn't pull back, but you shook your head, and that made the boy stop. "Whatever happens..., our deal will continue to exist."

If everything turns black around you, will you let him bite you? Will you let him take your humanity away? You looked at him with some suspicion. Now that you think about it... why is he the only zombie that seems to retain some reason and conscience?

"Okay... it's okay..." he knows very well that if you ask him to bite you, he will do without thinking.

Perhaps this way you could also help him with an issue that was pending before he died. "Have I ever told you... about Teucer?"

#genshin #genshin impact #childe x reader #genshin childe #genshin x gn reader #childe x gn!reader #genshin x reader #gn reader #childe #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #zombie childe #zombie!au

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pebblysand · 2 years

Text

[APRIL ‘22] - THE LIFE/WRITING UPDATE NO ONE ASKED FOR (AND SOME QUICK LINKS)

it’s april! yay! to start off as a disclaimer, please note that i’m not a “fun” person ( have one stock “fun fact” that i recycle every time i am asked to give one), and i hate april fool’s day, so there are no pranks, no fake shit that you have to weed through, in this post. call me boring, idc, i am! i liked april fool’s day as a child because in france, all you have to do is draw fish on paper and then tape it to people’s backs without them realising - and that is the extent of it! clear expectations, clear deliveries! i can’t be arsed to come up with pranks and fun shit, i’m not that creative, people 😆.

Anyway, before diving into more life/writing updates, here are some quick links to different blog pages you might not see on mobile :

FIC MASTERLIST

FIC RECS [updated]

WRITING ADVICE [updated]

ORIGINAL PIECES

OPINION PIECES & ASKS [updated]

FINANCIALLY SUPPORT MY WRITING (thank you!)

[NOTE: i am currently not accepting prompts]

Castles (chap 11) ETA: aiming for the 8th of may. more on that below.

links extended a/n-s: chapter v ; chapter vi & vii ; chapter viii ; chapter ix ; chapter x

[more life/writing updates under the cut]

WHAT I’M READING:

books:

i wrote a Very Irritated Rant about men explain things to me, which is the only book i read this month. find it here.

i have however started my classic-of-the-year, which will be 1984. i’m in a rather post-apocalyptic mood at the moment, both in fanfic and otherwise, so this is really going great. i do think it can be a be tedious and almost too details on the inner workings of the government so far, but i am very much enjoying it. if you’re looking for a more “modern” classic, i would highly recommend!

fics:

i read: and whose army? by renaissance, this month, upon the recommendation of @incalculablepower and @uncontainedhybrid, and thoroughly enjoyed it. it’s a long one shot, which are always my favourite kind of stories, and the worldbuilding in it is unbelievable. it centres on anthony goldstein and exists in an au world where harry didn’t defeat voldemort in ‘98, though the reason behind that is never really explained. i think you will love this fic if you liked the squib or the fault in faulty manufacturing. imo, it’s a cross between the two, an au, rather dystopian reality of what the da would have been/evolved to be had harry not won the war when he did, but also centring on a character who is mostly unknown in the books, and whose entire life is sort of created from scratch by the author. the fic isn’t spotless (nothing ever is) but what i really liked about it was the characterisation of anthony goldstein. as an author, i find it incredibly hard to write characters who don’t necessarily have a “drive” and sort of float through life, and that is something that renaissance does impeccably well in this. would highly recommend!

WHAT I’M WATCHING:

i mean, i think at this point we all know what i’m watching. i’ve converted half the three broomsticks discord at this point, i’ve done weekly recaps, cannot stop posting gifs… i cannot believe that it’s only been a month and peaky is already almost at the end of the season, with only one episode to go on sunday. i’m so sad and excited and all of the feels, as i said in my last recap, it’s like i’m saying goodbye to that period of my 20s, and it’s incredibly emotional. i know this blog has sort of become a peaky blinders trainwreck at the moment so if you follow me because of my potter content, i truly apologise for the spam, i’m so happy you’re still here and i promise we will eventually go back to regular programming. just let me have this one one last time 🥺.

in other non-peaky news, i’ve started watching skins (which i’d never watched before, believe it or not, and which i am, unlike euphoria, very much enjoying). in terms of films, i went to see notre dame brule in the cinema when i was in france, which was really good and made me very emotional about, well, notre dame burning, and rewatched the wind that shakes the barley which is probably in my top five favourite films ever, and made me emotional about, well, the fact that i may have watched this film ten times and have never not cried in the same two moments (namely, the scene in the prison where they sing the national anthem and the scene at the end). cillian murphy is just absolutely incredible in it and i even named sinead in the fault in faulty manufacturing after sinead in that film. it’s like it’s all come full circle.

i’ve also watched the tinder swindler, the crypto scam and the college application netflix documentaries, which were entertaining but otherwise kind of unremarkable. i fail to understand why the college application scandal is such a big thing since all university education is paying in the us anyway, like, of course if you pay more, you’ll get in, it doesn’t shock me much, within the sphere of ruthless capitalism, but whatever. the crypto people had it coming, imo, and the tinder swindler women, i mean … i hate that they’re being blamed but also if you need to be told not to lend 30,000 quid to a complete rando, i wonder how you’ve managed to make it this far in life, you know?

WHAT I’M LISTENING TO:

i’m really enjoying maisie peters at the moment. very gen z, but i really like her vibe and her lyrics are incredible.

in terms of podcasts, i wanted to mention that the what page are you on? podcast did a really good episode on booktok (the book side of tiktok) back in february (bit late to the party, i know). i generally love this podcast because it chats about books, but also both the hosts have worked in publishing and a lot of their work is about demystifying the way publishing works. i thought their take on the “newness” of booktok, and talking about how “old” books forgotten by published are now resurfacing there, how these booktok influencers are very enthusiastic about books but can be ignored by the industry because they don’t necessarily know how publishing works, was very interesting and refreshing. i personally obviously use tiktok a lot, but just like 70% of their userbase (that’s at least the last number i heard), i only watch videos, i don’t make any. i’ve spoken before about my interest in tiktok and booktok, but also my reluctance to put my face onto my content, especially in a way that is so public. i wish i couldn’t give a fuck what my friends, strangers, or potential employers, thought about my fandom activities, but i actually do, and i know how much that shit can hurt you irl. part of me wish i could engage in the tiktok discourse (especially on fanfic, etc.) but i am chicken. chicken is me. but regardless, the episode was super interesting and i would highly recommend it to you.

WHAT I’M WRITING:

THE FAULT IN FAULTY MANUFACTURING IS OUT!!! seriously, you guys have been so lovely and so supportive with this fic, i honestly can’t believe it. i originally thought no one was going to read a 27,000 words fic about seamus finnigan, let alone enjoy it, but your feedback has been truly incredible, thank you. i put so much love and effort into this fic and i’m so very glad you liked it. your comments have meant the world to me!

regarding castles, i’m now entering what i’m referring to as my “april writing rush.” i would like to write and finish the next chapter by the end of the month, and hopefully post the second weekend of may. fingers crossed. i’m sure i’ll post more about it as i go along, haha.

more generally, though, i’ve kind of come to accept that: castles will be done when it is done. and, that’s okay. what i mean by that is that i think towards the end of 2021, i had this urge to just finishitfinishitfinishit because i felt like i’d been writing it for so long, and was like, there’s no way people will stick with it for that long. i had this guilt in me that if i kept at the pace i was going, this fic wouldn’t be finished until 2023, and that, in my head, was just unacceptable. and that no one would be that patient. but the truth is that:

people might not stick around, and that’s kind of okay. new people will come. whatever. that’s life. that’s not a reason to put so much pressure on myself, on top of my full-time job, life, etc. it’s not my job, it’s a hobby.

i was very quick and regular in my early updates because we were in lockdown, and i was unemployed. this schedule of updating once a month/every six weeks (and the guilt associated with not maintaining it) is unsustainable with a full-time life. i need to take time off to relax for myself as well, and whilst i function better when i do a writing “rush” when i hyper-focus on something and only on that for a few weeks and Get It Done, i also need to recuperate after that, and often that time is also a few weeks/month. those chapters range in the 10k-20k range and that ish just Takes Time, whichever way you look at it.

i’m someone who is generally very project-oriented, so i have this urge to Finish Castles so that i can move on to the next thing. i don’t like switching between projects because a) i always fear that i will never finish the thing i put to the side and b) i feel a lot of loyalty to the project i’m working on and feel like i’m cheating if i’m writing something else. but i think looking back, writing the fault in faulty manufacturing has actually very much changed my perspective on this. writing one shots and other stories is fun. writing castles is also fun. i’m allowed to go back and forth without feeling like i’m committing a crime. i took three months off castles but i did write something else, and that’s okay too.

so, i think, from now on, i’ll probably alternate between working on castles and something else. i don’t think i would have the brainspace to have multiple long projects going at the same time, but i’ll probably write more one shots like the fault in faulty manufacturing at a more regular pace in the future. strangely, i’ve also find this helps me writing castles because when i come back to it now, i’m much more excited about it, and actually miss it. i see things like editing and plotholes and storylines way more clearly, and whilst getting back into and getting the castles “voice” back can take a bit longer than if i hadn’t been away from it, the break actually helps a lot in the long run. so, for now, that’s the plan :).

i would still like to finish castles before august 2023, as this is my 30th birthday and i don’t know, i think that’d be cool, but honestly, we’ll see. no rush. sorry if you were hoping for a more regular schedule, but your girl needs her sweet time lol.

WHAT I’M DOING:

i’ve realised earlier that i’ve now been doing these monthly posts for a year. and looking at were i was this time last year, i was So Miserable. my mum had her stroke, i was alone in paris stressing about exams i didn’t want to take, i wasn’t sure i’d make it back to ireland, it was just - let’s just say my mental health was not at its best. and i don’t want to say i’m in the Best Place Possible now, and i still worry and struggle with a lot of things, but in comparison, god, my life has improved So Much this past year. i’ve found my groove with writing, i’m happy with where i live, i’m happy with my job and while i do still feel lonely at times, and still wonder wtf i’m doing with my life sometimes, overall, i’m in such a better place. i think a lot of that has to do with the slow but steady gradual bettering of the pandemic, but even further, i think i’ve grown to accept a lot of things that have improved my life greatly. this is all a bit soppy, i suppose, but overall, i’m pretty happy.

lastly, one thing i wanted to mention (cause i’d spoken about it a while back) was to talk about my very first real writing class went! and, honestly, the teacher was great, and i learnt a lot but i think that a) i was in the middle of intensely writing the fault in faulty manufacturing, which wasn’t really something i could speak about in class, but which was also greatly hindering the amount of time i could spend on “homework” and honestly, it was just a bit of bad timing. additionally, b) i think these classes just aren’t for me. i have a panic-level anxiety at the idea of reading things in public (as a kid i found it really hard to read aloud and was kind of ridiculed because of it, and that kind of shit sticks) and reading my stuff out loud to an audience just gives me so much anxiety, it’s not worth it. i genuinely think that if i ever became a proper writer and had to do public readings, i’d have to do therapy beforehand or something. i’d love to have a writing group where we could, like, send each other our work before, and then discuss during the session, but that does not seem to be a model that exists, so i just think these aren’t for me. i get so anxious, it’s all i think about in class haha. but, it was good to try at least once!

anyway, i think that will be all for now,

lots of love,

pebblysand.

#monthly post #april 22

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the-pontiac-bandit · 3 years

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If you're still answering tortall prompts, how about Raoul + family?

wow why NOT write 2000 words of blatant, shameless fluff about families you make for yourself??? inspired by this quote from tammy: “[Raoul and Buri] have glorious sex under trees, in tents, in lakes…. In carriages. I think at some point they’ll probably adopt. By the time they’re attached Buri’s getting a little old to have any of her own. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of orphans around.”

As Raoul stretched out, trying to make himself comfortable in his too-hard, too-small desk chair, he savored the warm feeling filling his chest and threatening to spill out and take physical form in front of him. In the midst of the most head-spinning, headache-inducing, sleep-sapping, joy-filled week he’d ever experienced, he’d had precious little time to slow down and simply exist within his new reality. He thought to close his eyes, the better to feel everything, but they only stayed shut for a moment before they forced themselves back open. He couldn’t stop looking at the scene in front of him for long.

Buri lounged cross-legged on their bed, far more relaxed than he had been at any point this week. Kel sat next to her, her back straight and her long legs carefully hanging off one side so as not to get dust from the practice courts on their bedding. Both had just returned from a full morning of training, sweaty despite a change of clothes and coated in dust despite a thorough washing, courtesy of a long, hot summer that had refused to give them rain.

Between them was the baby.

His son, he reminded himself. He thought the words a few extra times, even mouthing them once, as he had a thousand times in the last five days, as if forming them on his lips might make them feel more real.

None of this felt real to him yet. He supposed most people had nine months to get used to the idea before seven pounds of screaming chaos turned their lives upside down. He’d had exactly fifty-three days—he’d counted on Tuesday—so he supposed he still had some catching up to do. His mind was still reeling from the conversation that had led them here, and he wasn’t sure yet that he’d ever catch up.

He’d been sitting in this chair and pretending to read reports while mostly thinking about his right knee, which had been bothering him despite Duke Baird’s best efforts. He wasn’t sure why he remembered so specifically, since his days were nearly as certain to contain aches and bruises as they were to contain a sunrise. Buri had returned from a meeting with Thayet and Onua, although really, the word meeting conferred far too much dignity on what was more likely a combination of trick riding and palace gossip. They’d settled into the evening routine they’d shared for nearly a decade, working in comfortable silence with candles lit between them.

“Do you want children?” she’d asked, breaking the quiet spell of paperwork that gripped their nights.

“I think it’s a little late for that,” he’d replied with a snort.

She’d thrown a pillow at him. He had caught it and thrown it back without even looking up from the thick stack of papers in his lap, with a rude hand gesture following behind.

“You know what I meant. Did you want children? Before?”

Something in her voice had shifted. He’d finally looked up to find her eyes already trained on him. Her face had been so unexpectedly earnest that he’d actually taken a pause, had slowed the speed of their consistently paced banter, to think.

“I suppose I hadn’t given it much thought. There were friends, and then there was drinking, and then there was the Own, and then there was you,” he’d told her with a shrug. “I do like children, but I’m perfectly happy where I am.”

She’d chewed on her lip for a moment. He remembered being surprised by that. After nearly thirty years of friendship, she rarely took the time to think before she spoke with him anymore.

“Spit it out.”

“Do you want children?”

“And we’re back to the start,” he’d said with a grin.

“I spat it out. Now you answer it.”

“Hypothetically, sure, I’d enjoy a child. Now can I ask why you’re asking at all?”

“I’ve been thinking,” she’d started. She’d paused for a moment, holding her breath as though she was trying to decide whether she should speak at all. And then she’d let it all spill out at once. “I’ve been thinking it might be nice to have one. A child, I mean.”

She’d held up a hand and made a face before Raoul could even begin to formulate a joke about her monthlies or her aching hips or what they might do to make that happen. “Not like that. Thayet was telling us today about homes they’re opening in Corus, for children without parents. We were thinking about the children we traveled with back in Sarain, when Alanna found us all those years ago. Gods, it was terrifying, having Thayet and an infant to protect, especially when Thayet was ready to throw her life away for the infant. And I started thinking—we have money, and safety, and love, and there are all these children who have none of those things, and—”

She’d been speaking faster and faster, but she’d cut herself off abruptly at the look on Raoul’s face. “Never mind, you can forget—”

Raoul had smiled back at her, straightening up in his chair and marking his spot in the report on his lap before putting it aside. “So you want a child.”

The weeks that followed had been ones filled with paperwork and inquiries at the palace records about the process of appointing a common-born heir to a noble house and at the magistrate’s about drawing up paperwork for adoption. There had been careful planning and hushed discussions with only their closest friends about the best way to proceed. Buri had insisted on an older child, maybe eight or nine, saying that the few diapers she’d changed on the road to Rachia were enough for a lifetime.

Instead, five days ago, Buri had entered their rooms carrying a squalling mess of blankets with an air of forced nonchalance that had told him immediately what she’d done. Instead of clarifying, or teasing her, or asking if it was the smallest eight-year-old he’d ever seen, he’d simply held his arms out. While Buri had supplied endless explanations about Thayet ambushing her with a baby, he’d stared at the squirming mess of baby in his lap, blankets already coming undone, absolutely entranced.

“He’s tiny,” he’d commented. His voice sounded like it was coming from someone else’s body. The baby was only just too large for him to hold in one hand, although he’d never try to prove it. The fragility of the life sitting in his lap was overwhelming.

“His mother died yesterday. Childbed fever, caught too late to help. The priestesses at the Goddess’ Temple were worried he might need more than the homes could give.”

Raoul had nodded, only half listening. The baby’s eyes were screwed shut while he wailed. His fine hair was dark, his skin tanned like that of the Bazhir babies Raoul had seen in his year in the Great Southern Desert. One of the baby’s hands had broken free of its blanket. It had waved in the air, keeping pace with his cries, which were far louder than he’d have believed such a tiny body could produce. He’d intercepted the hand with one finger and then watched in wonder as the baby had grasped it.

“Does he have a name?”

“Pathom,” she’d answered definitively, before belatedly remembering that names were the sort of thing parents might choose together. “That is, if—”

“Pathom of Goldenlake,” he’d cut her off with a smile.

The days that followed had been a blur. Thayet had found a wet-nurse and supplied an endless stream of goods that they’d have never known a baby required. Alanna had ridden in from Pirate’s Swoop at full speed to pronounce in a gruff voice that the infant was in perfect health. Gary had gifted them a bassinet and more blankets than any human child could possibly need. Dom had found a way to convert a standard-issue burnoose into an excellent baby sling, while Evin had given them a congratulatory note from George, who complained that Alanna had left before he could finish writing, and a cheerful promise that he’d never touch a soiled diaper. Onua had given them a set of unimaginably soft stuffed ponies, perfect replicas of the horses that roamed the highlands of Sarain where she and Buri had learned to ride.

Kel, away on business with Second Company at the Gallan border, had to wait almost a full week to learn she had a new godsson. He’d met the company when they’d arrived back at the palace long past dark the night before. They’d groomed Hoshi and Sparrow together while he thanked the gods for perhaps the hundredth time that her “testy pony” had finally found his way out of the Own stables and into a pleasant retirement.

Finally, when the last of the men had trudged towards the barracks and a well-earned nights’ sleep, she’d turned to him.

“Well?”

“There’s someone important I want you to meet,” he’d said, shoving his hands in his pockets with a smile that was equal parts nervous and eager.

“Sir, I’ve already met your wife.”

Raoul had let out a hearty chuckle. “But you haven’t met my son.”

Kel had frozen. Her face fell back into perfect stillness, the way it did when her mind was working its fastest.

After a second that felt like an eternity, she replied, “Sir, I saw Buri five weeks ago. If you’re telling me you’ve managed to grow a baby since then—”

“We didn’t, but someone else did. We adopted him from the Temple after his mother died in childbirth.”

Understanding flashed in Kel’s eyes while her face broke into a rare broad grin. She’d wrapped her arms around him in a fast, tight hug accompanied by enthusiastic congratulations that had gone suddenly silent in surprise when he’d added, a wicked glint in his eyes, “You really should come by tomorrow to meet your godsson.”

Buri had intercepted Kel on the practice courts the following morning with the dual goals of keeping her own skills sharp and ensuring that Kel would not be too polite to visit. And so now, he watched as Kel bounced his son with the brisk certainty of someone who had held a baby a thousand times. He could hear her cooing quietly at Pathom, softening her consonants while she told him all about forest campaigns in hill country. He knew he should ask her to speak up—if she was going to give her report verbally, she could at least give it at a volume he could hear—but he found he wasn’t particularly interested in the intricacies of the Second’s bowstring supplies. Buri made eye contact with him behind Kel’s back, laughter in her eyes. Buri could laugh if she wanted, but he was taking notes on Kel’s tactics. He would have sworn this was the quietest he’d heard his son in the entirety of his hundred-and-twenty-odd hours in the palace.

As his son stared wide-eyed at his former squire, Raoul was reminded of a comment he’d heard as they’d left Turomot’s offices the other day with paperwork making Pathom officially their own. “Well, that feckless Goldenlake dolt’s managed to start a family, even if it was too late to do the thing properly,” the Lord of Genlith had muttered at their backs as they’d left. Buri had elbowed him and whispered a quick “Feckless? I’ll show him feckless,” but her heart wasn’t in it. Before she’d even finished the thought, her eyes were back on Pathom, squirming against her chest in the burnoose that bound him to her.

And now, Raoul watched his son, passed between his wife and the woman who had been like his daughter long before any papers said he was a father. Stuffed Saren ponies lined the shelf above an intricately carved bassinet filled with beautifully embroidered blankets. A protection charm had been pulled from Alanna’s packs to hang at the head, while twin leather circles bearing the insignias of the Riders and the Own, no doubt carefully cut by mischievous commanders from the saddle packs of some unprepared trainees, was secured carefully at the foot. Raoul had to smile for a moment at Genlith’s ignorance—he’d begun his family right on time.

#carrie answers #my writing #anonymous #raoul of goldenlake and malorie's peak #raoul of goldenlake #buriram tourakom #tortall #tamora pierce #protector of the small #keladry of mindelan #okay we've got all the found family shit in here #the friends? check #the surrogate daughter? check #adoption? check #also who said a baby can't have three godsmothers definitely not buri and raoul #also on ao3

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chinsims · 2 years

Note

hi! was wondering if you got permission regarding the baby skins, would love to use them in my game you did a great job !

Hello! Thank you so much! It was one of my first times converting a skin by age so it was definitely an adventure. I was gonna wait until people expressed interest (which works out because now people have, thank you for reminding me they exist!) so I hadn't gotten around to that just yet. I'll try to get on that and ask sketchbookpixels as soon as I can and then get either a sfs account or create a new anonymous Google drive to share them. It may take a while to get things out there with college and getting distracted with other projects (I think I know what I need to do for that child face slider, but that one is very daunting), but if it takes longer than I expect to do that, I'll try to remember to give you an @ in the post to thank you for reminding me about them and so that you can be notified when I do post about them

#ts3 #the sims 3 #the sims #ask #my first ask!#very glad you think i did a good job #thank you!

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17wishbones · 3 years

Photo

Here is Chapter VII: War’s End (Part 2). I low-key cried writing this because, wow, I really do love this Flame Hashira so so so so so so much. I got a bit distracted reading other fanfiction and all that but here comes the second part. Now, this has spoilers from the manga/movie, so get to watching it as soon as possible. However, if you don’t mind it, go ahead and have a read! Please enjoy!

- - - - - - - -

Chapter VII: War’s End (Part 2)

Bright rays of the sun beat down on you as you stood before the oceanfront. The wind blew through your locks and along your skin. In your hands was a net and a few fish caught in them. You ogled them with a tight squint. ‘I know this handwork-’

“_____! _____!”

Your eyes widen. “That can’t be. . .” You slowly turned around and was blessed with a beautiful sight. “Mother? Father? You’re both. . .” Tears flowed like a river as you tackled them in an overdue embrace. You couldn’t swallow the sorrow that crept over your body when you thought to have lost them.

“We’re both what? Other than waiting for you to come home?” Your father was a tall man, standing halfway over six foot. His thick dreads touched the small of his back and his salt and pepper beard filled out his face. He was a handsome man still.

“You must be thirsty, _____. Come on in and drink. You’ve caught enough fish to last us a while.” Your mother was a beauty herself. She had a clean shaven head, a strong jawline, and the legs of an Amazon.

They stood tall while you remained short. You didn’t receive the end of the tall gene pool but that didn’t make you any harder to love, even though they joked about your height all the time. The two of them loved you so much.

Your mother, Oolade, wiped your tears away as your father, Uzoma, got the net of fish from the shore. “We shall eat as kings and queens together!” He shouted. “Look at the bounty our daughter has gathered!”

“I am proud of you, my sweet _____.”

“Mother, Father, please, you are embarrassing me!” You laughed. “Kyōjurō would love nothing more than to meet you both.”

“Kyōjurō?” They both questioned in unison.

“Oh.” Your mind went blank a moment. ‘Why did I say that? Kyōjurō? Who-who is that? His name sounds familiar.’

“Never mind that. Come.” You didn’t even think twice as you followed your mother to your quaint house on the shore that your father built by hand. It was just as you remembered.

“Oolade found some wild rice to make with as well. We’re going to have a feast!”

‘What was I even doing before? I must have been daydreaming.’ There was no questioning this surreal feeling as your parents showered you with love and laughter.

Overwhelmed with a sense of unbridled joy, you thought to never leave him.

You blinked. ‘Him?’ You questioned blankly. ‘Who is this him?’

Time had passed but the scenery didn’t change. “Hey, I’m going to step outside for some air.”

“Hurry back so that you may bless the food before we feast.” Your parents’ smiles, even though forever imprinted in your mind, suddenly dulled in comparison to the image of this fiery man.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. You slowly opened them and saw an outlined path towards the woods. You instinctively followed it to a rip into another space. You gasped aloud as you caught a young child making their way to this shining orb floating within a bundle of sunflowers.

The child turned to you, frightened and with the needle pointing towards you. They were sweating and shaking with fear.

“What are you doing here?”

“How did you find me!? You’re not supposed to be able to enter into your own unconsciousness!”

“It’s mine… isn’t it?” You took a step forward.

“_____? _____!” Oolade and Uzoma came running toward the border with sadness filling their eyes. “What are you doing? Come back!”

“_____, don’t leave us!”

You didn’t heed their words, but their voices wretched your heart. “You plan to do something? For what cost?”

“Destroying your core will allow me to sleep peacefully and see my family again!”

“And that’s the best way to go about it?” You ignored their calls as you pressed forward towards the child. “Your good dream will end and so shall you succumb to your pain.” Your eyes softened. “You will die a sad death. To a demon.”

“How do you know how I feel!? You just had a good dream!”

“A bittersweet dream. My parents have long since passed. They no longer live in this world. Even this cannot bring them back forever or give me peace.”

The child backed up until he was just a footstep away from your core. “Come any closer and I’ll do it!”

You stopped your approach and knelt down, holding your arms out. “Then you choose. Live your life or succumb to an eternal slumber?”

The child had wanted a good dream of his family, to be happy, but when he saw the look on your face, the look of pain and suffering from even getting a glimpse of what life could have been with them spread over your face.

He dropped the needle and ran to you full throttle, crying his heart out as he embraced you tight around your neck.

This was the right thing to do. Even as good as the dream would be, it would hurt all the more to have it taken away.

The faux warmth of the child disappeared and your eyes fluttered open to an ungodly sight that made you want to throw up.

“What the hell!?” You stood on top of flesh. “Intestines!?”

Rengoku flashed past you by one moment and returned the next. “You’re awake, Sunflower!”

“Did the demon become a train!?”

“So it seems, yes! Kamado and Hashibira are going for the neck. Our job—”

“Is to protect the passengers at all costs.”

“Nn! You take care of this cart and I’ll do the other four!”

“Just one?”

“Your safety is of utmost importance! Aid Golden Boy and the Demon girl as needed!” He kissed you quiet before dashing off in a blaze, hushing your protests.

“That man…” you drew your Nichirin blade, “Is so…” your short dash in the cart made easy work of the disgusting, fleshy tendrils, “Annoying!” But you couldn’t argue with his command or logic. He was sound in the midst of danger.

What you did was light work, and by the looks of it, Zenitsu and Nezuko had the other three sorted as Tanjiro and Inosuke ran for the front of the train. You hummed, slightly irritated at your position. You were getting into none of the action, but you knew how fast Rengoku and Zenitsu were moving by the back and forth teetering of the carts.

‘This train could topple at any moment, especially with all of this monstrous bulk. So, there’s no telling when it’ll--’ A shrill filled the air, disorienting you as the train of muscle crumpled up and fell right off the track. If it weren’t for the demon’s flesh and that Demon Slayer footwork, people onboard would have been seriously injured.

You checked those in your assigned cart and then where Zenitsu and Nezuko were. “Are you guys alright?”

“Mm, mm!” Nezuko nodded as you came over to the slightly slumped Zenitsu.

“Great!” You took him by the shoulders and started shaking him away. “Zenitsu? Zenitsu! Wake up!” He was still asleep, but he only incurred very few injuries as Nezuko had. “At least you two are alright. You really held your own, Nezuko. I’m a little jealous I didn’t get to help out much at all.”

Nezuko, no matter if tired or full of spunk, was just a beauty to look at. You understood why Zenitsu was so smitten with her though he feigned himself a well-groomed ladies man. She offered a soft sound as a response before she leaned up against you.

Parts of the demon’s body slowly faded from existence, leaving now broken windows with an open view to the outside. Rengoku stood over Tanjiro, instructing him as he laid on the ground. Nezuko picked up her brother’s scent and slowly headed outside. Zenitsu followed her sleepily as you grabbed a few people and exited yourself.

Suddenly, the earth shook and dust flew everywhere as something else landed unto the field. You couldn’t believe your own eyes! The aura spiked high as it circled around the tattoo-marked Upper Moon demon. The shine in those eyes were as hungry, monstrous, and devilish as their appearance.

In the blink of an eye, he was just moments away from striking Tanjiro. “Fire Breathing! Second Form! Rising Scorching Sun!” Rengoku’s quick thinking saved him. “I don’t understand why you’d target a wounded person.”

“I thought he’d just get in the way between you and me.”

You froze. You had never seen a demon so fast like this one. It was just as scary as that time in Asakusa. The aura you ingested made you run on instinct, quelling the thoughts of fear or nervousness.

This one looked too toxic. You’d be sick for days. Not to mention, this demon only had eyes for Rengoku.

“You and I have something to talk about? It’s our first time meeting and I already hate you.” Rengoku replied.

“Is that so?” Akaza mused. “I really hate weak humans,” in terms of Tanjiro and others, “When I look at weaklings, I just feel disgusted.”

“It looks like you and I have different moral values in regards to things.”

“I see. Then I have a wonderful proposal. How about you become a demon, too?”

“No chance.” Rengoku declined.

“I know your strength just by looking at you. You’re a pillar, right?” Akaza’s interest in Rengoku shined through his symbolic eyes. “Your battle spirit is quite polished. You’re getting close to Supreme Territory.”

“I am the Fire Hashira, Rengoku Kyōjurō.”

“And I’m Akaza.”

They both exchanged names but withheld their stances. Akaza came to kill and eat any humans as well as convert the strongest ones into those he could. However, no matter the strength, Rengoku was defiant in every sense of the matter when it came to slaying demons and protecting the weak who could not fight for themselves.

But you weren’t out of the clear, however. “Ah, seems like I have a two for one deal.” To your chagrin, the demon noticed you next. “Why don’t you consider becoming a demon, too?” He saw your spirit as well, one with potential of being his punching bag. “As a demon, you can become stronger. That wonderful sword style of yours will keep on improving and we can fight forever! Otherwise, you’ll never reach Supreme Territory and do you know why?”

Silence.

“Because you’re human. Because you’ll grow old. Because you’ll die.” Akaza pointed his finger at Rengoku. “Become a demon, Kyōjurō. You can train for a hundred years. Two hundred years. You can become stronger.”

His face grew dark as he pointed at the likes of everyone in the vicinity, truly disgusted by what he saw before him. Rengoku looked none too pleased with you inserted into the situation. ‘Don’t worry, _____. I will protect you, the children, everyone! Nobody here will die or turn into a demon while I still stand!’ He felt overprotective over you, and found it fit to fulfill his duty not only as a demon slayer, but as a man.

Rengoku couldn’t stand that look of dread and worry filling your eyes. “Growing old and dying is the beauty of the fleeting creature called a human being. Because they grow old. Because they die. They are tremendous. Lovable. What they call ‘strength’ isn’t a word that is used in regards to the body.” He wouldn’t let Akaza spout such untrue words. “This boy isn’t weak. Don’t insult him. I’ll say it over and over again. You and I have different moral values.” His sunset eyes widen menacingly. “No matter what kind of motivation I have, I will not become a demon.”

“I see.” Akaza stanced. “Technique Deployment. Destructive Kill: Compass Needle!” Akaza prepared to fight. “If you won’t become a demon, then I’ll kill you!”

Air waves and flames lit up the area as both Rengoku and Akaza moved at blinding speeds. Pillar versus Upper Moon. You were stuck in place, unable to move. The sudden gravity of the situation skyrocketed and your body froze. Your breath shifted, becoming uneven and quick.

“DON’T MOVE!! If your wounds open, it’ll be fatal! Standby, soldier!!”

Rengoku’s serious voice brought you back, but he demanded no one interfered. Inosoke, who stood at Tanjiro’s side, felt helpless.

It was an explosion of power that erupted, and emerging from the dusty cocoon was an unscathed, healed Akaza and a battered Rengoku. “Kyōjurō…?” His blood-soaked uniform recalled his humanity, his mortality. You were in a state of distress.

Akaza praised him, and employed the idea of becoming a demon, where all his wounds, his crushed eye, and his organs would heal in moments. He’d become stronger, faster, and more powerful than before, but the answer was still no.

Rengoku raised his blade and stared on with a dazzling, one-eyed smile. “I will fulfill my duties! I won’t let anyone die here!”

“You really should become a demon so that we can fight for all eternity!”

“Full Focus Breathing. Flame Breathing. Esoterica. Ninth Style: Purgatory!”

“Technique Deployment. Destructive Kill: Obliteration Style!”

They clashed in one final blow, and the results after the dust cleared terrorized you with your unknown and worst fears.

Akaza punched through Rengoku who held his blade upright. It was but a second before he tightened his grip and slashed at Akaza’s neck which surprised the demon. Rengoku, even as death approached him, remained resilient as he caught Akaza’s other hand, tightened his innards around his arm, and dug his blade further across. As the demon screamed for release, Rengoku screamed for his defeat.

“INOSUKE, MOOOOVE!!! MOVE FOR RENGOKU-SAN!!!”

Tanjiro’s shout broke you from your shock. Opportunity to strike was now or never. At the speed they ran, they wouldn’t reach Akaza as he struggled for release as the sun was due to rise.

‘Full Focus Breathing. Fire breathing. First form: Unknowing Fire!’

It was a split second decision that made all the difference, and thanks to Inosuke. As Akaza panicked upon seeing Inosuke preparing to jump, Akaza suddenly felt weightless below. ‘What? My legs!’

Inosuke stopped just in time, leaving the final slash to Rengoku who pushed with all of his might and brought his searing blade through Akaza’s neck.

“You sneaky bit— oh no! The sun! I have to go, I have to— AHHHH!!”

Dawn broke over the horizon and Akaza’s body disintegrated.

“Kyōjurō!” You helped him to his knees, seeing the condition that he was in. “You’re hurt. Maybe if we can get you bandaged up, we can—”

“I’m sorry, My Sunflower. My stomach won’t close. I will die very soon.” He turned and addressed Tanjiro. “Kamado, my boy. Let’s have a final chat.”

Tanjiro ran over, huffing as tears stained his cheeks. “Rengoku-san, don’t talk too much! Help will be here soon. Just hold on!”

“Just listen to me. Return to the Rengoku Estate. There should be notes about the ‘Dance of the Fire God’. My father read them many times. I didn’t read them myself, however, so I don’t know what’s inside them. And for the both of you, tell Senjuro to pursue the path that he thinks is right, as his heart tells him to. And tell my father to take care of his body. And also...” He leaned in. “Kamado, my boy, I believe in your sister. I accept her as a member of the Demon Slayers.”

Droplets of water dripped from Tanjiro’s big eyes.

“I saw that girl protect the humans inside the train despite bleeding out. Those that protect humans and fight demons are Demon Slayers, no matter what anyone else says. Live with your chest high. You, Hashibira, Golden Boy, and her will become great pillars.” His attention finally landed on you.“My Sunflower.” He weakly raised his blood-smeared hand, touching your cheek. “Never give up. I will be watching over you.”

Rivers flowed down your desolate face. “Wait for me over the bridge when I cross. And meet me in the next life.” You found his hands and held them in yours. “I-I l-” Words became lost as you choked on every letter, unable to contain the sadness corrupting your mind and heart.

It hurt him to see you like this, and it devastated him more that he wouldn’t be able to comfort you and grow old together. “My life flashed before my eyes and my most wonderful memories were of you. Your warm smile, your touch, your praises, it makes me more determined than ever to be with you wherever we may go or be.”

The last thing he’d feel was your lips on his, stained with his blood. “I’ll never forget you, Kyōjurō!” You said with as much enthusiasm as you could. “I-I love you!”

Rengoku couldn’t help but to smile. “I love you, too, My Sunflower. Set your heart ablaze. . .”

“And move forward.”

Rengoku peered past you and Tanjiro, spotting a familiar shape. ‘Mother?’ You and Tanjiro looked back but saw nothing. But an enveloping aura past you two and surrounded Rengoku. ‘Did I do everything right? Was I able to fulfill everything I was supposed to carry out?’

‘You did a wonderful job.’ A smile to him, a smile to her, and his head drooped. His body rested peacefully in your arms and his fiery aura dispersed as it was no more.

‘Kyōjurō!’ You were too choked up as you sobbed loudly and ugly. Your heart ached just like it had when your parents were eaten by demons.

Your world darkened, stained in your tears and his blood. What was this victory worth now that he was gone?

It was worth every saved life here, and you knew that. It was going to weigh on your heart how you didn’t help him sooner, but his face discouraged you. He took the brunt of Akaza’s assault and held on until the very end.

You mourned over him from that day and weeks later. No one had seen you since the Mugen Train incident. Rengoku had done so much to keep everyone safe, taking his last breath on the battlefield. It had been a hard pill to swallow, one that you had not fully been accepting of even though you were there to see him off.

Tanjiro, Inosuke, Zenitsu, and Nezuko missed seeing you around. And especially Senjuro, but you needed to separate yourself and become better. You were no use to anyone lying on your back and crying your eyes out.

With the Nichirin blade in your possession, you carried on silently with a memory of him attached at your hip. His haori? Cleaned, pressed, and framed on the wall. For as long as you lived, his legend would be immortalized. On your shoulders, you carried the burden of loss. Sometimes, it’d hurt so much, your chest would heave and you’d clutch part of your left breast, where the pain ran deep as tears stung your eyes.

You left Senjuro with a kind yet sad smile as you didn’t want to hear the ugly mutterings of his father’s distant, drunk voice. His aura dripped in a drab blue, his melancholy nature surely melting at the loss of not only his wife but now his eldest son.

You hadn’t forgotten about those you loved. You’d be back for them. - - - - - - - - - - Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII (Part 1) / (Part 2) / (Part 3)

#rengoku kyojuro x reader #rengoku x you #rengoku x reader #rengoku kyōjurō #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic

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katfett · 3 years

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Damned (Hvitserk x OC) - Prompt Piece

Summary:

Unable to find peace with his path, Hvitserk decides an early morning wash to clear his doubts was in order. The water nymph that he accidentally comes upon is temptation itself and the young monk cannot win the internal war raging between the man he was, the man he is and the man he should be.

Prompt:

“For a monk, it does present certain problems.” (In the name of the rose)

Author’s Note:

Any mistakes, I apologise for. I know I’ve probably missed some. I’ll fix them tomorrow.

I’m going to be honest, I really disliked and liked the end of Hvitserk’s story. It made sense in Hirst’s story but it let me do this so yay! I wanted to see Hvitserk venture to Ireland and come into his own. So this is the concept of him shedding that path and following another. I also wrote this in the span of two hours, and did not realise how long I made it... enjoy! Thank @youbloodymadgenius cause without her prompt, this wouldn’t exist.

Warnings: Smut, nudity, internal conflict.

***

Travelling north on his pilgrimage was strange. He had been so accustomed to his old life, the life of a heathen, that the friendly greetings and kindness displayed were uncomfortable. It had been some long months since that bloody day; since Ivar’s death.

He still saw him, dreamt of him. He would never be without him. The constant shadow whispering that he shouldn’t have renounced their gods, he should’ve returned to Kattegat and taken it back from Ingrid. Some nights, he could feel the blade against his throat that Ivar’s ghost would hold there, telling him he didn’t belong in monk’s clothes.

Last night, had been such a night. He could sleep on the hard ground without complaint; he’d done it long before taking his vows.

Still, he was weary and exhausted come morning. The pilgrimage had been requested by Alfred. They wished him to venture across England, spreading the word of god, self-reflecting, praying.

There was a deep part of Hvitserk that was grateful to escape the confines of the church; his life before had left him a wanderer, and that part of him felt too confined in one place for months on end.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Hvitserk climbed to his feet. He looked around at the sleeping forms around him. Three monks had come with him, Alfred’s watch, Hvitserk knew, as the young king still did not fully trust him.

The sun had not yet risen and Hvitserk decided he would take the time to wash while the others slept. He grew weary of their eyes following the tattoos adorning him when they shared the river; marks that highlighted just what he had been before this.

Finding the river, Hvitserk stripped off his robes and sunk into the cold water with a sharp breath. It was freezing but it woke him up.

A startled squeal pierced the silence of the early morning and Hvitserk spun, hands instinctively going for a weapon at his hip that was no longer there.

His eyes landed on the woman; back to him and waist deep in the water. Her arms were wrapped about her front, even though she was turned from him, her wide eyes looking at him incredulously.

“What are you doing?!” She all but hissed at him.

Hvitserk glanced down at himself, suddenly aware that he was thigh deep in the water and therefore completely exposed to her. He quickly sunk into deep into the water until it covered his lower half.

“I could ask the same of you woman,” he said. The response wasn’t passive and apologetic for looking at her naked back, as it should’ve been for a monk.

She was watching him warily, he could see the way she glanced towards her clothes on the bank, to where a bow and quiver lay. Her blonde hair hung down her back, clinging to fair skin as they stared at one another.

Then he realised what she was staring at; his tattoos. He muttered a curse under his breath, brother Osgyth would’ve blushed hearing it. The woman thought him a Viking.

“I was bathing. You intruded.” Her voice was firm, as though she were scolding a child.

Hvitserk held his hands up as a sign of surrender, though he refused to take his eyes off her, aware of the weapon on the bank.

“You bathe alone?” Hvitserk asked.

“Yes.”

He waved around to their surroundings. “Are you not worried about being set upon?”

The heavy silence that followed said everything. Laughter broke it and Hvitserk was surprised by how sweet it was. It had been a long time since he had heard the laughter of a woman.

“You have set upon me, Viking.”

He frowned, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck as he motioned to the robes laying near where he’d walked in. “I am not Viking.”

Her eyes followed his hand, spying the robes she frowned. “A monk?”

She turned to face him then; her arms still covered her breasts but Hvitserk now was able to see her fully.

She was beautiful. He should’ve pushed the thought down; shouldn’t let his gaze trail across slim shoulders, the swell of her breasts that were exposed above her arm, or her flat belly and wide hips, but he did.

He bit out a soft curse feeling the shift in his thoughts. She was beautiful, and alluring. Hvitserk hadn’t lain with a woman in a long time, even before converting. Until now, it hadn’t been much of a problem.

***

Elen stared at the man. He looked more heathen than he did monk. His muscular chest was covered by tattoos, his hair was long and not shaved at the top like she’d seen of monks before and his beard was long. His overall appearance did little to evoke the image of a monk.

The robes could be a ruse. The cross about his neck stolen from a man of god he had slain. Despite the fall of Ivar the Boneless, the Vikings still raided into Mercia and Elen knew what they did to women.

If only she could get to her bow.

He had only nodded in reply to her query about him being a monk. He spoke English well too, for a Viking.

***

Hvitserk was quiet, unmoving as he watched her deep in thought. Her face was pretty, she couldn’t be much younger than him. Did her husband know where she was? Did she have a husband?

Hvitserk felt like pinching himself and from somewhere deep in his mind he heard Ivar laughing darkly at his predicament. What did it matter? He should get out and leave her to bathe. His legs didn’t move.

“Are you going to turn around?”

Hvitserk actually grinned at her; a cheeky, boyish grin. “So you can go for the bow? I don’t think so.”

She didn’t fire a remark back. She had been thinking it, he would be too if he were face to face with himself like this in her place.

She turned her back to him with a stubborn huff and he chuckled quietly. She was quite feisty for an English woman. He hadn’t met many, even now he lived here among them. His days had been spent cloistered, being taught to write. It had been embarrassing at first, but his people hadn’t been ones for writing their histories down like the English did; like Alfred’s chronicle.

The woman uncovered herself once she presented her back to him. She was going to pretend he wasn’t there. Some part of Hvitserk stirred as he watched her dip low and tip her head back to soak her hair. She straightened, squeezing the water from her golden locks. In her movement, he could see the swell of her breasts and had to bite his lip.

He had not really thought of fucking since converting. It just didn’t occupy his thoughts as it once had, but seeing this woman it reawakened in him and he was suddenly hungry for it.

He quickly scooped up two handfuls of water and splashed his face, scrubbing to try and cool his thoughts. He had said vows, he couldn’t be that kind of man anymore.

***

Elen didn’t look at him. The monk, she still had her doubts, was handsome and she blushed at the sinful thought of how it might feel to lay with him. He was a man of god, even though he looked heathen, he had not moved to invade her space.

“I am Aethelstan, lady.”

His voice was deep, smooth and calm. He called her lady? She almost laughed at the idea of appearing at all ladylike as naked and wet as she was.

“Elen, monk.” She heard the sloshing of water. Glancing over her shoulder, Elen found him sitting in the water, chest deep, his gaze far off. She wondered who he was. Monks didn’t usually look like heathens. Who had he been in his previous life? Had the church forced him into converting?

Sinking down so her chest was covered, Elen turned to look at him. She could go for her bow while he was like this, he might catch her but he surely didn’t have reflexes as quick as hers.

Something stopped her though as she heard him sigh, pressing his fingers into his eyes for a moment. “How do people live like this?”

Was the question for her? Was it about his predicament? She tipped her head curiously, treading a few cautious steps closer. He glanced at her and Elen realised he looked exhausted. “Live like what, Aethelstan?”

He seemed to cringe as she spoke the name. It likely wasn’t his birth name, perhaps he was still fresh to the church and getting use to having to answer to a new name.

“So confined by rules,” he muttered, hitting at the water as he drew a knee up and rested an arm on it.

Fascinated, Elen dared to move just a little closer. “Can you turn?”

He glanced across at her and she was struck by the confused, weary look in his eyes. His gaze dragged over her for a moment. “You won’t go for the bow?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “So long as you don’t try anything.”

He shifted in the water, presenting her his back. She moved so she could sit with her back to him, but the scars stopped her. Up close they were visible; old and new scars. So he had fought in his previous life. He was definitely a Viking, but how had he become a monk? She almost reached out to touch the raised, white lines on his back but stopped herself.

Instead, Elen shifted and leaned her back against his. She felt him tense as their skin came into contact; his back was warm and hard.

***

She was so close. Her back leaned into his and he tensed, unable to control the reaction. She didn’t move, letting him adjust to having her there. She was warm against him and he smiled to himself, dropping his gaze to the side to glance at where her arm was drawing lazy circles across the water.

This was peaceful, calming. He reached for the cross around his neck. It felt heavy as he weighed his thoughts.

“Who were you?”

Her soft question pierced the comforting silence and he sighed, dropping the cross back down. He didn’t respond straight away and it earned him a nudge.

With a raised brow, he glanced at her over his shoulder. She smiled sweetly at him and Hvitserk was captured by it. She was beautiful up close; delicate features on a face shaped by Freya... he stopped.

No, not Freya. Freya hadn’t made this woman. Her god, his new god had.

“A Viking.”

She rolled her eyes and he smiled. He didn’t miss the way her cheeks suddenly flushed as she watched him. “That is a given. Did you convert willingly?”

He nodded. “Yes.” She remained quiet, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she sighed, leaning her whole back against his and dropping her head against his shoulder. His breath fanned her cheek as he watched her. Her eyes were closed, waiting. “I did, but adjusting, reshaping everything I knew to be a monk, is far harder than I expected.”

“Did you leave family behind? Do you regret the choice?”

She was curious he realised. He reached up, letting his fingers brush across the hair sticking to her temple, pushing it back gently, letting his fingers card through the long tresses hanging by his shoulder. He felt the shiver go through her.

“I don’t know if any survived. My father, my mother, three of my brothers are dead,” he said, Ragnar, Aslaug, Sigurd, Bjorn, Ivar - all dead. Ubbe’s face came to him then. Had his brother survived his journey? Were two sons of Ragnar still walking the earth? He hummed a little at the thought of his older brother. Would he be proud of him? Would he laugh as Ivar did in his dreams? “There are times I do regret it.”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes fluttered open and their gazes met. “When do you find yourself regretting it?”

He wanted to chuckle. Was she an Angel coming to question his faith? His commitment? Was she a sign from old gods wanting him back? It was hard to tell.

“When I think of my father, when I picture the disdain my mother would have seeing me as I am, when I picture my brother and his disdain for Christains,” he said and then smiled, continuing, “when I find myself in front of a beautiful, naked woman and shame and guilt collide with want and desire.”

Her cheeks flushed and she let out a breathy chuckle, pulling her head from his shoulder. He was being bold, the old Hvitserk was bold, Aethelstan wasn’t meant to be. “And, what would you do if you found yourself in front of a such a woman before you converted?”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised at her boldness. She didn’t seem innocent but he knew women could be many things. “Are you asking so you can imagine it on a cold, lonely night, Elen?”

“I’m curious is all.”

She deflected well.

“Ah,” he hummed, not believing her for a second, and then he turned just a little, his fingers reaching out to trail across what was exposed of her upper arm. Her body shuddered against his and he grinned, letting his fingers slid along her shoulder and then down her back. “I would fuck her until she cried out my name like a prayer to her god.”

Her soft whimper was barely audible as he swept her hair up into his hand, drawing it across her opposite shoulder as his hand came around the back of her neck, his thumb finding her pulse. It was racing frantically under his thumb. He squeezed gently. “Though then I would have broken my vows.”

His fingers almost slipped away but she reached over her shoulder, stopping them. He remained where he was. “For a monk, it does present certain problems.”

Hvitserk chuckled, nodding at her. “It does indeed, and so Elen, I find myself at an impasse.”

She turned to him, his hand remained on her, following her. They stared at one another. She licked her lips, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. It was soft and full, perfect for kissing. He wanted her. Damn him to his new God’s hell for it, but he wanted her and he wanted to give in to that want. “Do they not preach God will forgive those who repent?”

He smiled at her.

“They do,” he whispered, leaning down slowly to her mouth. “What if I have a taste and do not want to repent after?”

Her breath fanned over him as she chuckled softly. “Then that would be between you and God, Aethelstan.”

“It’s Hvitserk,” he said before capturing her mouth in a kiss. She turned fully to face him, her hands sliding around his neck as he pulled her in to him. She tasted sweet and he was drowning, lost in the feel of her fingers burying into his hair as she kissed him back with a surprising fervour.

Hvitserk knew he shouldn’t, knew that even if God would forgive him, he had failed a test so easily succumbing to the nymph with him. How could he ever hope to maintain his vows if he let himself fall now?

Her body pressed into his and he groaned at the feel of full, heavy breasts against his chest. She was made for fucking, what man in their right mind would refuse a willing roll with a woman like her. Hvitserk’s thoughts crumbled away as they came to their knees in the water, their bodies flush against the other. She moaned softly into his mouth as his tongue swept across her lower lip.

In an awkward tangle, they managed to stand, Hvitserk’s hands found her hips to guide her backwards to the bank, never letting up from their kiss. She clung to him, her small frame moulding to him in a way that was just right.

He broke away as they came down to his robes, her back hitting the cloth as he settled between her thighs. Her legs clung to his waist and he stared down at her. She was watching him with hooded eyes. He hadn’t been with a woman in so long. Cupping her cheek, he leaned in and kissed her.

“Are you innocent?” he asked against her.

She didn’t answer at first. Then slowly she nodded against him. He grinned against her. “You’d let a heathen turned priest take your innocence?”

Her cheeks were bright red and she bit her lip as she stared up at him. “I’m letting Hvitserk.”

He ground his cock against her belly as she said his name. His real name. He pulled back from their kiss and reached between them. His thumb found that nub between her legs and glided over it, she whimpered, her legs tightening around his body. He buried his head into her throat; nipping and sucking at the fair, damp flesh as he touched her.

She rode his fingers as he slipped two into her, needing her ready for him. Her body arched from the ground as his lips found her nipples. His teeth closed over one as her nails dug into his back. He grunted; rocking against her. He swallowed her cry as she came, all too aware of how close his fellow monks were. Though they tended to sleep like they were in the safety of their beds, even whilst on the road, he didn’t want to risk them hearing.

She trembled against him. Hvitserk grinned at the soft sigh that escaped her as she relaxed into the cloth at her back. Coating his fingers in her slickness, Hvitserk took hold of his hard cock and stroked himself. She glanced down between them, watching what he was doing. Elen was breathtaking beneath him. A water nymph who had seduced him with her sharp tongue. He grunted as he felt his belly tense. Her fingers glided along his sides as he positioned himself. He looked at her, the question hanging between them.

“Hvitserk.” His name was a breathy whisper from her swollen lips and he grinned down at her, sliding in a little. She tensed at first and he pulled back, repeating his movement, letting himself sink further into her each time. She didn’t cry out in pain, though she did wince when he finally settled fully into her.

Hvitserk moaned into her throat, dropping down on her, one arm curling around her head to find her hair as he leaned on his forearm, taking some weight off her. She felt so good around him. He allowed her to relax into it. Her fingers found his free hand and entwined with his, giving them a squeeze.

Hvitserk rocked against her and she groaned softly. He kissed her throat as he rode her. She was enjoying it, her fingers squeezing his as she arched her hips up to meet his own. Hvitserk didn’t last long, he knew he wouldn’t. When her walls clamped down on him, Hvitserk had grunted out a curse and rode her hard to chase his end.

She whimpered beneath him, her nails leaving imprints on his back.

He collapsed atop her, his sweaty body sticking to hers as they dried from their time in the river. He leaned back enough that he could kiss her gently, his fingers massaging her scalp and coming to her throat. “I am damned, woman.”

She giggled beneath him, moaning softly as he rocked himself against her. “We both are, Hvitserk.”

He snuggled into the woman beneath him. Content for the first time he’d been in quite some time.

Hvitserk was certainly damned, and he knew it. One night with Elen, it would never be enough. It came as a surprise when his fellow monks rose that morning to find Aethelstan’s things gone. A crude note was left, explaining he would prefer to finish his pilgrimage alone and would venture from Mercia to Wales.

What they didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them, for Hvitserk didn’t journey alone. His water nymph followed him deep into the west of Wales towards the sea, never to be heard from again.

#youbloodymadgenius1kcelebration #smut #fanfiction #prompt #fanfic #angst #nudity #hvitserk #vikings #aethelstan #hvitserk monk #monk hvitserk #hvitserk vikings #promptpiece #hvitserk x oc #hvitserk x

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adseculaictis · 2 years

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Flowers On Main | Drabble | Viridis

“Goodbye, take care and be well Mrs. Rosenblum.”

As the bell above the shop’s door tinkled merrily to signal the exit of the dragging customer from the usual afternoon rush, she breathed a sigh of relief into the stillness that followed. The little Victorian era home had many changes she liked; foremost the first floor had been converted into an antique conservatory, complete with brass patina and solid glass windows. She had converted it a bit more- while still letting it’s charm truly showcase the decadent array of exotic flora ‘Flowers on Main’ had come to be renowned for. The results were almost magical; the wooden floor, shelves, and desk-turned-checkout-counter had only added to the antique rustic charm of her shop. As she moved to the customer’s side of the register, the vermillion woman pauses to arrange the smattering of knick-knacks that greet each customer. A small, intricate knotwork charm from centuries old friends. A tiny glass bottle filled with what an untrained eye might mistake for shark teeth; though the woman knew them to be that of a monster. The small sculpture of a mushroom ready to shed it’s spores, from a long-gone companion. Each figure is touched; fussed with. Memories of castle raids, bloody battles, wonderful warm nights of celebration called to her mind as each item carried her to a moment frozen in her mind’s eye. Fingers which had caused more pain and pleasure than could be contained in a lifetime stroked the familiar outline of a particularly loved warn pocket knife, the memory of its former owner tugging the corner of her lips up to one side. How many life times ago had that been? As she moved away from the collection to the stand of hyacinths and vervain she reflected on just how long her life had been. How much she’d grown from the shade of a lonesome creature she had once been. It was incredible to think of the almost impossible creature she had previously inhabited. So feral, so alone- and the steps she had taken to reach here. The continents and oceans she had crossed, the skins she had worn. All had become facets of her now- the aberration's strength, creation’s love, curiosity’s hope- she was home to all of these things. Viridis’ singular blue eye slipped up to the small hand-crank windows lining the green house’s upper paneling. Sweat had begun to pepper her skin, and she decided to fetch the step ladder. It takes a lot longer to do by hand then it would if she had simply used the magic that flowed around her, yet the task was rewarding in and of itself. Every few feet she’d have to move the ladder, but she didn’t mind- even these mundane tasks were in and of themselves gifts.

Gifts to the lonesome beast she had been, who had never dreamt of happiness and contentment. The existence she had been was one of suffering and agony; the life Viridis led now would be as foreign as space travel to the memory. As deft fingers work the crank of each window, the thick pane of glass moved slowly with some minor squeaking complaints, but the reward was almost instant. The scents of the neighborhood outside her windows wafted in on the warm day’s gentle breeze. Ah, the church three blocks over must have been hosting another get together, because the typically served honey rolls could be scented on the breeze. Music from a neighboring shop drifted gently to her too-sensitive ears, and somewhere she could pick out a dog barking and a child’s jubilant laughter. She closes her eyes, sinking into the simple stillness of the moment. Steeping herself in the comfort of the results of her long struggles. She had survived gods, priests, wars- trial and tribulation, love, loss, and the edge and end of worlds. This moment was why she had fought so hard in those instances, she thinks. Suddenly a memory takes her- “I won’t let you go! We can do this! Please- don’t give up on us yet!” Fingers clench reflexivity- as if she were to pull him from the edge once more. The dire moment at the end of time and space- the last vestiges of the heroes scattered. She’d been so afraid that it had all been for naught- but evil failed where goodness could only triumph, and the adventurous who had met by coincidence or fate had saved this world- this timeline. She smiles at the memory of last seeing her companions- Dylan’s soft eyes and warm smile, Minte’s boisterous laugh and Morgra’s hard won smile, among the others. They had been good friends- and she had been sorry to leave their company. The bell at the door rouses her from her memories, and Viridis is once again pulled to the present, a smile warming her lips as her eyes find the next customer- a new adventure, no matter how small.

#Viridis #Drabble

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dreamer213 · 3 years

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A fanfic promo I might continue if there’s enough demand

Broken Machines: Lights The Dark

Interior Evening Party at the Schnee Manor, a week after Weiss’s escape Jacques Schnee hosts an apology party to ease the tension caused by Weiss’s outburst. He has invited all Atlas elites including military elites in attempt at maximum damage control with his son Whitley doing the lion’s share of the actual work. Ironwood and one of his subordinates have come to the event not for the party but for the guests. Recently there’s been a number of thefts of supply trucks perpetrated Robyn Hill and her Merry Huntresses which has disrupted a top secret military project that needs to progress as soon as possible. Having received intel of a rat amongst the elites looking to undermine the Atlas military has been feeding Robyn Hill information Ironwood assigns a soldier to infiltrate Atlas high society to find and apprehend the them. To insurance there is little suspicion to this agent Ironwood sends in his least intimidating but powerful soldier, whose normal duties take place in Mantle completely unnoticed by the Atlas elites, Penny Polendina to take care of it.

Penny, having never been to any upper class party, is overwhelming by this new environment. All smug behavior, cutting remarks, and overall cold and cruel atmosphere is just too much for her. She decides to take refuge at an empty table at the furthest part of the ballroom. At a nearby balcony Whitley is leaning against the silver railing, after hours of sucking up to a bunch of rich entailed pricks he needed a moment to breathe away from the stench of their overgrown egos. He sighs for what feels like the hundredth time this evening and takes a deep breath and ponders if this is all his life will amount to. Cleaning up Weiss’s messes, Converting with annoying elites, and living under Father’s heel all while Mother drinks her life away and Winter ignores his existence. Was this it? Was this all he’ll ever have to look forward to? He looks up to the stars, closes his eyes, takes another deep breath, and leans back again. Unfortunately this time he losing his balance and falls with only a small yelp escaping him before he descends. Facing a two story drop to certain death Whitley wonders how angry Father will be when he has to get the grounds cleaned after his death. But before he falls even three feet he feels an hand grab his wrist.

”Hold On I’ve Got You”

He looks up to see a river soft red curls, bright green eyes, and freckle dusted skin wrapped in ill fitting lime green dress.

Being a combat ready battle android and the protector of Mantle Penny knows a cry for help when she hears it. So when she heard a cry coming her the balcony next to her, it only took her half a second and quick dash to save them before the worst could happen. She looked down to scan him for any injuries, in that moment she gets a good look at him, and for the first time in her life Penny could not process her emotions and thoughts at all. She was completely stunned.

How? How could a human look so, so beautiful? How could skin be so bright and smooth that it looked like porcelain? How could eyes be so much bluer then the clear sky and deeper then the deepest of seas? How could hair look so soft and neat that it could rival the texture of silk? The man made huntress couldn’t understand, she knew nature could create so much beauty but this was too much! Too cute to be real.

“Umm Could you please pull me up?”

“Y-Yes! Right Away!”

After regaining her senses Penny pulls him up. As Whitley straightens himself up and offers her his gratitude for saving his life a crowd descends on them having finally noticed the commotion. Like a wake of buzzards they claw at the pair with faux concern and back handed words of worry. With no data on how to handle the situation Penny is frozen in place trying her hardest to formulate an exit strategy with zero success. At this time Whitley takes notice of his savior’s discomfort and decides to take charge of the situation. This isn’t his first run in with a wake of elites and as a child of the most well known company in all of Remmant he has been trained from birth to hold the battlefield that is evening parties. He takes hold of Penny’s hand and guides her as he craves them a path through the crowd while pushing pass the mob of elites by way of a battle of biting words and manners. Penny’s amazed at the sight of this, it was like observing a new form of combat while a seasoned veteran carried you through the battlefield to safety. Amazing.

They were getting closer and closer to the front Penny could see Ironwood waiting for her! They just had to get across the dance floor and it was a straight shot to the entrance. But then music began to play and couples begin to crowd around and on the dance floor. Whitley recognize this song ,it was a waltz, one he had learned to play and dance to years ago. Knowing there was only one way to get them through the crowd he looked to Penny.

“Do you know how to dance?”

“No.”

“Hmm, Okay then just stay close and let me lead.”

He takes Penny’s left hand places it on his right shoulder, puts his right under her shoulder blade, raises their already joined hands, and leads them into a standard waltz. This was an effortless feat for Whitley even with an inexperienced partner he could still pull off an elegant waltz fit to his Father’s standards as he was trained to. But he had to admit her earnest attempts to match his movements were admirable if not a little cute. On the other hand Penny can barely comprehend what’s happening in front of her. It was if she had been transported into a fairytale, dancing in a castle with a prince, it was magnificent all she could do was try to match her steps with the music and Whitley’s movements. She didn’t even noticed when music stopped or that Whitley had brought them to the other side of dance floor until she hears Ironwood call out to her. Before she can go back to Ironwood Whitley questions her on her connection with the general. Penny admits that she is an agent of the military and that they were there to facilitate better relationships with the upper class of Altas for the betterment of Atlas as a whole. Sensing an opportunity Whitley offers her his business card and some etiquette lessons as a thank you for saving his life. She take the card with both hand and reads it carefully. With all the commotion they had never introduced themselves, as he turns to leave Penny decides that there’s no time like the present. She runs in front of Whitley and with a bright smile introduction herself.

“Salutations! My name is Penny Poledina, It’s was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Thank you Miss Poledina, and it was nice meeting you to. I hope to see you again soon.”

With that the two go there separate ways. Penny is praised by Ironwood for securing such a high profile connection her first day on and Penny is happy to have done a good job despite her awful start and is excited to found a new friend amongst the fakes smiles of Altas elites.

Meanwhile Whitley is greatly satisfied with the evening’s outcomes. Having handled the party with anything going wrong, for the most part and secured a way to better the Schnee Company’s relationship with the Atlas military he was sure his Father would praise him for this and maybe allow him some freedoms. Maybe an allowance or permission to be escorted around the city! As he makes way towards his Father to report his achievement he couldn’t help but recall the redhead’s sweet smile. How long had it been since he saw such an innocent and gentle smile? In a sea of fake smiles and hypocrisy a genuine smile, one from the heart, was a rarity. One Whitley had not experienced in so long he had almost forgotten that they even existed. Seeing it made him feel nice and warm inside for the first time in many years. And though he told himself that he was doing this for the sake of his Father and the company in the back of his mind a part of him, perhaps selfishly, wanted to her smile like that again.

#broken machines #fanfic #whitley schnee #penny polendina #I wrote this to cope with the finale #Still really sad about it though #first published fic #rwby #rwby fanfiction

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