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thornsinmycrown · 3 months

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PROTECTION | HEADCANONS

YANDERE!Mike Schmidt x GN!BABYSITTER!READER

warnings: [ MDNI +18 ] kidnapping, yandere, obsessive, isolating, stalking behavior, mention of sexual themes. word count: 731

summary: he just wants his little sister's babysitter to be safe.

He totally has a "crush" on you, something innocent at first. It's undeniable to this point, Abby draws you with them and her friends, there's a big wall wrapped in her drawings like wallpaper, her big brother and yourself holding hands with cute little red hearts all around you.

He talks about you at dinner time, asking Abby how did you treat her and if you were nice for the day, he promised her that you will always stay with them, that he would find a way to make you stay forever.

You know he hasn't had an easy life, talking to you in confidence about Garrett and how he couldn't save him, the way he feels about failing his own family and you admire his compromise over Abby.

Sometimes he takes it to extremes, overprotecting her and doing what you and the little girl consider dismissing fun time.

At first it seemed to be something normal to you, she was the only of his family left, the constant reminder of how lonely and how lucky he was to still have a bond with his parents at the same time, but with time you grew tired of wiping Abby's tears that were actually cried over nothing.

The first time you two had the talk and spoke about it, he was in denial. Mike assured he wasn't controlling Abby's life, he was keeping her safe from the dangers of the world.

You try to remind him what is obvious, that she is a kid and kids need to play and make friends, have fun and enjoy childhood.

He immediately felt bad watching you yell at him to make him take in count the child's feelings, and that's when he realized how important you were — how much of his tiny family needed a mediator like you.

He resents —and admires— your humanity. He is aggressive, cunning, rough to any edge, and deep down he knows you are too, except you don't let that take away your compassion.

Mike yearns for every piece of you now, any kind of affection is well received, whether it is a simple greeting or a friendly waving hand, he even prepares himself to gently smile no matter how awkward it feels, your small confused nodding gesture gets him every time.

You don't judge his incapacity to retain any job and he feels maybe you're the only person in the world who actually understands his struggles — his failures.

When he starts working at Fazbear's he fears he could be loading you too much responsibility, working the night shift wasn't his ideal and, though you'd never let him down, he felt worried you two were going to be alone for so many hours.

The first three nights everything was alright, until the fourth happened.

Animatronics chasing down his little sister was the last straw, it made him snap inevitably, you and Abby weren't safe at all, any time you could be murdered by any of them and there wouldn't be a way to save you.

He fears losing you, what would he do without you?

You help him get rid of them for the little girl's sake, temporarily disabling the animatronics like Vanesa instructed, but you get hurt in the process.

The yellow bunny twists the knife inside you, you let him in order to protect Abby, and it doesn't cost you as much as it costs Mike.

The idea of your loss only fuels Mike's grief, it's like losing his family all over again, but this time will be different — this time he has the chance to change the ending.

You wake up in a hospital bed, your ribcage hurts and you have an injured leg, the first thing your eyes see are his, red puffy eyes full of pain.

A week passes so you can leave the hospital, and he has a room for you in the house.

You try to explain to him you have a place to live since you rent a shared room with another person, but he insists you're not safe there.

"What if he comes back and tries to hurt you again?" "What if this time he—?" He cannot even end the sentence, he can only imagine the worst.

You agree to stay for a couple of days while your injuries heal, yet the unsettling part is just about to begin for you.

Author's note: I had in mind this headcanons since the first time I saw the movie and once I left the theater I started working on them but just release them now because I couldn't finish them in a way I like until today. I'll do a second part to this just because I think it has more potential to add to his character.

#dark content #mike schmidt x reader #yandere mike schmidt #yandere mike schmidt x reader #dark mike schmidt #dark mike schmidt x reader #five nights at freddy's #fnaf movie #fay writes

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ehlnofay · 2 years

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The Dragonborn does not speak at the council, for all the trouble she went to arranging it.

She sits in a straight-backed chair at the head of the table, her sword in its scabbard resting against the stone. (She was the only one permitted to carry a weapon into the assembly.) Lydia, her sharp-faced housecarl, is seated to her left.

It’s the Dragonborn’s council, for all intents and purposes – it may not have been her idea, but it was she who petitioned for it, persuading Arngeir and then the war-leaders and the dignitaries they dragged with them. It was for her sake alone (Dragonborn, Ysmir, legend come to life) that some agreed to attend at all.

But when the council finally begins, kings and warriors crowded around the long stone table, she is silent. An argument begins immediately, Ulfric objecting to Thalmor presence within the negotiations and Tullius objecting to his objection, and it splinters off into something thorny and onerous. It takes half an hour for discussion to begin properly – and then someone says something and they’re off again, everyone around the table coiled tight and wary, and the Dragonborn stares into the middle distance and offers no thoughts.

It doesn’t stop, the talk of trading holds like game pieces and demands that the armies’ leaders be compensated for massacres that never touched them. Arngeir tries to quiet them, and Esbern’s desperate passion riles them up, and when half of the room has leapt to its feet and voices echo off High Hrothgar’s sacred, watching stones, the Dragonborn finally speaks –

Which is to say, she claps her hands over her ears and spits a Word that rips the voices from their lips and the room is finally, mercifully silent.

Her housecarl, the only one who does not seem startled by this, places a hand on the back of her chair and says, “Thane?”

The Dragonborn uncurls, removes her hands from her head, lays them flat on the table.

“I don’t understand,” she says, slow, as though the words are weighed down. She isn’t looking into the middle distance; her eyes shift from face to face like she is trying to meet everyone’s gaze at once.

Galmar Stone-fist, standing by a chair to her right, claws at his fur-lined collar. “We have –”

“Let the Dragonborn speak,” Lydia interrupts, voice and eyes steely. Galmar’s face twists, but he falls silent.

The Dragonborn presses her hands into the stone tabletop.

“Do you believe,” she says, “that the dragons will leave your side alone?”

On the other side of the table, General Tullius raises a sceptical brow. He leans back into his chair. “If you have a point, then make it. We don’t have time for more nonsense.”

Her eyes snap to him. Lydia repeats, “Let her speak.”

The Dragonborn holds up a hand.

“Do you believe,” she enunciates carefully, “that the dragons care anything for your war? None of this matters.”

“On the contrary –”

“Alduin will tear your cities down,” she tells them. Her eyes are eerie dark as holes too deep to track, and even her housecarl is staring at her now. “Only I can stop it. Until you get out of my way, you are fighting over rubble.”

There is, again, silence. Arngeir is visibly thankful for the reprieve; High Hrothgar’s walls, unused as they are to such uproar, can once again, if briefly, know peace.

Ulfric stood up sometime in the yelling; he has not sat back down. He is leaning a little on the stone back of his chair as he says, “You called us here in hopes of a ceasefire, Dragonborn. Truces aren’t made of empty air. Terms have to be negotiated.”

The Dragonborn stares him down. Her palms remain flat on the table; her sword stays resting against her chair.

“But you aren’t negotiating with him,” she says, the words still heavy, still slow. “You’re negotiating terms with me.”

There is a pause. The watchful stones soak in the silence.

“With you,” the Legate replies.

The Dragonborn’s face is blank. “If you truce, I will fight Alduin.” She speaks the weighed-down words as though they are the most natural thing in the world. “If you don’t, I won’t. Your cities will fall as Helgen, and you will die afraid. Those are my terms.”

Lydia places a hand, palm up, on the table. The Dragonborn covers it with her own, mimicking the pose of the wrist, the splay of the fingers.

“Now,” the Dragonborn announces, her voice a laggard echo of Arngeir’s opening speech, “who would like to begin the negotiations?”

(There is no shouting during the rest of the peace council.)

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celestialtitania · 2 months

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What about number 67 for the kiss prompt ?👀

hello hello!! i think i cheated a little with this prompt because it's in adrien's pov but marinette is the one who's apologetic for reasons adrien is unaware of but im sure it's fine hehe. thank you for sending this one in!! i had a lot of fun with it <33 #67: Apology Kiss from this list by @kisspromptsforthelovesquare!!

“You said Ladybug gave these to you to give to me?” Adrien asked, staring at the wedding bands Marinette had placed on his palm.

“That’s right,” Marinette nodded, a somber look on her face. She opened her mouth again as if she had more to say but fell silent, instead watching him.

For his part, all he could do was stare at the rings. He remembered how much his father had valued them, keeping his on at all times, even though his mother had been gone for a year now. He wouldn’t part with these rings for anything.

Having them now felt like the ultimate proof. His father really was gone. What was he supposed to do with them now?

“I guess I could give them to Aunt Amelie. I know she wanted them,” he felt himself saying. His body felt numb and the world felt fuzzy.

“No!” Marinette practically shouted, the reverberations sending a rush of vertigo through his skull. “I mean,” she cleared her throat. “Ladybug said you had to keep these rings on you at all times. And that you couldn’t give them to anyone else.”

What? What did Ladybug care about what Adrien did with his things? Adrien’s bewilderment must have shown on his face, because Marinette bit her lip looking nervous.

“I think it was your father’s last wish,” she said softly.

His last wish. Even his last wish had him thrusting his own desires on Adrien, never mind what Adrien wanted to do with the rings, huh?

Well, he was gone now. Adrien didn’t exactly have to listen anymore; not when Gabriel had never listened to what Adrien wanted. And what Adrien wanted to do was throw these rings as far away as possible so he would never have to see them again.

Except.

Except one of these rings used to belong to his mother too. Except that Gabriel had gone out helping Ladybug against Monarch when Adrien hadn’t been in a position to do anything.

(He ignored the voice inside of him that said Gabriel was the reason Adrien hadn’t been able to be there.)

Except that Ladybug herself had asked Adrien to hold onto these rings.

Marinette folded his hand, rings enclosed within his fist, her own hands covering his. Her warmth countered the cool metal.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s not your fault,” Adrien said automatically, but it was still true. He didn’t understand why Marinette had that look on her face, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“I’ll keep the rings,” he said, hoping that would wipe the sadness off of Marinette’s face. It didn’t; she simply reached over, wrapping her arms around him and nestling her face in the nook of his neck.

“It’ll make sense one day,” she said cryptically. Before he could ask what on earth that meant, she was speaking again. “Promise me you’ll never take them off?”

Promise? That felt a little drastic a measure for his parents’ wedding bands. And honestly? He didn’t really want to.

Promising meant being held to another one of his father’s demands, yet another order that would exist for seemingly no reason. Another command he’d have to follow whilst remaining in the dark.

“Please?” she added, her voice sounding desperate. She felt so tense in his arms, as if his promise meant the world to her and she’d shatter if he didn’t agree.

“I promise,” Adrien croaked, the words falling out unbidden. The idea of Marinette in any sort of pain was enough to make his rage dissipate. He would do anything to make her happy.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. She pressed a kiss to the side of his head, just holding onto him. He could feel the warmth of her breath in his hair and hear each inhale she took in. Even as she trembled, her arms tightened around him, making no move to let go.

Adrien didn’t know why Marinette cared so much about these rings, and there certainly was no reason for her to be so apologetic, but what he did know was that holding her was enough to diminish his own distress. With her, he could let go of his pain and start afresh.

So instead of letting go and asking her more questions, he simply held her closer to him. They were just rings. What did it matter if he held onto them? As long as she was okay. As long as they were together.

Everything would end up just fine, he was sure of it.

#ml #adrinette #post season 5 #fay writes #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #love square #ml fic #fay fics

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fayholloway · 11 months

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finished outlines for 2 smutty short stories 😈im unstoppable

#fay writes

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fairhye · 3 months

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after school

ayato x m!reader ★

cw: modern!au, rotting, reader has a dick, uuhhh idk how to tag this

another day of school meant another day of your classmate and friend, ayato, teasing you. the things he says sometimes make you question whether or not he’s holding back trying to kiss you right there on the spot.

his usual teasing somehow lead to the both of you in your room..unbuttoning each others pants. something about…‘who’s more sensitive than the other.’ it was probably just an excuse for him to finally see you so relaxed.

he’s so close. you could smell that intoxicating perfume of his all around you as he fumbled with your zipper. his own cock looking more than ready, tip red ‘n begging for some sort of friction.

that stupid zipper of yours finally came undone, and the man wasted no time in pressing himself against you. the feeling of his tip touching yours nearly sent you over the edge, and he hadn’t even touched it yet!

ayato leans down towards you ear and whispers, “don’t be afraid to let yourself go..i won’t be holding back.” giving you that signature smile of his, he moved his hand down to where your cock heads met—wrapping his hand around the both of them.

his touch is so soft. almost too soft, as he slowly and lazily rubs his hand up and down. the addition of both of your pre making it much more easier. ayato manages to hold eye contact with you while he watches how you squirm and rut your hips up every so often whenever his hand goes all the way down.

ayato finds you so adorable like this; face flushed, and trying your hardest to not let any moans or weird sounds slip out. he can tell you’re close-so is he. his hand sped up as his pants grew louder and louder.

it wasn’t long before you both spilled on his hand, loud panting filling the room. you couldn’t even face him, much too ashamed of how you just came from your friends’ hand. ayato didn’t seem to mind, still slowly moving his hand to ride out his high.

you clear your throat and try to think of something to change the direction of wherever this was going, “..um..how about we start on homework now..?” you suggest, face still flushed and trying your best not to look at the mess you two made.

the blue haired man quickly sobered up and nodded in approval, not before getting one last good stroke in. “we’ll be finishing this later then, yes?” he asked, looking straight into your eyes. how could you possibly tell him no..?

❔ all works proudly owned by fay/@fairhye

#❄️—fairhye writes #❕—fays works #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin x male reader #ayato kamisato #kamisato ayato #ayato x reader #genshin impact x male reader #kamisato ayato x reader #kamisato ayato x male reader #ayato x male reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #modern au #frotting

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hotchs-bitch · 1 year

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wait blurb requests how did i miss this???

okay i have an idea in case you’re into it 🫣 the first time aaron calls you princess and he realizes you really like it and he teases you for it but also he’s like…super soft and sweet 🥹🥺🥺🥺💗💞

🥹🥹🥹🥹 YEAH ignore the fact that I didn’t rly gaf about princess as a pet name until you started hyping it and I leaned into it and now I’d die for it

Warnings: a lil suggestive

When it happens, you’re in the middle of one of your favourite activities; making out with Aaron.

You’re on the couch in his apartment, one of your legs stretched over his lap and one hand on his jaw as the two of you kiss. Aaron Hotchner kisses like he does everything else; with determination and perfection. Kissing him is slowly becoming an addiction, you think, and you can’t get enough.

“Mm… Aaron…” you sigh out when his head drops, his mouth turning its attention to kissing up your jawline and down the column of your throat.

Teeth scrape your skin ever so slightly, and you feel him grin against you. “Hm?” he murmurs, holding your leg a little closer to him as you move to straddle him completely. “You like that, princess?”

And, wow, you didn’t think you’d ever grind down hard on a man’s thigh over a pet name, but there’s a first time for everything. A needy whimper escapes your lips as you rock against him, and Aaron pauses.

He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t keep kissing. He takes a few breaths, hot air blowing out against your skin. He’s recalibrating, apparently.

“Or you like that,” he teases, pulling you flush against his chest with both hands on your hips. “Princess, really? That does it for you?”

Despite your boyfriend’s casual demeanour, a wave of shame flushes over you. “Aaron, don’t,” you protest weakly.

“Don’t, what? Call you princess? Why shouldn’t I?” He kisses you softly, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. “You are my princess. My perfect girl, my love, sweetheart. And my princess, too. Right?”

God, is he making you say it?

Embarrassment is written plain as day one your face, but you nod hurriedly. “Can we not talk about this?” you plead, and Aaron makes a noise of agreement.

“We won’t talk about it right now,” he agrees, moving his mouth back to the base of your neck and sucking a mark on the skin there. “Right now, I’m very busy. I’ve got to remind my princess who she belongs to.”

#t answers #fay 🍓#princess supremacy!!!!#aaron hotchner x reader #my writing #t’s blurbs #hotch x female reader #aaron hotchner

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fayrobertsuk · 3 months

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It's been a long year and it's only February…

Well, it's time to put this out there: I've had a fairly shitty few years (like, haven't we all, obviously), but it's included a long, expensive legal battle against unscrupulous cysts, which is finally concluded satisfactorily save being left somewhat skint on the other side of it. Doesn’t help that said battle meant that I had to move house - not exactly a low activity on the expense and stress scales…

So I'm looking for extra work, to help while we wait for the Luxury Space Communism to kick in (I'd settle for Universal Basic Income or an end to the Housing and Cost of Living Crisis, tbh).

Things I do to a professional standard include:

Creative Mentoring and Tutoring (writing and performance techniques, especially for poetry - bespoke or standard workshops available for groups as well as one-to-one).

Project Management (feeling overwhelmed by a project you want to get off the ground and/ or run within budget and timescale? I can help with that).

Business Change Management (you need to expand or shift your business focus? I can help that happen in a well-managed fashion).

Performance Poetry (got a bunch of poems, 18 years' experience delivering them live, and a nice voice).

Writing to Commission (especially poetry, but I write both fictive prose and essays too).

Voice Acting and Narration (I've acted in audio dramas and narrated short stories, training videos, and so far one documentary).

Book and Pamphlet Production (I operate a small press).

Basic website setup and maintenance.

Training on any of the above.

I have a sliding scale of rates depending on customer circumstances, and you can book me for a free initial consultation via my website: https://www.fayroberts.co.uk/crass-commercialism/services/

And if you fancy just sending me money because you're generous, I have a ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/fayroberts

#fay speaks #personal plea #please share #professional services #project management #business change management #poetry #creative writing #training #tutoring #mentoring #voice acting #freelance #looking for work #ko-fi #commissions open

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whydon-twego · 11 months

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Merlin thought he was enough.

He thought he was enough to defend his mother from the bandits but in the end it was his mother who defended him by sending him to Camelot.

He thought he was enough for Freya and that they could live happily together, away from Camelot, but he could not save her.

He thought he was enough to help Morgana but cowardice prevailed and he failed to save her.

He thought he was enough for Gilly, Taliesin, Iseldir and all his people but he failed.

He thought he was enough for Arthur, but Arthur chose Gwen.

He thought he was enough to help Arthur forge a new destiny and unite all of Albion and remove the ban on magic on Camelot, but Arthur died and none of this was done.

Merlin once thought he was enough.

Now Merlin knows he never was.

#merlin bbc #bbc merlin #merthur #one sided merthur #merlin idea #merlin prompt #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #king arthur #morgana le fay #morgana pendragon #Guinevere Pendragon #Gwen Pendragon #Druids #my writing

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faislittlewhiteraven · 20 hours

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Tower of Dormont ISaT AU

Had a weird dream I figured would make a great ISaT AU if anyone wants to take a swing at it so umm, general idea:

Instead of the House being taken over by the King, instead the Favor Tree is warped into an evergrowing tower reaching up, up, up into the heavens.

Instead of the King's Curse slowly making its way across the land and Mirabelle being the 'Chosen One' to collect the orbs to stop it, it's time freezing Sadnesses raining down from the top of the Tower all over Vaugarde and surrounding countries, with heroes from all over (Euphie, Claude, various Defenders, people from other countries, etc) heading into the Tower to figure out what is happening only to never return...

And well. It looks like the end for Vaugarde, Mirabelle (having finally hit the 'I know what Euphrasie said but I've got to do something' point) has recruited Isa, Odile and Bonnie for a last ditch effort to try and stop the world from ending by Tower and...

Within the first few floors (which keep changing but kind of look like... The House of Dormont? No, that bit there looks like Odile's family home, and that room there is just like Nille's???) they find an unlocked bedroom and in that room an exhausted, terrified and near hopeless Siffrin who can barely remember anything from his life before being imprisoned here (even takes a bit to recall his name over the now despised 'Bright One') but after a bit of coaxing they admit they know a LOT about the floors ahead and might be willing to help the party reach the top of the Tower where they can put a stop to the madness going on outside but in return they must not let the King catch them (not again not again not again)...

Party are actually pretty cool with this (you know, aside from general 'is this person legit or actually an enemy?' concerns) but well, it's hard not to notice as their guide goes from barely able to fight beyond weak scissors craft and buffs to healing and every craft type under the sun. From claiming they don't know what's behind a certain door or above the next floor to explaining in detail that the prisoners in cages on the next floor are all Sadnesses, or that 'the King is coming, he hasn't realised I've left the room yet but I need something, anything, to mask my scent' (and later gets everyone to leave false trails down halls via jars of sugar and honey they picked up a few rooms previous). From claiming that the party are the only other people they've ever seen here to having near breakdowns over finding books or paintings with imagery and words that seem eerily familiar (think a book that reads like 'Claude wonders why Euphrasie and their amnesiac guide are so fussed about the walls here apparently being covered in stars? Why do stars matter anyway?'), etc.

Oh and they glow more and more with each floor which er, is probably going to make hiding from the King (who is VERY DEFINITELY after them judging from all the "Bright One, you know you are not supposed to leave you room. You do not want me angry again do you Bright One?" roaring) increasingly difficult.

...

And yeah. I don't actually know what is going on in this story beyond cool imagery due to the whole 'Literally woke up with this in my head because dream' but...

Been thinking it's kinda like an 'end game Persona series' situation where a chance friendly meeting/talk between Sif and the King right before the King's rampage would've started, led to the King to realizing he could use his Wish Craft to force the people of Vaugarde to 'wish with him' (see: escalating brainwashing madness), forcing a terrified Sif to go along with it (no brainwashing for the Bright One no, not when they were clearly sent by the Universe to be the King's guide ignore the Bright One's screams that this is wrong, that they want nothing to do with this; clearly oracles only relay the Universe's intent not share it themselves), and the current 'raining time freezing Sadnesses/Sif clearly being stuck in some weird looping variant' stuff being the result of Sif's 'Please protect Vaugarde and restore our home' wish said at the King's orders being heard by the Universe as "please Universe do whatever you can to stop all of Vaugarde- No, the world from falling under the King's control! + Someone, anyone save me! + 'immense amounts of self loathing and a desire to known and held accountable for inadvertently sparking a man made apocalypse' + Universe I wish I had people who actually cared about me/who would never only use me as a tool to save the world" and er well. The Universe had a way to 'protect everyone from the King' that would also kind of fit the King's wishes, a whole heap of power from all the brainwashed people the King was leading plus the 'meant to be repurposed' freezing all of Vaugarde in time ritual the King crafted to work from Dormont and... Yeah. Add to that people all over Vaugarde and possibly other countries 'adding' to the 'please save us' wish bank after Sif had already accidently centered it all around himself and basically both Sif's loops and the Sadness hell storm are being powered up by everyone everywhere in one huge ball of 'Hmm, I wonder if this all ends with the King getting killed or is there gonna be a big old morality question thingy post King killing at the end where Sif, upon remembering that "this is all my fault" tries to get the others to kill him which other heroes may have done (and thus triggering the loop, sending Sif back to the start possibly missing memories of them to hide away in shame/terror/etc) whereas Mira, Isa, Odile and Bonnie have gotten far too attached to this tragic, self sacrificing idiot and were willing to let the rest of the world be fully frozen for the rest of Sif's natural lifespan if it meant he could finally be free (not happy about it mind you, but like, just the 5 of them living in a quiet world until everyone else is safely freed after Sif's natural death is better than murdering someone who went through an eternity of horrors to protect a world they couldn't even remember and who's death might not even be the true answer anyway)'.

Oh and the King should basically be treated like a yandere version of the Reaper or something throughout the story (dream had way too many 'and then the King was suddenly there killing someone until Sif slashes their throat -no tears to use in this Tower alas- and from the party's perspective basically has a 'vision of the future' and/or freakout for seemingly no reason in the middle of Snack Time), while each of the many many floors of the Tower are basically due to being altered to match the minds of everyone (frozen or not) in the Tower, kinda like a Palace or P4 dungeon, due to well, Sif unconsciously wanting to learn more about them, wanting to remember/forget, possibly on some level wanting the King to how horrible this all actually is IDK (snack rooms, like the bedroom Sif was in are basically P5 saferooms but less 'area weak in cognition' and more 'Sif wishes for there to be places safe from the King and all the Sadness so there are some even if he knows he can't stay in them forever least they become prisons for him'). ...Might be nightmare floors as well? To represent Sif's terror of bad things happening to anyone he becomes attached to and wanting to be able to protect them so basically, they are accidentally making their own opposition (possibly based off of what they hear the others being afraid of/the desire to be useful to them) and I think Slay the Princess might make for great inspiration there if you need an idea of how crazy that might go~ XD

...So. Yeah. If anyone wants to use any of this for any fanfic ideas, please go ahead as I kind of would like to focus on my Selkie Au and fics for other fandoms more than this weird dream that basically took over my brain and said SHARE in caps so loud I've been stuck thinking about it ever since.

#isat #fais fanfic rambles #fanfiction #isat spoilers #I don't think this has too many isat or saap spoilers actually but tagging them anyway just in case #isat au #in stars and time #in stars and time spoilers #fanfic #fic idea #semi spoilery mentions of Persona games and Slay The Princess? More just as 'this idea may resemble this game's X' kinda stuff #please someone take this idea away from me #I really do not want to write it but I would LOVE to read it #the visuals of a tower reaching up into the universe #plus a SAaP esc Sif meeting the party for the first time and slowly learning to pun. To love Bonnie's cooking. To feel safe..!#Also roaming King super boss (without the party knowing about Shield spells) is terror even before him being yandere-y for Sif comes into i #so yeah hope this was a least a fun read if nothing else #start again spoilers #start again: a prologue #start again start again start again #saap

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blackkatmagic · 2 months

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Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Granta Omega & Fay (Star Wars), Granta Omega/Alpha-17, Jon Antilles & Nico Diath & Fay & Knol Ven'nari Characters: Granta Omega, Fay (Star Wars), Alpha-17 (Star Wars), Jon Antilles, Knol Ven'nari, Nico Diath, Dooku | Darth Tyranus Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Age Regression/De-Aging, Rescue Missions, Families of Choice, Force Blanks, Humor, Murder, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Fix-It of Sorts, The Force Is Weird (Star Wars), Eldritch Fay Summary:

A six-year-old breaks Granta out of prison on the condition that he help her. Granta maybe should have asked quite a few more questions before he agreed.

#my writing #star wars #granta omega #master fay

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carleycore · 1 year

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“Tell me where it hurts”

character: Natsu Dragneel

genre: hurt/comfort

A/N: I’m like really into fairytail rn, but like no one writes for them anymore so !!! ya girl is gonna start!

“y/n, y/n! where are you?” natsu yelled looking around all the rubble.

you had bitten off more than you could chew by taking on a mission alone. it started well, but you were exerting too much magic.

The beast was injured, but it swiftly attacked you from behind and knocked you out. Leaving you lying on the floor breathless.

It was time. You knew you were going to die there. You didn't want to leave your friends and everyone in the guild, but most importantly, you didn't want to leave your boyfriend.

He was always there to save you, and you just wanted to prove that you could do something alone.

But it appears you were wrong.

Closing your eyes, you knew you were getting closer and closer to the end.

When suddenly you felt a surge of warmth.

“FIRE DRAGON IRON FIST!”

With a shrill, the monster fell over and Natsu was at your side.

“Baby,” he muttered softly, pulling you into his chest, “tell me where it hurts”

You didn’t know how to respond so you just cried into his chest while he carried you back to the guild.

“it’s okay, we’ll get everything patched up, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Ngl it kinda sucks but I hope y'all enjoyed !

Carley-chan 2023

#natsu x reader #fairy tail #natsu #fairy tail x reader #gray fairy tail #lucy fairy tail #anime x reader #fairy tail drabbles #natsu dragneel #car writes

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thornsinmycrown · 4 months

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STAY SOFT

DARK!DOCTOR STRANGE x AFAB!READER

warning(s): [ MDNI +18 ] no use of y/n, afab!reader, use of petnames (hon/honey) eventual smut, 18+ dark content, yandere dynamics, minors do not interact. word count: 2.9k

summary: years have been passing by, years where nothing seemed to be fortunate for Doctor Stephen Strange on his quest for greatness that until one day he realizes the key of happiness was always presented in front of him, you.

CHAPTER ONE.

You were accompanying each other through the corridor, both doctors heading to their interview. The cameras were ready to capture your smiles as you talked about the miraculously successful procedure, with the new technique that the neurosurgeon had co-created in conjunction with you, the recently transferred back doctor on duty, after, saving the life of one of your patients.

"Ready for the interview, hon?" asked the neurosurgeon, visibly excited.

"It depends," you answered with your iced coffee in hand, "what exactly are we talking about?" you questioned, remembering one of many professional conversations where you had been slowly silenced by Stephen's eccentricities.

"Well, we're talking about the patient," he assured you with a relaxed smile, "how I intervened…"

"We intervened," you corrected, mid-sip without even being bothered. From a man like Strange you could expect anything.

"Of course, that's what I meant," he brushed it off, "we're a great team."

You raised an eyebrow with a half smile hiding behind your coffee so, you wouldn't laugh outright in Stephen's face with your bitter sarcasm.

"Oh, really?".

But, sometimes, you just couldn't help it.

"Yeah. I am the best neurosurgeon in the world, you are the best psychiatrist, we complement each other perfectly, don't you think?" he flirted. Again.

Ever since you had met Stephen Strange, you realized that his world revolved around three things: he, himself and him. Since Stephen Strange had met you, his world began to revolve around four things: He, himself, him and you.

"It's true, we know so much about each other," you completed, a subtle sarcastic tone that passed for friendly, drawing a goofy smile from the doctor. "Truth or Dare?" You decided to play around a bit before the interview.

"I love a challenge," Stephen bragged, winking at you playfully. You looked to the front and rolled her eyes before saying the dare.

"I dare you to tell me what my master's degree is," you said, placing yourself in the corner of the sofa by the door as an old habit in your office.

Stephen stopped short, adjusting his cell phone on the coffee table's surface, he really didn't expect that to be the dare, but he knew he wasn't going to win, pretending not to understand was not an option since he wasn't stupid: he could feel your petty aura, who, in a desperate attempt for him to leave you alone, agreed to listen to his cynicism.

"Of course I know, it's…something that starts with 'gers'?" His tone revealed the lack of attention he gave to his partner, the same one that soon narrowed her eyes in an almost accusatory way.

"Amazing that with your eidetic memory, you can't recall a single title easily in casual chat," you accused, taking a last sip from your coffee canister before setting it down on the small table across them.

The office was full of cables and high lights in the background that gave the place an overly saturated aspect, for Stephen it was like rediscovering that his natural habitat could be even more glamorous, cornered by a camera and reporters waiting to write down his every word, as if the truths off the universe came out of his lips, the sensation of having been born for it raised his ego to Olympus.

For you, however, it was as if you had been paid to swallow hot lava so you took another sip of your icy drink, you knew you wasn't tiny compared to anyone, but to talk about your work the way the neurosurgeon does and with the intention in which he pronounced each word of honor, it caused your belly to roll over. You only hoped that Stephen would not believe himself the Hand of God or say something out of place on camera that could later cause his own declive; Although knowing him, he would find his way out to be free of problems in the end.

"I don't give much importance to titles," he chuckled lightly, feigning a humility that on rare occasions he denoted in certain spaces, something that made her correspond with a lopsided smile.

"It's not what you told your assistant yesterday when he called you 'Steve' and not 'doctor,'" you remarked, knowing that he would ignore your title if it represented a risk to his own.

He looked around to check who was listening to the conversation, slightly uncomfortable with the idea of causing a misconception of his usually prefabricated charming and talented persona, adverse to the generally apathic and arrogant self he usually ought to be on his quotidian agenda.

No one was paying them the attention he believed they deserved, although now it was a fortune to their insignificant argument.

"Well, 'Steve' is for family, my assistant is my employee", he lied, he dismissed the topic lowly, whoever heard him would see it was somewhat normal, a simple correction. But you didn't.

You saw that gleam in his eyes, you didn't know what it was or how to call it, yet there it was somehow making you shiver, too detatched to be simple wording, too straight to mean further relevance. He was displeased, you always noticed, at your inconvenient comments related to whatever he did or say — and he did like it too.

Perhaps that's why he was so fond of you and as much as you were an obnoxious partner to work with at times, you were never unwanted for him. Women kneel voluntarily just to have a touch of, at the very least, the hem of his leather belt, batting bambi eyelashes and leaving purposeful red lipstick stains in the collar of his shirts; When somebody says "yes" so many times, one can easily be draw to the person that dares to say no.

"Got it!", you crossed your legs in the small sofa, humming lowly and by the time Stephen's ears peered this sound, you were already on your machiavelic deed, "Steve's ready for the interview and so am I, where's 'hair and make-up' by the way? He kinda needs it".

And everyone laughed. A harmless laugh that Stephen had to mimic while he glared at you with disapproving eyes. Very few things really made him angry: traffic, calls from operators to change phone lines, incompetent people assisting him in the operating room, or being assigned patients with less serious problems than the ones that led him to the interview he was about to give, but his name was the top of the list.

It fragmented his ego, name badges and business cards elegantly decorated with off-white backgrounds, spent thousands of dollars so that his name always appeared in full never misspelled capital letters, now reduced by you to a bland nickname for any average white American man who eats hot dogs at every sunday baseball game in which his son stays on the bench, he was not the avarage man and he knew it — or at least had an idea of it.

He could never dispise you, how to dispise you? He just wished that for once you could see how great of a man he could actually be if you gave him that chance, but any advance you had dismissed with fervour. And now here he was, laughing with you, pretending he liked your jokes and wasn't pissed just to attract you, to appear as a likeable man and maybe, others saw that too.

They probably believed you made the eccentric and artificial Doctor Strange a more humane being in the end, that your friendship gave him the piece of humble cake he needed, a mere mistake. You had the vision of a therapist and, like a detective, could sense all the cowebs of his tricks, the amateur process of a conquest poorly planned.

The interview went on anyhow, some laughs and comments about procedures that seemed to falsely fascinate the interviewer who batted her eyelashes as if she was mopping the air, Stephen using terms and long words he made sure no one would understand to impress the viewers and you, spreading awareness of regular check-ups. Everything was marching good until the interviewer saw something between you two, something she knew would definitely sell the story further.

"It must have been very easy for you to work together," unsuspected for you where the conversation was going, your smile still looked genuine for the crimson mischievous grin who was in front of you "how long have you been working together?" to you it seemed a normal, common co-workers question.

"I guess... Since always?" You shrugged, trying to evoke in your mind since when did you considered working with him a logical idea, and you looked for Stephen's eyes subconsciously.

"I can't really remember" he scratched the back of his head, smoothing out his hair to not ruin his perfect hairstyle and what it appeared to be a sheepish smile slowly formed on his lips, "we met many years ago, though she looks like no day has passed" he complimented you, and you silently nodded in thankfulness.

He gave you a plain smile, he was used to you not complimenting him back, so it didn't felt awkward, he always expected it, thinking of himself of a poor hopeless romantic every time, like a puppy waiting for his owner to pull the leash, it almost seemed to be as if you were hiding something.

The perfect excuse for a reporter hungry for gossip.

"You look like you're very close indeed", she casually threw, "what is your relationship like outside of work?", by this point, you should have started to guess this wasn't going to be concerning to work anymore.

To be honest, you were excited too, as much as you wanted to be skeptical and keep yourself grounded or tell the doctor beside you not to get too comfy at the idea of being a celebrity, you were going to be on T.V; Everyone would know you were part of the creation of a procedure capable of giving anyone the chance to retrieve their motor skills to a level where they could have a normal life again. It consumed you to a degree you didn't fathom until now.

"I think we have a good connection outside work, he's open to share ideas, he adapts to situations and also has a great talent", by the way he was smiling back at you, you could say he was enjoying the praise rain, not often between the two of you on your end specifically, "one of the best on his field".

"If not, the best" he quickly interrupted, a light laugh erupting from his lips. "If you allow me saying," and Stephen would never miss a chance to publicly show you he was your number one fanatic, "she's fantastic to work with, she brings details and perspectives in a very unique way, as much as I would like to admit it, there are things I can't quite grasp without her" he laughed again, more loosely even, charming and attentive to his co-worker's reactions.

"Would you describe it as intimate, then?" It was intentional, the innuendo on her words was clear, and it was just rising.

"Sorry, what?", you scratched your ear gently, your brows narrowed significantly and you hoped you had mistaken the clear double intention behind her words.

"Yes! Your relationship" she promptly casted the mood to put a name to what you had — wrong names.

» "At first glance, one could say you are very close to each other. You compliment yourselves fine" her gaze was serious, she wasn't teasing to spite, she was doing it to sell a love story.

And it didn't place into your mind of how good could it be to have a column on one of those shallow magazines, where they share tips to style their old skinny jeans better or lose weight with five easy steps, on how two professionally accomplished doctors saved the world with their brains and their love.

"Well, if we look like we are close to each other, it's because we are" Stephen, not so oblivious to the route of the conversation, couldn't let himself waste time "I mean, we spend most of our days together" he shrugged, acting as natural as possible.

"Because of work" you ended quickly.

Due to the way the interviewer arched a brow, you could notice she wasn't happy with the way words were being phrased, and she had to dig in more dominantly.

"Sure, but, you know—" she licked her lips.

"Know what?" you didn't exactly spat back, that wasn't how the usual confrontation went with you.

You were always on the rational side of things, the one that decides if it's worth it to continue an argument or not, between blacks and whites you always tried to be the gray.

"Two young attractive people spending so many hours together, and you seem to hold a lot of chemistry" your smile slowly faded into a thin line, that was the moment Stephen knew something was wrong, "how would you describe your relationship?"

Despite his usual playful self, he decided to step on and set the boundaries you always spoke about, because he would never do something to displease you, specially not if you saw so directly what his intentions could be, he had to be smart and play crosswords with his speech.

He gave you a side eye to check on you, you shared a brief glance and that was all he needed to attempt to better things up for you without loosing style.

"We're more of a partnership than anything," he admitted this time with more sincerity as he noticed your displeased reaction, he would never do you mad in a way that could make himself look bad in front of anyone, " I do, and say with the utmost respect, that I consider her an equal in what our fields concern" he really tried to make it better.

"That means you've never blurred those professional lines before?" it was the quizzical brow, the stupid smirk, everything seemed to be set up to make your brains bolt.

You sighed deeply, your right hand rubbing your forehead with your eyes closed, you scratched one of your brows with your thumb and before you could open your mouth, he was answering again.

"If we put it like that", you gave him a side eye, "we have", and now you were fully looking at him with wide eyes trying to decipher what was he up to.

"Let me clarify this to you ma'am" you held your finger up, "Doctor Stephen Strange and I are not involved in any kind of paraprofessional relationship nor will be", you anxiously replied to his words before he screwed up the interview completely.

Now he gave you a dirty look. Your words were respectful, it was your tone though, the disgusted facial expression you did that made him want to ask everyone in the room to leave and spank you.

"Except we're very good friends" he clarified as well, the journalist looked at you both with curiosity, "we studied together, we work together, she knows all my ex-girlfriends, we are friends. If what you want to know is if we ever had sex the answer is no".

You felt your face heat up, embarrassment filling your lungs as you held your breath. You would have loved to say it in a more subtle way, however with Stephen there wasn't any subtlety. You nodded and licked your now dry lips, his tone had been almost severe, determinant enough to put the interviewer and the cameraman uncomfortable to not do more spicy question again.

Your sixth sense warned you of his eyes on you, burning holes in your skin hoping to see through you the same way you did he. And the next times he searched for your eyes between questions as the interview went on, he would look at you tenderly, enamoured even, to purposefully set the seed of doubt on people if the no-sex part was cut from the final material. He wouldn't leave it at that, you wouldn't be the one that got away.

For as long as he had to wait.

author's note: after some months into hiatus, i've decided to put this blog in good use and post some drafts I had. This is planned to be a short series so, if it's well recieved, I'll keep updating parts.

#dark content #dark!fic #doctor strange #stephen strange #dark!doctor strange x reader #dark doctor strange x reader #dark!doctor strange #yandere!doctor strange x reader #yandere!doctor strange #yandere doctor strange #dark doctor strange #fay writes

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ehlnofay · 2 months

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Travelling with Martin the second time is more an ordeal than it was the first.

There’s the Blades tagging along with them, now, with their elaborate plans and zealous concern; every time any one of them takes a step they rattle like tin cans, so loudly that if any of the cult is trying to track them down it’s a wonder they’re not all gutted already. Then there’s all the extra bits the Blades insist on – like tents, which Pax is by no means opposed to but slows them down ridiculously, always needing to be set up at night and taken down first thing in the morning, or the horses, which speed them up but Pax resents, all the same. (They always need breaks to rest or eat or what have you, and riding for too long sets them aching to hell, their legs and hips and stomach all quavering with exertion. Pax rides the same horse they found halfway through their first journey with Martin, and she is getting more familiar than she ever wanted to be with its little snorts and stomping gestures. Martin keeps patting it on the nose whenever they’re down on the ground again. Martin rides the paint horse, too – it’s two to a steed, plus bags, which Pax knows would be enough to snap their spines like dried-out twigs but of course the Blades have spelled saddles. Feathered, Martin says, like Pax has any idea what that means.) They all spend as much of the day riding as they can without the horses withering away and dropping dead, unable to divert at all from the roads without riding face-first into a tree branch, the Blades getting all serious and severe at any passing glimpse of another traveller, or the edge of a town, or a suspicious-looking boulder. It’s fucking exhausting. Maybe if they’d dressed Martin in something less impractically fancy, and left their glittering armour behind, they wouldn’t all be so conspicuous. Pax is the only one here with any sense.

In Blackwood, the trees don’t sprawl so low down; you can ride horses well off the road as long as you’re careful of the muck. For the first leg of the first trip with Martin, they didn’t have horses at all – they both just walked, past razed fields and empty buildings, the span of land around Kvatch near entirely abandoned, scrounging what they could and sleeping wherever they wanted. They couldn’t proper restock on supplies until they hit Skingrad – certainly didn’t have tents or armour that reflects every whisper of starlight so bright it blazes, and they were fine. It all feels unnecessary. And annoying. This close to the end, all the little extra things to pay attention to make Pax want to jump out of his skin.

Because they are close to the end. They’re in the denouement, now.

The Blades set up a watch routine, too – everyone crawls into their superfluous tents and leave one person up to keep an eye out, until they wake the next person for their turn, and so forth. Pax hasn’t done watch shifts like this since he left Blackwood. (It doesn’t really work, when you’re alone. Besides, he wakes easy, and he goes to sleep quick. Martin’s bad at it, so swapping watch back and forth when they were together just would have left him confused or lethargic the next day. Not worth the bother.) Pax gets watch shifts, most nights, set in the dark hours just before the sun rises; Martin, though he asks, doesn’t get any. Pax usually wakes him up, instead of whoever else she’s supposed to. It isn’t like he has anything he needs to be especially well-rested for – just sitting on a horse in an enchanted double saddle, same as the rest of them, his too-long hair getting in his face, careful arms loops around Pax’s middle. He won’t even take a turn to direct the bloody thing, because he still hasn’t learned how – the fact that he’s never managed to fall off is a damned miracle, honestly.

So she wakes him up, if the Blades won’t – and she doesn’t usually go back to sleep, right after, because there doesn’t seem all that much point. They both stay up, around whatever burnt-down firepit was constructed in the night, the small tents arrayed around them; the leaves of the trees rustle, flickered through by some small animal, owl or bat or squirrel living in a hollow. Crickets chirp, loud and endless. It would probably be peaceful, if it could be, but Pax is keyed up, taut as a bowstring ready to snap, and he can’t really remember how to feel peaceful anymore. They’re getting ever-closer to the capital and the temple and the end of this whole strange, terrifying thing, and he wants it over and done with instead of lurking in this strange in-between space. They’ve all done so much to fix this and none of it will feel like any kind of accomplishment until the fires are lit and the Gates closed and sealed beyond reopening. It’s almost, almost, almost done – but it’s not the end yet, and in the quiet night all there is to do is waiting, and Pax, antsy, irritable, is very, very bad at waiting.

Martin’s better at it. Which isn’t to say he’s not nervous – he’s all nerves, even more than normal, which is really saying something – but he’s patient, and doesn’t complain, even though Pax knows he wants it over just as much as they do. Probably more. (Definitely more.) He just sits, in the dark and the dew, all quiet and watchful in just his undershirt and warm wool trousers, and even those are fancy, all fine-sewn and slippery as water to the touch. They wear oddly on him. He keeps the Amulet tucked under his clothes, cold metal setting against bare skin, and the red gleam beneath his shirt makes it look, at certain angles, like his heart is glowing.

The fire is well out; no owls call. Pax lies, in their own much less swish sleeping-things, in the dirt and grass, all of it wet so thoroughly with dew that it soaks the back of their tunic. Through the silhouettes of leaves and branches, they can just make out the lustre of the stars.

The old Emperor talked an awful lot about stars, when Pax met him; she wonders, vaguely, what he’d make of these ones.

There’s a shifting, up nearer the firepit; and, “Pax?” Martin whispers, sound half-swallowed by the still, drifting night. “Are you awake?”

“It’s sopping wet,” Pax replies. He props himself up on his elbow and turns his head; Martin’s got a lantern lit, and it’s just enough to make out his face by. “Even I’ve got my limits.”

Martin exhales; Pax knows he’s smiling because they can see the dim white gleam of his teeth. It’s not too cold a night – they’ve travelled far enough from Bruma to be clear of its sodden snow and ice and winds – but it’s not warm, and the wet fabric plastered to their back is chill enough to make them shiver. The stars, up above, shine cold and clear.

“I was wondering,” Martin says, voice still hushed; his eyes flicker up to the snatches of sky between the tree branches, too. “What will you do, when all this is done?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question; Pax realises, quite abruptly, that doesn’t have an answer. She sits up, shuffles awkwardly over the dewy grass. “I don’t know,” she says slowly; she shrugs. “Go back to the roads, I s’pose. Get some venturing work. Join a guild, maybe, if I get bored.”

(They haven’t thought about it; they’ve been busy. A part of them – quite a large part, if they’re being honest – kind of wishes the Crisis would never end, one way or the other. Wishes it would keep on in this sort of suspended state forever. But it won’t, and it can’t, and it would be ridiculous to say as much. Just – they’ve never done anything this exciting, before. And they don’t really know anything that could measure up, once it’s done.)

(Pax has never really been one to plan for the future. Back in Blackwood, he didn’t have to; he knew he’d just run with the same crew he always had, and he learned only from them. Learned letters and archery and what dregs of mage-craft he had any aptitude for – learned to scamp on the roads and crack locks reasonably well. And then he left, and became a hero, and that’s a good occupation in itself, but it’s not going to last forever. He’s not sure what his other options are – he could try to work square, but he doesn’t think it would last. He’s not one suited to an apprenticeship, or an honest job, or much of anything, really. The only thing he really knows is this.)

In the lanternlight, the shadows are so stark that Martin’s face looks creased with ink. “Oh? What guild? Fighters? Thieves?”

“Thieves’ Guild wouldn’t take me,” Pax tells him loftily; they wriggle a bit closer, goose-pimples rising on their shins. “They don’t like independent operators, and I’ve been one since I was born.”

Martin clucks his tongue. “You can’t say things like that around me, Pax. I’ll have to have you arrested.”

“Like you could,” Pax tells him, grinning, and leans over about as far as she can reach to elbow him. She has to lever herself back up, afterwards. The watery-pale stars are winking at her.

Martin is looking up at them again. “There’s always work for a hero, I’m sure,” he says, and waves a hand. “You’ll have endless people to save and feats of derring-do to perform. Perhaps you could write an autobiography.”

“Ha.” Martin’s received their letters, sent on longer stretches away from Cloud Ruler; he’s read their writing, their chicken-scratch hand and the less than delicate way they pick their words. Pax is fine enough as a communicator; they get to the point quickly and clearly. But metaphor and flowery prose is rather beyond them. And they’ve seen the speech Martin gave in Bruma, the endless editing of his drafts, debate over this word or that. “You know you’re the better writer of the two of us, Martin Priest. Reckon you should pen our book.”

Martin tips his head further back. “I wasn’t even there for most of the interesting parts,” he points out, “and I’m sure to be far too busy, besides.” His eyes are closed. Pax shunts themself another bit across the grass.

“Oh, I’m sure you can take a half-hour every evening to scribble out a few paragraphs in your four-poster bed and your kingliest pyjamas,” he says, unsympathetic, and flicks him in the shoulder. “With a silk canopy, and duckling-down blankets, and a pen nib of solid gold.”

“All right, all right.” Martin opens his eyes; they look grey, in the dim light, the orange lanternlight flickering off their whites. He reaches out an arm, and Pax rolls his eyes but shuffles damply into it all the same. “I suppose I have no choice.”

His arm, settled around their shoulders, is heavy-warm. Pax leans their shoulder into his ribs, under his armpit. This close, they can see the faint gleam of the Amulet through his undershirt. Quiet, they ask, “Still nervous?”

Without missing a beat, Martin replies, “Excruciatingly.”

He’s always nervous. But on this, Pax can’t even really make fun of him for it – if someone told her that she was the heir to the whole Empire, and tried to thrust her into court to take it all over, she’d tell them to eat shit. If the fate of the world depended on it, though, that wouldn’t really be an option anymore. And Martin’s too nice, most of the time, to tell anyone to eat shit. And Martin’s too nervous not to take every bit of it so painfully seriously. Not just the world-ending bit, but all the etiquette and legalese, too. Jauffre gave him some books to read to try to acquaint himself with it all; none of them seemed to help much.

“You’ll be fine,” Pax says, and leans their head on his shoulder, the post of their earring jabbing into the skin behind their ear. They gesture out at the silhouetted tents. “You’ve got all this lot, and the Elder Council – they’ll help you out. If they won’t let you take a piss by yourself they’ll definitely be there to assist with the stuff that’s actually important.” Martin exhales; it’s almost a laugh. The earring is beginning to hurt quite badly, so Pax lifts their head. “Besides, you’re trying. You want to get it all right. That’s more than some would do.”

“Thank you, Pax,” Martin says, and then they’re both quiet.

The stars above look watery-dim. The silhouettes of trees have slightly more dimension. Martin is pressing his palm, fingers splayed, to the smooth-cut bump of the Amulet under his shirt. Pax is still shivering, a bit – lying her whole back down in the dew was a bad idea. Now she’ll have to wear her one other tunic and hope this one dries out in time not to wet everything else in the bags.

“I hope,” Martin says, voice silver-soft in the dark, “that when you’re out roaming, shocking everyone with your valour and intrepidity, you’ll come to visit a great deal. You won’t have the excuse of being out saving the world anymore.”

Pax leans her shoulder harder into his ribs. “Only if you’re not boring when I’m there,” she replies. “You won’t have the excuse of saving the world either.”

“No,” Martin says. “I’ll be running it instead.”

Already, the stars are beginning to snuff themselves out, like candle-lights; in half an hour or so, the sky will start to lighten properly. The Blades will all wake, springing up like little clockwork puppets, and the tents will be packed up, and the horses saddled – they’re tied on slack ropes to trees down the other end of the clearing, and now, if Pax squints, he can just make them out – and then the day will begin, the timer trickling down.

Pax wets his lips. “Three more days,” he says. “Thereabouts.”

Then they’ll reach the city.

Martin breathes out, slow. “Then I’ll really be Martin Septim.”

The Amulet glows under his shirt, royal-red, rising and dimming like a heartbeat. If Pax hadn’t been arrested, that day – by chance, for one of the few robberies they actually didn’t commit – then they wouldn’t have been taken to the gaol, dribbling blood all over the floors, antagonising the guards trying to mark them down in the records, and they wouldn’t have ended up in that dust-coated cell with the shitty neighbour across the way, and the old Emperor would never have glanced at them twice, and the door never would have opened, and they wouldn’t be here.

Pax is not one for gratitude, generally, but they have never been so thankful to be falsely imprisoned in their life.

“My census name’s Camilla Patesco,” he says.

He’s looking at the first watery dregs of dawn in the sky, not at Martin’s face; but he can hear the smile in his voice when he replies, “I won’t tell anyone.”

#FAY WRITING JUMPSCARE.#I don't know if this is any good honestly - it's a rewrite of an old piece and I wrote it too recently to be able to judge #but it's been forever since I posted anything so. I'll toss it up regardless #because I have been thinking about them a great deal #I should get to posting all the fucked up miserable stuff. it's been in my docs for ages #I need to get on that #anyway #hope you enjoy!#the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #oc tag #pax #martin septim #oblivion #microfic #my writing #fay writes #two weirdos. sitting in the dewy dark. what weird little conversations will they have

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