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dottores · 1 year

Text

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part.

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui & fontaine, dottore's past includes webtoon mindset.

notes: okay y'all i know I gave u a choice over what u want to see int he next chapter but free choice is only an illusion & mother knows best & I took ur wants into consideration & decided against it bc I had a rlly great idea that can only be implemented in this chapter bc there would be no other opportunities for it later on. but im rlly happy w how some of these scenes came out so hopefully u guys are too.

RISE OF A KING, FALL OF A QUEEN

This again.

You wanted to frown as you found yourself in a large room akin to a chamber with a tall, dome-like ceiling and marble pillars that stretched the height of the room. You were sat in a chair, wooden and creaky, and you could feel the cold shackles wrapped around your ankles without even looking down to see them for yourself.

There were six figures sitting before you, each on large seats that reminded you of Chief Justice Neuvillette’s back in the Fontaine courthouse. Even the air was similar--damp and heavy, it made your skin crawl.

He was on trial, you put together quickly, but for what? And… where?

There wasn’t much in your line of sight besides the six people sitting in front of you. No, that’s not right. You could see a few more figures from the corner of your eye--they were armed with swords and polearms, tense and ready to act. They wore uniforms of some kind but you couldn’t make out what they were from, you didn’t recognize them.

“Three hundred years,” one of the men in the six seats spat out. “It’s been three hundred years since the sages have had to gather for a situation like this. This should have been handled before it escalated to this, Sayid. He no longer brings shame just on the Kshahrewar Darshan, now he brings it upon all of us. This has gone too far.”

Sages, Darshan, this was the Akademiya. These were the Great Sages. The people lining the wall were the Matra.

“Attempting the forbidden, interfering with natural evolution, delving beyond the universe--three sins that he has committed and somehow this is still a discussion,” another voice--a woman this time--added on.

You thought that he should have felt anxious, upset, or even offended by the accusations but you could feel nothing. No tug at your heart, no feeling of your stomach dropping, just a cold and empty void where there should have been emotions.

“It is a discussion because there’s not yet any proof of the sins having been committed,” a tight, male voice rebutted. “What say you, Zandik? Will you defend yourself or just sit there silently?”

Zandik. That was his name--only now you could remember, though it felt as if you had never even forgotten it.

Your lips moved as he responded, voice apathetic and dismissive: “There’s nothing to say… as you said, there is no proof of sins that I have to defend myself from.” His lips pulled up into a thin smile as he spoke, one that unnerved you and you couldn’t even see it. From the expressions on some of the people sitting in front of you, they were just as unnerved as you were.

“He doesn’t even care, Sayid,” the first man hissed. “He won’t even address the accusations laid against him.”

“Sins are not the issue at hand,” a new voice spoke up, voice low and heavy. “We are here to discuss what happened to my Dastur in the Apam Woods.”

Finally, a reaction from Zandik. He raised his chin in response to their words, a feigned attempt at confidence but you could feel the discomfort that began to stir within him--the unease. Somehow you knew that whatever he had been told he was called here for, this had not been it. They had caught him off guard.

“What is there to discuss about that?” Zandik asked. His voice sounded the same as it did before--indifferent, perfunctory--but you could feel the way his heart was beating just a fraction faster than it had been before, you could feel the way his shoulders had stiffened. “It was an unfortunate encounter with a group of Rishboland Tigers. Tragic and should have been avoidable but one of the other trainees had forgotten to set up incense to ward them off.”

“Yes,” one of the men agreed with him, “so the official report says.”

You felt restless as if you wanted to bolt from the room and hide… or he did, for the most part, but some of it was your own. You had attended enough court sessions at Fontaine’s court to know exactly what your soulmate was being accused of… and you had seen enough guilty defendants to know that the accusations were likely not far off from correct.

Did he…?

“Yes,” Zandik agreed slowly, “because that is what happened.”

“Is it?” The man who initially changed the topic questioned. “The coroner has released to us the official report of Dastur Sohreh’s death. There were multiple trauma wounds… lacerations and contusions on internal organs… hemorrhage… but the fatal injury was a wound on the throat--a fractured hyoid bone caused by strangulation. You were the last person seen with Dastur Sohreh, were you not, trainee?”

“Sharnama,” a woman’s voice warned but the man only held up his hand, silencing her, waiting for Zandik to respond.

Zandik did not respond. You could feel the way he was scrambling for an answer, an explanation. You could feel how his heart was racing, how his body was tense. You could feel his anxiety and the realization dawning on him and it all made you sick to your stomach.

What did you do? You wanted to scream at him. Why did you do it?

As if they could hear your questions, the man continued. “Dastur Sohreh reported to me several acts of insubordination while you were under her tutelage--three times in which you acted without her authorization and brought risks upon the investigation team and an encounter with a ruin hunter in which you insisted on bringing the machinery back to the Akademiya to be disassembled and reverse-engineered, which I personally had to reprimand you for and had you removed from the author list of the investigation’s research paper. When did that happen in regard to Dastur Sohreh’s death, trainee?”

“A week,” the words were frigid and biting as Zandik finally spoke up. “It happened a week before her death.”

“Yes,” he drawled, “that was it.”

“I had nothing to do with her death,” Zandik said.

You thought you had gotten good at being able to tell whether or not people were lying. You spent three days a week in the court audience watching trials but you were in your soulmate’s body and you could not tell whether he was lying or telling the truth about murdering someone. His heart was racing and there was a twitch in the corner of his lip--the telltale signs of a lie but they could just as easily be a result of the anxiety stemming from being accused of murder.

(You wondered, distantly, if you were just making excuses so you didn’t have to face the reality that had so suddenly been thrown at you. You had enough experience in court to differentiate the guilty from the innocent.)

“I suppose we have no way of proving that… so you are not at threat of imprisonment,” was his only response but Zandik was not at ease by those words, as if he knew exactly what was coming next. “But with reasonable suspicion of your involvement on top of the allegations regarding your research violating three sins provides grounds for expulsion… assuming it is a unanimous decision.”

It was a question cast to the other five seated in front of Zandik. You noted how Zandik seemed more anxious at the prospect of expulsion than he did at being accused of murder and you weren’t entirely sure how to feel about that.

“Sharnama,” the only woman amongst the six spoke again, “you mean to make us the first council of sages to expel a student in centuries. The last time-”

“He murdered my Dastur, Anisa,” Sharnama snapped in response.

“I did not-” Zandik’s voice rose, harsh in defense of himself but he was cut off sharply.

“Enough from you, you had your chance to defend yourself,” Sharnama said, tone laced with venom.

“Sharnama is harsh but… the trainee has had a reputation since his time as a student,” one of the other men agreed after a few moments of silence. “His methods and theories… his interest in Khaenri’ahn machinery… It makes people uncomfortable.”

“Discomfort is not grounds for expulsion, Isami, but regardless, we cannot just dismiss all of these allegations. Should any of them prove to be true and it comes out that we knew and did nothing about it…”

“It would tarnish the integrity of the Akademiya,” the woman, Anisa, agreed quietly. “Sayid, Khalil?”

“This should have been handled when the accusations of him infringing upon the laws and rules our predecessors set up first came about,” one of the men said and you could feel Zandik’s throat spasm as he swallowed, panic beginning to set in.

“... Sayid?” Anisa pressed after a few moments of silence.

And you could feel it. You could feel that small, minuscule bud of hope begin to bloom deep in Zandik’s chest as he shifted a wild gaze over to the sage called Sayid. You had a decent understanding of the structure of Sumeru’s Akademiya after having looked into it because of your suspicions about your soulmate, you supposed this man was the sage of whatever Darshan Zandik was a part of--Kshahrewar, you remembered one of the other men mentioning before.

Zandik trusted Sayid to defend him, you could feel it and you could feel the way his face fell and the way his stomach dropped when Sayid looked away from him, as good an answer as damning him aloud as Sharnama took his silence as agreement, waving his hand for the matra to take him.

You didn’t think Zandik even registered what had happened until rough hands were forcing him to his feet, starting to drag him from the room, and then, finally, the rage hit--bitter and deep, overwhelming.

“Over rumors and false allegations,” Zandik spat out, hatred dripping from every word. “You’ll expel me for that?”

He got no response besides the harsh words of one of the matra urging him along but he struggled against them with every step, even with fingers digging deep into his biceps, bruising his skin, he was undeterred.

“You sages can’t even fall in line with the very virtues you set out to preserve,” he seethed, “and the sins that you deem so treacherous are just an excuse to chain anyone whose convictions do not fit your standards because you fear that a change in our way of thinking will displace your power.”

You had never felt anything like this before. This feral fury that had your blood on fire and your brain melting of coherent thought--uncontrollable and unquenchable, a type of bloodlust that shook you to your core and scared you because you could feel yourself angry too and you weren’t sure if it were remnants of Zandik’s rage spilling to you or not and you hated how you were being so influenced by his emotions that you couldn’t tell what was his and what was yours anymore.

“You’re going to regret this,” Zandik shouted as the matra pulled him through the doors of the chamber. His words, the sages’ words, they all echoed in your head over and over again--all of the accusations, his reactions, and you wondered what it meant and how much of it was true and you wondered who he was not for the first time and certainly not the last. “You’re going to regret this!”

He didn’t even bother to try the tricks he attempted last time--searching for something to read, yelling, blinking, he knew none of it would work and he wasn’t the type of person to make the same mistake twice.

The room he was in--she was in--was large and enclosed with an overwhelmingly sweet and sickly flowery scent that made his stomach churn. He had always hated floral scents and this was beyond anything he had ever smelt before.

And there were too many people. There were too many goddamn people. They were packed in seats before where his soulmate was sitting, they were lined up around the room as if they were waiting to do something, there were so many that the line was even pushed out two double doors, flowing into the hall.

What was going on?

Dottore couldn’t tell. His soulmate was facing the crowd of people--there was something behind her, he could tell that much. He couldn’t see any flowers so he assumed that whatever that scent was, was coming from behind her.

There was a man standing next to her--an older one with a cold, unfriendly expression and thick build. He watched as a woman approached the older man, disgust curling in his gut at the snot-faced expression painting her face, wide teary eyes and trembling lips as she reached for the man’s hand. Dottore wanted to step away, draw back and leave before the woman could set her eyes on him but alas, he was not in control of his body--her body--again.

The more he thought about it, the more odd this was. The last time he had witnessed her past through dreams, her emotions had been loud and intense, deafening. It had him spiraling because he couldn’t understand what he was feeling and he couldn’t tell if he was feeling it or if it was her.

Now, it was empty. There was no joy, no anxiety, no fear or sadness; just a cool void, reminiscent of how the past week and a half of silence from her had felt. Dottore wondered if that was why Celestia was forcing him to sit through another sequence of dreams--punishment for trying to push her away.

Succeeding in pushing her away, he corrected silently, there was an odd pit in his stomach at the thought. He should be happy, he had been worried that not even a direct strike against her persistence would deter her but he had found success in the first attempt.

It was what he wanted. He no longer had to deal with the frequent tugs on the thread. He no longer had to deal with the fluctuating emotions. He no longer had to deal with the good mornings and goodnights and the incessant questions.

The past week had been the most peaceful and productive he’s had ever since that damned string appeared and yet somehow, he was not happy.

It was what he wanted, he repeated but a part of him felt as if he might be trying to convince himself of it.

Around him, people were talking. He could see their lips moving and he could hear the words leaving their lips but they were unintelligible and garbled, it sounded as if they were underwater and only speaking half a word at a time, combining them to create words that didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t read their lips, no matter how hard he tried, it just looked as if they were speaking a foreign language.

The woman who had been talking to the older man now turned to his soulmate. Instantly, dread was rocketing through him--he knew what was about to happen and there was simply nothing that he could do about it.

Thin arms wrapped around her, tighter than he thought it would be and he wondered, hatefully, if his soulmate was some agent of Celestia sent to make his life a living hell. Three times now, he was forced to experience something through her that made his skin crawl. First, he was tossed around through that winter storm because she made stupid decisions. Then he was slapped. And now, there was a woman clinging to him, sobbing and speaking words that he couldn’t even understand and all he could do was stand there and let it happen because that’s what she was doing.

It took far too long for another woman to come along and drag her off. Dottore was livid, if he looked to the side, he was sure he would see snot on his soulmate’s shoulder and he could still feel bony arms digging into her sides.

He wasn’t sure how long she stood there. It felt like an eternity and only a few seconds somehow at the same time. People were passing by her in slow motion but they were gone in an instant. Dottore was distinctly unsettled, it felt like someone was fucking with his head, forcing him to perceive things wrongly.

Eventually, his soulmate was approached by someone new--a younger man with dark hair and purple-red eyes. He ignored the older man to her side, everyone else had stopped at him first and then moved to her but he had beelined right to her.

Something didn’t sit right in his stomach about that.

Dottore braced himself as best as he could as the other man reached out to grab his soulmate but instead of pulling her into a hug, he only grabbed her forearms, leaning his head down to say something that Dottore couldn’t understand again.

He was undeterred by her lack of reaction, trying again and again and again. Dottore had half a mind to bash his head in and tell him to leave, fed up by this whole situation. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to escape this. When he thought he finally succeeded, he was dragged right back in by Celestia and their fucked up games.

Then, at last, Dottore could hear again. His soulmate was snapped out of whatever daze she had been in and noise exploded around him: scraping of chairs against the ground, mindless chatter, a violin muted in the background, slow and mournful.

A funeral.

For who?

It had to be someone close to his soulmate from how they were all approaching her and suddenly, he was reminded of that night all of those years ago during the event where Pantalone was being officially promoted to Harbinger. Father, branded right on his forearm. He had yet to get a look at his soulmate through a reflection--he wondered if this was the funeral.

Most of the chatter was sympathetic, talking about the deceased and reminiscing old times… but not all of it was. He could hear whispers of men talking about what this could mean for the stability of the court, eyeing up the new opportunities that came with this death, some sounded excited rather than melancholic, like hyenas feasting on one of their own.

“There you are,” the young man in front of her said with a small smile that made Dottore frown. “Ignore all of them, they did the same thing when my grandfather died. Came to the funeral under the guise of mourning just so they could see if there was any instability for them to leech on. There wasn’t then and there isn’t now.”

“There isn’t?” his soulmate spoke for the first time--her voice was hoarse and empty, the only sort of emotion was a dull sense of doubt. “All they talk about is how I’m too weak to take over for my grandfather. They say a woman is unfit to be warden.”

“If they saw the way you could work your family’s-” he began loudly.

“Wriothesley,” the older man standing next to his soulmate said, a warning written all over his face.

“Sorry,” Wriothesley said, looking away.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” his soulmate said after a few moments of silence, voice quiet. “The instability is right in front of everyone’s faces. They can all see that they’re not here, Wrio.”

Wrio, Dottore thought to himself spitefully once he heard the nickname.

Wriothesley looked irritated at her words, glancing once at the older man again before speaking back up, “They didn’t show up at all? Your mother? Siblings? To your father’s funeral?”

There it was. Finally, a bit of emotion from her. She was hurt at his words, he could feel something pinching at his chest, a dark and unwelcome feeling but for some reason, it made him feel a bit more at ease after the past week of silence.

“They were busy,” she said quietly but Dottore could tell that she didn’t even believe the words herself. Neither did Wriothesley, if the expression on his face had anything to say about it. “They were, Wrio.”

Dottore wanted to roll his eyes once he heard the nickname again but instead, he distracted himself with what she had said. He thought back to the previous dreams he had of her past--being left behind by her mother and stepfather while they went to town, the argument with her mother and the slap… somehow, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had chosen not to go.

Wriothesley scoffed loudly, loud enough to draw the attention of some of the other attendees. “They’re despicable,” he spat out. “Especially that skeevy, rat-faced-”

“Come, Wriothesley,” a middle-aged man who looked just like the younger man said sharply, interrupting him before he could finish his sentence. “This is not the place for this topic. You can speak to your betrothed another time.”

Dottore blanched.

Betrothed?

Blood.

That was the first thing you noticed. The thick, nasty scent of iron was all around you--around him, whatever. It was disgusting, overwhelming. You wanted to throw up, you thought that if you were in your own body, you might’ve passed out but you were in his, Zandik’s, and he was totally unbothered by the smell.

Something was wrong with your eyes--that was the second thing you noticed. You had no peripheral vision, the only thing you could see was his hands resting on the lab table in front of you, fresh and dry blood staining his skin, dripping to the floor below.

He was angry, the third thing you noticed. You could feel the rage curling in his gut; his nails digging into the table, grinding against the metal. You couldn’t figure out what he was angry about and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know because you had a distinct feeling that it had something to do with the blood on his hands and the lab table.

Zandik finally moved, an awful scraping sound meeting your ears as his nails dragged against the metal when he pushed off the table. He paced up and down the length of the room, muttering to himself.

“Everything was right.”

“What went wrong?”

“-was supposed to work, don’t under-”

As he turned, you could see something--some sort of machine laying across the lab table that hadn’t been in your line of sight before. You wondered if these were ruin guards that he talked about so much. There was something pooling around it; from the distance you were at, you thought it might be oil but Zandik turned on his heel to move closer to it and a sinking feeling formed in your stomach when you realized that it was not oil, instead it was a massive puddle of blood surrounding the machine.

What the fuck? You thought to yourself as Zandik stood in front of the machine, taking one of its arms in his hand. The metal somehow felt cool and hot at the same time, uncomfortable to the touch. You wanted to let go of it, there was blood coating the metal and staining his hands even more, but Zandik’s grip was tight around it.

Why was a machine bleeding? You were sick at the thought, hoards of horrible possibilities running through your head but you didn’t get a chance to dwell on any of them.

Zandik sighed, annoyed, jerking away from the machine again to pace. His head shook back and forth in a rough manner that started to give you a headache, he did it over and over and over again and you wanted to scream at him to stop.

“This was supposed to work, Grand Sage,” he said, clicking his tongue sharply once, then twice, and then a third time. “This was supposed to work. I did everything right. Why aren’t you working?”

Is he talking to-

Zandik marched right back toward the machine, much to your displeasure. The longer he stared at the automaton, the more uncomfortable you felt. You could tell that it had been modified in several places, disassembled and put back together but it almost looked as if… he had put something inside it?

“Why aren’t you working, Grand Sage?” he repeated, humming to himself irritably as he tapped his fingers against the metal. “I even went out to fetch you a new core, you’ve always been so damn ungrateful, haven’t you? Everything I did for your Darshan and you still turned your back on me. Ungrateful, even when I’m trying to make you greater than man.”

-to the machine?

You wanted to wake up, you didn’t want to see whatever this dream was showing you. You wondered if it was some cruel joke the gods were playing on you by showing you this. Or maybe they were trying to help you, you considered. He had made his opinion on you clear and yet every day you were still tempted to reach out to him, maybe they were trying to help you move past him.

“Is this what you plan to do with yourself?” a low, unfamiliar voice spoke up suddenly from the opposite end of the room.

Zandik was startled, heart racing and head whipping to the side as he snapped his fingers together. Instantly, there was a loud whirring machine coming from behind him, metal scraping against metal--the sound of an automaton coming to life. His gaze focused on a figure stepping out from the shadows of the corner of the room, tall with graying hair and a mask that covered the entire right half of his face.

“Who are you?” Zandik demanded harshly and finally, you caught sight of him through the reflection of a metal cabinet. Red eyes stared back at you through a mask that covered three-quarters of his face and short silvery blue hair that had blood dripping from the tips of his curls. “Who are you?”

“So much potential wasting away in this poor excuse of a lab,” the man continued, undeterred by Zandik’s hostility. An eerie feeling swept over you--you weren’t sure if it was you or Zandik becoming unnerved by the man, maybe it was both of you. “Don’t you want something more?”

“What are you talking about?” Zandik asked sharply, a scalpel clutched tight in his fist--somehow, you knew that it was no match for the man standing before him and you had a feeling that he knew that too. “Did the Akademiya send you? Who are you?”

“I came after hearing rumors of an expelled student performing heretical acts… So far I’m unimpressed.”

The anger that spread through him was like wildfire, consuming all rationality and any other emotion he might’ve felt. In an instant, the automaton that had awakened behind him was moving, launching across the room at a pace that had you reeling, blades slashing outward but then at once, it stopped. A cold silence took over the room, Zandik’s brows furrowed and his lips turned down as the automaton came to a stop, shutting down right before his eyes.

“Interesting enhancements… but unchanged at its core, meant to be operated by those that created them, not a follower of the gods.”

“I am not a follower of the gods,” Zandik spat out violently, stepping forward before he paused as if reconsidering the man’s statement. “Meant to be operated… you?”

“Yes,” he responded, ignoring Zandik’s entire change of demeanor at his words. You thought you might feel even more unnerved now, at the excited feeling bubbling inside Zandik as he stared at the man, waiting for him to continue. “What are your goals, outcast?”

Zandik frowned. “That’s not my name-” he began but was interrupted.

“If I cared for your name, I would have learned it. If you prove yourself useful, you will be given a new identity anyway,” he told Zandik. “Now answer me, outcast, what are your goals?”

Zandik didn’t answer for a moment, staring at him, but then he glanced back at the automaton still laying on the lab table, the pool of blood beneath it now larger. Luckily, his gaze didn’t linger on it for long.

“I’m going to enhance humans so that we can rival gods,” Zandik said, raising his chin to focus his eyes back on the man. “What do you mean? Prove yourself useful? To whom? You?”

“Lofty goals,” was all he received as a response. Zandik bristled. “How do you plan to do that? With what resources?”

Zandik opened his mouth to respond but no words left his lips. Finally, he pushed out, “I’m making progress just fine.”

“Yes,” the man said dryly, his visible eye drifting over to the mess behind Zandik. “I can see that…”

You didn’t think you liked where this was heading. Zandik was still suspicious but now he was intrigued, ready to listen to this man and whatever he had to say, and you had a feeling that this man would bring nothing good.

“I can provide you with resources,” he offered. “Funding, rare materials… new test subjects. All of the finest and as much as you need.”

“What do you want in return?” Zandik asked.

“There is a war coming,” he responded cryptically, “and you are going to help prepare us for it.”

“A war?” Zandik asked, baffled. “A war against who?”

But you knew.

You knew.

It was the same war that had the Hydro Archon’s paranoia escalating. The war that forced you to hide your soulmark and thread your entire life, that had you looked down on and whispered about because you had to tell people you had no soulmate. The war led by the same organization that had sent your stepfather to Fontaine as an infiltrator, the man who had killed your father and ruined your life.

At once, all of your nightmares and all of your worst fears came true.

“A war against the gods.”

Betrothed?

Dottore was appalled, reeling at the knowledge that was just forced onto him. The scene shifted, Dottore was now in a smaller room kneeling in front of a woman that he recognized from the first dream he had of his soulmate but he couldn’t even focus on the situation at hand.

Betrothed??

Since when had she been betrothed? Dottore thought that would have been one of things that she mentioned when she was rambling on about her days at night. He thought it might’ve been something that was at least hinted at when she couldn’t control what words were being sent to him.

“I have to leave, mother,” Dottore’s lips were moving as she spoke but quite frankly, he didn’t give a shit about whatever conversation she was having with her mother. The lack of emotions she was feeling left a vacuum that allowed his feelings to spiral and he was having trouble trying to keep control of them.

He couldn’t even tell what the emotions rattling him were. He thought that he had become better at pinpointing emotions ever since he was forced to deal with hers but this was foreign--green and ugly, beyond just anger or sadness, stronger than anything he’s felt in centuries.

“You do not have to leave, you’re choosing to.”

Dottore thought he might feel insulted--disrespected, even, being given a soulmate only for them to be married off to someone else. Another cruel joke played by the gods to spite him, a cruel joke played by her to spite him. He wondered if this was her getting back at him for never responding to those goodnight tugs she always used to do: talking to him, trying to get him to fall for her trap and respond, only for her to be with someone else.

“I do, I have to go. There’s something I have to do.”

He shouldn’t feel insulted, or disrespected. He shouldn’t care at all whether or not his soulmate was betrothed to someone else. He never planned on speaking to her. He never planned on meeting her. And he absolutely never planned to do anything about the bond forced on him by Celestia. In fact, this should make him feel better. It meant that there was less of a chance for her to reach out to him again if she was in a relationship with someone else.

It freed him of her. This should be a good thing for him, so why was he so angry?

“You won’t even tell me where you’re going,” her mother snapped. “Best not be to the north, there’s only so much more I can defend you from peoples’ suspicions. They’re starting to ask questions.”

But it was not a matter of whether or not he should or shouldn’t care. It was the sheer audacity she had to keep reaching out to him when she was set to marry, or even has married someone else at this point. She was trying to play games with him and if there was one thing that Dottore couldn’t stand, it was someone trying to play games with him--be it the gods, other Harbingers, or some random girl that Celestia decided to tie him to.

“It doesn’t matter where-”

“Of course, it matters,” the mother said, fingers digging into his soulmate’s forearms. “What am I to tell Her Excellency when she asks about where you went off to? The last thing our family needs is the speculation that would come along with people thinking you went off to Snezhnaya.”

Finally, he felt something from her--something sharp and jagged tugging at her chest that drew him from his thoughts, an emotion he had become acquainted with through her intimately over the past few years: sadness, disappointment.

“Wow,” she said dryly, “that’s what you’re worried about. Suspicions against your family. Not whether or not I might be going somewhere dangerous.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” her mother said, livid. “Of course, I care about whether or not you’re going somewhere dangerous. I’m your mother.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” his soulmate said after a moment, rising to her feet and pulling her arms from her mother’s grip. “You can tell the Hydro Archon I’ve left for Mondstadt.”

“Is that where you’re actually going?” her mother rose to her feet after her, taking a step forward, but his soulmate did not respond. Her mother’s face fell. “You’re going north, aren’t you?”

Dottore finally focused on the situation at hand. North? But the only thing north of Fontaine was-

“Aren’t you?” her mother demanded. “You’re going to Snezhnaya? Why are you going there? To find him?”

Him. She must be referring to Dottore. But why would his soulmate come looking for him if she had…?

“I didn’t say that,” his soulmate shook her head, looking away out toward the window. It was a dreary day, dark clouds hanging low and rain sprinkling down to the streets below. “I told you to tell the Hydro Archon I’m going to Mondstadt.”

“Why are you going there? Why? Answer me,” her mother’s voice rose, eyes tearing up as she stepped closer to his soulmate. She stepped back, freezing her mother in place.

“Have you ever communicated with your soulmate through thoughts? The words that show up on your forearm?” she finally asked, tone harsh and accusing, a sudden change of subject.

Dottore paused, trying to put together what this might be about now. This was another reason why he hated these damn dreams, he never had any context behind what was happening and Dottore hated not knowing things.

“What sort of question is that?” her mother hissed, taken aback. “Of course-”

Her mother cut herself off suddenly, brows furrowing and lips twisting into a deep frown. Dottore could feel his soulmate swallow thickly, watching the reaction to her question. She had been expecting this and he wasn’t sure if it was dread or satisfaction pooling in her stomach--maybe both.

“Have you ever thought about why you don’t communicate through it? Have you ever tried and he just doesn’t respond? Do you try flicking your thread? Does he flick it back?” his soulmate let loose a barrage of questions and a creeping suspicion began to arise, wondering if she was implying what he thought she was.

“What are you trying to say?” her mother shook her head, stepping away. “Enough.”

“I’m not trying to say anything,” his soulmate responded, turning on her heel to leave the room. “But maybe you should think about it.”

She didn’t say anything else as she left the room and finally, Dottore could think.

She was accusing her stepfather of faking the bond with her mother, Dottore realized. But how would he do that? He knew people were capable of faking bonds through old magics but as far as he was aware that type of magic was all but lost… Dottore’s mind was suddenly racing, remembering all of the things he had forgotten in the last dream he had of her past: what he had figured out about the spy in the upper ranks of the Fatui and they had a spy in Fontaine, one of Arlecchino’s spiders and Arlecchino was capable of the old magic, and his soulmate was coming north to Snezhnaya so obviously she must have reason to believe that it had something to do with the Fatui, could it be-

Dottore felt a headache coming on.

He had a feeling that this was going to be very, very bad.

You woke up with a sharp, shaky breath. Your hand flew to your chest as you sat up straight, reeling from what you had just experienced. Blood, anger, betrayal, hope--what could you remember? What could you remember?

You scrambled to the small table at your bedside immediately, grabbing your notebook and panicking to find the pen that had fallen to the floor. You dropped to your hands and knees, fumbling around in the dark until you found it beneath your bed. You didn’t even bother rising to your feet again as you made yourself comfortable on the floor so you could start jotting down everything you remembered.

A cold, empty room. Six people. Exile? Sins and virtues. Lots of blood. An automaton. Uncontrollable, sickening rage. An unfamiliar figure. War.

War.

But what was the context? Your head was pounding as you tried to remember, you wondered if Celestia was warning you against trying to push too hard for information you’re not meant to remember yet. You didn’t care. You had to know.

War. The rebellion stirring in the north. But what about it? What was the damn context?

You glanced down at your forearm, frustration pricking at you as the window above you rattled against the Snezhnayan winter storm. You could feel the freezing air even from inside the warm room with the fireplace burning on the opposite wall--it was unlike anything you had ever experienced before, the cold storms at the estate that you thought were the end of the world paled in comparison to this.

You wanted to yell at him, demand to know who he was and what he had done, beg him for the answers that you should’ve received by now… but you remembered the words scrawled across your forearm, the cruel words that cut deeper than any of the nasty words that had been spat at you by people throughout your life.

He did not care about you, you reminded yourself, you have more self-respect than this. Do not reach out to him.

You sighed heavily, arm dropping to your side as you stared back up at the window, watching a branch scrape against the glass over and over and over again. You were only on the Snezhnayan border but already you were feeling anxious--you had half a mind to turn back but the only thing stopping you was the memory of your father, the lust for justice, vengeance. You couldn’t turn back, not until you had all of the information you needed, not until you were sure you could return to Fontaine and have your stepfather imprisoned in the Black Cells.

There was a heavy feeling in your heart as you pushed yourself back off the floor, putting the notebook away and taking a seat back on the thin mattress of the inn you were staying at, the wood of the bed frame creaking beneath you.

You had a distinct feeling that your journey to find proof against your stepfather would lead you to him as well.

He sat upright, eyes wild as he tried to figure out where he was. His heart was racing, anger was still flooding his blood, he breathed in and out deeply as he tried to regain control of himself. He was back in his lab--not dealing with any more of those god forsaken dreams. He wanted to spit out a string of vile curses up toward the gods but he refrained, trying to piece together what he could remember before the vague memories faded.

He flipped over the parchment he had been taking notes on before he had fallen asleep, rubbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed his pen to the paper and noted down all of the hazy details.

Flowers. Wrio? Betrothed?? Mother. Leaving. Snezhnaya.

Dottore exhaled, gaze zeroing in on the third word of his list--betrothed. He glanced down at the thread connected to his thumb, inhaling deeply as an unfamiliar emotion began to churn inside of him. Before it could take hold, Dottore diverted his attention to the last two words.

Leaving. Snezhnaya.

What did that mean? What was the context? He couldn’t remember. Was she coming to Snezhnaya? Was she in Snezhnaya and leaving? Or did the two words not have any connection?

No, they had to be connected. It was something important, he knew that much at least, but what? The answer was on the tip of his tongue and again that temper of his began to thin, what was the answer? What was the goddamn answer? Why was she coming to Snezhnaya?

Should he ask?

The option rang damning through his head as he looked down at his forearm. She could be in danger if she came to Snezhnaya--the nation was becoming more and more antagonistic to outsiders, especially outsiders from Fontaine and Natlan and especially because of the masked hostile that was running through Fatui camps and slaughtering their underlings. No matter how much Pulcinella and Pantalone demanded that they take caution with outsiders, there was no telling what a heat of the moment reaction could lead to if there was a possible threat and Arlecchino had made clear that Fontaine was on the verge of becoming a threat to the Fatui.

As he contemplated his choices, Dottore suddenly paused, another realization hitting him suddenly: if he had dreamt of her past then…

Then she dreamed of his past.

Dottore waited, staring at his forearm--waiting for the questions, the disgust, the horror. It was inevitable, he knew it. Last time, he assumed they dreamed of similar time periods of their life. Hers was when she was young, five to twelve years old between both dreams, he assumed; and the word he received from her was cursed, which was directed at him from when he was a child up until he was chased from the village at ten. And if the time periods were similar… that left his Akademiya and post-Akademiya era up as options for what she could have dreamt about, and neither of those periods of his life were particularly pleasant.

He waited and he waited and he waited… but nothing showed up on his forearm, not a question nor an accusation, no emotion spread through him that he thought might’ve been hers--just emptiness, just like it had been for the past week and a half.

Dottore exhaled heavily, leaning back against his seat and staring up at the ceiling above him, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do with this and how he was supposed to make sure she didn’t get herself killed traveling through Snezhnaya.

The week and a half of peace was over and he realized, quickly, that it had only been the calm before the storm.

rbs appreciated!

#dottore x reader #dottore smut #dottore x you #genshin x you #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x you

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littlemisspascal · 16 days

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Fast Cars and Lightning Bolts Part 4

Pairing: Din x Female Reader

Word Count: 3200+

Rating: T

Summary: It’s kind of ridiculous, really, the way everything else fades away the longer you stare at Din. The gaudy banners in all capital fonts seem to blur and the colorful bouquets of balloons lose their vibrance. The Din Djarin Effect, you used to call it, a comforting distraction to indulge in when the rest of the world felt too close, too much all at once.

Author Note: 2 years later I'm sure 99% of people have lost any care about this series, but it felt nice returning to this fic after so long away. Hope someone out there enjoys this 😊 All likes, comments, and reblogs super appreciated 💗

Warnings: Helmetless Din, dialogue heavy, racing au, heavily inspired by Ford v Ferrari, language, worldbuilding, No physical characteristics of Reader described except for having hair + a heart condition (I’m not a doctor, all medical details are fictional)

Series Masterlist

Mos Espa is hotter than you remember.

Or maybe it’s how different the city looks—flourishing businesses, smiling faces, and cleaner streets (literally and figuratively, not one piece of trash or shady character in sight)—that’s making it hard for your memories to sync with your reality.

There’s a bustling crowd of hundreds at the Fett Motor Company Headquarters by the time you arrive. You almost forgot how overwhelming being in the midst of large groups of people can be, all clamoring for a handshake or autograph. Like feral dogs fighting over the same piece of meat, pulling and tugging until they get their portion of the prize.

Today’s a significant one for Fett Motor Company. Not only are they announcing their partnership with you and subsequent entry into the world of auto racing, they’re also celebrating the launch of their newest model. Dozens of reporters and photographers from every major HoloNet site have come, drawn to the promise of a spectacle and juicy bits of gossip to spin a story out of.

Attending events like this has always been the part of fame you liked the least. Too chaotic and invasive for your tastes. Makes your heartbeat start to climb until it’s in your ears, an incessant reminder of your retreat from the spotlight.

There are a plethora of people in every direction you look. Do they notice your trembling hands? The bottle of pills in your jacket pocket? Can they tell you’re in over your head?

So many people. So many pairs of eyes.

And then, just when you think you’ll be swallowed whole, there’s Peli blasting her way through the crowd with waving arms and shrill exclamations, providing you a path to freedom. The rush of absolute relief nearly has you sinking to the floor, but she’s quick to latch onto your wrist, towing you to sanctuary in a quieter room away from access of the general public.

“Thanks, Peli,” you say, letting out a shaky breath as the tension digging into your spine starts to loosen.

“Don’t mention it, LB,” she shrugs, then nods at something off to the side. “I figured it’d go smoother if I saved your hide instead of tin can man. He looks like a biter—and not in the sexy way.”

“What?” Sometimes your engineer makes no damn sense. You look at where she’d gestured, first noticing Ahsoka (the young Togrutan mechanic had practically stubbornly glared you into letting her come along) talking animatedly to—

Your eyes widen.

“He…” you trail off, mouth abruptly dry. “He actually came?”

“Well, yeah,” Peli replies, looking back and forth with furrowed eyebrows. “You invited him, didn’t you? He told me he wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Funny. Last thing he said to you, back in that diner one week ago, standing up from the table with an expression devoid of the previous softness, was, “I’m nobody’s puppet, not even yours. Find someone else.”

It’s kind of ridiculous, really, the way everything else fades away the longer you stare at Din. The gaudy banners in all capital fonts seem to blur and the colorful bouquets of balloons lose their vibrance. The Din Djarin Effect, you used to call it, a comforting distraction to indulge in when the rest of the world felt too close, too much all at once.

You give yourself a tiny shake, forcing yourself to blink. Today’s too important for your career to lose focus.

Walking up to the pair, you greet Ahsoka first with a friendly nudge of your elbow against her arm. Blue eyes widen in surprise before she beams at you, utterly oblivious to the straightening of Din’s posture you catch out of the corner of your gaze.

“Lightning, you made it!” Ahsoka’s one of your youngest employees, full of big emotions and just a tad bit impulsive at times, but Peli swears she’s got one of the brightest minds for vehicular engineering the woman’s ever come across in all her years. And that’s the exact kind of talent you want to surround yourself with these days.

“Welcome to the madhouse,” Din remarks dryly, and you hate the instant locking of your eyes with his, the sensation of a loss of control of your own self. You hate the reminder that for all the things time and distance have changed, there still remain some constants entirely uninfluenced by either.

Still. Better to have loved and lost than to have continued down the road you and your ex-boyfriend had been on, pretending things were fine when they were anything but. And having him here in Mos Espa, looking at you, speaking to you, that’s more than you had dared to hope for one week ago, parting ways in the diner; definitely more than five years ago, breaking up in the middle of your living room.

You smile at him, unable to stop yourself. Another one of those pesky constants you can’t shake. “I’m glad you came,” you tell him genuinely. Then, a hint of teasing, “Forgot how nice you look all dolled up.”

He has ditched his usual oil-stained clothes for his clan armor, Mandalorian beskar pristinely forged by his mentor to fit his exact measurements. The rare metal glints dangerously in the afternoon sunshine streaming through the skylights, a far contrast from the soft and silky fabrics of the expensive suits other men have chosen for the occasion. It’s purposeful, this look, there isn’t a doubt in your mind. You can already imagine the numerous photos of champagne and fancy ties and plastic smiles online, and there Din will be, stubbornly resisting to blend in.

Honestly though? You would’ve been upset if he’d tried.

His lips curl at the corner. “You don’t look half bad yourself, mesh’la.”

Maker. You’re tiptoeing the line of dangerous territory, feeling hot all over in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature. And judging from that look in Din’s eyes, a daring sort of regard, the bastard knows it.

“Have you seen the new Fett Firespray?” Ahsoka asks, her voice startling you out of your staring contest. Embarrassing, how easily you’d forgotten she was standing right next to you.

“It’s uglier than a shaved bantha’s ass,” Din remarks, so utterly deadpan it takes an incredible amount of self-discipline not to bark out a laugh.

Ahsoka huffs, the kind of sound kids make when they think an adult has said something stupid. Maker, she really is young, isn’t she? “It wasn’t that bad. All those customization options for the interior were pretty cool.”

The unimpressed scowl twisting Din’s mouth tells you exactly what he thinks about the options. Pretty cool definitely isn’t his opinion on the matter. No, you’d bet it’s on the complete other end of the spectrum. Which means that’s where your opinion can also be found.

Ahsoka may be the brightest of her generation, but Din is Din. When it comes to cars, there’s no one’s judgment you trust more. Another constant that’ll stretch the length of your combined lifetimes.

Fennec Shand and Peli approach at your side, putting an end to your conversation with Din before you’re ready for it. Your fists clench against the nervous energy pulsing in tandem with your heartbeat, then immediately slacken upon registering the unknown Duros accompanying them, red eyes peering at you with scrutiny.

“I’d like you all to meet the senior vice president of Fett Motor, Cad Bane.” Fennec introduces with a respectful dip of her chin, hands clasped behind her back. Her hair is styled in another long braid with intricately woven orange ties holding every strand in place. “Bane, this is Lightning Bolt.”

Rather than shake your outstretched hand, Bane merely tips his wide-brimmed hat in acknowledgement. His crimson stare never lessens in its intensity, as sharp as the pointy teeth peeking from his lipless mouth when he speaks.

“Afternoon, little lady. You look…rather ordinary outside of a race car,” he says, and that’s enough for you to determine three things. One: his voice is as deep and gravelly as the depths of a bottomless chasm. Two: he’s a master at intimidation. And three: he’ll mercilessly squish you beneath the heel of his boot the second you let your guard down.

You absolutely cannot show weakness in front of him.

“Ah, well, despite what the tabloids might say, I’ve always been just a regular, ordinary mortal girl.” You force your mouth up into a small grin, tacking on a rueful little laugh you learned over the years will smooth the spikes of even the prickliest of bastards. Hard to tell if it works on Bane, his features so stoic they might as well be carved out of stone. “I brought along one of my best mechanics, Ahsoka Tano. And this is my–”

You cut yourself off, triggered by the inaccuracy. The acknowledgement that Din isn’t your anything anymore. Once upon a time you were so close you might as well have been the same person. Tangled up in each other’s souls. Indistinguishable. LightningandDin. But the way Din’s looking at you, guarded in a way you aren’t used to seeing, well. Not everything can remain a constant after five years.

Surprisingly, though, Din saves you from having to make up a label on the spot. “We’ve met.”

The curtness of his delivery throws you off. Your eyebrows furrow, flicking a quick glance between the two men, sensing a frosty tension that wasn’t there mere seconds ago.

“Yes,” Bane says, something in the drawl of the word you can’t determine. But it definitely isn’t pleasant. “We have.”

Curiosity and wariness fizzle uncomfortably in your stomach. Here and now isn’t the time or place to ask questions. Too many eyes. Too many cameras.

The whole thing feels very…sharp. One wrong move and someone will wind up scarred forever. The jackrabbiting beat of your heart doesn’t offer any comfort to the situation either.

A hand lightly grasping your elbow is almost enough to have you biting through your bottom lip. Jerking your head to your side, you meet Fennec’s even gaze. A calm port in this brewing storm.

“Walk with me?” It’s phrased as a request, but you and the woman both know it isn’t one. “There are a few details I need to discuss with you.”

You nod, and follow after Fennec with your head bowed, focusing on the taps of her boots against the stone floor. She leads you to another private room, a small nook empty except for a pair of Gamorrean security guards standing near a door which opens up to the courtyard swarming with people waiting for the big news to be announced. You suck in a breath, feeling like for the first time since you arrived your lungs stretch to their fullest capacity.

“So, what is it?” you ask. “What details do we need to talk about?”

Fennec leans back against the wall. “Before you go give your speech, I need to make sure we’re on the same page regarding our future partnership and procedure going forward.”

You try your best, but you can’t stop the incredulous arching of your eyebrow. “Are you checking that I read the fine print of the contract?”

And something interesting happens then. Fennec’s jaw quirks, the faintest, most miniscule display of unease. “Well, it’s just–”

“Page 3 paragraph 2 explicitly states that responsibility for the day to day practical affairs of the Fett race team is handled by me,” you cut in, pointing your index finger at your chest. The bottle of pills in your pocket rattles with the movement, drawing Fennec’s eyes there for a split second before your sharp glare has them recentering on your face once more.

“That’s correct,” she agrees. There’s a carefulness to her voice you’ve heard before many times in your own tone. Used when the topic of conversation is a potentially explosive one that could result in tempers flying. “Day to day stuff, that’s your job. But in regard to broader decisions that may or may not affect the wider company…” Her tongue runs over her lower lip, buying a pause to plan her next words, before she eventually comes out with, “There’s going to have to be some give and take with the gotra.”

“The gotra,” you repeat, audibly clumsy and unfamiliar coming out of your mouth.

“Senior creatives, Lightning.” Her expression is back to annoyingly neutral. “Just so everybody involved is comfortable.”

“Well, color me confused, Fennec.” You draw yourself up to full height, arms crossing over your chest. You might not be as intimidating as Cad Bane, but no one survives long in the racing world without a bit of iron in their spine and fire in their stare. “Because up until this exact moment, I was comfortable.”

“Look out there,” Fennec says, gesturing with a tilt of her head towards the courtyard, an MC standing on stage addressing the crowd. The same one you’ll be giving a speech to only a handful of minutes from now. “What do you see?”

Your eyes drift over each of the figures. There’s an air about them, sensed even from where you stand, suggesting they’ve never changed a tire in their lives, let alone picked up a hydrospanner. They’re pencil pushers, not grease monkeys.

“You know what I see?” Fennec asks rhetorically when you say nothing, pointing a nail painted onyx black at the door. “A machine. Thousands of parts moving hopefully in harmony because it’s my job to make it so. And it’s my job to guide you through it.” The nail’s aimed at you now. You swallow, your mouth dry. “I am here to help you, Lightning Bolt. But we have to trust each other.”

A crack splits open your chest, aching and inflamed, upon the realization that Din was right. Controlling people is their specialty. You press your lips together into a thin line, knowing the assurance Fennec wants but you’re reluctant to give it. Trusting others has never been easy for you. It’s something that must be fairly earned, not handed out carelessly. That’s how you spare yourself unnecessary pain.

The presenter’s wrapping up his opening welcome, you can hear the applause like distant thunder. You pull out your pill bottle, mechanically opening it and popping two into your mouth, all too aware of Fennec watching the entire process. The meds taste like ash on your tongue, scraping the tender inside of your throat, but they’ll serve their purpose of keeping you numb onstage.

Tucking the bottle back away, you start to turn for the door. “Excuse me, Fennec.”

“Lightning,” she holds up a hand, reaching for your shoulder then quickly backtracking, awkwardly hovering in front of you. “Do not go on that stage if you don’t trust me.”

You stare her down. “I said, excuse me.”

Hearing the firmness in your tone, Fennec sighs, her shoulders slumping marginally. She yields and moves out of your way.

The walk up to the stage, the shaking of hands and greetings along the way–none of it truly registers. You’re just going through the motions. Like you’re on autopilot. Like…like someone else is pulling the strings.

“Hello everyone,” you say into the microphone, voice steady and emotions tightly wound in the depths of your chest. You introduce yourself with a bright, picture perfect smile. “Most of you probably know me better as Lightning Bolt though. And like my cars, I’ll make this fast.”

The crowd ripples with laughter, softening the edges of your smile into a slightly more genuine one. Sometimes there’s no reaction, just blank stares or, worse, eye rolls. Speeches have about a fifty-fifty risk of making you feel like you’re flying high or that you’ve just struck concrete face first. You never quite know what to expect until after your first attempt of cracking the ice.

This time, you’re soaring.

“I was just a youngling when my mother told me the luckiest souls are those who know what they want to do. Because they’ll never work a day in their lives.” The crowd shifts a little and you catch a glimpse of Fennec and Bane standing together with other authoritative-looking figures, including a massive black-furred Wookiee–the gotra you were warned about, you assume. It’s the man further behind them though, beskar gleaming like there’s a spotlight trained directly on him, that has your heart leaping. “But I’ve come to learn there’s a precious few in the galaxy who find something that they have to do with their lives. An obsession they can’t shake. Pushing them to their farthest corners.”

You’re hyper-aware of the hundreds of eyes on you–of Din’s eyes on you, sunlight turning the dark brown into liquid gold smoldering in a forge–and you rapidly try to organize your thoughts as memorized words spill from your lips because time is running out and you have to make a decision.

Why is it, whenever you find yourself faced with making one of the hardest choices of your life, Din can be found at the bleeding center? Why do they always involve him?

“I’m one of ‘em.” You remind yourself to take a breath, that you have to breathe even as it feels like your insides are being crushed. “And I know one man who feels exactly the same.”

Din hasn’t blinked, staring at you like he always does in your dreams, and just like in those dreams all you want is to reach out and touch him.

“His name…”

He’s your weakness. Always has been, always will be.

“His name is Boba Fett.”

Time seems to stand still, captured in ice, chilling you to the bone, and Din’s eyes have widened, you can see it from here, see how he can’t believe what you’ve just said.

And you–you taste the name like poison. You’ve never even met the Daimyo, unable to cut out a hole in his schedule big enough for a face to face conversation with you. He didn’t even come out of his palace to make an appearance at his own damn car launch. You can’t pull your words out of the air though, can’t erase them from anyone’s minds because the ice shatters with roaring applause.

You might smile, your lips are numb so it’s hard to tell. You want to say: Forgive me, love. Forgive me for surrendering to them. Maybe you would if not for the threat of the gotra hanging above your head like a knife.

Some things must be hidden behind closed doors. And sometimes…sometimes you must put your career first above all else.

Averting your gaze back to Fennec, you nod at her as you pitch your voice over the cheers. “And together, we’ll make history. We’re going to build and race the fastest car the BEC’s ever seen. I personally guarantee it.”

You step back from the podium and wave both hands, pretending it’s excitement twisting your guts into knots. You might’ve fallen for it, if not for the last second guilty glance at the back of the crowd, stomach dropping at the lack of familiar brown eyes and beskar.

Funny, how quickly soaring can switch to plummeting when one flies too close to the sun.

And all you can do now is brace for the inevitable impact, hoping you made the right choice.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #my fic #pedrostories

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justcallme-ange · 9 months

Note

What are some DSMP character or worldbuilding headcanons you have that you've never seen anywhere else? Pls talk about them.

Oooh, this is a tough one. So first thing’s first, I am very very new to Minecraft. Like I literally just got into playing beginning of this year. So a lot of my knowledge is either from watching Techno and Dream or fandom. So a lot of my headcanons are mishmashes of ones I've seen before. However these are just a few of the stuff floating around in my head that I haven't really seen elsewhere - sorry if this is long ^^

Worldbuilding wise…

Something I headcanon that I haven’t really seen before is that there’s like a master world - like a domain where all things originate. And player worlds/SMPs are offshoots/branches/copies of this world. So everything is interconnected, and how each world is functionally the same, but may have variations.

Another world building thing I see touched on but not really elaborated is that while there is a difference between player and mob, it's less god vs animal - and more like humans vs elves (at least for the humanoid looking mobs). Like they're not mindless (cept for zombies), and that these mobs have their own civilizations and customs outside of what players can see. In this case the mobs are like humans with short lifespans and only a little magical power - while players are the elves with longer lifespans that can be extended through magical means. This I guess is my justification for hybrids and and explanation on Admins being demigods?

DSMP character wise…

I only really play around with like... 3 characters so-

I headcanon that Techno while being pretty good about keeping a level head is prone to anxiety (pretty sure that's canon) so when he beds down for the night he tends to sleep with something heavy on top of him. (Might have been a habit kept from war - where he would sleep with a shield on top of him.) So he finds comfort in having a weighted blanket (or Dream) on top while he sleeps. Phil resting his wings on his shoulders to calm him is an elaboration on this idea.

Oh speaking of sleeping - I've seen a lot of takes on why Dream doesn't sleep or that he's a loner because "mysterious figure" and all that (and my angst brain couldn't resist). My headcanon is that he's the complete opposite. Dream's the dude who loves having roommates (Even if he tells Techno otherwise). Like he loves having people around (it's why he's fighting so hard for server unity) and that the reason he doesn't sleep is more so the fact he can't, at least not good sleep. He's used to sleeping in a place with lots of people - his friends mostly - and the silence gets to him. The community house is proof enough of that. So instead of sitting in a dark room doing nothing waiting for the sun to rise - he does... other stuff. Prison makes this even worse - because he's completely isolated, where as before he could ask Punz, or Bad to keep him company.

So not a new take- but elaborating on an already established headcanon, Philza being the Angel of Death having sway on Death. And I mean more so - he's able to lightly tweak the strings of fate. Untangle little things in a person's future. He's unable to stop their fate, but depending on how much he favors/likes/loves the person he can kind of... tug it in a new direction if the person is willing. He's not allowed to completely change things - that's ultimately a consequence of a person's series of choices, but in a game of 50/50 he can slightly tip the odds in their favor.

That's all that I could think of so far - but if anyone wants to add to here with their own heacanons feel free! I love reading people interpretations of stuff - and other world building things in general.

#ange_asks #ctechno #cdream #cphilza #technoblade #dreamwastaken #philza #dsmp #rivalsduo #rivals duo #gapple duo #emerald duo #doomsday trio #MCYT Minecraft headcanons

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zestymimblo · 6 months

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9 Lines, 9 People - Tag Game

Thank you @sam-glade for the tag! You can find their post here.

The following excerpt is from 'The Strings of Willis Manor'. Enjoy!

On the landing, though, was a door. It was shut firmly, and a few tugs of the handle proved it to be heavy. I hesitated at the idea of pushing the door open, fearing it would make too much noise, but made a mental note at its location before continuing up the stairs. Though not as familiar as the main floor, I could mentally picture the layout of the second floor. The twin sweeping staircases in the reception leading up to an open balcony. To the east was where the sleeping chambers were (both servant, guest and household member alike), and a second floor entrance to the East Tower. To the west, however, was one of the most beautiful parts of the manor. The library took up the entirety of the west of the second floor. It was horseshoe-shaped, and had multiple doors to enter it. Different doors along the hallway would lead into different sections of the library, but it all connected together, with the largest area of the library being above the music room. Looking down on the library was a balcony that circled the main area of the library. The balcony held several telescopes and star charts, as the ceiling above the balcony was domed in glass. Floating down from the centre of the glass dome was a bronze moon with bronze stars floating around it. It wasn’t held with any strings or pedestals. It just quietly rotated slowly as it matched the rotation of the moon in the sky.

Honestly just wanted to share this bit of worldbuilding, because the manor is COOL and WHIMSICAL okay???

I'll be tagging @flock-from-the-void, @ellierenae, @withlovelunette, @emustockings, @ryns-ramblings, @olive-riggzey, @oliverferrie, @nightinthebuilding and @desastreus

#writeblr #tag game #my writing #the strings of willis manor #9 lines 9 people #creative writing

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warsofasoiaf · 2 years

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Love your world building headcannons! I’ve been trying to find someone like you on Reddit for ages. My question is what’s some customs and cultural differences you’d give each kingdom? Apart from the food/burials/fighting but more so in everyday life or courtly life if that makes sense. I just feel like the north should be so different to show catleyns initial culture clash

I don't really go on r/ASOIAF Reddit anymore - I just found that their jump toward tinfoil theories went from a joke to very dominant areas of discussion seriously considered and virulently defended. It just wasn't fun anymore. These days now I mostly lurk on various HOI4 mod boards like TNO, Kaiserreich, CWIC, or Millenium Dawn, and do some shitposts using alt accounts on r/noncredibledefense to dunk on Russian incompetence. But let's do something to give a little fun to the middle kingdoms, the ones that don't get as much love worldbuilding-wise as Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the North.

I've always seen the Westerlands as a very practical, pragmatic, industrious people. While they certainly will go through the motions of various pieces of the cultural fabric of Westeros, there's probably a bit of a perfunctory nature to them. Tywin certainly would see it as a hierarchy, given his "a tool for every task and a task for every tool nature," but other Westerlanders might actually take it as an actual enjoyment of work. I think Westerlanders would definitely appreciate fine craftsmanship - pewter, jewelry, that sort of fine intricate work.

The Riverlands probably has a lot of local customs, far more so than other regions of Westeros which might have been far more homogenized. While the Middle Ages had tons of local customs and the other lands would as well, I think the Riverlands, given its disparate and fractious nature, would hold on to these distinctions as points of pride, such as local heroes and festival days. Speaking of, the Riverlands probably has a lot of pastoral fairs, where locals can gossip, sell local alcohol, and compete for who has the largest pig.

I've always said that the Vale would be a subtle, austere culture, which permeates everything from artwork to palate. Noting different distinctions, as slight as they are, would be the mark of a refined, discerning individual. They probably take their nobiliese oblige very seriously in the fail, with scorn falling on those who fail to meet their obligations. I think that games in the Vale would be ones where gambling is limited and strategy emphasized, ones like Nine Men's Morris.

I've always said that the Stormlands are a warrior culture, so I would imagine that games in the Stormlands would be feats of strength: tug of war, wrestling, stone hurling/heavy stone carrying. I don't think loggersports were a thing in the Middle Ages but Stormlander logrolling would be hilarious. Similarly, I think that Stormlanders, given their numerical inferiority, have a martial flexibility that would lead to Stormlander heroes emphasized not just for skill in one aspect, but in multiple aspects. Think Lugh the Longhanded, who could not claim to be the Tuatha's craftsman, harpist, or warrior, but could claim to be all of those things at once.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#asoiaf worldbuilding #worldbuilding

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hazelwitch800 · 5 months

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I've been having some moments of reflection and feeling slightly more positive about things, so I thought I'd take my rambles back to the pornbots (and possibly Vague).

One huge thing I've learned as I've been writing my current long-fic is what my writing process looks like. I've known for some time that the process of writing itself is super important for me in working out a story, and that I'm not the kind of person who can just sit down and plan everything out in advance, or spend a lot of time worldbuilding before I get started. I know now that for me, writing is a process of discovery. I don't always know the details of the plot, or where exactly the characters will end up, or what will turn out to be important later. I have to discover a lot of those things for myself first by writing and asking questions and tugging on various different threads to see if they unravel.

This stuff is probably really obvious to a lot of people, but everything I've ever written has been done so without any formal guidance and I've never written a plot heavy story before.

It's been a super important realisation for me, because I have this constant sense of disappointment and sadness that my fic could be a lot better than it is. But I'm realising... That's because it's a first draft. OBVIOUSLY there is room for improvement. If I was going to go back and rewrite it properly, I know now what I need to dig into, areas of the world and society I need to flesh out, parts I could change to make them more dramatic, or aspects I could cut entirely.

And I'M NOT GOING TO DO THAT. Because I'm not going to spend a year writing a first draft of a fanfic, and then spend months rewriting it in the hope that people will like my free content more when I eventually post it.

But I might do that for a novel one day.

Anyway, it put things into perspective for me a little. I hope people can enjoy my imperfect first drafts.

#Hazel's rambles #Seriously this is me using tumblr as a personal journal #But sometimes it's nice to write these thoughts down and share them!#Even if no one cares!#writing process #Fanfic realisations

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juleswolverton-hyde · 3 years

Text

Not by the Moon | 08

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, eating disorder (personal experience, don’t be a bloody twat), heavy(?) angst, Werewolf!Jaebeom trying to be a normal boyfriend

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Author’s Note: This chapter is from Y/N’s POV.

I am seeing a trend starting to develop where every chapter turns into a behemoth that makes me not want to edit it at all. Nevertheless, I pulled through on this one despite being in the middle of a 32-hour work week and being absolutely exhausted.

Summer holidays, you said? I only see extra shifts and little me-time nor writing time and inspiration. That said, though, be prepared for some heavy worldbuilding because the plot thickens.

Also, and this has been edited in the previous chapter, a new special someone makes his debut in this chapter. Is this also a hint about whose story is next?

Who knows?

I don’t know.

Previous Chapter / Next chapter

Masterlist

“Jaebeom? Jay!” I nudge the big man’s shoulder to signal for him to step aside so I can turn the stove off before the burned pancake catches fire. “That’s the third one in a row.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly. “I- I have a... I can’t focus.”

“Is it because of this morning?” If so, then that makes two of us. However, I tried to forget as best I could by working with timed productivity sprints instead of writing the article on Bruges in one go. It worked fairly well until lunch time came around.

That’s when I, too, couldn’t escape the claw mark.

The image of it flashes before my eyes once more, joining my thoughts with his if his blank look is anything to go by.

How did it get there? What did you do?

“Yeah. Morning. I... I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, this should be a nice evening. A cozy night in. You deserve my attention, for me to,” his breath tapers as he finishes the sentence, “be here.”

The quiver in his lips makes the roof of my mouth dry up and my mind empty save for gut-stirring concern, unable to think of a proper response. Nevertheless, I look for words to say what seems best. Like I did this morning when I went to get his medication. “How about I take it from here and bake the pancakes? You already made the batter and I can’t let you do all the work.”

“I like cooking for you.”

“I know you do, but it’s fine. Really,” I gesture at the couch by the living room window, which provides a glimpse of the small balcony, “sit down. I’ll call you once dinner’s ready.”

“Y/N,” he reaches out for my hand yet only dares to hold my fingertips, “I’m sorry I can’t be more.”

The crack in his voice breaks my heart. But its the vulnerability written across his normally stoic face which tears me apart at the seams. Whatever he means, it’s nothing to do with this morning. Rather, it’s about him as a person, the wonderful man he is.

Throat blocked by something I can’t swallow, I scan his attitude for any hint about what he truly means. “What’re you on about?”

Let’s just forget about it for a little while and be a normal couple. I promise I won’t run away despite what happened.

Unfortunately, Jaebeom dismisses the question to make a point I wish he didn’t. “We both know what’s ahead. But, sometimes it’s as if you’re avoiding the inevitable.”

I let out a deep sigh, caught red-handed. “I’m not, because I know or, rather, can guess where this is going. I just don’t know how to respond at times. And I don’t want you to feel bad so I try to keep the mood high as best I can. To, well, keep us both happy.”

“Is your avoidance of food also part of that?” he asks, carefully formulating the question while keeping a close eye on any change in my demeanour.

“Yes.”

“I hate it when you don’t eat.”

“I know, but if you knew the reasons behind it, you’d understand why it’s difficult for me. Although, I want you to know that I’m trying to keep my promise to you and eat when you tell me to.” I cup his cheek, lovingly swiping my thumb to and fro over the tanned skin. “It’s really hard to escape your determination. You’re very insistent on things.”

“Too much?” Eyes dim and glistening with withheld tears, he nuzzles my palm.

“Sometimes.” I kiss the tip of his nose and smile, a sign of happiness that’s only half a lie. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Now, let me be a proper girlfriend and cook for you.”

Regardless of the wonderful sight of Jaebeom wearing an apron and being absorbed in his element in the kitchen, it’s equally as wonderful to have something to eat tonight. Secretly, I would rather have made a healthier and less calorie-rich dish, but we both need a bit of a reprieve from last night. Thus, for the sake of us both, I’ve decided to let go of my rules for a little while.

To enjoy something sweet.

As wholesome as the sight of the wolf man seated on the couch, knees pulled up with round gold-rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose as he reads the novel he apparently borrowed from my bookshelves. I should write a little note on the title page and give it to him as a present so he’ll have one of my books like I have his.

They’ll be on his shelves for as long as we’re here.

Be there even after he’s gone.

Then they will return to me yet still be his.

He will still be with me.

The pages filled with his love.

It’s everything that will be left of him.

His legacy.

His remains.

The thought leaving me filled with bittersweet affection, I cut the fruit to put on top of the pancakes while gradually using up all the batter. Were it not for the move to the cottage at the end of the month, I could easily be content here if he’d ask me to move in. Wherever we are, evenings like these might become a common occurrence, a splendid reward at the end of a long day at the office.

They could turn any place into our home.

The long road of the lone wolf would finally come to an end.

Because as long as he’s there, I’m home.

“Mind your head.” Despite the warning, Jaebeom nevertheless puts a hand on my head while he opens the cupboard above to grab two plates.

“I was just about to say dinner’s ready.” I let out a breathless laugh, hardly hiding the sobs at the thought of one day having to live without his touch. “Talk about timing.”

For a second, a curious expression treks across his face. It passes by too fast to properly describe it, but it seemed to be triggered by the meaningless remark about his return to the kitchen.

When a dangerously short and sharp breath escapes me, he swallows it with a kiss. Perhaps it’s the sorrow of knowing a storm lies on the horizon that makes me delusional, but a soft whine rises in his throat each time he kisses a stray tear away as he peppers my face in small pecks.

Satisfied he has taken the sadness more or less away, the corners of his mouth curl into a lop-sided smile as if nothing happened. Notwithstanding, it isn’t hard to figure the blissful ignorance is merely feigned. “Right. Timing.”

Our gazes lock and neither of us says a word until he perks up and motions for me to step back. “Fork and knife.”

Discombobulated by the shared confusion, I indeed set a step backwards so he can open the drawer. In the meanwhile, as Jay sets the dinnerware down, I put the final pancake on the stack and set it down in the middle of the table.

Chest puffed out, I clap my hands. “Dig in.”

Like yesterday, Jaebeom insists on doing the dishes while I settle down for the night. However, whereas I gladly did before, I now do with an uneasy mind. Arms wrapped around my knees, my thoughts run down a familiar dark path.

I ate too much. Maybe I should go home and do a workout. Then again, I really don’t want to even though I have to.

“Y/N?” The faint though surprising mention of my name breaks the imaginary stones weighing down my shoulders. I snap my head to the side, almost headbutting the wolf man who has appeared at my side. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lips pulled into a wistful smile, I scratch him under the chin in hopes of distracting him to the degree he won’t be able to ask further questions. “I’m tired, that's all.”

Unfortunately, Jaebeom is like a guardian who somehow notices a lot despite his absent-minded demeanour. Henceforth, the topic is all but abandoned.

Without warning, and as effortless as if he were picking up a book, he lifts me up from the couch to hold me in his arms. Instinctively, I clutch his loose black shirt to have a grip of something in case I fall. It’s an ungrounded fear since his arms are sturdy, but it’s comforting nonetheless to have something to hold on to.

My haphazard action elicits a low chuckle that makes my heart skip a beat, although it almost thumps out of my chest again as he rests his forehead against mine. “Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” I sputter, chest tight and no breath sufficient enough to lift the sensation. “Besides, I- I don’t have any fresh change of clothes or toiletries or a pyjama.”

Did he turn the central heating up?

“Doesn’t matter. Can borrow. You. No, that’s not right. You… you can. You can borrow clothes from me. Also, I think I have a spare toothbrush somewhere around here.”

“Jay,’’ As best I can, I try to keep my tone steady though the words come out too fast and uneven regardless, ‘’I think I should go home.”

If I don’t and I won’t get in some more exercise, I’ll gain weight and slowly go back to how I was.

And I’ll lose him.

Back to square one.

Loveless.

Despite the effort, I can’t prevent the crack in my voice as I weakly tug at his shirt. ‘’Let me go.’’

“No.’’ The gentle kindness has malformed into rough sternness, translated in a sound similar to a growl. ‘’You need to calm down.”

“I am calm!” I retort, more ferocious and sharper than intended though the equal harshness might help to drive the point home.

For a split second, he snarls and bares his teeth. Simultaneously, a flicker of a second personality passes across his mismatched eyes.

The calm ocean warps into a watery grave with high waves on a stormy night.

The hazelnut cracks to set that which it contains free.

His lashes abruptly flutter shut, as he lets out a pained gasp. Beneath my fingertips, his chest caves as if an imaginary fist has dealt him a blow in the guts.

And in mine as well.

Rippling flesh.

There’s… there’s no… Jay, what is happening to you?

I hold on tighter to the fabric, hyperventilating while trying to refrain from bursting out in tears.

There has to be something I can do! But what? What do I do? How can I make this stop?

How do I get you back?

Withal, shivering lips parted to beg for guidance, are interrupted by a shake of the head hanging low. Slowly, Jaebeom looks up, a light layer of sweat on his skin. Our gazes lock, but whereas the wolf man’s was filled with savage chaos, it’s now returned to the stern tranquility it held before the attack. Nonetheless, an uncomprehending whimper betrays the fact that whatever happened wasn’t experienced consciously.

The rage was beyond him.

Outside him.

Another’s.

Still breathless, he scoffs, the sound gruff and overtly disagreeing. “Let’s watch the moon and stars.”

There is no chance to ask any questions about the swift changes in demeanour since he promptly moves to the hallway and up the stairs towards his bedroom. The bedframe of the two-person bed also functions as a bookshelf which takes up the entire right wall, the shelves stacked with second-hand paperbacks in various conditions. An empty picture frame is placed on his side of the bed, a pair of glasses next to it.

Jaebeom puts me down on the navy wool blanket on the edge of the bed and leans in to steal a kiss, which is easy to do considering I’m too shaken to offer any protest. Nor do I feel the comfort of his lips. “Take your clothes off. I’ll go find you pyjamas.”

A tad reluctant, mind occupied by guilt and terror, I start to undress as he rummages through the wardrobe on the other end of the room.

Left only in my underwear, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Although he’s seen me naked once, I still wrap my arms around myself to hide my body. A shield to protect a fragile ego housed in equally as vulnerable body flesh.

Afraid of what might happen when those ripples grow out of control.

Terrified of who he will become.

Of who he is.

“Don’t.” Jaebeom turns around with a black hoodie and grey sweatpants in his hands, eyebrows drawn together. He closes the drawer, throws the clothes on the bed, kneels, and firmly yet gently grabs my wrists to break the walls I put up. And I let him. “Don’t hide from me.”

Not understanding where the shame originates from, he grows still as he scrutinizes my face for clues. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Instead of giving an answer, I change into the makeshift pyjamas. The hoodie is oversized yet comfortably baggy while the sweatpants hang disconcertingly low on my hips. Fortunately, any skin it reveals is covered up by the top.

Continuing to avoid his gaze without saying a word, I crawl under the sheets. Face turned to the window, I pull up the blanket he drapes over me and bury my nose in it.

A wild forest and cologne with a musty hint of pages.

It’s undeniably him.

I don’t know what else to do or say. So, I let the silence speak for itself.

A language he is fluent in too despite his oftentimes loud demeanour.

The mattress dips under his weight when he lies down and rearranges the sheets to cover us both. An arm wrapped around my waist and legs tangled, Jaebeom pulls me flush against him, his chest warm against my back.

A sob rises in my throat when I feel his lips place a kiss on my crown with a sigh of contentment.

I don’t deserve this.

Us.

Him.

The fear of losing him to whatever is happening inside.

Then again, Life isn’t fair. It deals everyone the same awful hand and leaves it up to the player to make the best of it.

I guess we’re both dealt a crappier hand than others. That, or we play them wrong.

Can we win at all?

“Talk to me.” As loving and happy as the casual intimacy of the embrace is, as forgetful it could make me if only I’d manage to fall asleep, Jaebeom’s oddly sweet cooing keeps me awake.

Staring at the moon.

A woman as fickle as me.

And infinitely more beautiful.

Funny how I, too, am jealous of a celestial body.

In love with the heavens.

He continues when he notices I won’t be the one to break the silence, his intonation laced by a whiny undertone like a dog wanting something yet being denied what it wants. “You know what I’m dealing with. But...” he digs his fingers deeper into my hips, the grip iron-like without being painful, “I hope this is okay to ask, but what is it with you and food?”

The encouraging squeeze in my side almost has me bursting out in tears again. There has to be a price to pay somewhere in the shadows, the overwhelming sensation of being genuinely loved and protected must turn out to be as two-sided as the silver goddess in the sky. After all, Life is bittersweet.

“It’s only fair I tell you.” Especially after how open he’s been. Besides, there’s no opportunity to avoid the topic since we’d arrive at it sooner or later. And he deserves to know. In fact, I don’t want him to forget my brokenness the moment I tell him about it.

We both want each other to remember our own missing pieces.

So I sigh, turn over and bald my hands into fists to rest against the warm skin of his bare chest. As I speak up, I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I used to be quite a fat kid, to the degree the GP advised my parents to put me on a diet. Queue high school and social pressure which led me to perhaps work out more than is healthy and left me bordering on the edge of anorexia. There are still foods I won’t eat and days I’ll worry about my calorie intake, especially on the days I don’t work out.”

I can’t help the mirthless chuckle which turns into a rueful smile. “It’s the good old cliché. Just another soul broken for the shallow enjoyment and acceptance of others.”

Lips pulled into a stern line, the wolf man remains silent. Notwithstanding, his eyes speak volumes when I dare to look up at him, the ocean and hazelwood alight with a watery sheen. Perhaps it’s the comfort of his nearness or the familiarity of those one of a kind eyes, but he inspires a confession which I never thought I’d make. “Nevertheless, I’m getting better and it’s partially thanks to you.”

Morgan spamming me with ‘Have you eaten?’ texts and Bam making sure I finish my plate whenever we go out for food either here or abroad help a lot too. Nonetheless, it’s mostly the bookish wolf who makes me want to try.

And be a little better than before.

“What do they feel like, those days?”

“The bad ones?” Jaebeom nods. “They’re ridden with guilt and self-loathing.”

He leans in, leaving only a few centimetres of distance between our faces. His breath is warm on my skin as he bumps his nose against mine. “You’re feeling that way now.”

“I am.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re still you. Beautiful as always. And I’ll love you regardless of how you look. I like your mind, which is as weird as mine. The way you hold my hand, as if you’re afraid I’ll walk away. How you unconsciously squeeze it when you need my protection more. How you feel in my arms, soft and warm as a bunny.” He hooks his finger under my chin and tilts it upward to run his tongue over my lips and nose. “Love you. A lot.”

“I love you too.” I turn my head to nuzzle his palm, my face perfectly fitting into it.

Please, no ripples. Let us have this moment. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Let me have him, just him as he is. At least tonight.

The secure affection of the touch transforms into something else when he glides the back of his hand over my cheek and folds his fingers over my throat. Testing the waters, eyes boring into mine to stop at the slightest sign of discomfort, he slowly closes off my access to air.

It’s funny how the body and mind react to certain situations. Whereas I normally would flinch and run in the direction of safety, there is no urge to run. In fact, the tingling in my chest travels down to rekindle a familiar heat between my thighs while my adrenaline-infused system aches for the wolfish lover. Henceforth, instead of jumping up from the bed, I spread my legs so Jaebeom can comfortably nestle between them.

“Let me prove it. Let me mate you.” The calloused fingertip journeying across the collarbone to the crook of the neck sends a pleasant shiver down the spine. Another electric shock follows at the coarse prickly sensation of his moustache rubbing against my skin as his soft lips kisses and nips at it. “It will only sting a bit, I promise. Please, the mark will look pretty.”

“No biting, Jay.” Reminded of our agreement this morning and the movement beneath his skin when his emotions seem to get the better of him, I pull him against my chest. Before he can protest I scratch his jaw exactly in the way he likes it, thus subduing his great ability to argue. “Not today.”

“It’s not... hm, k- keep go- What do- Bit higher. There. Like, hm, mhm, there. But... what normal-’’ Arms wrapped around my waist again and letting out a content hum, dark lashes flutter shut. For a moment, it seems he’s fallen asleep. However, his drowsy murmurs, while growing incomprehensible, still haven’t finished. “It’s not what couples do.”

“You’re learning,” I giggle, amused by the remark which sounds like a student recalling a piece of knowledge during a test and repeating it for himself.

Without understanding the knowledge completely. “What do they do?”

Staring at the ceiling, I run my fingers through his long dark manes as I try to come up with ideas about what we can do next. “Well, you’ve already given me your clothes. We could try jewelry next, maybe a promise ring. It’s an old-fashioned idea, but people who are promised to each other wear matching rings.

‘’What mean? Promised?’’

I say nothing of the faulty grammar of his question. After all, speaking becomes harder once exhaustion overtakes the body and mind. I have yet to find a sleeper being able to form comprehensible sentences. ‘’They’re sort of similar to engagement rings, but without the immediate implication of getting married soon.”

“Let’s get en- enga- enge-’’ Jaebeom lets out a groan, frustrated by his lack of speech. Nevertheless, it doesn’t perturb him enough to completely give up on the effort to properly pronounce the word he’s struggling with. “En. Gage. Ment. Engagement rings instead.”

I let out a breathless chuckle, amused both by his determination and the absurd proposal. “It’s definitely too early for that.”

“It’s not!” He barks, shooting up with a pinched expression on his face.

Scratching him like before, I manage to calm him down enough to make him lie down on my chest again. Nonetheless, his discontent shines through in the gruff scoff he lets out. “It is.”

“What if...” Prompted by the idea in his mind, Jay scrambles upright to face me once more. Lips parted, the feral sharpness in his mismatched eyes is replaced by a twinkle of barely contained excitement. However, the enthusiasm dims with a shake of the head and a low self-deprecating chuckle that ignites my curiosity. At the same time, it also tugs at the strings of my heart. “No, it’s wrong of me to ask.”

“What is?”

What were you about to say? Don’t keep it to yourself. Tell me!

“Never mind.” He lies down again, nuzzling my breasts as he snuggles up into me.

Then, he slips his hand under mine to lift and compare it to his. “Cute paw.”

Fine. Keep your secrets, you big burly bastard.

“Go to sleep.” I push him off of me, earning myself a disappointed noise which resembles a yelp. “On the other side of the bed, please and thank you.”

In the days that follow, the movement like water set astir under his skin continues to haunt my mind. In fact, it does to the extent that even the keys beneath my fingers seem to flow rather than be pushed down, causing me to flinch for the third time in a row.

For the past hour I’ve been trying to type out the notes on an interview with a chocolatier in Bruges and compose them into a coherent article. An otherwise simple task my mind won’t allow me to complete despite the attempts to remember the good moments we had recently. The video calls right before bed, the cuddle session a few days ago when we gazed at the moon, his enthusiastic texts about and photos of new recipes Jaebeom tried. None of it prevents the likely imagined terrible from destroying our happiness.

I’m going insane. He’s a normal person. Somewhat. I was jet-lagged and therefore not thinking clearly.

That’s why I thought I felt his skin move. I was delusional.

Drunk on him.

A buzz pulls me out of my reverie, the screen of my phone lighting up with a message.

Morgan: Starving! Found a new café thanks to a friend.

Y/N: Let me guess. I have no choice but to come along.

Morgan: There wasn’t a choice to begin with :)

Y/N: Of course not. What am I talking about, eh? See you in five.

Chuckling at the woman’s classic brashness, I shake my head, pack my belongings and head to the elevators.

Outside, regardless of the November chill, it’s pleasant. The sun shines brightly and the wind blows the little bundles of fallen leaves at the roots of the birch trees lining the street into motion, scattering them over the neatly swept pavement.

Winter is around the corner. God, I hate the cold. Hopefully, there won’t be snow any time soon.

I sit down on the bench under one of the birch trees, its branches already bare.

Autumn is truly ending now. Shame. I haven’t even had a pumpkin spice latte and cinnamon roll yet. Maybe I should ask Jay out and find a nice coffee shop where we can get them. After all, if he’s there, we can share the pastry. He’ll be happy and I won’t have to eat the whole thing. A win-win situation.

Enjoying watching the people pass by, each stranger essentially a book with a unique story that is yet not entirely different from someone else’s. Withal, the world feels colder without him, the missing part embodied in the unoccupied spot next to mine.

A delighted sigh on the right makes me snap my head around, alarmed at the notion someone has appeared out of the blue on the empty seat.

A woman clad in a white suit and matching fur-lined coat with pale skin and brown hair glowing copper in direct light stares contentedly up at the clouds. She’s in her very early twenties, although the freckles dusting her cheekbones and rosy cheeks might simply make her look younger than she is.

For a moment, taken aback and speechless, I cannot help but blatantly gape at the otherworldly stranger.

Wow, she’s like a goddess.

A stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach as a dark thought intrudes my mind. My throat dried up, I twist my wrists, the muscles stiff beneath my fingers.

Would Jaebeom like her? If he saw her on the street, would he... would he stop and stare? Prefer her over me or even try and give it a shot by introducing himself?

“It’s a bit chillier than I’d like, but at least it’s better than rain or snow.” The woman turns to face me, her features soft. “I hope spring will come again soon, though.”

I don’t get the chance to respond because a familiar voice calls out. Not that I would be able to form a proper reply otherwise. “You’re here already?”

“I happened to be nearby,” the stranger turns away to answer as Morgan comes to a halt in front of us, a puzzled expression on her face.

“I texted you fifteen minutes ago and you said you had to clean up. I thought you’d join us later.”

“The birth and after birth went faster than I thought so here I am.”

“I’m sorry, but what is going on?” More than a little lost, I look from one to the other in hopes of being given an explanation. “I didn’t know we’d head out with the three of us.”

“Right, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Brigid.” The dark-haired woman holds out her pale hand in greeting. “I work at the hospital as an obstetrician.”

“I’m Y/N,’’ I reply, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Lass,” wonder turned to a darker version of itself yet not saying anything, Morgan shifts her attention to me, “you look famished. Come on, let’s go.”

Offering a few muttered words of agreement, I get up and sheepishly tag along with the other women. As we walk out the street and round a corner, following the signs leading to the artist district nearby the university, I’m occasionally tempted to join the conversation. However, as soon as a short silence falls, I don’t chip in, unsure how to contribute to the small talk they seem to deliberately keep up in order to avoid a topic neither is keen to discuss. Thus I walk in urban loneliness, my train of thought displaced on my face as I let the ghosts of Jaebeom’s skin freely haunt my mind.

Right before the descent into the darkness of the rabbit hole, strong long fingers wrap around my wrist and hold it in an iron grip. The slightly painful squeeze interrupts my reverie.

Jaebeom?

I snap my head to the side to find Morgan standing there, leaning in a bit and her voice low. “We’re here.”

I don’t know how I’ve managed to ignore the bustle of students looking for a free spot on one of the terraces and loud conversations accompanied by the rustle of the paper bags hailing from the shops owned by self-employed artists. It’s also miraculous that I haven’t bumped into anyone by accident.

“Oh,” is all I say, looking at the café we’ve stopped in front of.

Wolf’s is spelled out in a modern font on the sign outside and above the door. A big window provides visitors with a view of the plaza. The interior is simple yet cosy, the white furniture warmed up by oak accents and the bare walls decorated with various art pieces, centered around wolves and various flowers. By the looks of it, they were all made by a single artist who likes to experiment with style every now and then. A few plants are dotted around the place as well to add a hint of free nature to the underlying strangely forest-like aesthetic.

A tall broad-shouldered man with short curly chocolate brown hair partially covering up the scar running over his left eye, strong dark eyebrows and a big koala-like nose stands behind the counter. Both of his arms and hands are decorated with various intricately designed tattoos. Whereas Jay is muscled yet lean, the tanned barista looks like a man who knows how to fight yet is a warrior in a society without combat.

As soon as we walk in, his lifts his head and turns to us. Playful lights illuminate the milky white of his left and raven dark of his right eye. A meadow of snow, its glimmer reflecting off of the smooth feathers of a wise bird. “Hi, welcome. Brigid, long time no see.”

Nobody seems to notice it, but his female colleague, a short woman with long flowy caramel brown hair tied into a ponytail who has her back turned to us and is busy extracting a shot, cringes at the merry mention of the woman’s name. Slowly, she steals a glance at us, hazel eyes sharpening when they fall on the woman in white. Nevertheless, she remains silent and quickly returns her attention to preparing someone’s coffee.

Looks like I’m not the only one envying her.

It is wrong to hate a woman for her beauty. Nonetheless, although it’s shameful, part of me refuses to associate with Morgan’s acquaintance out of a toxic mixture of spite and jealousy.

Such is the female nightmare.

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Brigid muses, nodding appreciatively while inspecting the coffee shop. “You’ve got a nice thing going on here, Rome.”

“Please don’t call me that anymore. It’s Christian now. Chris or Ian for short.’’ Muscled arms crossed, he grimaces and shakes his head while looking down. Notwithstanding, the stern attitude melts into casual friendliness as a bright smile forms on his lips. ‘’But I do, don’t I? However, it’s not just me running the place. I’ve had some help.”

He turns around and motions for his colleague to come over. For a second she doesn’t move, darting glances to each of us like an alarmed cat checking for danger. Notwithstanding, though clearly tense, she warily approaches and halts at the man’s side.

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head when Christian places a hand on her shoulder. “In fact, Gráinne here still helps me out every day. She’s basically the second owner.”

“I- I’m not,” she sputters in a soft Ulster accent, fumbling with her fingers and her cheeks flushed, “I just work here some days.”

“You’re a bit more than a colleague,” her co-worker remarks, shoulders lowered and his tone holding more affection than would be the case when talking to a friend. A warm glow seems to form around him, ignited by the fondness he harbours for her.

Funny, Jaebeom wears that same expression when he’s with me.

“I’m not.” Gráinne stiffens, each word dripping with venom as she steps away, grabs a serving tray and puts the order she was preparing before being called over on it. “Get back to work.”

Lips parted, Ian watches her as she moves past us as fast and agile like a hunting cat without any further acknowledgement of our presence. I hadn’t noticed before, but beneath her apron, she is dressed in clothes reminiscent of the Victorian era. “I know she can be harsh and isn’t easy to get along with, but I’ve never seen her act like this.”

“Och, let it pass. She has every right to be pissed with you since you put her on the spot like that,” Morgan jokes though nobody goes along with it.

She likes him yet doesn’t see it’s mutual. Should I say something? Then again, this is their business, not mine. Furthermore, why would they believe me, a stranger?

So I remain silent.

And leave this to blossom however it is meant to in Fate’s hands.

The icy glare Gráinne gives Brigid behind her back sends a chill down my spine. Evidently, she is a woman not cross paths with once angered. Withal, as the fair beauty looks over her shoulder, the other woman restores her professional composure.

“You okay?” Christian asks as he watches her retreat into the kitchen, done serving for now.

“I’m fine,” she says thickly, the next breath hitching in her throat. Her focus shifts to the moon-shaped amethyst pendant around his neck. The ghost of a rueful smile forms on her lips, but it fades as fast as it appeared. “It’s not like I’m having a vision or something. Help them.”

She waves her hand dismissively when he doesn’t move, lips parted to say something yet at a loss for words. Notwithstanding, although I can’t see his expression clearly, it’s evident her feigned nonchalance is hurting him. “Go on.”

He clears his throat and forces himself into a rigid posture, frowning as he shifts his attention back to us. Finger hovering over the tablet functioning as a till, he stares at the display with an empty and distant gaze, which is as dull as the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “What can I get you?”

We place our order and settle down at the table by the window, neither of us offering a word of solace or dedicated to his colleague’s behaviour.

After a while, Christian comes up to us to serve the food and beverages. As he puts the plates with our sandwiches down, he and Brigid exchange looks like siblings telepathically conversing. Whatever it is they mentally discussed, it only leaves the barista a slight bit less worried though the grave expression plaguing him remains as he returns to the counter.

An expression which must be similar to mine since it prompts Morgan to speak up regardless of having her teeth sunk into sourdough bread, looking equally as somber. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and stir my cappuccino with the vintage silver spoon next to the porcelain cup, smiling at my own silly assumptions of what happened now four days ago. “Everything’s fine.”

“Except it’s not.” The raven-haired woman cocks an eyebrow, far from willing to dismiss my worries. “Now tell me. Or, well, us.”

“It’s something to do with your lover, isn’t it?” Brigid remarks, head tilted to the side as she assesses me while sipping at her Irish Breakfast Tea. Her features soften when she notices she has hit a sensitive snare, evidently meaning no harm.

I pull back in my seat as I take a sip of my coffee, flustered and cursing myself for being an open book. There is no way out of this conversation since the current company is like-minded in their refusal to simply let the topic pass before it has been discussed.

I swallow, put the cup on the dish again and clear my throat. Fumbling with the spoon and eyes cast on the cappuccino’s silky milk foam, I tell them of what I think happened. The story sounds strange to my own ears, like a terrible fairy tale told by a chaotic storyteller who can’t tell it in a manner that makes sense regardless of how he manipulates the plot.

Afraid of their reaction, unable to fathom the slightest bit of sympathy and empathy, I look from one to the other. Fortunately, my silence can be excused by drinking the remainder of the coffee although it’s futile since the thirst has nothing to do with bodily needs.

“Sounds familiar.” The woman in white scrunches her nose in disgust as she glares at Morgan.

“He was different,” Morgan sneers through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.

“In essence, he was similar to her lover.’’ Brigid points at me though she remains focused on my best friend, her voice dripping with venom. ‘’Or should I say, is similar?”

“Since when does it matter what he is?” Thin lips painted plum purple curl into a mirthless smile, onyx locks shaking in discontent. “How hypocritical you’ve become. Forgetful of the past.”

“A past worth forgetting. It’s never too late to change your political opinions, Morgan.”

Great, now I’m the one to open Pandora’s box. I should have kept my mouth shut, changed the topic.

Desperate for help yet knowing he cannot do anything, I look for Christian among the other customers. Expression stern and standing as rigid as a statue, he watches our table from behind the counter. It appears he, too, feels the sense of danger increasing as the conversation carries on. Notwithstanding, as becomes clear from the apologetic shake of the head when our eyes meet, he also knows his hands are tied at the moment.

We are on the same boat, waiting to see how the situation will develop.

Playthings of Chance and Fate.

“We’re not here to talk politics,’’ the woman in question answers, covering her mouth with her hands while chewing on a bite of goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, ‘’but to have lunch like civilized and amiable women. To help our friend.”

“You’re right,” Brigid concludes. Nonchalantly, she pierces a piece of egg in her salmon salad and puts its on the bread provided with it, a bread called St Michael’s Bannock according to the menu. Then, she points her fork at me. “But the best thing you can do is leave him while you still can.”

“L- Leave?” Utterly confused, I look at the woman calmly eating her lunch. “Why would I do that?”

Who is she? What’s more, who is she to tell me to leave Jaebeom after what I told her? He needs help and support, regardless of what may or may not be there beneath his skin.

Unless she is on to something I am not and judging by the current circumstances, I won’t get an answer even if I dare to ask. Henceforth, if only not to snap, I clear my throat and swallow the vile words dancing on the tip of my tongue.

“Morgan can tell you why. All I can say is that it’s better to avoid men like your lover in the first place.” She coughs and takes a sip of tea to wash down the salad leaf stuck in her throat while the woman with hair as black as night chuckles darkly. Luckily, it is only loud enough for me to hear and Brigid is too busy preventing herself from choking.

“Sétan-, I- I mean Seán was the one to leave me, not the other way around. And we mutually agreed to part ways in favour of our own well-being.”

“Sure you did. Totally didn’t resort to throwing plates and other pieces of furniture because he rejected you.”

Morgan growls something under her breath, glaring at the woman seated next to me. However, Brigid doesn’t seem to notice the reaction she has provoked or is indifferent to it. “Or washed clothes at the ford where he so ‘happened’ to pass by. Funny how he died soon after.”

Ford? There are quite a few in Ireland, so where and most importantly, when was this? Then again, what are these two on about? Washing clothes in a ford, people dying, politics, lovers to leave. They’re like arguing voices from ancient times.

Moreover, there is the question of Seán’s life. Is he alive or dead? One moment she speaks of him as if he’s still here, but then why would Brigid remark he’s dead?

“You shut your whoremouth, traitor!” With a loud bang, Morgan slams her fists on the table. She stands up with an expression that makes me cower in fear despite not being the target of her wrath.

Behind the counter, Christian slowly comes into motion, carefully moving with the likely intent to inconspicuously circle our table and jump in if necessary. He flinches as Gráinne places a hand on his arm, holding him hard enough for her knuckles to turn white when he tries to escape from her grip in order to prevent the worst from happening. Notwithstanding, whatever the plan was, it goes to waste since he decides to listen to what his colleague tells him. Sighing deeply, he stands down although he continues to observe us.

Gráinne follows his gaze, which seems to be directed at the brown-haired woman in white, her personal target of envy. Her wolfishly fierce expression falters, growing as bleak as the ash of a great bonfire.

This time he doesn’t see how she comes apart at the seams.

Brigid calmly finishes her tea, daps her mouth on the napkin and stands up too. “Get over your crush. There’s no future for you with him. As for you, Y/N,” eyes oddly alight with motherly affection, she turns her attention to me, “and as a piece of advice from a friend, end this relationship while you still can. There’s only heartbreak ahead.”

“Thank you, but,” a wistful smile forms on my lips regardless of the urge to give into the savage nagging inside, “I can’t leave him because I made a promise to stay.”

“I see. Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong and the flowers will bloom in spring.”

And with those final cryptic words, she leaves the café after waving at the tattooed barista.

Or so Brigid intends, but her way is cut off by his colleague.

While clumsily taking off her apron she storms outside, clenching it hard and shivering as if she’s on the brink of tears.

“Gráinne? Gráinne!” Christian runs after his colleague, pale and eyes wide with worry as he comes to a halt in the doorway. “Where are you going? Gráinne!”

Brigid places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a consoling squeeze. After giving him an encouraging slap on the back she sets off, leaving the man standing there like a defeated soldier.

“Poor lass,” Morgan whispers as she watches the female barista pass the window. Something in her tone hints at a level of familiarity between the two.

“You know her?” I ask, frowning.

“I don’t think she remembers me.” She glances at Chris, who has retreated behind the counter. He has his head bowed, smooth black locks hiding his face from the customers. Trembling fingers entwined to conceal his distress as best as possible, he resembles a man of religion fervently praying for forgiveness. “And neither does he. I saw him and his close friend, Finn, once in the woods. No, it was his brother, Jor… was it? When he came to the island. Was that… who was that?’’

A mist clouds her ocean blue eyes, lost in thoughts far removed from this world and time. ‘’He was there. As for Gráinne, we met… somewhere. There was smoke, a burning body. It was- It was at… where? Fuck, I can’t recall. I think it was at his fu-’’ she abruptly cuts herself short to correct herself with a strange undertone in her voice, “not long after I... saw them.”

‘’Morgan, are you alright? You’re looking awfully pale.’’

Instead of breaking free from the spell that has taken hold of her, the reverie only seems to deepen. Rocking side to side, she clutches her arms to her chest. Her skin, although naturally pale, grows sickly like a walking corpse.

‘’I- I’m supposed to remember. I’m one of the few that do. No, he and I are the only ones left that do. I can’t forget. If I do, everyone will. I can’t… I can’t!’’

‘’Morgan!’’ I stand up from my seat to rush to her side. Rubbing her arms, I try with all my might to bring her back to reality from the depths of deliria. ‘’It’s all right, Morgan, nobody is going to forget. Please listen to me and follow my voice, use it as a guide back to me from wherever it is you are. Please, come back to me.’’

‘’May I?’’ Christian has appeared with a glass of water, which he sets on the table before crouching down at the woman’s side as well.

Gently he grabs one of her hands and holds it, talking in a voice that is surprisingly steady and soothing in spite of what happened mere moments ago. It’s rougher and more gruff, making it hard to distinguish one word from another if you are not well-acquainted with the speaker.

In fact, it belongs to a completely different person. ‘’Morgan, as long as there are people who remember, there is nothing to fear. The past has taught us that what might seem like the end isn’t necessarily truly the end. We are still here. We remember because you do and you remember because we do. You’re safe and sound. Instead, return and help me make her remember.’’

‘’Why, of everyone, did you have to fall for her?’’ Gaze blinded by her mind, Morgan reaches out to tenderly run her fingers through the barista’s hair. ‘’What makes her special?’’

‘’She understands.’’ A similar fog veils the misty white and dark eyes, Chris or, rather, the stranger pulled into the same realm of consciousness as my friend. ‘’She broke the chains that bound me and doesn’t allow me to slip into the shadows of what I once was.’’

‘’You’re all the same, aren’t you?’’

‘’It’s rare to find understanding and acceptance in a world naturally turned against you. So, please help me. Help me find her.’’ His voice breaks, the begging words coming out high-pitched like a whining wolf. ‘’Help me find my reason to stay in this world and not forget nor be forgotten.’’

The veil lifts, the spell broken with the whimpered plea.

Christian falls back, but manages to catch himself before his head hits the tiles. Refusing every helping hand from the customers hurrying over, he scrambles to his feet. Fortunately, he accepts the chair I offer him when his dangerous swaying almost causes him to hit his head against the wall.

‘’Are you okay?’’

‘’Yeah, I’m only dizzy.’’ The hiss he lets out flows over into a sound akin to a growl. ‘’And a splitting headache.’’

Morgan has a better return to reality, completely fine aside from a dazed mind. ‘’What happened?’’

‘’You tell me.’’ I search her face for clues, a sliver of the knowledge she is lying. However, I find none.

She is telling the truth.

‘’I… I don’t know. It’s the first time.’’ She clears her throat, brow furrowed. As if having heard a noise, she snaps her head to the side. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Drink your tea, eat a sandwich and go home early from work.”

She hands the glass of water to Christian. ‘’And you, you drink this and stay seated for at least five more minutes until the dizziness has faded. Are you nauseous?’’

‘’No. Although,’’ he dry heaves, ‘’never mind.’’

‘’Make it ten. You look as pale as a banshee.’’

‘’Speak for yourself.’’

‘’You’d make a pretty one, though,’’ Morgan muses when she returns her attention to me. ‘’Beauty makes suffering leading to death easier.’’

Apparently, her return to reality has left her as mad as a hatter so perhaps it wasn’t as good as I initially thought.

“Why on earth would you say that? Besides, what kind of comparison is that, us and a banshee?”

“One based on truth. Now,” she shoves the remainder of her goat cheese and pomegranate sandwich to me, “eat, rest up and get cracking again. We’ll be in touch and visit the new café I found yesterday later, alright?”

“Hey, not so fast. Where are you headed off to?’’

She can’t be serious. There is no way she is unaffected by what happened.

“Attagirl,’’ Morgan says as if I promised to heed her words, ignoring what I actually said. ‘’By the way, ignore what Brigid said and stay with your man. It’s plain to see how he makes you feel.”

“It is?”

“You’re glowing and you come alive when you speak of him. It reminds me of how I was with Seán.” She starts as if awakened from a dream, but tries to hide her awkwardness behind a sheepish smile. “Well, then, take care.”

“You too.’’ The two simple words, otherwise casual, are now carefully chosen in order to not to trigger another ‘attack’.

My gut tight and skin prickling thanks to her inhuman behaviour, I watch the raven-haired woman leave. I hold my wrist, my pulse too rapid to be healthy beneath my thumb.

Like I am at death’s door.

The next morning, there’s an article in the newspaper. A man’s been found dead at the edge of the bogs near town. The cause of his demise is unknown, but there are witness accounts who said they heard a high screech late the night before. In the days that follow, their names show up one by one in funerary advertisements.

A week later, none of the witnesses are alive. Moreover, nobody has heard the screeching since, though everyone remembers the description of the sound.

It was like the howl of a banshee.

#JB #Jaebeom #Im Jaebeom #GOT7 #GOT7 smut #Jaebeom fanfiction #GOT7 Werewolf AU #GOT7 x Reader #Jaebeom x Reader #Jaebeom smut #Werewolf!Jaebeom #Werewolf AU #Werewolf!JB #Not by the Moon

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shih-coulda-had-it · 3 years

Note

193 for... maybe nanahiko? Really just do whatever ship you feel like :D

193. "Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!" | VestigesTorino [Yes. OT8. The orgies are fantastic, and Torino is Holder bait, 8th and 9th exempt.] | WC: 2,222 of an OFA!VampireCoven!AU except op has taken liberties with worldbuilding.

TW: Blood-drinking. Outrageous flirting. Mildly spicy!

“Vampires,” Sorahiko echoes blankly.

He looks from left to right, trying to spot the differences between himself and the six adult men and one adult woman sitting at this round table. Most atypical appearances can be attributed to the strange and wondrous natures of Quirks, so Sorahiko could excuse the fourteen red eyes (every iris the identical shade) as a matter of Quirk heritage. However, none of the Shigarakis resemble the other.

They still might be pulling his leg.

The leader of the household (presumably) leans his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. “Torino-san,” he says in a gentle voice, “we greatly appreciate your timely rescue of our youngest. And believe me when I say I would have preferred you stay ignorant of my coven’s true nature.”

“But the boy wants to be a professional hero,” one of the men interrupts. His arms are crossed, and his hair sticks up in rakish angles. An X-shaped scar has been carved over the bridge of his nose, just missing the eyes.

He sounds dismissive of the kid’s dream.

Fair. When Sorahiko had stepped onto the moonlit scene, the kid was frantically scrabbling at a thick-skinned villain’s hand, trying to save his bag from being rummaged. The villain had planted a knee in the kid’s stomach in an attempt to menace him into silence.

Sorahiko pounced on the villain, called in the location to pick up the too-heavy bastard, and escorted the boy home. He fielded questions about heroics and U.A. High for half an hour before they finally reached the Shigaraki compound.

And now he is here, trapped in a gigantic dining room, being told about vampires.

“We agreed to let him try,” says the singular woman sharply.

“If you three hadn’t filled his head about saving the world,” a man with a spiky ponytail shoots back, “then we wouldn’t have this problem. And you too, Yoichi.”

“Nevertheless,” the leader says. His red eyes gleam in the low light, and Sorahiko feels his skin prickling at the attention.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Ah, who hasn’t heard of the toughest teacher of U.A.?” another man asks, sly and teasing. His voice is soft like the leader’s, but perceptibly younger. His coloring is similar to the woman’s, but he’s lean where she’s muscular. “Yoichi believes we should give you a head’s up. Toshinori is a good child, but even he will slip from time to time, and that will draw undue attention to himself.”

Sorahiko considers these seven faces. Slowly, he says, “You think he’ll be accepted into U.A.”

“Three of us are active pro-heroes, and we’ve been training him when we can,” the woman informs him. “I’d say he’s got a headstart compared to all of your first years.”

“My students have always been terrible. That’s what schooling is for.”

She flashes a smile at him, toothy and amused; his throat works through a sudden dry spell. Belatedly, Sorahiko realizes that every adult in this kitchen is eyeing him with intense interest. Even the ones that haven’t spoken yet.

Yoichi speaks again. “He’s smart, and he’ll be strong. U.A. will accept him. I ask you for your discretion and help, Gran Torino.”

He could refuse, but Sorahiko assumes they’ll simply kill him. Being blackmailed is a low possibility; Sorahiko doesn’t have much to be blackmailed about. And pro-heroes disappear all the time. No one really knows why. Principal Shi might demand an investigation on Gran Torino’s behalf (and possibly at the behest of Recovery Girl, who grudgingly acknowledges Torino’s efforts to raise the survival rate of U.A.’s graduates), but otherwise…

Still. Vampires. Another subset of humanity, among the Quirked and Quirkless. It’s weird enough to be true.

“Is this a verbal agreement?” Sorahiko asks.

A bark of laughter from the square-jawed man in the leather jacket, who leans forward and grins like a shark at Sorahiko. The light glints off the yellow lenses of his goggles, and the play of light and shadow highlights the muscle definition of the man’s shirtless chest. In a rich, low voice, he says, “We’ve got something better. A contract.”

“Using what?” Sorahiko bites back. “Paper and ink?”

“Skin and teeth, teach’.”

“Daigoro’s correct,” says Yoichi mildly, snatching Sorahiko’s attention away. “Torino-san, allow me to introduce my coven. I am Shigaraki Yoichi, second of my line. In the order of which my coven grew: Kenzo, Sanjuro, Hikage, Daigoro, En, Nana, and you’ve met our Toshinori.” As he speaks, he points to each person in turn.

He wonders when the kid got folded into this group. The kid’s affection for his home had been sincere, and he greeted the adults (well, Hikage had only come out of the forested grounds at Daigoro’s call) with merry cheer.

Is Toshinori even a vampire? U.A. conducts its business in the daytime.

Sorahiko nods in acknowledgement and doesn’t offer his full name in return. Instead, he says, “If I accept this contract, will you tell me whatever I want to know? About anything I ask?”

“Even vampires aren’t omniscient,” Yoichi answers.

Rolling his eyes, Sorahiko clarifies, “If the kid’s going to develop vampirism over the course of high school, then I need to know things. Like whether or not he’ll go feral over spilled blood. Or if sunlight’s going to be an issue.”

Yoichi’s smile is kind, and surprisingly not patronizing. “What we can tell, we will. The contract will have a mutual hold on us all.”

“What could break it?”

“A different coven, not that you should seek one out,” says Nana. “Trust us, we’re as nice as you get in the supernatural world.”

Sorahiko does not have many options. He hates the idea of agreeing to this without a safety net or a contingency plan. How can this woman ask him to trust them immediately? He’d have to be a gullible idiot, or a fool in lust, or...

He exhales. Sighing in resignation, Sorahiko tips his head to Yoichi and says, wry, “I accept the contract. Don’t kill me if your kid comes crying home about how mean I am.”

Yoichi shrugs, casual as anything. “Toshinori’s quite brave for his age, and stubborn, too. You’ll have your hands full training him.” He then stands from his chair; in measured, unhesitating steps, Yoichi approaches where Sorahiko sits at the opposite side of the round table. What he orders, Sorahiko complies with. “Take your cape off, Torino-san. Your gloves as well.”

“You may have to unzip the top half of your suit,” advises Hikage. “You won’t want the signatures to overlap.”

“Signatures,” Sorahiko repeats, pausing.

One glove’s already off. The flight suit’s sleeves extend up to his wrists, and they don’t have a lot of give. Similarly, the collar is skin-tight and provides ample coverage.

Daigoro playfully snaps his teeth at Sorahiko, once, twice. He says, “Paper and ink, skin and teeth. You forget already?”

The man barely flinches at the snarl directed his way. Seven pairs of eyes are honing in on the exposed flesh; Sorahiko shoves his self-conscious thoughts away. He focuses on the sheer outrage of being asked to strip by strangers, hissing, “Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!”

“I’ll make sure he stays in his room,” Nana volunteers. She winks at Sorahiko. “We’ll be quick, Torino-san. You just have to keep quiet.”

“You—!”

She slips from her chair and darts off, exiting the dining room and ascending the stairs, floating off the floor. Sorahiko glares after her but snaps to attention as Yoichi stops by his chair, hip resting against the table, red eyes expectant.

Grudgingly, Sorahiko works off the second glove. As he does, Yoichi continues to lecture.

“The signatures can be made in two ways. A lighter bite will result in less pain, but will fade sooner. And I’d like for this arrangement to stand for several years, Torino-san. A lighter bite necessitates more renewals. Possibly, seven bites every two weeks.”

“And a stronger bite?”

“Seven every month.”

He scowls at the thought. The only silver lining he can see is that his suit will cover the marks, which will save him from his colleagues’ gossiping tongues. “Monthly, then. Are you drinking my blood? I don’t think I’ve got enough to cover seven appetites.”

Yoichi offers him a gentle smile. “A mouthful will suffice.”

Sorahiko works his jaw, and then he reaches backwards for the hidden zipper. It’s incongruously loud in the dining room; Sorahiko feels his face burning as he hurriedly rips his arms free of the sausage casing sleeves, letting the slackening front of the suit crumple to his lap. He hears an appreciative whistle.

“Daigoro, he can give you a run for your money,” Sanjuro jokes.

“He’s softer,” Daigoro deems, and Sorahiko bristles. “Must be the suit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “And proper hydration, asshole.”

“I’m not complaining!”

“At ease,” says Yoichi, calm, and that’s when Nana makes her reappearance. She swings back into the dining room, expression confident and content, until she spies Sorahiko’s half-naked appearance.

“Are we going in order?” she questions Yoichi, even as her eyes are trained on Sorahiko’s.

“That’s how it works, Nana,” Kenzo answers for their leader. “How’s Toshinori?”

“Watching his martial arts dramas. We’re good for like, fifty minutes.”

“You said you’ll be quick,” Sorahiko rasps, and his hands are clenching into fists, anticipatory and anxious. This is all so incredibly weird. “You all need more than five minutes to bite me?”

Yoichi laughs. It’s a bright sound, attractive and human and not at all like something that should be coming out of a self-proclaimed bloodsucker. When Yoichi moves, pushing off the table, Sorahiko nervelessly allows himself to be pinned to the back of his chair. One hand cards through his hair and lightly tugs; the other hand settles at his shoulder and presses it down.

His throat is exposed. Though Yoichi bends close, Sorahiko knows it isn’t the jugular he’s aiming for.

“Torino-san will need a moment to recuperate,” Yoichi whispers, and Sorahiko shivers, swallows past the apprehension, and spends half a second regretting his decision to let this happen. Yoichi adds, “We will not harm you, and you will not harm us. Your help, in exchange for ours. Let it be so.”

Teeth sink into the join of Sorahiko’s neck and shoulder, sharp and surprisingly hot. Sorahiko chokes out a garbled sound and jerks in his seat, until Yoichi’s bite goes deeper, deeper, and then Sorahiko gasps. Adrenaline bursts to life in his system; his Quirk sputters a reflexive Jet through his boots, but Yoichi’s slender frame hides an unseen strength.

He holds Sorahiko down.

He draws blood from the wound. Sorahiko barely feels the drain, fixated he is on the pressure exerted against him. Every single one of them is going to have the capacity to do this. If Yoichi, whose frame is most similar to En’s, can keep Sorahiko from bolting—Sorahiko arches his back, an involuntary moan escaping him.

It feels good. It feels really, really good.

Yoichi hums against his skin, pleased as punch, and his teeth retract. Sorahiko feels the tongue lap over the mark, heavy with spit. As Yoichi rears back, Yoichi rolls his neck lazily, licking his lips like a cat full from its meal.

“The saliva is a coagulant,” he explains idly, watching Sorahiko slump back against the chair, lungs still stuttering. A faint sweat has broken across his forehead, and Sorahiko distantly suspects that he’s going to need all the time he can get before the kid grows bored of his dramas.

“Oh, he already looks wrecked,” En observes. His awed tone elicits a laugh and encouraging clap to his shoulder from Daigoro, the latter of which requires En to brace against.

“You think he’ll last seven bites?”

“To be fair,” Hikage says, “that is a common erogenous zone. We’ll focus on less stimulating areas.”

Sorahiko, somewhat nettled at the implication that he won’t last (and what the hell does that mean? That he’ll back out? Start begging for mercy?) all seven signatures, musters his strength and shoves himself upright. He scoffs exaggeratedly, masking a shaky exhale with it. He challenges the coven, “Do your fucking worst.”

Yoichi blinks. Behind him, Kenzo is leaving his seat and stalking towards Sorahiko’s, red eyes gleaming. Before Kenzo can dive at Sorahiko and probably tear an artery out, Yoichi holds him back with one placating hand.

“Do not,” Yoichi warns. “We’re not trying to induce a thrall, do you all hear me?”

“Yoichi,” says Sanjuro, “if the man gets off, he gets off.”

A sigh leaves Yoichi. “Be that as it may. Please try not to leave him resentful for the months ahead.” He pats Kenzo’s collarbone; Kenzo catches the thin-boned hand and raises it to his lips.

“Understood, Yoichi,” Kenzo murmurs into the knuckles. He lets go, and Yoichi moves aside, now more fond than exasperated. A safety net, maybe.

In any case, Sorahiko gazes up at number two, who studies him back.

“The shoulder?” suggests Sorahiko, half-heartedly offering the right one up to sacrifice.

Kenzo inclines his head. “Just above the bicep will work,” and he goes on to prove his point, keeping Sorahiko locked in position, unable to do anything but wriggle and fail to contain strangled moans.

This is going to be a long hour.

#bnha #vestigestorino #torino sorahiko #gran torino #shigaraki yoichi #second ofa user #third ofa user #shinomori hikage #banjo daigoro #sixth ofa user #shimura nana #shih.txt #asks #anon #vampire ofa coven au #i have not figured out the lore yet #but afo should be in here #he's thee progenitor after all

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unnamedelement · 3 years

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You Carry Them in Your Heart: Ficlet for Diverse Tolkien Week

I wrote this little snippet this morning in honor of @diversetolkien‘s Diverse Tolkien Week, using the prompts “Women of Color,” “Culture,” and “Anti-racism.” It is inspired by a number of blatant headcanons (and some canon-based meta, imho), and the versions of Legolas and Mirkwood that exist in my own work.

Further, it is inspired by my own relationship with my messy and ethnically-complex family history. While I will never know what it is to not be white in this world, I do know what it is for whiteness and for imperialism to steal the truth from you. I do know how badly it hurts to never be able to reach those parts of you whose stories were erased; how it hurts to know that your family’s language was beaten out of them; how it hurts to know that someone somewhere in the past started shaming children for their questions and teaching them lies about their brown skin. I know how it feels to have nameless grandmothers, to have ancestors whose stories were lost to time and shame and trauma, to the endless march of the victor’s narrative.

So, all that is where this little ficlet is coming from. My own family shit, but also Mirkwood and its arguably colonial positioning, plus all my own very gratuitous worldbuilding and headcanons.

You Carry Them in Your Heart

It was midafternoon and the sun shone weakly overhead, and Legolas and his mother were traveling with a small group of elves. It was cold but not too cold, but Legolas was young, and his mother had buttoned him into the fisherman’s sweater gifted him by the Lakemen before they set out that morning.

“Mother,” he asked quietly, and he curled his fingers into his mother’s shawl from where he rode behind, pickaback, and he listened vaguely to the murmurs and melodies of the elves around him. “Why are the Men of the Lake pale like moonlight?”

It was the first time his mother had taken him with her on her trade trips to negotiate with the men around Mirkwood, and he had had many questions.

“Your father is pale like moonlight, emlineg,” his mother responded, hitching him up slightly so his face was pressed momentarily into her curls.

“He is not,” Legolas said, shaking his head firmly. “He is pale like sunlight.”

“Your friend Ithildim is pale like moonlight,” his mother answered smoothly.

“Hm,” he said quietly, and he laid his head on her back, raised a hand to stifle a yawn, for they had been up since long before sunrise. “Ithildim is pale like moonlight...”

There was quiet for a time and Legolas watched those traveling around him. They walked up the River and back toward the wood, and his home was a dark mound on the horizon. The elves around him, however, were not all pale like moonlight. They were some of them the moon, yes, but they were also autumn trees under sun, were hazelnut and chestnut, every shade of the endless wood.

He spoke again: “The Lake is to the east of our home, Mother?”

“It is, child.”

“Saida said the men of the West are different than those of the Long Lake.”

His mother laughed lightly, and Legolas gripped her tighter. “And how would Saida know anything about the men of the Western Woods?”

“Her brother has told her,” Legolas said eagerly. “For he is a captain and has seen many things! He says the people to the West run the plain outside our woods, and they worship the North Sun.”

“And so do you, emlineg,” his mother countered. “The Sun brings us warmth after long winters, does it not?”

Legolas reached a hand out into the air around them and the wind played between his fingers.

“But she says those Men are not pale like moonlight, Mother. They are like loam beneath leaf mould after winter.”

“Like you, then?” his mother asked wryly.

Legolas shook his head behind her.

“Like me?” she tried again.

He shook his head once more. “You are too dark, and I am too light. And they are cool, like clay under silt.”

“Ah,” his mother murmured, and Legolas felt it vibrate from her into him as he pulled his hand back in, wrapped it gently in that hair that was so like his own. “Saida knows a lot for just being told.”

“Her brother is also an artist,” Legolas said matter-of-factly. “He draws her pictures of his travels in the evenings, in their camps. He brings them home to her and tells her stories. His stories are like picture books. I have heard them, too.”

“That is nice of him.”

“Yes. I wish Felavel could draw like him.”

“Felavel brings you back other things from her work,” his mother said neutrally.

“Yes, and I love them—there are so many different things in our Wood!”

“There are, child.”

It was quiet again for a long time. Legolas knit his mother’s hair between his fingers like a loom; her hair was a dark blackwater that contrasted with his tawny skin, warm as the hair she had plaited from his face into a knot that morning, to keep it tidy during travel. He loosened his hold on his mother’s hair and it unwound from his hands like a spring. He scratched at a braid that tugged at his hairline and then turned his attention again to the elves around him. Their hair was light to dark, cornsilk to coils, but the Men of the Lake had hair that waved like gentle weave in shades of brown, and those of the Western Plains had hair that fell in a sheet like dark and windless rain. The men of those places had one hair, it seemed—not many.

He shifted against his mother’s back and spoke: “Why do all the Men in one place look the same, but we elves here—in our one place, in our Wood—we do not?”

His mother did not answer for a moment, and he could feel her thinking, and he matched his breaths to hers while she pondered. She readjusted her hold on his thighs, and Legolas waited.

“Our people are complicated, Legolas,” his mother finally said. “We come from many places and many cultures and many histories, but we all eventually made Mirkwood our home.”

“Ithildim says he has been here forever.”

She laughed. “Many of his mother’s people are Avarin, Legolas. But they have not been here forever, though they have been here longer than even our own folk”

“And much longer than Father’s,” Legolas said assuredly. “Well,” he immediately corrected himself, “than—than his father. Is that right, Mother?”

“You have many questions, emlineg,” his mother said, but she was laughing again. “When we return, I will be telling your father you are finally old enough to begin your studies!”

Legolas shrugged and then squirmed to be let down. She dropped him to the ground and he took her hand.

“That is all right, I guess,” he finally said, and she swung their hands between them. “I think I want to understand.”

There was quiet as they began their journey again, as they watched the wide and wild world move about them.

“The most important thing for you to know, emlineg,” his mother said finally, after they had walked together for a time, and had fallen slightly behind the others due to Legolas’ small legs. “Is that we are all wood-elves, and that you have parts of all of its folk—East and West of the Mountains—in your soul, and your history. You are the creation of all those who came before you, and you carry them in your heart, where'er you go.”

Legolas looked up at her, and her dark hazel eyes were wide and bright and shining in her face; her hand was tight on his.

“That is a beautiful thing, child,” his mother whispered. “You must never forget that.”

Legolas stood and watched her without moving for a moment, for there was something happening here that he knew he was not quite old enough to understand, but it seemed so important to his mother...

He eventually raised his arms into the air without words and she picked him up. She adjusted him so he could tuck his head against her chest, so his legs dangled to either side of her hips.

They were almost caught up with their folk when Legolas finally affirmed, voice muffled in her shawl and cut short by a yawn: “I shall never forget it, Mother.”

And she pressed a kiss to his head then, and he let himself drift as the river cut the plains and they eventually breached the wood; let himself drift as voices were lifted in song, as birds wove their notes in his mind; as it fell to darkness around them and the Sun fled them and the night came down heavy; and he drifted, too, as they went through the great gates and crossed the bridge into the Halls.

He did not even truly wake as his mother handed him to his father, as they hugged above him, as golden hair caught blackwater curls and tickled his tired nose.

That is a beautiful thing, child. You must never forget that.

But he was safe and he was warm and he was loved, and that was beautiful, and elves—

Elves do not forget.

He adjusted himself against his father’s chest and felt his mother’s hand brush his cheek; his father’s heartbeat was strong and steady in his ears as they moved toward his room, and it was a bass drum at festival that beat in time with his; it was a lullaby that reassured him into sleep.

.o.

Years would pass, and Legolas’ mother would leave them, and so much of what and who he was would flee.

And yet, even after all that—even after his mother was but a memory in the wood-elves’ storied past—Legolas would carry her inside him.

He would let her beat in his heart with the dozens of mothers of their people that had come before them—that he had never known—and he would carry them forward, and on.

And to the day that he sailed oversea, Legolas would never ever forget.

FIN

Please reach out to me in a DM/chat if you feel I have written something insensitive. I would be happy to speak with you.

#dvtw21 #legolas #mirkwood fam #diversity in middle earth #my fanfiction #my family trauma shit #lmao haha its fine #cw cultural erasure #lotr fanfiction #throwing my work and my own vulnerability into the world as if i am made of steel and not a delicate flower #long post #diversetolkienweek #silvan elves #wood-elves

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gentlemancrow · 3 years

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Even though In Scientia, Magicae is on hiatus right now, and likely will be for another week after this >> I thought I would honor my usual update date with a little SNEAK PEEK of what I have brewing for chapter 10! (Hint it’s a dream sequence hehe) Symbolic dream sequences are one of my favorite tropes and favorite things to write so I thought I’d post this one up as a treat! Also to promo the fic a little since in lieu of an actual update :T. SO! Already read the fic? AWESOME! I LOVE YOU <3 I am dragon hoarding all of my readers in a comfy little basket like kittens I will dote on you forever.

New to it or curious? Now’s a great time to catch up! If you like fantasy AUs (And also Beauty and the Beast inspired ones!), vaguely steampunky worldbuilding (Which will factor in a LOT more in the coming chapters!), Monster!Jon, slow burn romance, and a weird treatise on the nature of magic vs. science in a fairy tale inspired setting! Perhaps In Scientia, Magicae is for you!

Clicky here to head on over to AO3!

SMOL Sneak preview of Chapter 10 incoming!

That night, Martin dreamed again.

He fell. He fell, freewheeling, once more through the boundless space that had not let him go just yet. He fell in absentia of fear, as before, serene in the intoxicating cocoon of ozone and stardust. He fell until the atmosphere reached up and gripped him in warm fingers of wind that tugged and pulled to anchor him back to the solid earth waiting below. The lapis lazuli sky streamed around his awareness filled with hollow notes of longing that sounded long enough to hear the chorus once and only once, before it died a soft, muffled death atop the leafy crowns of a canopy of cobalt trees as he passed through them as naught but mist. An echo of a voice without the voice. Alighting on the flooded forest ground, barefoot, the mirror surface of the water rung like percussed crystal and rippled in pulsing silver circles outward where his toes touched down featherlight and afloat on the surface. Martin watched the swells, transfixed, as they scurried away in thinly bright radials and promptly shattered into a kaleidoscope of fractured, resplendent carnage as they collided with another set.

Martin gasped, followed them to the four cloven-hoofed black legs from which they had originated, and looked up, stunned, into a pair of eyes fashioned from bleeding droplets of the aurora borealis. Deep set into the featureless shadow of a stag woven through the pockmarked white birch, they left a dizzying afterburnt trail as it tossed its great antlered head, pawed the reflecting pool, and regarded him in noble silence. Steaming, starlit mist coiled from the nostrils as its heavy breath reverberated the atmosphere from quivering flanks, invisible muscles tensing, waiting. Martin’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth opened to call its name, but it fled from his mind and his tongue the moment they tried to form the sound and shape of it. He frowned and put cold fingers to his lips. He knew it. It was just there, somewhere in the dark periphery of the twilit space between asleep and awake, but he could not dredge up even a filament of its creation to speak it into existence.

The stag shied back with a snort like the ringing of a bell, and bowed its head as if in silent apology. Martin reached out his hand, skin glowing lunar white, and his voice a breathless whisper in his own ears.

“Wait…”

The moment he pierced the sacred grove with the jagged edges of his human tongue, the stag startled and reared as if struck through the throat by a hunter’s shot. The aurora eyes closed, leaving one last streak of pernicious jade green across Martin’s retinas and scoring out the shadow as it turned and bounded, fleet-footed and silent, into the woods.

“Wait-!” Martin called again, tears springing to his dream eyes, “Don’t go!”

Sudden panic rose in his gut, and the forest peeled open around him. He was running. There was no sign of the stag other than the painfully faint ripples in the liquid mercury floor that grew dimmer and further away no matter how hard he forced his legs to move. He wove effortlessly around the wiry trunks of the trees, a brightly shining will-o’-the-wisp leading himself to ruin as he chased the trail of the stag to its extinction. The forest ended when the fragments of light did, and Martin found himself suddenly on the precipice of a towering cliff overlooking a stormy sea. The saline spray crashed into his face as lightning struck soundlessly on the horizon of the churning waters that roiled and tossed the light of a thousand stars and a thousand galaxies stretching in an infinity of purple, green, and blue fires.

Unknowable, unfathomable in their boundlessness and their multitudes, Martin could do nothing but watch them in their cosmic ballet while his body forgot to breathe. Mote by mote, atom by atom, the gravity of the sea picked him apart and sucked the dusty pieces to its unseen singularity somewhere in the trenches beneath. He lifted his trembling hands up, and watched as his fingertips faded and turned to a glittering mist of stardust before his very eyes. They wafted out like smoke over the sea, unspooling him, dragging him with deliberate purpose into whatever it was that lurked beneath. The same voice whispered directly into his ear.

“It is always watching…”

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #Magnuspod #In Scientia Magicae #JonMartin #JMart #Fan fic #Sneak peek #Crow Writes

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dottores · 2 years

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ONWARD & UPWARD

pairings: cyno x fem!reader x tighnari, tartaglia x fem!reader

summary: the last thing you were supposed to do was fall in love. now a decision must be made—one that you are not yet prepared to deal with the consequences of.

genre: antagonist!reader, fatui!reader, canon divergence, strangers to lovers to enemies (cyno & tighnari), lowkey enemies/rivals to lovers to enemies (cyno), khaenri’ahn royal!reader (diamond pupil), childhood friends to fwb (tartaglia), right person wrong time (tartaglia), un(?)requited love (tartaglia), obsessive and v lowkey yandere behavior (tartaglia)

chapter specific warnings: semi-graphic descriptions of blood/violence. mentions of hunger/starvation, neglect, manipulation, near death experience, character death (no main characters).

— featured characters (chapter): kaeya alberich and his parents, “gold”, pierro.

notes: i’m so excited for this y’all you have no idea, a short prologue before we get heavy into the plot and characters. almost all worldbuilding will be done in the fic itself for my readers not familiar w genshin. as always reblogs for boost very much appreciated <3.

previous chapter -> masterlist -> next chapter

PROLOGUE. MEMENTO VIVERE

“Please do not send him away.”

Your vision blurred as you rested on your knees in front of the man, body folded into a bow, eyes squeezed shut to try to force the tears away. Around you, the few survivors that made up your group whispered and you knew they had nothing good to say--the last surviving member of the Eclipse Dynasty on her hands and knees in front of a lesser family, begging and pleading with them to listen to you…

You hated that they still put so much weight on your blood, your should-be station. They called you ‘princess’, looked at you to lead them--but you were a princess of a kingdom that had long been destroyed, and you were only a child. The world around you crumbled and burned, poison seeped through the land and monsters roamed, starving and viscous, the sun never rose and you were meant to be salvation--the one to lead them from the darkness, to a livable world.

Sometimes you wished that they had never found you outside of the ruins of the Tungl palace after your father had passed, you wished that they had let the rifthounds tear you to pieces, you wished they had let the draugr devour you. You wondered if you would be better off dead than forced into a role that you knew you were not meant for.

Except the dead did not die in Khaenri’ah, you reminded yourself, they rose again without mind, hungrier, savage. Was that really the fate you would have preferred?

You did not have time to linger on the question. Aina Alberich was tugging at your bicep, trying to force you to your feet. You did not rise, remaining in the bent over, kneeling position. Your hands shook against the ground, chest heaving.

“Do not send him away.”

A pair of boots shifted in front of you, and you flinched as a hand came atop of your shoulder.

“Look at me,” the heavy voice of Osmin Alberich met your ears, and you forced yourself to look up, unable to blink away the tears before they began spilling down your cheeks. “We must take advantage of the passage to Teyvat. We cannot survive he-”

“I will go,” you interrupted loudly. “I will go to Teyvat.”

“That is not an option,” Osmin shook his head, brows furrowed deep. “We do not know what Teyvat is like, how dangerous it will be-”

“So instead you send your son?” you cried out, rising to your feet. “To an unknown continent, with dangers we’ve never seen before? For all we know, it could be worse than our current situation.”

“And such is the duty of the Alberich clan,” Osmin said firmly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye, unable to stand the cold and unmoving look in them. Instead, you dragged your gaze to Kaeya, who stood behind his father doing his best to stand strong but you could see the fear hidden beneath his eyes. “We’ve stood at the side of the Eclipse Dynasty for millenia, protecting and serving. Kaeya will travel to Teyvat and he will make sure the land is safe. Once he confirms it, we will follow.”

“Why don’t you go?” you accused, finally looking back at Osmin. “You are an adult, a seasoned warrior, and yet-”

“Someone needs to stay back and protect the group, to protect you,” Osmin didn’t let you finish, and you faltered, eyes darting around to the rest of the group--the elderly, the crippled, a pregnant woman and her infant son. No one strong enough to defend against an attack from a pack of rifthounds or the draugr.

“Princess,” Osmin knelt in front of you, voice quiet so no one else could overhear. “I do not want to send my son to a foreign land but I must put our people first. Always. He will return, and we will see brighter days. Have faith.”

You swallowed thickly, your fingers trembled as you nodded. You inhaled sharply, straightening your shoulders as you stepped around Osmin to stand in front of Kaeya.

“May-” your voice cracked, you exhaled and closed your eyes, trying to calm yourself down. You rose your right hand and began again. “May you be given the knowledge to follow your path, may you be granted the strength and courage to complete your journey, and may you find your way back home at the end of your travels.”

You fumbled to unpin the Inteyvat flower from your top, to signal the completion of the ancient rite of blessings that the Eclipse Dynasty bestowed on Khanerians traveling to foreign lands--a rite that had not been performed since before the Cataclysm. Your ears rung as you listened to Osmin and Aina murmur to each other in the background.

“I will bring him to the passage,” Aina said. “I would like to be the one to see him off, you stay with the princess and the others.”

Your fingers trembled as you pinned the flower onto Kaeya’s shirt, clasping his hands in yours as you looked him in the eye.

“We will meet again.”

---

Blood stained your hands and your face, your body shook like a leaf as you knelt at the corpse of Siriana, who had shielded you from the claws of a rifthound whelp that had appeared from behind the group.

It was supposed to be safe. You felt sick as you tried to hold pressure on the wound, even though you knew deep down that Sirana had passed. The path to the palace was supposed to be safe.

“Princess!” you could hear Osmin roaring your name, fighting through the pack of hounds to get to you. “Princess, move.”

You looked up, lips wobbly and vision teary as you tried to spot Osmin but you were only met with the slaughter that had taken place surrounding you--the bodies of your companions torn to pieces by the rifthound whelps, the gore strewn across the dark ground, the blood fertilizing the dead earth.

Everyone was dead.

A particularly loud shrieking noise came from behind you, a whoosh of air, and your eyes widened as you spun, coming face to face with an adult rifthound, electricity crackling around its body as it swiped at you. You couldn’t move, from all of the training that Osmin had given you, now faced with an actual enemy you were frozen in place, waiting for death to fall upon you.

Except it didn’t.

Someone slammed into you from behind, sending you careening toward the cold, damp ground. A sharp cry came from above you and you scrambled back to your feet, fear tugging at your chest as you tried to figure out what happened. “Osmin!” you cried out, watching the rifthound claw into his chest, a damning blow. “No!”

Osmin was undeterred, driving his sword through the rifthound and forcing it to portal away. He didn’t hesitate as he reached for you, grabbing you by the arm and hauling you up, half-carrying, half-dragging you away from the remaining rifthounds and the massacre. Your gaze trained on the blood dripping down his chest, the armor that was shredded by the rifthound--the skin was already rotting around it.

“Osmin,” your voice came out as weak and wary, but the man didn’t care, stopping behind a crumbled pillar, grabbing you by the face and forcing you to look at him.

“You must run to the palace,” his voice was hoarse and harsh. “The rifthounds will not follow you in.”

“Osmin, come with me,” you were trying to bite back your tears. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I will not survive,” the words were bitter to your ears, a scraping noise that made you want to cover your ears and run, “and it’s only a matter of time before the others return. You have to be long gone by then.”

“Osmin, I’m not ready to be alone,” you gasped, the fear and panic finally starting to hit you. You had been alone once, for weeks after your father’s death--you couldn’t survive that again. “Osmin, don’t leave me.”

His grip on your face tightened, “You must focus, princess,” he said sharply. “Run to the palace, take refuge there. Remember that you must live.”

You wanted to shake your head, you wanted to refuse, but Osmin was pushing you away, in the distance, through a crumbled arch, you watched as Sirana’s arm jerked.

“Go,” he said, drawing his sword to turn around. When you didn’t move, his voice sharpened, “Go!”

With a sob at your lips, you took off in the direction of the palace, shaking, refusing to look back as the sound of Osmin’s blade clashing against the claws of another rifthound whelp met your ears. Your lungs burned against the cold air, like knives scraping your insides--each breath you took tore against your throat, your feet slammed against the ground so hard it sent shocks up your shins to your knees.

You could see the palace in the distance through your blurry gaze--the crumbling white and gold walls, the large silver arch.

You would make it, you realized, hope blooming in your chest. You would make it.

But even as the words drifted through your head, there was a strange whooshing noise from behind you. You turned on your heel, eyes wide as you spun around to figure out what had appeared behind you.

A rifthound?

You realized too late, you were too slow to bring your hands up to block the blow to your face, one of its claws coming down to catch your forehead, dragging down through your right eye to your cheekbone. You let out a terrible shriek, hands flying to your face, blood dripped through your fingers as you tried to scramble away. It burned, your head spun as the pain began to envelop you.

Your breath was sharp and ragged, nails digging into the dirt to try to push yourself up, Osmin’s plea for you to live ringing through your head on repeat, but the skin that was slowly rotting around your eye was a death sentence. You couldn’t bite back the next sob, the pain beginning to be too much for your body to handle. You pressed your hand to the right side of your face harder, trying to stop the bleeding but your hand only slipped against the skin. You looked up and you swore everything around you slowed as the rifthound twisted in the air to come back and finish you off.

You tried to move, you did, but your arms and legs were too weak, and the pain was clouding your head. You were unable to look away as it came down on you but right before its claws made contact with your neck, it was being sucked back into a vortex.

Your breath shuddered, your good eye widened. Osmin? Did he survive and come back to help? Hope bloomed in your chest as you tried to figure out who had sent the rifthound away. But it was not Osmin whom your eyes landed on.

A woman with long hair, a dark cloak and golden eyes that burned bright against the darkness of Khaenri’ah. Her gaze was curious as she drew closer to you, standing above where you were crumpled on the ground.

“A child of the Eclipse dynasty, how fascinating,” she murmured, kneeling down in front of you to grab your chin and tilt your face up toward her, swiping away the hand you had covering your wounded eye. “I had been under the impression your entire bloodline had died out.”

“Who are you?” your voice shook as you asked her the question, trying to push away the pain that was exhausting all of your senses. The woman smiled at your question.

“You may call me Gold.”

“The Eclipse Dynasty was known for its proficiency in the Art of Khemia prior to the Cataclysm. When Khaenri’ah fell, the form of alchemy was all but lost to the world.”

“I will do better,” your voice shook as you stared down at another failed experiment. You could feel the judging eyes of Gold bearing down on your back. You forced your shoulders not to shake as you took in another breath. “Next time will be a success.”

“Once we teach you to harness the power of Khemia, I will take you from this place--bring you into the Order that will overthrow the rule of the gods that led to the fall of our home.”

“There will be no next time.”

Gold’s words were harsh and cold, knives dragging down your bones. You froze, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around to look at her, even as you heard her packing up her tools.

“What?”

“Do not fail me.”

“The Abyss Order has no room for failures, I told you this in the beginning. I gave you many chances, more than what I would give others.”

She spoke so matter of factly that your arguments dissolved--that even as you rose to shaky feet, you weren’t sure you knew what to say. You caught sight of yourself in the broken mirror across from yourself, faltering at the scar cutting across your eye. It had healed for the most part, thanks to Gold’s alchemic abilities, but right above your eyelid and below your eye was stubborn, it wouldn’t fade away, and your vision would never properly heal, Gold had claimed--haunted by blurs and shadows for the rest of your life.

You forced yourself to look away, turning to face Gold, whose back was already turned to you as she finished packing up her things.

“I will not fail next time,” you told her, voice pleading as she began to walk away from you. You chased after, tears pooling in your eyes. “I won’t fail, I was close, I felt it this time. I’ll get it, don’t leave me.”

It was a lie, and you knew Gold knew it. This time had felt no different than the last time she had tried to teach simple Khemiac alchemy to you. It had been nearly a year since she had taken you under her wing and you had made no progress.

Could you blame her for giving up?

A sob bubbled in your chest, you tried to bite it back--Gold despised signs of weakness. You couldn’t blame her. You had heard her talk about the Abyss Order and its grand plans, and she had been wasting time in the ruins of Khaenri’ah trying to teach you the Art of Khemia when she should have been planning with the other executives of the Order.

But why can’t she take you with her? Leaving you here…

“Take me with you,” you begged as she stepped outside of the ruins of the palace, “Take me with you.”

… it was a death sentence.

Gold turned on her heel, chin raised, expression hard and you froze where you were standing on the steps of the palace. You knew what her answer would be before she even spoke. Your heart sunk deep in your chest, your body trembled, you bit down on your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling.

“There is no room for failures in the Abyss Order,” she repeated, “blood of the old dynasty or not. We do not have the resources to spare and even if we did…”

Even if we did, failures were not welcomed.

“Give me one more chance,” your voice was little over a whisper, and Gold ignored you. You watched as a portal formed behind her, you watched as she stepped into it. Your panic rose, invading all of your senses as you chased after her. You stumbled down the steps, tripping over debris on the bottom one and falling to your hands and knees.

“Don’t leave me here!” the desperate shrill of a cry escaped your lips just as the vortex shut behind her.

The following silence was cold and empty, a heavy realization weighed on your shoulders as the distant howls of rifthounds and savage cries of the draugr met your ear--you were alone.

You weren’t sure how long you had remained in that spot wasting away. The rifthounds and draugr had begun to gather, stopped only by the old enchantments that protected the palace--as long as the blood of the Eclipse Dynasty remained, they would not be able to break through… but they were waiting, they knew you were on death’s doorstep, they knew it was only a matter of time before the enchantments fell.

You were hungry, and you were cold, and you weren’t sure why you were cold because the city around the palace was the only place in Khaenri’ah that burned eternally--remnants of the old war that would not fade.

You could feel yourself dying, you could feel the way your body weakened with each passing second, the way ice spread through your veins and your skin felt numb to the touch. Osmin’s words rang through your head: “remember you must live.”

But you didn’t think you’d be able to rise to your feet even if you wanted to--and a part of you wondered what the point would even be. You were trapped in Khaenri’ah, surrounded by rifthounds and draugr, you were out of food and you were out of willpower. You would die here, you were certain of it.

So lost in your thoughts, you didn’t even hear the commotion coming from the courtyard, not until the head of a draugr rolled to the ground in front of you. You could barely bring yourself to look up, your head felt light at the movement, it strained your neck.

A man, you recognized in the distance, drawing closer to you. In your state of half delusion, you could almost imagine Osmin rushing toward you, cursing the gods for having let him be separated from you for so long, promising that he would take you from this wretched place to go find Kaeya.

Almost.

The man was not Osmin. Osmin was dead, likely a draugr prowling the ruins of Khaenri’ah by this point unless another group of survivors had managed to stumble across him and put him out of his misery, free him from the husk he’d spend the rest of eternity as otherwise.

You didn’t recognize the older man even as he kneeled in front of you, pulling his cloak off and laying it across your shoulders. You could not feel the warmth. He laid a hand against your cheek, lips twisting down.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, eyes searching your face momentarily before recognition swept through his face, you couldn’t gather the strength to respond. “You are-”

He cut himself off, swallowing as he let his head drop into a bow. “Princess,” he murmured, and you swore that if you could cry, you would have--you couldn’t stand the cursed title and all of the misfortune it had brought you. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

He didn’t wait for a response, scooping you into his arms as he rose to his feet. Your head rested against his bicep as you looked up at him. His gaze drifted around the ruins of the palace in a way that was nothing short of longing, as if he were reminiscing old memories.

“Who are you?” your voice was weak and scratchy, and you wondered if he hadn’t heard you because he didn’t acknowledge your words. After a few moments, he let his eyes fall back down to you, and your eyes widened as you recognized the diamond-shaped pupil of his left eye.

“Pierro. I go by Pierro.”

wordcount: 3.3k

RB FOR BOOST AND FEEDBACK APPRECIATED

-- pls do not nitpick tiny mistakes or stuff like that, i'd like feedback on plot/characterization & eventually character development

#genshin x reader #genshin smut #cyno x reader #cyno smut #tighnari x reader #tighnari smut #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe smut #tartaglia smut #genshin impact smut #cyno x you #tighnari x you #childe x you #tartaglia x you

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littlemisspascal · 2 years

Text

Fast Cars and Lightning Bolts Part 3

Pairing: Din x Female Reader

Word Count: 1200

Rating: T

Summary: “So…” Din says finally, and his voice is a magnet drawing your gaze helplessly back to him. He makes himself comfortable in the red leather booth by throwing an arm across its back and resting the other on the tabletop next to his empty plate where just a few crumbs of his bantha burger linger as evidence there was ever any food on it at all. “You’re going to build a car to beat Moff Gideon?”

Warnings: Helmetless Din, dialogue heavy, racing au, heavily inspired by Ford v Ferrari, language, worldbuilding

Author Note: EDITED AS OF 7/12/22

PART 2 // PART 4

A little after nine o’clock, the diner’s almost empty except for a young couple sitting three booths away, sharing a chocolate milkshake. It’s one of those disgustingly sappy public displays of affection that makes you feel vaguely nauseous to witness, but it’s currently the lesser of two evils considering the alternative is meeting Din’s gaze full of silent judgment.

Not for the first time, you wonder if you’ve made a huge mistake meeting with him. It has been a long three months since your last encounter with him at Galma Raceway and while it hadn’t been particularly awkward per se, you wouldn’t describe it as pleasant either, so you weren’t sure what to expect from Din when he arrived. A part of you had wondered if he’d even show up.

But he kept his end of the deal, if only for the free meal out of the arrangement, and he’d listened to your proposal without interrupting, though the critical wrinkling of his forehead grew further pronounced with every word, and really, that’s a hell of a lot more reaction from him than you could have ever anticipated.

“So…” Din says finally, and his voice is a magnet drawing your gaze helplessly back to him. He makes himself comfortable in the red leather booth by throwing an arm across its back and resting the other on the tabletop next to his empty plate where just a few crumbs of his bantha burger linger as evidence there was ever any food on it at all. “You’re going to build a car to beat Moff Gideon?”

“Yeah,” you reply, popping a piece of meiloorun fruit into your mouth and praying he doesn’t catch the nervous trembling of your fingers.

But of course he does, because those sharp brown eyes miss nothing, glancing down at your hand before meeting your eyes again in the span of a heartbeat.

“Not just any car, but a Fett.” The scorn in his voice is so thick it presses down like a weight upon your shoulders and it takes all your self-confidence not to wince or duck your head.

“Yeah.”

“Because Boba Fett asked you to do so.”

You nod, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip and ignoring the bloom of warmth in your stomach when brown eyes track the movement.

Din’s quiet for a moment, running a hand through his dark curls. The background music playing through the diner’s jizz-box fills the void, but the low notes of the Barefoot Band do little to ease the tension digging into your chest and lower back.

This is the first time in five years it’s just been you and him alone together, and his presence still captivates your soul, no denying it. You observe him in the faint red glow of the nearby neon light announcing the diner’s open status and marvel at how little he’s changed. He still wears the same long sleeve black t-shirt with matching suspenders holding up his dark brown cargo pants, still wears the same mythosaur pendant around his neck. There are a few new lines around his eyes and along his brow, some gray hairs peeking out amidst the dark stubble of his jawline—but he’ll always be beautiful to you. No amount of time or aging could ever change that.

“And how long did you tell them it would take you?” Din asks once he’s collected his thoughts. “A couple centuries at least?”

You can’t stop the rueful smile tugging at your lips. “Three months.”

Din laughs at that, a genuine one bubbling up out of his throat, brown eyes shining prettier than all the stars in the night sky. And there’s that warm sensation again, threatening to melt you into a puddle of affection right there where you sit. Maker, the effect this man has on you is unbelievable.

“Alright, sweetheart, let’s just break this down for a moment.” Din sits up straighter, the term of endearment slipping off his tongue honey-sweet and you don’t have the strength or the will to correct him. “Let’s pretend you don’t have a time or credit limit. That they’re actually going to give you that blank check to do with as you please.”

“Sounds wonderful,” you grin, indulging in his session of make believe.

Except Din tilts his head, expression suddenly serious, catching you off guard. “Do you really think the Fett Motor Company will let you make the car you want the way you want it? You do know Boba’s the Daimyo of Mos Espa, right? A title he killed to achieve?”

You take a long sip of your drink in lieu of responding. Not that you really need to. Din knows you always do thorough research on your competition—whether they’re racers or they’re in the automobile industry—especially new ones emerging out of nowhere like Fett had done.

“Don’t let them fool you, cyar’ika,” Din continues, and you’d roll your eyes at his protective nature if you hadn’t missed it so much. “I’m sure they’ll seem nice and friendly when you visit them, probably will all form a line and ask for your autograph. Because you’re Lightning Bolt, the darling of the racing community.”

You snort a laugh, shaking your head at the stupid nickname forever bothering you like a fly wherever you go. And you know Din knows you hate it, catching a glimpse of his mischievous smirk before he carries on with his ranting.

“And all the while, hidden away in Fett’s palace, they’re coming up with a dozen ways to control you like a puppet. Because controlling people is their specialty. And because—I don’t know if you’ve ever been told this by anyone but—you’re a reckless idiot.”

“Hey!” you squawk indignantly.

He levels you with a flat look. “You set yourself on fire the night you won the BEC, sweetheart.”

Defensive anger fills your chest where affection used to be, but you keep it imprisoned there instead of setting it loose upon Din, not wanting to start an argument with him. “I acknowledge your concern,” you say slowly, gently. “But this is too big of an opportunity for me to turn down no matter how risky it is.”

Din sighs harshly through his nose, looking away out the window. Disapproval is practically radiating off of every muscle in his body, but he holds his tongue. And back when you were together, you remember loving that about him. How he’d never hold you back from accomplishing your goals even if he worried they’d kill you.

“This car could change the whole sport of racing forever.”

The noise he makes is half-scoff, half-hum of agreement. “If you’re the brains behind it, of course it will.” His eyes meet yours again, stealing the breath from your lungs with their heated intensity. “There isn’t anybody else in the galaxy with a creative mind like yours.”

You swallow against your suddenly dry mouth. “Din, I…”

“What is it, cyar’ika?”

I miss you.

I love you.

“I want you to drive it.”

#Din Djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #my fic #my writing #pedrostories

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faeriexqueen · 3 years

Note

Fanfic Ask Game - 💖🖊 👀

Aaaa, thank you for these! <3 💖 What do you like most about your own writing?

I know always complain about writing long things, but I do like that I’ve gotten to where I write lengthier pieces and have been able to get more solid at worldbuilding. I think because growing up and reading fanfiction, I always desperately was looking for lengthier fics to read - I really like exploring not just the central characters, but supporting characters and the whole universe as well. I think I do a decent job of this, and I definitely like it when I read back through things and that it all flows like a move I can visualize - but, this is only my perception so I still try to keep improving to make it smoother so hopefully readers feel similarly. ^^;;

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

Yes. >___> And they shall not see the light for the day for a reason. XD The ones that I would fight to keep in the dark are honestly just heavier in the kink area and I haven’t mustered up the bravery to share them. Doesn’t mean it won’t happen one day, but for now I’m not posting them to my AO3. >.> There are also some fics that may never see the light of day simply because I don’t know if I realistically can get to them all. One is an amnesia AU for Kanda and Alma, but who knows when I’ll get to that one - and another involves a marriage proposal. There’s also a fic I started that’s a darker content one for Tyki x Alma involving a lot of trauma and recovery, but because it’s so heavy to write I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to it. (Though maybe I will one day?) I also have two (yes, two) Alice in Wonderland AUs started that focus on Alma. It’s more just for personal self-indulgence but maybe one day I’ll share one. :3

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

Below, I have an (unedited) excerpt for a mermaid AU I’m beginning for D. Gray-Man RarePair Week - the pairing is (surprise) Tyki x Alma, though Allen makes an appearance in the story. ;3 This is completely subject to change since I only started writing last night, but I'm enjoying it so far! The boat rocked against the waves, foam crashing against the hull before it dissolved back into the sea. Wood creaked as the ship swayed, the wind strong as it carried the ship farther out into the waters, away from the safety of shore where the mainland was barely visible against the horizon. Tyki looked back, the sight of land nearly nonexistent. He couldn’t even tell if he was seeing it anymore, the darkness of night overwhelming. A starless sky stretched again, black and moonless as clouds loomed low. He leaned against the railing of the main deck. A chill lingered in the air, though he ignored it, fingers slipping the cigarette from his lips as he exhaled slowly, the bitterly sweet nicotine mixing with the salty air on his tongue. “You think we’ll catch one?” Tyki’s ears perked, catching the conversation. His amber eyes glanced over as he spotted two of the crewmen. They were middle aged, a bit rough looking – but spoke in low, uneasy voices. “I don’t know,” one of the men said – a tall, burly one with dark, greasy hair. “Don’t really care. We got paid upfront so it doesn’t matter if we catch one or not.” The other man appeared uneasy – this one with auburn hair and a thinner build. “I hear they look weird.” He shuddered, almost as though something slimy had crawled across his skin. “This guy I knew once said he saw one – couldn’t sleep for months after.” Tyki snorted softly. “Better hope we don’t see one, then.” The two crewmen looked over, caught off guard by the comment. Their scowls deepened, though they didn’t say anything, hurrying off to another area of the deck. Tyki turned back to the sea, looking out as he leaned on the railing. He brought the cigarette back to his lips as he took another drag, his dark curls swaying in the breeze. “You should be careful around some of the guys here.” Tyki looked over, bored curiosity getting the better of him. He spotted a young man – or boy? Teenager, at least. He was of a slim stature with pale skin, hair shockingly white even in the darkness of night. A strange scar cut down the left side of his face, contrasting sharply against the boy’s silver eyes. The boy approached him. He placed a hand on the railing as he glanced behind Tyki, where the other crewmen had gone. “Some of the guys here tend to cause a lot of trouble – you never know what’s going to set them off.” Tyki’s eyebrow arched. However, a smirk tugged at his lips, eyes glinting with amusement. “That’s interesting coming from you, boy. Aren’t you a bit young to be out here? Didn’t think you’d have such expertise.” The boy shrugged, unfazed. “I’ve seen enough to know.” “Is that so?” Tyki tapped his cigarette against the railing, several ash buds falling down into the waves, seafoam salt white as it crashed against the ship. “So, tell me, boy – you do jobs like this often?” The boy didn’t say anything at first, his gaze flashing to Tyki. “My name’s Allen,” he said, before continuing. “And never out here. Couldn’t really turn down the money.”

Fanfiction Ask Meme.

#fanfiction asks #ask meme #fanfiction ask #answers #kitty-bandit #thank you!!!

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whumpywhumper · 4 years

Text

New York--Part 2

Tagging: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @rosesareviolentlyread @oceanthesarcasamfox @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @voidwhump @captivity-whump @walkingchemicalfire

As always, @0idril0 was indispensable to this series and the fact she’s allowed me to use Clint makes me so grateful, go check out her Nico Series

Please see the: Masterpost and New York--Part 1

TW: Mentions of possible character death. This is some angsty, schmoopy, worldbuilding.

V***V

Clint growled, head spiraling after looking at the evidentiary photographs for hours. An itch had started under his skin about an hour ago, making him antsy and grumpy.

He flicked the photograph of one of the “cattle cells”, one of the female Elder’s, onto the table with a disgusted snarl. “What the fuck have you pulled me into, Holland?”

The older man groaned, throwing a photo onto the table himself before pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was hoping that you could tell me that, Clint. We know it’s a nest, but only Christ knows what else they’re doing. How big they actually are. They’re organized, they’re doing something else.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Caught wind of them about six months ago, about the time I heard you were in Chicago, but we didn’t get a solid lead until recently.” Their eyes met across the table, and Clint saw the fountain of wisdom in them that had made him trust him for years. “I’ve got a gut feeling, it’s why I wanted you here.”

He tugged at a fist full of hair, trying to stretch out his back. The conference room was quiet other than the footsteps of the nurses back and forth to their station. Kincaid had fallen asleep on the table, one hand still holding a pen as he’d taken copious notes in everything in the photos.

Ben was laying on the ground, feet propped up in his chair, a sheaf of papers on his chest. His glasses were askew and an occasional grunting snore filling the air. Delta, Justin, and Daniel had all left a few hours previous; Delta parting with one last glare that had made the remaining cops snicker.

He shook his head, looking at all of the photos they’d gone through. “I need more info,” he sighed, “hands on info. This isn’t working for me. I want to talk to some of the people inside. Anyone stand out as being someone who would talk?“

“Not right off the bat, no. Definitely not the vamps themselves. The humans on the inside, the ‘neolates’ as they call them, are pretty dedicated, and quite a few scattered to the wind when we raided. Most of the vics were out of the loop, either drugged or magicked to hell.”

“Most?”

“There were a few that were kept pretty strong so that the fledglings and juveniles could practice their-“ he wiggled his fingers, “-mind stuff.”

Clint smirked, “they call it glamour.”

“Whatever-” Holland waved away the correction, “-there were others that were kept for the vamps to have fun with. Point is, there’s a few that could tell us what was going on, and there’s a few that we’re still waiting on to get back in their right mind or waking up. If they’re going to wake up.” He sighed, exhausted. “I’m not sure any of them will be of any help, really.”

“How many do you have here?”

“All of the vics were originally stationed here, but the majority have been cleared to go home, or to some of the shelters and long term care facilities for rehab. We just don’t have the resources to keep them.” He started counting on his fingers, looking pensive. “I have the statements that we got from them before we released them—there was a veritable shitstorm of uniforms and detectives up here interviewing—and I have contact information for all of them if you want to interview ‘em.” He shook his head, pursing his lips. “I don’t think that that would be the best use of your time, there’s too many of them, and they don’t know much.”

Holland stretched, pulling a file toward himself and looking at a list. “I think there’s about thirty that are here in their longer stay wards, a few of those are being weaned off of some heavy narcotics so their testimony isn’t as reliable as I want right now, and we have one under ICU care, but he’s being kept on the same floor for ease of access and security—it’s actually this floor. He’s why Blue Nightmare out there is being such a bitch, she wants him up on the other floor.” Rolling his eyes, he smirked, a fond edge to his lips. “I’ve tried to tell her that it’s for his protection, we have units stashed all over, but she’s still worried. It also irritates her to no end that we’ve messed up her nurses rotations and shifts, but Olivia is a good egg. One of the best.” He tossed the file to Clint, but it was a gibberish list of names, initials, and medical stats. “There’s a couple of bodies down in the morgue here, and a few at the coroner’s office, if you want to take a look at them. There was an incinerator on site, we think that’s where the majority of their bodies went.”

Sighing, Clint closed the file and rubbed at his eyes. “Were there any nest members that were injured in the raid?”

“A few, I’ve already interviewed them, they’re not going to give much I don’t think. They were their front line. You might have more luck—especially if I’m not there.” Clint smiled to himself, Holland wasn’t ever one to stand on police procedure when it came to sups, but he was never unfair about it. “Uhh, there’s one that might be more helpful, I didn’t even think about him since he’s practically on death’s door anyway.” He pulled another file out of a stack, almost toppling it onto Kincaid. “His name is Joseph, he was apparently getting some kind of cure for working for the vamps, but now the docs say he’s got two weeks, at best. Pancreatic cancer.”

Clint hummed as he took the proffered file, flipping it open to look at the picture. A young African-American man looked up at him from a mug shot, dark eyes pained and hollow. He couldn’t have been more than twenty three, already dying, faced with an impossible decision. Fuck. How many other nest mates were in the same position?

“You’ve got a lot of pictures here of the nesting areas and containment cells. Where was the nest located?”

“It’s a renovated factory at the edge of the city, they’d expanded it and turned it into a compound. Rumor had it that there was a small clinic that was run out of it for supernaturals of all types. We’re not sure how their greater operation was evading scrutiny, but this nest runs deep. I think it’s one of their main strongholds though, and Justin can take you tomorrow.”

Sighing, Clint looked back over the mounds of photographs. “Holland. . . This is a big operation, it’s gonna to take a lot of time.” He shook his head, biting at his lip. “I wanna help, and I can give you a few days, but I have something I’m already in the middle of investigating. It’s important.”

“I heard through the grape vine, a friend of yours went missing in Massachusetts a few months back?” Holland interlaced his fingers, deliberately putting his elbows on the table and looking at him with a compassion that Clint wanted to reject. He knew what he thought, and he wasn’t ready to accept it. “You still haven’t found him?”

He grunted a negative, avoiding the other man’s eyes. “Leads went cold, was actually hoping some of my connections here might have heard something.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Five months.”

“Clint,” Holland paused, a gusty sigh through his nose before his hand rasped against his gray stubble, “Massachusetts is four hours from here, and they’re both densely populated. There’s little likelihood that anyone would have heard something, or remember something from five months ago, no matter how small the supernatural community is.” They both paused, a sinking, palpable tension filling the room. “Clint, son, look at me,” he said softly.

His eyes burned, and he knew when he met Holland’s steadfast gaze that they were red with unshed tears. “I don’t wanna hear it, Holland,” he whispered, a hot coal in his throat.

The other man nodded at him, a small frown on his face as he climbed to his feet stiffly, closing the distance between them. Clint didn’t move from his seated position, looking up at his friend as he put a strong hand on his shoulder. Gripping him tightly.

Holland held his gaze, words unstoppable. “I know you don’t wanna hear it, son, but it’s not gonna change anything to sugar coat it. To avoid the reality. You’ve been doing this for long enough, you know the statistics.” He squeezed Clint’s shoulder, bracing him. “You know what I’m going to say, and I don’t have to spell it out for you. I’m not going to bullshit you like I would some civvy; you wouldn’t appreciate it, and I’ve never been very good at it.”

He sighed heavily, giving Clint time to scramble madly for control of himself. “You need to accept that your friend is probably gone, Clint,” he said softly, “and probably has been for a while.”

Clint shuddered, biting his tongue as his wolf howled inside of him, wanting to join in with that disconsolate sound. A few rogue tears spilled onto his cheeks. “Fuck,” he hissed between his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he bowed his head. He knew that. He knew it, he just didn’t want to accept it.

Holland’s thick hand rubbed at his back, short rough strokes, before he continued. “The supernatural community is dangerous, Clint, and you all live on the fringe of death every day—you know that even better than I do. It’s why I need your help.”

He gestured to Ben and Kincaid, encompassing the make shift command station, the ambiguous motion somehow including their futility. “As much as this is our livelihood, we’re still just laymen when it comes to the supernatural community, to the intricacies of how magic works and how you operate.” He sighed, showing every inch of his sympathy in the gaze he locked onto Clint.

“Please, son, help me stop this from happening to other people, while we still can.”

Swallowing thickly, Clint coughed on a sob, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I hate when you’re right,” he choked out, sniffling.

“I hate when I’m right too,” Holland answered sadly, leaving is hand on Clint’s shoulder in support.

It took several long minutes for Clint to get ahold of himself, and he felt exhausted as he raised his head. The heels of his hands dug into this eyes, trying to clear away the tears. Holland backed off, returning to his chair at the head of the table.

He sighed, looking around at the other officers, trying to push his hair back. “I’m exhausted, you’re exhausted, and these two are definitely exhausted. When was the last time they slept in a bed?”

Holland huffed, exasperated. “I couldn’t get them to leave after the raid for longer than it took to shower and grab more clothes. That was about 72 hours ago, I don’t know that they’ve left this room unless they told each other to shower and eat. Kincaid is taking this personally, and Ben is always along for the ride.”

Clint raised an eyebrow, staring at him sideways. “They together?”

“Going on eight years, partners before that, and don’t you look at me like that either,” he said, pointing a finger at him. “They’re the best damn tactical team I’ve come across, I’d be downright stupid to try and split them up.

Raising his hands in surrender, Clint let the subject go. Supernatural squads didn’t always follow the book, but they couldn’t if they wanted results. “Do the nurses have a rack room they’d consider letting us use?”

“Yeah, the Chief of the hospital already pulled some of the bunks they have for their on call people into an empty room. It’s cramped, but it’ll do. Help me get ‘em up.”

Grinning, Clint kicked the chair out from under Ben’s feet and laughed at his snorted yelp as the other man shot up, sheets of paper falling to the floor.

Holland chuckled, shaking Kincaid awake, “c’mon, Sleeping Beauty, we’ll pick this up after you get a few hours of shut eye.” Kincaid tried to argue, a mumbled complaint that was incomprehensible as he raised his head, bleary eyes blinking owlishly. “Ah-ah! I’ll listen to your objections when you can enunciate.”

Helping Ben to his feet, his glasses still askew, they followed Holland. The large hospital afforded them a lot of distance between the conference room and the patient rooms, but Holland led them back to toward the nurses station, the empty room apparently near the patients.

The nurse from before, Olivia, was glaring at a computer like it had personally offended her mother. She looked up at them as they passed, and Clint could smell the worry and stress on her, tell-tale lines marring her makeup. He nodded at her, and saw her face soften a fraction as she looked over Ben and Kincaid. “Get some actual sleep, all of you,” she ordered, “I don’t want to be your nurse; you don’t want me to be your nurse.” The threat was clear, and they all saluted her as they made their way into their designated room.

One of the doors to a patient’s room opened, and Clint sneezed, making sure to cover his mouth and nose as the scent of sickness, stress, and hurt invaded his nostrils. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, “I hate hospitals.”

Kincaid shrugged out of the police issued hoodie he was wearing, tossing it at his head. “Here, Copper, take a whiff of that.”

Clint rolled his eyes at the movie reference. “I’m getting real tired of the bloodhound jokes,” he grumbled, throwing the hoodie over his shoulder. His eyes widened though as the scent of rosemary and magic hit his overstimulated nostrils. Shoving the hoodie against his nose, he took a deep breath and snapped his head over to raise his eyebrows at Kincaid. “Well, that woulda been nice to know!” Clint growled, a little of his shock bleeding over into the words. It wasn’t often a witch took him by surprise.

Said witch laughed as he turned into a door way after Holland and Ben, who were also chuckling, climbing onto the closest top bunk. “I’m surprised you didn’t get a bead on me earlier, I heard werewolves have super sniffers.” He shrugged sheepishly, “I’m really not strong enough to do anything with the magic, never delved into it, but maybe it’ll help with the hospital smell.” He smiled at his partner from his height as the slightly older man took his glasses off and set them carefully on a counter. “C’mon, slow poke.”

“You’re an over grown child,” Ben grumped, pointing at him in mock outrage.

“The problem with hospitals,” Clint explained, “is that I can’t smell a whole lot over everything that’s going on. Too many hormones, bodily fluids, and cleaning supplies.” Clint climbed onto the empty bottom bunk, opposite to Holland as the Captain let them bicker, the older man sitting on the already rumpled bunk below Kincaid and kicking off his shoes.

Ben shut off the light before he crawled up next to Kincaid. “Shut up, you two,” he grumbled, thwumping down, pulling the blanket over Kincaid’s face.

Holland kicked the bottom of their bunk as the furniture gave a slightly ominous creak. “I swear to god, if you two fall on me, you’re both fired.”

“Sir, yes sir!” They both replied.

Shaking his head, Clint made himself comfortable under the thin hospital issue sheets, putting Kincaid’s hoodie over the pillow. He felt slightly silly, using the other man’s clothes basically as a gas mask, but anything was better than the thick aroma of bleach on the pillow case.

Even with the lights off, the busy streetlight peeked through the blinds, illuminating the two men on the top bunk. He sighed, wanting Nico, to hold him close and make sure his Mate was safe. Even if the bond wasn’t formed yet, he wanted him. He wanted to make sure all of his pack was safe, the raw wound that Holland had dealt making an itch to check on Illyn, the other folks down in Louisiana. Gotta ask to borrow a phone tomorrow.

Sniffing, he held the pillow close, analyzing the undertow of scents. Rosemary. Lime. Garlic. Gunpowder. The tickling scent of magic mixed with them, a memory of a memory wafting across his brain. He could swear that he smelled Markus, not Kincaid, but he sighed, pushing the thought away.

His talk with Holland was too close, that’s all. Still, he held on to the scent as he fell asleep, a vague comfort against the ache.

#Markus/Lucien Series #Mentions of Character Death #Whump series #Modern magic #werewolf oc #mystery #story building

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khazadspoon · 3 years

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ok i haven't written anything for a while but here, take some worldbuilding i did in November for nanowrimo

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He sighed, shoulders dropping and a frown forming on his lips. “So you don't know anything about the Unnamed?” He asked under his breath. Asher shook their head. “That answers that question, then.”

“Do you know anything about them?” Asher asked in return.

Hunter looked around briefly, eyes scanning for anyone in close proximity, and gave a brief nod. “A little. Not much, but enough to know they are dangerous.”

“I see.”

“You don't, not really. If that,” he pointed to the plume of smoke, “is because of an Unnamed, there is more risk than the council could anticipate.”

Asher gripped his arm and met his eyes pointedly, almost glaring. “Then tell me. I have already said my people want to help yours, so let me help!” They hissed. “Tell me what you know.”

Hunter let out a clipped sigh and took Asher's hand. “Follow me.”

He tugged, guiding Asher between the tents and to a small, dimly lit abode. The canvas looked older than that of the others, more weathered and patched. Hunter slipped inside, hand still clasping Asher's as he tugged them inside behind him. In front of them was a large chest of ancient wood. A shining bronze lock kept it closed, but Hunter fished a small key from his bandolier and opened it with practiced ease.

“We don't really keep books,” he said under his breath, quiet in the dense atmosphere of the small tent. “Our history is told in stories, in dance, in music. We travel a lot and books are an unnecessary weight. But we have… collected some over time, mainly about things that come from outside our culture. Anyone who wishes to can read them, we all have a key, but not everyone likes what the books contain.”

He reached into the chest and drew out a thick, heavy, leather bound tome. The smell of ages-old parchment drifted through the air and tickled at Asher's nose. They reached out almost instinctively and touched the cover. The old leather was impossibly soft under their fingers as Asher traced the letters.

Vorld Histries the title read. It was archaic, some old dialect no longer spoken, and Asher's mouth felt dry. How old was this book?

Hunter closed the box with one hand and carefully placed the book on its lid. He opened it, the creak of its spine joining their hushed breathing. The pages seemed stiff, unused, the ink inside still dark and clear even after so many years. Asher was reminded of the library back in Laer with its lanterns and dark corners, books and scrolls filling the space not occupied with dust. They watched the pages turn, Hunter's fingers carefully lifting each by the top corner.

“This book is the only one we have that mentions the Unnamed. Here, take a look,” he turned it slightly and moved to the side, giving Asher room to settle in front of the book.

The dark ink swirled over the stained page before their eyes, forming words and shapes that they began to understand after a moment of concentrating. The language was definitely old, but the words still made sense if one was given time to process them properly.

Asher began to read, making sense of the words as they went.

Among the many varied peoples of our world, created by forces unknown, there are groups who must be given status of their own right.

Oldest and most respected among these are the Spirits. Easily identified by their white hair and agelessness, they are most known for their capacity as healers and mediums. They inherit the old ways of the world through strong bloodlines and well documented histories kept in great libraries. The turning of the world and the universe beyond is their primary concern. It is not known how many Spirit clans exist, but the oldest live beyond the mountains of the Eastern Shores. Those who have encountered these clans have been treated with the utmost care and hospitality. Spirits can sometimes be found wandering beyond their clan's borders in search of knowledge, trading partners, and new bloodlines to retain a healthy population.

Second in terms of respect, and in some theoretical circles of age, are the Justices that appear from time to time. These individuals have great power over matters of truth and, as the name suggests, of justice or equity. Though not ageless as the Spirits, they live for centuries as single entities and wander through the world setting right to wrongs perceived by the population. Eye witness accounts tell of strange compulsions coming over them when a Justice makes eye contact with them - the urge to speak only truth, to confess hidden wrongdoings, and a loss of higher motor functions.

From there we are led to understand the Powers originated. Individuals born to seemingly normal families but nonetheless granted extraordinary gifts. These gifts range from elemental control, coercive abilities, being able to move objects with simple thoughts, to seeing the thoughts of another person and beyond. They live ordinarily long lives, though have a propensity to expire younger due to many falling victim to frightened townsfolk and superstition.

Entirely set apart from those previous are the Shifters, clans of people who may take the forms of great beasts at will. A sometimes cold and insular people, they nonetheless are known for helping those in need with little need of reward. Many natural disasters have been followed by periods of great integration between the Shifters, of which there are many distinct clans, and the general population. It is worth noting that not all Shifters within a clan can take the form of the same animal - it is well known that clans will hold a diverse range of beasts, both predator and prey, within a single family.

The most elusive, and most destructive, of these phenomena however are the Great Destructions. Called by different names throughout history (Heartless, Unknown, Unnamed, Fire Beings), they are relatively unknowable due to how few have been truly categorised or catalogued. Almost nothing is known about how they are created, as they are seemingly not born into this group. Nothing is known, as well, about the causes of variation within this group. All, however, are created in a moment of cataclysmic destruction - usually taking the form of a large explosion with great and sudden heat followed by an earthquake. Most seem to be destroyed within hours of this event, burning from the inside out and leaving only ash behind. Some, however, emerge unscathed apart from the distinct lack of hair or clothing. It is only advised to stay away from any such event or individual should one occur within one's lifetime.

The page came to an abrupt halt. Asher frowned, pursed their lips and traced their finger over the last paragraph with a feather-light touch.

“And this is all the information you have on these… on the Unnamed?” They asked quietly. Their heart beat erratically in their chest, fast and uneven as they fought to control their breathing.

Hunter nodded silently, his eyes dark as they scanned the page. He gently moved Asher's hand from the book and closed it with careful motions. He lifted the book, opened the chest, and placed it inside before locking it shut again.

“If it is one of these that has been created, then there is a chance it will simply die,” Asher heard him say in a distracted tone. He sounded uncomfortable with the idea, a strange twist to his expression that was strained and deepened by the shadows in the tent.

Asher sat in front of the chest and tugged at Hunter' sleeve, urging him to sit as well. “It seems like that would be for the best, given the fear your mother has for them.”

“Yes.”

“Then why do I get the feeling you don't agree?”

Hunter stared at them, wide eyed and frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I'm just saying, it looks as though you don't think the possibility of this creature dying is the best outcome.” Asher looked their companion up and down, took in the tense slope of his shoulders, the arc of his neck as he looked at the floor between his feet. “Do you know why?”

Hunter shrugged and wrung his hands. The bandolier over his shoulder jingled ever so slightly as he moved. “It just sounds like an awfully lonely existence. To live, to go through- through that, and then to just… die. Alone, no one to mark your passing, only fire and heat.”

The words struck Asher almost like a blow. “For you there is fire, there is heat, and there is dry earth. It does not feel good.”

Hunter's frown deepened and he dug his fingers into the flesh of his palm. “I know there is nothing we can do to help, but…” He sighed and smoothed the crescent shaped marks he had made with his thumb. “Has anyone ever tried?”

The question hung in the dim quiet, heavy and dense with meaning. Asher swallowed the thick lump that had formed in their throat as Yena's words of prophecy came back to them. Fire and heat. They shivered despite the warmth of the air and Hunter's body next to their own. He turned, a question in his eyes. Asher shook their head and dismissed the concern.

“You should speak to Maedhra about it,” they said instead. “She is in charge, so it makes sense to ask if there is any way of rectifying that.”

Hunter shrugged, the motion bringing their bodies into contact. Asher let the contact ground them, focused on it instead of the tremor in their own chest. “There is every possibility I would be told in no uncertain terms that we are not to interfere with something like this.”

“And maybe she would be right. But,” they touched his arm, clutched a little too tight at the fabric of his shirt, “you will never know unless you try.”

A slow smile formed on Hunter's face. “I suppose you're right,” he said softly into the air between them.

“I suppose I am. But allow me to try something before you do anything.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow, intrigued; “alright.”

#oc asher #oc hunter #i really enjoyed writing about my groups #nanowrimo

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