#and changing the world one hearth at a time.

[heartflynn]

Arlecchino romance headcannons

-Arlecchino is a sharp person, and gaining the attention of her would not be easy

-She would like a weaker person, someone who doesn’t have much physical strength, but someone who does what they think is right. Part of her would think of you as someone like Clervie. Kind, strong-willed, with big dreams.

-Arlecchino hates her affection towards you at first more than anything. With all her contrasting feelings your relationship takes a while to happen.

-When you just barely survived a massacre is when the two of you started getting closer.

-After your almost death Arlecchino had a deep desire to protect you from the horrors of this world.

-Her, and you got closer, and closer until this happened.

-She invited you over for tea, and then told you the truth.

-When you accepted her love Arlecchino was beyond surprised. She never imagined you’d say that, you truly were different from others in her eyes.

-She is naturally a very protective, and kinda possessive person. She tends to monitor you without thinking about.

-Arlecchino was the type of person to notice even the slightest change in you, she noticed when you did your hair differently and when you were upset.

-When you do have conflict it is about her being overly protective, and kind of controlling. Arlecchino, disliked the people you were hanging out with.

-They were long term friends, that just irked her off. It could be tiny details that made her snappy.

-The best way to deal with her being angry is reassurance. Not physical touch, affirming words. Promising her you’d never betray her.

-That calmed her down quickly, emotions was something Arlecchino blocked out. With that feelings of love were also blocked out frequently.

-Affections wasn’t really her thing, neither was praise. Time wise Arlecchino wouldn’t have much time with you.

-Running the house of hearth is a hard job. She often won’t have time to attend to your every whim and desire.

-Whilst she is gone on duty you become sort of the mother in the house of hearth. You spend time playing with the young ones, being a mother figure, and someone who gave all the children a different type of love than what Arlecchino gives.

-Arlecchino finds herself pleased at the fact you’ve ingrained yourself into the family. She expects the same amount of loyalty if not more from you as she does from the children.

-As you get more into the house of hearth you gain more power to defend yourself. Arlecchino doesn’t want you to be a weakling. Especially not if you are engaged in the hearth.

-She does eventually want to be able to take you on missions with her without constantly feeling like you might die every other second.

-Arle, and your relationship stays distant regardless of this.

-She still never touches you regardless if you want affection or not

-You eventually feel forced to accept the lack of affection. You stopped pestering her about it.

-This immediately made Arlecchino realize that you were upset. Arlecchino in return started being a tad more affectionate, giving you swift forehead kisses, and constantly holding your hand.

-Your relationship was far from perfect, but it was one that was full of genuine love.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino #genshin x reader

[neverendingford]

.

#every time I come home from my community group I'm reminded how important it is to get out and meet people and be a part of something #every time I put theory into practice I'm reminded that we learn things so that we can grow more able to love people #everything good thing reminds me that I can create the good I want to see in the world #contrast the hug that was unwillingly given to the pastor who was unwelcome to the big that I earned by being supportive and understanding #I will never shut up about getting a tumblr degree and then putting it to work in real life #I love being on the nerd and educator side of tumblr because it's full of people who care about knowing history and teaching it to others #full of people who care about learning about the hardships humans face and how to grow past them #and I learn from people who are twice my age and have lived through struggles similar to what I have #and I get to pass that knowledge along to others in my life. I get to share the fire that's kept me warm through my coldest nights #because that's what humanity is about. breaking the rules to share fire. paying the price for doing what you believe in #and changing the world one hearth at a time. #especially cause I've gotten to share some of the things I've learned about escaping abuse. which like. was never really relevant to me #but it's information I've learned on here and now I've gotten to share that with someone to help and encourage them to leave the situation #which.. that's the meaning of life y'all #you see hurt and you help. you see harm and you step in. you see someone getting beaten and you fucking wreck somebody's shit #you see someone crying and you offer a hug. you see someone getting hit and you fucking kick their attacker in the back of the head. #you speak up. you let your anger channel. anger tells you something is wrong. so fucking fix it. #anger is stigmatized and I hate it. anger is good. anger is self defense. anger is self preservation. let it fuel your desire to do good. #you cry and you scream and then you defend the ones you love.

[netherfeildren]

Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Series Masterlist ; Part 1. ; Part 3.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Angst & Yearning™️; Slow Burn; Sexual Inexperience; Cock Riding; Size Difference; Size Kink; Sex Ed for Omega’s 101; Power Dynamics; Creampie; Discussions of Heats and Knots and Slick, Oh My!; Virginity; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap

A/N: FYI I do mention that she has small breasts in this one only because I usually write big boobs and thought it was time for some itty bitty titty committee representation. 

Word Count: 13.9K

Read on AO3

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2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Existence is a strange thing, a needful thing. Something to be sated, filled, satisfied, this ordeal of being a living, breathing person. And to be an unusual sort of person, someone with needs extra to what the regular sort would require, doubly strange. 

You had always thought, in different ways, that the mating program, although a choice thief, a freedom thief, was also benevolent in its control in some ways. After all, it gave those of you who were of the not usual sort, alphas and omegas, that such thing that you needed so badly. 

Each other. 

A bad, terrible, devastating thing that in turn gives you something necessary, life changing, life fulfilling, even, perhaps. 

When your aunt had died and you’d been taken away and then put away and then shut away for what seemed would be forever, it had not, at first, in your child’s mind, seemed so terrible. But with the years, that existence you bore that needed, it began to hurt. It eventually became a very terrible thing that in turn, had taken away your ability to recognize yourself, as well. The reality that you’d been caged because of what you were, perhaps not particularly who, but certainly, what, was, at first, difficult to see. And then, when you did see it, even more difficult to look at. 

A thing caged because of what it is. And again, existence is a strange and needful thing. Caged because of what you exist as; caged because of what you need because of what you are. Caged because they can give you what will sate you. 

You open your eyes slowly, the bright, waning golden light of dusk shooting over the edge of the end of the world; bleeding pinks and violets feeding the fire. And he’s there, in a deeply set arm chair pulled up by the hearth, staring into the flames, and you realize, like you’d never truly considered before, that the cage was in part also his fault. That in ways, you’d been put away also because of what he is. You wonder if this should make you angry, resentful. If it should mean you should not want to be here, langoring so comfortably in his home that he’d brought you to. This man who you do not know, who does not so much even look like he wants to know you. In ways, your caging is his fault. And certainly, concretely, the prolonging of that caging was entirely of his doing. So why is there no resentment?

Once, one of the other omegas had said that they were brainwashing all of you. Preparing you, ripening you for slaughter. He’d come in later than the rest of you, when he was more grown, more mature, when he’d seen more things in his before life. He had lots of opinions, lots of thoughts, said that your before life, those ten years of living with your aunt, of only being a child like all the rest of them and not an omega, did not count. He said you’d been too young to understand all you’d lost. A boy named Leo. He was kind, but he was angry. And his anger frightened you. It was something you did know, in the sense that you could recognize it, for you’d seen anger before, but you could not understand it. For some reason, maybe you were built wrongly, and Leo was right, and you should have been angry like him, but you could never find it within yourself to muster it. Maybe there was nothing wrong about it. Maybe everyone was simply built and made and felt differently and that was fine too. But you knew that he was wrong on some accounts, particularly, that your before life had counted, that your aunt, who you remembered with so much love, had counted. And most of all, what he was most painfully wrong about, was that you did, and deeply, understand all you had lost. 

After all, you could only see the sky for one hour a day, every other day, now, and that one hour made your understanding of everything around you, everything happening to you, keen and painful and humiliating in a very clear way. 

The last rays of the sun wash Joel in vibrant orange reds now. A slash of glowing vermillion across his face, something almost violent about the streak of light, something possessive, and you focus your eyes intently on the sight of his face. This man, this alpha, who for all intents and purposes would or could own you as declared by the government or nature or even Leo and all he’d said would happen once you’d been claimed. 

But there was one last thing he’d been wrong about, that young, angry boy, and what you felt was the greatest chasm between the way the two of you had existed within your new designations, which was that, at one very recent point in Leo’s memory, he had belonged to someone, to somewhere. He’d had a place and a home and a family, and he had belonged, and you had never had that. Your aunt, despite her love for you, had been too old and tired to want you, truly want you. You had never been wanted in any soft, true way by anyone before. And looking at him now, you don’t think Joel could ever be capable of wanting anything in a soft way, but you do think he could want something in a true way, and you’re certain that could be more than enough for you. 

“Why didn’t you come for me?” Your voice, scratchy and small from sleep, floating away from you towards him. He jerks, the twitching returned, head snapping towards you, eyes wide, moving forward in his seat as if he’d spring out of it and towards you without thought. His scent seems to be heightened somehow now. As if your sleep had awakened your senses in new, keener ways. You can feel him tickling the back of your throat, threading his way through your hair, beneath your clothes, between your legs. 

“Are you hungry?” He asks, ignoring your question. “When was the last time you ate? You need to eat.” And again that frown, too many fast words. 

“Why didn't you come for me?” You press. “They told me you didn’t know if you wanted to come, that you wouldn't answer. I want to know why.”

He sighs a heavy, heaving thing, falling back in the chair, and turns back to the fire, and you want to whine and cry until he puts his attention back on you. You feel so… so– you don’t know. Little, unmade, with a need to be big, to grow and grow and grow so that all the things you feel and want might fit inside of you, so that he might fit inside of you. You feel hungry as if your gums ache and sting with a desire you’ve never tasted before. But also, and despite all of these conflicting, churning things, you also feel so inexplicably at ease. He’s just there, and you are just here, and you’ll make him answer, you know you have it in you to make him do the things you want, and you can’t say how, you don’t know how, but you understand that you do. 

There’s power in that – even as you are, all you are not, you can see it – the ability something small possesses to make something big move, do, be. There’s power in that. 

You whine low in your throat, and he turns back to you, something dark and tumultuous in his eyes, brow crooked sternly, but he opens his mouth. “I was going to leave you there,” he says, and you immediately wish he’d shut it. Never mind, you want to tell him, you say all the wrong things.  

“But why? I was waiting for you.” Whine, whine, whine.

“I didn’t want this. I never have.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me?” You ask again, just to be absolutely certain you’re understanding that you’ve once again found yourself in a place where you are not wanted for, or despite of, the thing that you are. The logistics, the intricacies of it don’t seem to matter as much anymore, after everything, the before life, the not life, all that matters now is the yes or no. 

But he goes silent again, attention back toward the fire, the sun set, no more glowing vermillion slash, very little hope now too. 

He ignores your question again. “Tell me about the place they kept you,” he says instead. 

“There’s nothing to tell.” You want to cry now, for the first time, besides the tears of initial happiness when he’d finally walked into your white box, you want to cry. You dig stubby nails into the round of your knee, hard as you can, trying to make it hurt and distract. “It was very calm and very quiet.”

“Did you have friends?” He won’t turn back to look at you, and it makes you feel very lacking. Very much like the nothing they tried to make you feel you were before. 

“No. They wouldn’t let us.”

“They wouldn’t let you have friends?”

“No. They said it would agitate us – too much socialization. Really, they just didn’t want us realizing, becoming angry and aware”

This makes him turn, makes you feel, within yourself, the anger you’re telling him of, like oh, now, when I’ve been shocking and honest, you look at me – after I waited all that time for you. There is no resentment about the cage, only for the waiting. You should stick your tongue out at him, make him an ugly face, turn over and go back to sleep and ignore him the way he’d ignore you. But no, you think, let him see that you do understand, and you do know some things, that you are angry, and Leo was right.

“What did you do then?” He asks. 

“I read. I learned about myself, about you. About what we are.”

His gaze is so intense now, a ricochet, a scream, something very persistently sad. “And what are we?”

“People just like all the rest of them. But with more necessity.”

“How do you mean?”

You tip your head side to side, bright fire eyed gaze to bright fire eyed gaze. Your cheeks feel molten, sweltering, sweat at your nape, the fire in the hearth so bright, but not as bright as you; your belly glows. This is what you are, this is what you’d been made into. “There is so much necessity in existing, don’t you think?”

He tips his chin, he doesn’t understand. 

“We need so many things. We require so much to be alive, to be what we are, to be satisfied and content.”

“Do we?”

“The things we are, yes. I think so.”

“You don’t seem like you spent years in that place,” he says, voice slow, molasses in the notes. There’s something hypnotized slumbering in him that forces something satisfied to swell within you. Your belly glows. 

“I had a before life. People forget that.”

“I read in your file — you lived with an aunt.”

You wait for the: only for ten years, but the diminishing does not come. “Yes. She was kind, and I remember all of it, even if the rest of the world forgets it happened.”

“Did they ever mistreat you? At the facility–”

“No. Never. There was nothing.” You’re the one to turn away now. The sun has entirely gone away, a single glowing sliver just at the drop off of the end of the world. You stick your hand out straight ahead of you, fingertip following that line of fading light through air and space and sea. 

He watches you unblinkingly, and asks, “What do you mean?” The far off light glows through your skin, through your fingernail; he follows the path of your hand.

You can pretend in your mind that you feel the warmth of it against your fingertip, that it scorches the way it glows, heats the length of your limb, feeds the same glow in your belly, but there’s no more possessive streak of light to wrap around you; now, the heat only lives within you. This is what you are, this is what they said would happen, and now it’s finally happening. You let your arm fall back to your lap, limp, and turn to look at him again. He looks so angry, and you feel so incredibly sad for him. This cold perch, this cage that is not white like your box, but dark and struck right on the edge of peril, this place he chose to exile himself to. They were honest, in the things they'd told you all, the truth of the way alphas exist out in the world. Lonely and ostracized and feared, brainwashed to your reality maybe, sure, the way Leo claimed. But in certain things, they’d been honest, and you’re glad for it, that you have the ability to understand him now from this vantage point. The reality of how he exists, the reason for that look in his eyes, it all makes sense to you. 

“I suppose that can be a kind of bad thing… a mistreatment. Making nothing of us, of our lives, taking the whole world away until someone chooses to come and give it back to us.”

He flinches, the look shutters, clicks and flashes, a camera capturing the truth of what the two of you have already done to each other without even really knowing one another at all. “I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I took so long.” The words cost him something the way all truths cost something. “That I wasn’t there for you as soon as I should have been.”

“Why weren’t you?” You ask, although you know. 

“I couldn’t. I can’t. I’m not– I’m not right. I’m not well.” And this costs him more than the rest, you can see. The thump, thump, beat of his heart in his throat. You should tell him to stop, mercy is power, but you think, feel, that this pound of flesh you’re demanding via his truths is what you’re owed for your life and a year of waiting. And anyways, you’ll pay your own pound of flesh in kind eventually, and it’ll cost, even if it’s freely given, it’ll still cost. Everything is equal here, it’s only that it takes a certain kind of eye to realize the truth of that. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything, what I am, the whole thing of it and this. It’s all wrong.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know.” And he looks suddenly angry, aged, wearing all his years and all his very obvious loneliness, teeth bared but on the verge of falling out.

“No…” you say slowly, thinking, rationalizing, a rolodex of truths in your mind. What you are, what I am, what we all are and all the honesties that compromise us. “I don’t, but I understand anyway. They make you all nothing, as well, don’t they? They take it all away, all nothing until you have one of us. It’s a terrible way to live.” And you don’t ask him, it’s not a question, only a very obvious thing. 

Your words upset him, put him right at the mouth of madness, all those shakes and jitters returned, but you only lay your head back down on the soft pillow he’d tucked beneath you, hands folded undercheek to wait for the explosion that does not come. There’s something in you that wants to see him angry, angry like Leo, like the boy who’d said you didn't have to be what they told you to be, that reminded you that you could choose for yourself. One of the few things you’d agreed on, despite and inspite of the friendship that they would not let you have but that would have blossomed anyways if they’d given you the time. They wanted to make you nothing, but you didn’t want to be nothing. You wanted very much to be alive and to belong. 

You realize, watching Joel muzzle his nature before your very eyes, wondering if the truth of him would have him springing up out of the chair to smother you with his weight and temper you with his knot, subdued with his teeth sunken into the gland at the back of your neck, that you want to see him angry. You realize that you want to see him break, that you want to hear that truth no matter what it costs the either of you. You want to see him honest. 

He struggles, a dog fight right before your eyes, but when he wins, it changes the game, turns the truth chimeral. Makes you see him in a different way, and all at the same time, makes you aware and even more comfortable than you’d already been. You’re safe here. He is safe. Most importantly, you want to be here. 

“Let me show you your room,” he says after a deep breath. 

“My room?” A little seedling of dread and sadness and disappointment. 

He shows you to a bedroom hued in soft blues. The sea when it is gentle, the sky when it’s joyous. Everything comfortable, nothing white, like he’d known already. 

He stands awkwardly at the mouth of the entry, as if scared to step foot into this serene pool of azure and marr it’s peace. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you move around, no shoes, no socks, slowly running your fingers over all the soft surfaces, sweaty little toes sunken into the deep pile of the rug underfoot. 

“I wanted you to have somewhere to adjust– where you’d have privacy. I’m sure this– that I– that it’s all a shock…” he stutters.

One of his boots inches forward, snaps back, like he wants to follow, like he needs to follow, like nature is right here in the room with the two of you, but he wins that dog fight again, holds back. Frustrating. 

“I’m not shocked. But I– I won’t stay with you?”

“No,” he says with a finality that makes that seedling bloom in full. “I also got you clothes. And– and soft things. I know your sort–”

You give a soft huff of air through your nose, my sort… our sort.

“Like things like that. And I also… I also put some of my own things in the drawers,” he nods towards a dark mahogany dresser shoved up against the wall; shy and boyish and hesitant all wrapped into a package that would seem to be none of those things. “They say that helps.”

“Okay… thank you.” 

“Went into town to get it,” he says of the robin's eggshell blue duvet, a more dove gray blue wash for the silk soft sheets beneath. It’s all beautiful and delicate and lace trimmed and looking at him, huge and rough and something like a lonely mountain, you can’t believe he’d chosen this for you. “Lady at the store said you’d like it when I picked it out.” And that makes satisfaction smother the seedling, yes, he’d chosen it for you. A good sign. 

“You went into town to get me things?”

“I told you I want you to be comfortable while you’re here.” Something about the sentence tickles your mind, but then you’re lowering yourself onto the cloud soft bed, cool silk and cotton beneath your skin, sliding against his clothes, your belly glows bright. You’re full of distractions and truth. “There’re a couple of young women that live down aways.” Young women? You perk up at the thought. Friends? “Ellie and Dina. Two young alphas, and they’re good people. I’ll take you down to meet them soon, when you’re ready.”

“Two alphas?”

“They’re a couple.”

“Like– like in love?”

He hovers at the edge of the rug with that strange look in his eyes again, the one from before – I’m only an omega, you don’t have to be afraid of me – and a palpable desperation to cross the border you don’t think he’s even aware he’s letting you in on, but that you can see nonetheless. Two fingers tucked into the line of his belt, twisted there as if grasping for restraint. 

“Yeah, they’re together.”

“I didn’t know alphas could do that… that they’d let you.”

“Reckon it’s why they came all the way out here, to be honest, for freedom. But ‘course they can – be together, that is. We can do what we please, despite what they’d have us believe.” And Leo’s words ring in your mind again. Perhaps everyone sees the truth of what you are except for you. The seedling grows vines, suffocates. All the hope you’d thought would live here seems to have never even existed at all. You feel, for the first time, heavy with all the things you do not know, all the things you lack, all the inexperience and naivety like ignorance thick and cloying in your blood. “From what I understand, Dina presented late, after they’d already gotten together. And by that time it was a done deal, they were in love, no going back. And anyway, they make it work, make it look easy as nothin’, to be frank.” He runs a big hand over the back of his skull, and the way he lifts his arm has the thick of his bicep bunching, fat ball of muscle just there for your teeth to sink into. You shift restlessly on the bed. 

“Easy as nothin’,” you say slowly, trying to imitate the dip and pitch of his drawl. Your fingertip follows the line of stitching in the duvet, petting at the seams holding it together. “Is that how we’ll be too?” And although you mean the words, intend the question, you’re suddenly awash with shy regret for asking, even though you can’t say exactly why. Probably for the look on his face, which goes immediately dark and serious, and even yet, you persist. “Will it be easy for us too?” And you’re sure your voice must sound like you’re begging. 

“No. It won’t. It won’t be like that between us. You’ll stay here as long as it takes for you to acclimatize to being out of that place,” that place, he says like a curse, and it makes you angry, “To bein’ out in the world, and then we’ll find somewhere for you. Somewhere that’s safe and comfortable where you’ll be able to make your own life.”

“I don’t– I don’t understand,” you tell him, but it’s a lie. You do understand, you see, and very clearly, that all you’d waited for during your life, the before, the not life, the extra year, it had all been in vain, for nothing. It would not be given to you here. 

“What don’t you understand?” And his tone is cruel and spitting, making you flinch. “I’m sending you away soon. This is what I’m saying.”

“But I don’t– No–” You’d waited so long. He’s being so mean, and you tell him so. 

“Yes. You need to be with people your own age. You need to see the world and grow up,” and what a horrible thing to say, you think – to grow up. As if it were not a thing you’d been forced to do already all on your own, without anyone to help you.

“Well then what do you care about what I need? You make no sense!” And you bare your teeth at him. “If you don’t want me–” 

But he cuts you off, broad palm held up in a staying gesture, and it’s so incongruous with all the rest of it, that you want to laugh in his face. “Didn’t say I don’t want’cha.” And that frown again, he makes no sense, the tip of his boot makes landfall in the high piled rug, halfway in, hypnotized and compelled in full. You settle on the bed and feel very calm despite the too fast beat of the thing that moves and lives within you, despite your anger and confusion. 

And through the beat and the heat and the sweat on your neck, despite the shyness you’ve forgotten is shyness right at this moment, but that you’re sure will return later because this is what you are and this is what you were made for: him. You ask, “Then are you going to knot me now?” Because if he’s going to send you away, then surely he’ll give you that before you go, surely he’ll still want that from you. 

He splutters, going all red in the face as if the notion of a young omega asking the experienced alpha she’s been presented with to do that most basic thing his nature demands, is something out of the ordinary. “What? No– no.” But despite his supposed refusal, he takes two steps forward towards you. Venturing further onto the soft piled rug, leaving large crushing footprints in his wake. 

“Later then?” You ask very pragmatically.

“No. Absolutely not. There will be no knotting.”

You shake your head at him, small frown between your brows, but still feeling calm despite the tragedy. Forcing that horrible seedling down into submission, the vines smothering all your hope. “But what do you mean?” And you feel like a child. 

“I’m not going to fuck you. We aren’t doin’ any of that. You’re too– you’re too young, practically a girl.” A child. He has an accent that thickens with agitation, the ends of his words sluicing off between his tongue and teeth and anger while he hurts you.

“You don’t want me,” you say, and it isn’t a question anymore, only an obvious thing.

His eyes go very dark, and you want to turn away, look back at the edge of the world and the bright glow of the sun being swallowed by it. “I don’t want that.” And the way he spits the words hurts, making you a thing impossible to desire.  

“You don’t want me,” again, repeated, so the both of you can bask in the truth of it. 

But it snaps something in the room, or in him, or amidst the honesty being brought out here and now. He takes two ground-eating steps forward to loom over you aggressively, forcing you to fall back on your elbows, looking up at him wide eyed but still inexplicably not afraid, only a greater thing than what can be called merely disappointed. And yet, not disappointed enough to not notice the way one of his knees presses against the inside of one of yours. “I should get to have a fucking choice too, shouldn’t I? Like you, locked away in that horrible place–”

“It wasn’t horrible,” you try and say, but you don’t think he hears.

“The way you had all your choices and freedoms stripped. Shouldn’t I also be allowed to have one single goddamn thing?” Where else would I have gone if not there? “A choice – to say, no, stop, I don’t want this.” He’s so angry, and it is all suddenly so clear, and he finally grabs you, pulling you up by the bend of your elbow, the small joint almost crushed in his massive fist to pull you halfway up off the bed and towards him, getting in your face with all his anger. 

Leo’s voice again, you don’t have to be what they tell you to be, you can choose for yourself. This is what Joel wants too. 

“You can’t end up stuck out here at the end of the world with some washed up old alpha who can’t give you a quarter of what you need and deserve. I won’t let you. I won’t,” he snarls.

But despite your greenness, your naivety or your ignorance or your youth, you think: how dare he? “And what about what I want? What about my choices? Or are you going to be just like all the rest of them? Like the whole world telling me I’m too insignificant and too stupid to decide for myself? Just locked away in another cage–” You spit at him, trying to claw and shove at him, stubby nails digging at the sun pebbled skin of his throat, yanking at his too long hair and patchy beard, inadvertently pulling yourself closer to him. He grunts, struggling to take you in hand, slippery thing you can make yourself into when you really want, and you, trying your mightiest to hurt him any way you can as he’s already decided he’s going to hurt you with his rejection. “Is that what you are? Just like all the rest of them?” You cry amidst your struggle, choked with tears and being too little to be effective but too big for your own skin. 

You shove at his jaw, trying to scratch at his cheek, but he grips you full around either arm, locking you in place and gives you a swift but measured jerk, jostling you into submission, trapping your hands bent as they are up by his neck so that one small palm is sliding to the back of his nape, over the gland behind his ear, at that soft vulnerable hollow, and coming to rest at the one in back, at the base of his neck beneath his collar. Both of you go still as stone, frozen by the truth of what you both are and how inescapable it all is, reality held in the palm of your hand.

Obvious: a designation is not a thing you can ever hide. Alphas and omegas wear it on their bodies like markers. Glands scattered at different places: behind the ears, at the base of the neck, inside the wrists and ankles; vulnerabilities that when acknowledged, bitten, seal a mating bond. Places that if handled properly, turn you into nothing but what you are at your basest nature. And you can’t help yourself – at the feel the spongy patch of skin, slightly raised and slightly rougher than the rest of him, a place that when in rut or in heat, would become, will become, extra sensitive, extra swollen, extra ripe – when you slowly slide your fingers against it, feeling the texture of it, the way it’s even hotter than the already sweltering rest of him. 

He growls low and rumbling in his chest, that sound again, and he’s so angry, it’s painted all over his face in shades of defiance; coming off of him like radiation, angry at you, angry at the truth of what you both are, angry at himself and the world and all of it, but he pulls you closer anyways, tugging your forward by his grip on your arms which is starting to mimic the ache you’re suffering at that place between your legs you long to show him, pulling you in so that the tips of your breasts, covered beneath his thick sweater and the too thin, soft bra they gave all the omegas who needed them, brush against the thick of his chest, pulling a soft breath of a moan from your tongue.

“You’re being so mean to me,” you whisper. “And I don’t deserve it. And I waited so long for you and you never came for me, and now this is how you’re treating me,” you say with a hiccup and a tear, and you feel little and big and that place that calls for him pulses and hurts and leaks. He’s so mean and you’re so sad and you want him and you can’t understand why he’s being this way when you were made for him and he for you, and if nothing else was right in this world, then this was the thing that was supposed to be. 

His eyes shift quickly back and forth between both of yours, that frown, mouth turned down, his mustache that connects to the patchiness of his beard showing how contrary he finds you. You frown back at him, trying to pull away, whining when he tightens, pulls you closer, right up to his face as if he needs to inspect you even more closely. Your toes aren’t touching the rug anymore, scraping against the thick round of his boots, and you won’t have it. You’ll give him a piece of your mind, you’ll show him. “You think that because I’m little and young and easily bruised that I’m not in control.” It’s not a question. If you could grow fangs, you would. If you could rip him to shreds, you would. “That I can’t control you. But I made you come for me, didn’t I?” Now you laugh at him, now you show him. “I knew if I wrote to you, you’d come, and you did. I made you come. I made you.” And saying it feels like victory, so you don’t care that it makes his face crack, you don’t care that he pushes away from you, letting you fall back onto the bed with a limp bounce, storming out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. You don’t give a thistle for choices. You want to be selfish, you want to be alive, you want to see the sky. You have the sea now, and you want to be this thing you are because this is already you, this is what you were made into, and you have no choice but to bask in it, and you won’t bend to him or give it up for him only because he can’t accept the same of himself, only because he’s still trapped in his own white box. 

-

He knows, as soon as you make whatever stupid decision it is that you’re making, that something’s off. A shift in the air in the house, his heart beating funny, his scent changing because his body knows you’re not in its immediate vicinity anymore, something that tells him off, off, off, be vigilant, she needs you so much, you can’t fail again. He reminds himself of all the decisions he’s already made, of what he knows he wants and does not want, of what he is and what he is not. 

After he’d stormed out of your room – I made you – he’d retreated to hide in his own bedroom, to the other big chair by the fireplace in here, cowering like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, forcing himself to listen to you cry for hours, the whine and whimper of an omega in need of something he was made to give, and yet will not. As if a little thing like you could make him do anything. Him. He grits his teeth, chews on his own tongue, digs his fingers into the arms of the chair to force himself to remain seated in place, to not return to you, to not give you all the things he knows you need and want to be soothed by. 

He can smell your scent changing already, reacting to him, reducing him to nothing, entirely effective in your conquering. And he’d stupidly thought that perhaps the heat, and the rut that it would yield, would wait, give him a moment of reprieve or compassion before it came for him. A moment to think. He thought he’d have more time, a chance to escape the thing he so desperately wants but cannot and will not let himself have, refuses to give in to. His body stirs and smolders, and like he’d done for eleven years and then one, he ignores it. He ignores the truth of who and what he really is. 

He sits in his chair, head propped up against the back, and listens to your cries and mewls ebb and quiet until finally, he thinks you might have sobbed yourself to sleep. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t mean to hurt you. It’s the absolute last thing he could ever, ever want. Everything, not only in his nature, but in his character, in the things that make him up as a man who’d want a woman like you, is clamoring within him to go to you, to give you what you want, to sooth you with his voice and his scent and his cock. To fuck you into your heat until you’re soft and slick and fevered enough to take his knot, to let him breed you, to let him mate you. His cock stirs and thickens beneath the rough confines of his jeans, that thicket of skin at the base where his knot waits in ready for you, simmering with heat and tightness. He digs his knuckles into his temple until it hurts. 

You don’t want me… Of course he fucking wants you. He’d have taken your cunt for himself right there in that white box room, on your rickety little iron cot for all the surrounding omegas and witless betas to hear without giving a single shit what anyone said or thought if he had any sort of right or will or choice. If he had anything more to give you. And then watching you go right to sleep when he’d brought you into his home, the sight of you feeling so immediately safe and content, ready to nest amongst his things and his scent – that feeling of having within himself the things that he needs to be what he is – indescribable. 

Pretty little omega – and truly, you’re so pretty. All he’d never let himself imagine or desire or hope for. He’s too old, past his prime and forgotten by the world, but he’s still a man with a working cock, still an alpha, even if only in the simplest of ways. Of course he wants you. 

He lets himself languish miserably before the fire, eyes going hazy with exhaustion, the comedown of adrenaline, the presence of warm omega all around him, the taste of your pre-heat scent coating his tongue and throat. He pulls his socks off and lets the heat of the fire warm his feet and thinks he should’ve given you his room instead, let you sleep in his bed, near the fireplace, between his sheets and amongst his scent. He can sleep out in the dirt for all he matters as long as you’re comfortable. And the rational part of his brain wants to laugh at the thought, sitting here alone, realizing that despite his battling, his nature will always win out in the end, that all this fight really means shit. His cock gives a faint throb, his deflated knot rhythmically pulsing in time with his heart, ready to swell and claim what everyone including nature, but excluding Joel, has said belongs to him. Of course he wants you. And if he’s honest, or a fucking liar, he can’t really say which, all his truths and deceptions have become so muddled within his own mind, his past and his present and this future he’s never thought he wanted or had a right to, the year of waiting was more a form of self punishment, restraint as proof of fear, than anything to do with you. 

Anger, yes, that everything had been decided for him for so long. That he isn’t even allowed to decide what he is, what he wants. But fear, more than anything, that interminable curse of failure he’s so haunted by and so afraid of. How could nature ever look at him and think him strong enough to take on the role of caretaker, protector, alpha – whatever it is that you need him to be, the whole world in the eye of a young and untried omega – when he can hardly stand the sight of his own face in the mirror? There’s nothing but tragedy setting the stage the two of you stand posed on. 

Finally, your cries fade to soft hiccups, and then a peculiar silence he doesn't trust. He waits, ears peeled, his head turned slightly towards the cracked open door of his bedroom, sensing the shift in scent and after a few beats of too loud silence, a thud and a huff, the music of a little mind thinking too loudly and mischievously for its own good. Even the wind seems to blow differently as if it knows you’re scampering about amidst it now, vulnerable to its lashings, and he’s shooting up out of his chair and charging through the house. By the door, he realizes his boots are gone, stolen from where he’d dropped them discarded after he’d left you in your room to cry your salt tears. He forgoes a coat and his flannel, braving the icy wind in nothing but his white undershirt, stepping silent but no less frantic out onto the deck. The truck is dark and quiet, still in its usual spot, and this quells his fear minutely. It occurs to him that you likely don’t even know how to drive. 

But when he comes around the western facing corner of the house, it’s worse than he could’ve imagined, and the scar slashed across his right temple suddenly zings like copper, burns like fire at the sight of you. You are, for some inexplicable reason, crawling on all fours, towards the edge of the cliffside. And he’s frozen solid for a second, shocked and terrified, and then moving forward like lightning, tripping over his own two feet and breath before he realizes you’re right at the very edge now, and he needs to move very fucking carefully to ensure he doesnt send you spilling in fright over the edge. 

He alters his movements, continues forward slowly, his bare feet over the freezing ground and sharp bric-a-brac of the forest floor, the slabs of stone turning to ice as he nears the edge, and he watches the uncoordinated wallop of your movements, banging your knee with a small yelp, as you crawl like a slow and drunken spider in his too big clothes, dragging his too big boots around your ankles, to the very edge of the cliff side, slowly lowering yourself to plop down with your head and arms hanging over the edge. 

He pauses about ten feet away from you and waits for your next move, but you lie still, quarter part of you draped over the edge of the cliff, and he realizes that you’re watching the water far below crash against the rocks. 

“Sweetheart,” he calls slow and gentle, crouching down low so that his voice travels along the ground where you lay. “Sweetheart, what’re you doin’?” You start, turning back towards him, one palm coming to the edge of the rock to shove yourself up to peer back at him, rock pebble spraying out over the void with your movement, and his heart and stomach lurch to his throat, almost gagging at the terror. Your eyes are hazy and bright, and he recognizes the beginnings of the fever, it’s tendrils wrapping themselves around you, making you a little confused, a lot needy, and he’s so fucking stupid, he should’ve never left you alone. But he hadn’t thought it’d come on this fast, that you’d affect each other so. 

“I wanna go down there,” you call over the small hill of your shoulder, turning back to peer down at the beach. You point down at the shoreline with your other hand, wagging your finger as to emphasize what it is you want.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to have a goddamn heart attack. “Alright, baby. Come back here, I’ll take you down. Let’s go together.” You mumble something, arm flopping out, waving him away. “Please, sweetheart, come back here with me,” he begs, and there must be something in his tone, he’s sure, because you turn full back at that, looking at him suspiciously like you remember his earlier words of rejection and no longer trust him now. 

“I’m glowing, sir. I need to feel the sea and the cold.” Your voice sounds not your own, like it comes surfing off the wind to his ears. 

“Not, sir. Joel. Only Joel, remember?”

You push yourself up, moving to sit back on your knees, but still right at the edge, still too close. Sweat slides slick and frigid down his spine, the complete opposite of what you must be feeling right now. Only Joel. Only Joel, he hears you mutter at the sea. “There isn’t anything only about you. Leave me alone. Go away–”

“Please, baby. Come back here. Let’s go inside, I’ll give you the sea, I promise. Just come over here – with me.” You turn back at that, shifting on your knees to face him. If you lose your balance, stumble, you’ll topple back over the edge. He just needs to be good enough for you to want to come to him, convincing enough. He puts his palm out towards you, all supplication now. “Come here, sweet thing. I’ll show you the sea, I promise I will.” You start your slow spider crawl back towards him and his scar burns, a sharp pain through his brain, piercing behind his eye, heart beat to death between his ribs. As soon as he gets his hands on you, he’s going to fucking throttle you, he promises. But he’s almost got you, and he dares not move, barely even breathes, his hand is shaking so badly it interrupts his view of you on every other painful heartbeat, and he realizes his eyes are blurry with terrified tears, and suddenly, that anger doesn’t matter even half an ounce as much anymore because then you’re here and crawling into his arms, up into his lap so that he’s falling back onto his ass on the cold, hard ground. He pulls you into himself, clumsy little spider legs wrapping around his waist, your arms going around his neck so that you’re clinging to him. 

One of his boots lies lost and discarded back by the edge of the cliff.

“Please, don’t ever fucking do that to me again.”

“I’m glowing,” you sigh into his neck.

“I know you are, baby. It’s okay, we’ll fix it.” He feels you nuzzle at his collarbone, his neck, the gland, already sensitive and swollen behind his ear, already, already, already, God help me, and his heart feels like it’s beating so hard he can feel it move through your chest cavity and reverberate against his hand on your back. Christ, it wasn't supposed to happen this quickly, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to have more time, more choices, more control. The wet of your lips mouthing at his skin, and then the peek of your tongue tasting his gland, and he rumbles deep in his chest, his mind going loose and slacken like an old rubber band, and then snapping back to clarity at your surroundings. Cold wind and now the beginning sprinkling of needle freezing rain, your shivers jittering into his chest.

“We gotta go inside – let’s get up,” he murmurs into your ear, unable to resist nosing at your hair, the small, freezing cold seashell hidden within. 

Wait, wait– and then the scrape of small, blunt edged teeth just there at the vulnerable patch of skin. He swallows a scream, and the caged thing rattles and howls inside his chest, his arms going iron and binding around your back, pressing you to him, chest melded to chest. “Wait, please,” again, and now a tiny kiss. “If you don’t want me,” and he never should’ve even insinuated it, it’s the worst thing he’s ever done in his entire miserable fucking life. “Then will you please–” another soft press of lips to his jaw, the corner of his mouth. His hand slides down your spine, he can’t help himself, presses down on the base of your vertebrae, the heat of your cunt along the pulse of his cock, through cotton and denim and cold, just there, just there, he’s so fucking close. “Will you at least kiss me–” but you’re not waiting for another rejection, you’re just licking clean across the slash of his mouth, taking his bottom lip between both of yours for a shy little suck, unsure and inexperienced with desperation. And then there’s nothing caged about any of it, no more white box, no more perch at the end of the world, he squeezes you to himself so that it hurts, and he kisses you.  

Hand twisted too tightly in your dampening hair, he pulls your head back, and with a rumbling grunt sends you deep and languid into easy submission, the steady deep timber of the sound wringing the desired effect on you. You twitch once, as if he’d tugged on your strings, his pretty puppet, and then go soft and open and easily penetrated, jaw hinging open so that he can lick inside of you, tasting all you have to offer which he refuses to accept he’s actually taking and which you’re all too desperately eager to give. 

He takes it all regardless. 

Slick mouth against slick mouth, out there in the cold rain and wind, rolling around in the dirt, he tastes you the way the two of you were made for. Pulling your hips closer, rolling his up to meet all the heat you have to offer which will only get hotter and hotter the more he continues down this path. You claw at his hair, the gland at your wrist rubbing against the one at his ear, marking him with your scent and pheromones, marking him as yours. And he swears he can almost feel that glow in your belly too, a little wriggling comet in his hands, set to burst. The crescendo of your whining climbs higher, your mouth hungrier, and Joel feels insane for a second, entirely outside of himself, lost to his senses. All he is, is what you need him to be, something hard and strong and solid for you to mold yourself around, and it’s so right it’s wrong. Not what he’d planned, not what he’d decided. 

He rips his mouth away from yours, panting, forgetting his name and his sense and everything else he is besides a hard cock and a now equally smoldering belly. “Wait– wait,” he begs, burning comet, too willful to tame without teeth, surging in his arms. You rub yourself against his face, your hair sluicing through his, your soft tits against his chest, his neck, bumping his chin while you try to climb him perched in his lap like you are. “Wait, please–” he tries to sooth over your huffing whines, and then a sharp stinging little bite to his jaw line. 

No, no. 

“Stop. We have to stop, please. This isn't what’s supposed to happen. This isn’t what I want.” And you hear that. 

The comet burns out, you go still in his arms, and it feels worse than anything. He wishes he could swallow the words back immediately because then you’re pushing back and away from him. Scrambling out of his lap, escaping his arms as fast as you can. 

“You’re horrible! Get away–” He dodges a small, kicking foot – the bootless one.  And you’re stumbling to your feet, tripping over the too big shoe wrapped around your too small foot. He pushes to stand, as well, gripping you about the elbow, avoiding a weakly punching little fist now. This is truly getting too ridiculous. The two of you need to come to terms with each other, meet in the middle, forgo the theatrics you seem all too desperate for. He ducks away from another ineffectual punch, grips you by the scruff of the neck, unruly kitten that you are, and pushing you forward, hooks you under his arm, lifting you clear off the ground and rendering you entirely captured, bent in half, a wilted flower over the strong of his forearm. 

You squawk indignantly, kicking your feet against the back of his leg as he stomps over to his abandoned boot, slowly filling with rain now, fuck this shit, and trudges through the mud back to the house, ice cold droplets dripping off the tip of his nose. The two of you are well on your way to soaked, but he thinks it might not be such a bad thing, considering the ball of heat radiating from your belly, the one in his own mimicking you. It seems to pool in the palm of his hand, where he’s got you hooked and caught over his arm, honey collection of magma.

Let me go! You’re screeching. “Leave me alone! You don’t even care about me and I hate you and I want to see the water!” More kicking and clawing.

When he finally dumps you back onto your rumpled bed, undignified yelps and pathetic little growls, he’s at his wits end. Taking you firmly in hand, heavy hand back at the nape of your neck, thickly calloused palm scraping against the quickly swelling gland there, other pushing at your hip to drape you over the edge of the bed like a rag doll, he folds himself over you, smothering you with his weight and heat, forcing you into calm. You go shocked frozen, wracked with shivers and then finally, blessedly still and quiet. This was all you needed, for Joel to follow his instincts. 

He presses you into the bed with his too heavy weight, thick arms caged around your head, pert little ass tucked up against his pelvis, and he breathes you in, lets you settle. 

“You need to behave,” he rumbles, and all you do is sigh bleary eyed and exhausted by your own willfulness. “You’re not to go outside all alone at night like that again, do you understand me? And you are especially, never, ever, to go that close to the cliff edge again.”

“But the sea–” you whine and shift, rubbing your little cunt against his now fully hard cock, perfect position that he’s got you in, presented to him like this. He presses tighter against you, growling deep in his chest to shut you up. 

“Promise me.” But you whine, shifting, starting to cry a little, too far gone to the start of the fever he’s done nothing to really sate. There’s still time yet, for your full heat, but these beginning symptoms, they need to be soothed just as well, tempered just as diligently as the full blown heat would be. If for nothing else, than for the sake of the omegas' comfort and happiness. He bends his knees, shoving the thick of his erection up against the apex of your thighs, pressing you further up onto the bed and tighter beneath him, and nosing through the mantle of your hair, he finds the gland at the back of your neck beneath the collar of his sweater and bites down gently. Not breaking skin, only giving you teeth to feel, to be soothed by, that blunt clasp that’ll dull your own sharp edges for now. 

He laves his tongue along the scorching patch of skin, the texture different to the rest of you, different, even, to his own glands, like silk, like water, something liquid about the feel of you here beneath his tongue and teeth. You let out a terrible little sound that has the threads of his control snapping, providing cause for concern, and he growls softly, pleased, in response. It’s a sound of submission and acceptance and praise, from the both of you equally, all at the same time. He lets you settle like this, petting at you with his tongue, giving you the scraping edge of his teeth like a threat, every so often. Grinding, because honestly he can’t even fucking help it, against that scorching little cunt he knows would already, even now, be so soft for him. Perhaps, not soft enough yet, not ripe enough yet, to take his knot and everything else he wants to force on it, but soft enough for him to teach you how to take a good fucking. 

A virgin, never even had a heat before, and trapped here between his teeth and beneath his cock. It would all be so easy, it would all feel so right. 

But that is, Joel thinks, just the thing of it. It would feel right – but would it be right? He can’t yet tell. 

You cloud his judgment, seduce his nature into wanting to give you everything and anything you could ever even think to ask for, and he can’t yet tell if it’s just you, that sparkle and that light and that heat like a comet that lives inside of you that he’s coming to suspect is wholly yours, nothing to do with biology or designations or markers that tell of what you should and should not be, that’s got him so desperate to please you. Or if it’s only nature, trying to force him into another choice he’s not made for himself. 

-

You wake slowly, disturbed out of your sleep the way one feels when they’re being spied on by something too large and too scary to look at right in the eye. 

You shift in the blue bed, cool and calm now, all that glowing heat from before that’d forced you out into the cold and the wind, hungry to throw yourself through space and time out into the sea, reckless and free, gone away now. All you feel as your eyes blink open slowly, is a shivery, damp cold rattling down the line of your spine. The room around you is dark, the glow of the slumbering fire out in the living room peeking in through the slightly left ajar door of your bedroom. 

He’d stayed until you’d gone boneless and calm, trapped beneath his weight and between his thick strong arms, letting you suck on the gland inside his wrist as you’d pleased. And when finally, you’d been just on this side of awake, he’d changed your clothes and slid you beneath the soft sheets and weighted duvet, and sat in the cozy sofa chair by the window until you’d been too exhausted by the embers in your tummy and the tight want between your legs to fight sleep any longer. 

The chair sits cold and empty now, and above it, the wide window, the pitch black of the world beyond is bright with unknown terrors, and you huddle into your nest of pillows and blankets, hiding beneath the edge of the duvet. 

You’d never had a window in your bunk, had not experienced the night in years and years, and looking at it now, put on display as it is through the clear pane of glass separating you from all of that unknown, you feel suddenly terrified, nothing but little. It feels as if you were to look away from it, it’d reach through the glass and pluck you out of your bed, whisk you far enough away that he’d never be able to find you, come for you again, and also, like if you don’t stop looking, it’ll eventually begin to look back. You wiggle backwards, bum finding the edge of the bed, and then sliding out, feet first, gaze still peeled on the window and the night, walking backwards out of your room and pulling the door shut on your way. At the very last moment, you peek through the sliver of the door edge and frame, nothing but your nose remaining in the blue room, and you swear the night stares back now. 

You shut the door with a snick, and turn to rush on tipped toes in search of his room. 

He’s sleeping on his back, one thick arm thrown over his head, the other laying across his belly, and you peer over the edge of the bed, hands clasped beneath your chin, watching the up and down of his breathing, the flicker of his eyes beneath his lids. He has long eyelashes and funny whiskers and hair everywhere. Under his arms, and across his chest and his belly, leading down below the sheet covering him, to the thick lump there, that place you don’t know yet, but do understand. He’s hairy, and he’s big, and the aching place you want to show him comes awake in response to all this man you have before you. And although the house is warm, the fires stoked diligently to keep you as toasty as you need, another shiver runs its way down your back. So taking hold of one of his thighs, you hoist yourself up onto his too tall bed, knobby knee stabbing him in the side as you climb on top of him, planting yourself right in the middle of his broad expanse. He gives a rough grunt, shocked awake by the little creature climbing its way all over him, hands shooting out to steady you by the hips as he jerks startled. 

“What in the Sam Hell–” You ignore his spluttering, rubbing your bottom against his stomach, finding a comfortable position to drape yourself over him, wilting like a felled weed snuggled up against his chest, tucked just below his chin, giving an entirely contented sigh when you settle. “What the fuck’re you doin’?” He has such a nasty mouth. Someone should wash it with soap for him. 

He tries to roll over, but you cling, bearing your sharp little teeth to latch at his collarbone, holding tight, refusing to be shoved away again. “M’cold–” you fuss, chewing and slobbering all over him as you pull yourself closer, hitching a knee over his hip, burrowing your foot between the bed and his back. 

“You have t’go back to your bed. You can’t sleep here.”

You whine, chewing harder, and he grumbles, but his hands slide from your hips to your back in a soothing pass and you slick your tongue against the flavors of his skin. He tastes so good, and he smells so good, and in a tiny voice you know will get you what you want, you say, “The window is too big and it’s so dark. I’m scared, alpha.”

He groans, grip going tight and strangling around you, fists bunching in the oversized clothes he’d swaddled you in after he’d dried the rain and outdoor chill off of you before putting you to bed. “Can’t I just stay here? I promise I’ll be good like you told me to,” and you nuzzle against him, making sure to thoroughly cover him in the headiness of your scent. Everything is so warm and right, and he’s so thick and comfortable and strong everywhere, perfect for laying on top of like this. The hair on his chest is prickly, tickling your face where you rub yourself against it, and he rumbles low, a deep sort of purring sound that you feel vibrate in your tummy, big wolfish man that he is, but his grip goes loose and soft after a while, stroking and soothing and petting along your slopes and planes. Convinced. Ha. 

You hold very still, breathe very slow, make sure not to spook the beast while he accepts the fact of you here atop him until he finally says, already sleepy and relaxed again, “Alright… but you’ll behave like I said.” And eventually he rolls the two of you over, little omega barnacle that you’ve turned yourself into, and tucks you into his warm side. 

The third time you wake to him, there’s fire everywhere. And an ache in your womb so sharp it sends shivers through your whole body. You cling and grind and tremble; forget your name, where you are, nothing more than that sticky throb in that place that you want to give to him so, so badly. 

He’s draped atop you, heavy arm caging you in, thick chest covering your back, smothering you between incredible strength and, soft, Joel smelling sheets. You cup the ball of his bicep, it’s big and hard and hot, and drag your palm along the thick slope. He’s so strong, he could crush you, hurt you, make you into anything he wanted, and you want all those things, you think. You want him to do whatever he wants if only he’ll make the ache go away. Fire and glowing bright heat everywhere, most of all your belly, your heart, somewhere so deep inside you’d never known it existed until he’d come and made you aware of it. 

Your fingers slide along his wide forearm, hairy here too, thick wrist, hard, strong bone beneath, and then the soft spot on the inside that belongs to you now. You stick your tongue out, tasting the spongy patch, scraping your teeth along it. If you bite him, you’ll be able to keep him forever, he won’t be able to send you away, but there still remains – even if just for a little bit longer, before the heat you’ve been waiting your whole life and a year for to finally take you – a part of you that’s still rational, head only halfway gone to the clouds. That part which reminds you that more than anything, you want him to choose you. Without the bite as a deal breaker, bond sealer, only because he wants you, only because he likes you. 

But you can taste him, it doesn’t mean you have to bite him, and you the tip of run your tongue along the inside of his wrist, gently suckling at his gland, the flavor of him so much stronger here, as if his essence is more concentrated at this small place. And the ache between your legs, in your tummy, deepens, spreads and blooms and ravages. The inside of you feels sensitive and swollen and big and little all at once, and you shift your bottom, trying to rub yourself back up against him, your sucking mouth pulling sharper, a whine bubbling in your throat because you need something, something more, and you think you know, and you know you understand, but you’re not sure, and if he could just wake up and show you it would all be so much better.

You press back harder, arching so that the aching place feels the heat of him behind you, that hard ridge there that makes your heart pound all through your body. You’d shucked off your leggings and the sweater he’d put you in through the night, too hot and sweaty with the big beast smothering you as he’d been, so now you’re left in nothing but one of his too big t-shirts and the soft, cotton white panties all the omegas always wore. You whine again, gnawing on his wrist for real now, and a big paw of a hand comes up to wrap around your hip, stilling your wriggling. You feel him lean closer, burying his face in the back of your hair, groaning, hot bullish breath fanning across your nape. He rumbles deep and it only makes you feel worse, more desperate, more hungry for that thing you don’t know how to ask for. You want to cry his name, beg him, but your tongue feels fat and swollen inside your mouth, too full of blazing heat to form actual words. He just has to know, he just has to be able to tell. 

“I know,” he mumbles against your nape, nosing around to your ear where he presses his mouth. “I know, it’s alright.” You gurgle again, pulling his wide palm to cover your face completely, nuzzling against his rough palm, muffling your pathetic animal sounds of supplication. It’s okay, it’s okay, you can hear him murmuring and you’re not sure who the words are for, but you feel certain they’re not for you. He’s scared, you know this. Between all the things you’re so uncertain of, this you’re sure of. He’s afraid, and it’s your job to reassure him, to show him how well it will all be once the two of you come together. 

You push your face harder into his palm, and you feel him hook his fingers into the elastic of your panties, tugging the soft fabric wide, tugging them down your legs, and there’s that same need, yes, that comet bright glowing heat, but also, and something you can recognize as more your usual self, a desperate sort of shyness. Something coming unraveled and unspooled for the whole world, him, to see. You can feel the slick uncoveredness at the apex of your thighs, running down your legs, a blossom of heat and vulnerability there at that place, the core of you, and it doesn’t feel shameful, necessarily, but painfully exposed. Your softest place bared for him to see. And yet, alongside that, the knowledge that this soft place is only for him, that you only ever want it to be for him, and so this can, again, be nothing but right. 

“Look at all this slick you’ve made for me, what a sweet girl you are.” There’s such reassurance in the timber of his voice, it makes the heat change, something swirling but steady, constant. You spread your own palm against the back of his hand covering your face, line your fingers along the backs of his, little and big, matched alongside each other, and you press his fingers against your forehead, squishing your nose against his palm, Hiding there in the cup of his hand from the whole world and him, waiting for this truth of yourself to finally be revealed to you. 

His palm strokes along your bare thigh, I know, I know, he keeps saying, and they’d told you all that your alphas would know, that they’d show you, and there’s reassurance in this, that some part of what’s happening is unfolding as they said it would. It makes you feel not so small, not so untried and naive. You try and lay as still as possible, willing the flames into patience, breathing in your own hot breath from the cup of his palm. I know it hurts, we’ll make it better, I promise. He shifts behind you, the rustling of fabric, and then his hand on your bottom again, moving in a slow circular motion, steady and reassuring. He moves to your leg again, lifts it and then something hot and hard and big, coming to rest on your inner thigh, and he lets your leg down, starts the soothing rub of your bottom again. 

“We’re gonna go so slow, alright. Only a little at a time and not the whole thing today. We gotta wait for your heat to settle in all the way, time it all right so that my rut doesn’t start before you’re ready to take me. How does that sound, sweetheart?” But your tongue is still fat, your words still jumbled and missing, and all you really want to ask is if he’s changed his mind now, if he’s finally decided he wants you, and you think you’re crying, sipping salt water from the palm of his hand. “I know I wasn’t how you needed me yesterday, and I’m sorry for that.” He presses his forehead against the back of your shoulder, hand sliding up your hip to your waist, dragging his shirt along as he goes, uncovering you for himself. And you feel so intensely, that you belong to him, and you can’t understand how he could have ever not felt the same way. 

You hitch an agonized little sob, muffled by his hand, and he rolls slightly so you’re half draped atop his chest, his palm rubbing soothing circles low on your belly now. And forcing you out of your hiding place, he pulls your face back to look at him, gripped around your jaw. His face is very serene, and this settles you, makes the words he’s saying clearer, more meaningful. “Can you hear me silly thing, or can all you think about is taking a cock right now?” You scrunch your nose at him, you know that word, it’s his hard thing between your legs. 

“It’s so heavy, alpha,” you sniffle, feeling the weight of it pressing against you there. 

He nods, warm look in his eyes that crease at the edges. “That’s how it’s going to feel inside you, baby.”

“The knot?” A seedling blooms again, this one very different now, full of hope once more. You realize you’ve found your missing words. 

He shakes his head, not yet, and drags his palm up the inside of your thigh, squeezing and kneading as he goes, and you want to complain that he moves so slow, that he needs to do something else, you don’t know what, but something. You want to click your teeth at him, bite him again, anything to make him go. 

And then: “Drippy little girl,” and he’s finally there and a moan that’s almost a scream because he’s cupping a place that is so unbearably sensitive and raw and full of heat and wet like you’d never known was possible. 

Oh, oh, ah, ah, ah. “It’s alright,” he says, rubbing gently back and forth, a slick sound that is loud and embarrassing coming from between your legs. “It’s alright. This’ll help for now. We won’t go inside.” And he grips the heavy thing, his cock, in his own palm that’s all slick from your leaking and presses it against you. He rolls over completely now, shifting higher in the bed so that you’re sitting full on top of him, back to chest, bum to belly, and he spreads your thighs wide with his other hand, pulling your shirt up to bare all your nakedness for him to see. You wonder if he can also see all that burning shyness you’re suddenly so chock full of. 

“Look at these pretty little tits,” he murmurs, cupping one small morsel in his palm, squeezing so that you’re arching against him, mouth agape like a fish, trying to find sounds that seem to have suddenly gone missing once again. “That’s right, I know.” He moves to the other one, squeezes and pinches and shakes it so that it jiggles in the cup of his hand. All the while he strokes his cock between your legs, pulling his hips back every so often so that it slides against you, coating it in all that wet slick you’re spilling for him. 

You look down at the place where it juts out between your thighs, and it’s so big. Dark and angry looking at the end, thick and covered in veins that make it look even angrier and about to burst. You ask him if it hurts him, and he laughs a little and says it isn’t anything you can’t fix which makes you seven different shades of pleased. 

The hand at your breasts moves up to your face again, and he turns your head, searching for your eyes. “We started off badly yesterday, yes? But we’re gonna do better today. I promise.” He slides his hips back again and this time he presses harder against you, his hand flat against the underside of his cock so that the top is slicking all along you. Sensitive little cunt, he says when you tremble and shiver and keen, and that’s when you know that’s what it's called. Your cunt. That place that belongs to him, that you want to give him so badly, that you want him to want so badly but that you barely even know yourself. No more experience than the greedy, frantic digging at the soft, hot flesh beneath your hand in moments when everything had felt too tight and needy to do anything else. 

“Gonna break you in so well, baby. Gonna teach you how to come, how to fuck, how to take a knot.” And now the wide head presses against you, against a place that is so, so incredibly sensitive it almost hurts. You suck in a sharp gasp, trying to jerk away from the hurt, but he holds you in place against him, presses again, yeah, I know, yeah I know, like he’s trying to put it inside you, and yes, you think that’s what it is, that’s what you need, even if it might hurt. “You’re gonna get everything you need jus’ from me,” and his words are slurred and dripping slacken from his tongue. 

He starts to move faster, you think he’s swallowed the same stone of desperation you did, rough grunts and huffing pants, and “So fucking small, it’ll never fit.” Jesus fucking Christ. And on every slick slide forward that wide angry head of it, his cock, bumps the crest of your sex, catches at your hole. You watch it in shock as it presses in just a little, and it hurts and feels like you’re full of bubbles and everything is sticky and your tummy glows with heat. 

“Your little cunt needs this,” he grunts, the head catches, he presses, presses, pulls away, you want to bite and scratch and demand he go all the way, and you’re nothing but a pounding heart and a clenching cunt and you want more, and when he slides again it notches full on at the tiny opening, he pauses, lets it rest there before he presses not even half a centimeter further, only giving you the wide stretch of it, letting your cunt flutter and grip around the very head. 

“Look at that–” And he peers over your shoulder to look at what he’s doing to you. “Look at your tiny cunt stretching for me.”

You cry, trying to pull away, trying to shove yourself deeper, to take the whole of it like the greedy thing you are, but he holds you in place and lets you flutter and flutter and cry until something in your womb pulls tight, and with his fingers swirling at the apex of your sex, the little nub that is so sensitive it pulls a warbled, baying moan from your tongue, an ah, ah, ah, he gives you your first orgasm with him. A desperate thing, too much and not enough, and with his other hand he’s squeezing, shoving his fist along the rest of the length of his cock, pressing it hard where you meet, and then he’s feeding you a blazing heat, filling you with it, stirring your insides to flutter and shiver harder. Forcing you to cry and beg for more, “Please, please, please,” more.

“You’re not ready yet.”

And although you’re not entirely certain for what, you promise, “I am, I am, I can take it.” You know he’s supposed to put it all the way inside, that then, the knot will come. And although you’re unsure what it will specifically be like, what will become of you during or after, you know you’re ready to discover it all. 

“Not yet.” And he’s grunting it through clenched teeth, his hips churning, spitting tip grinding at your hole, something hot and thick sliding wetly all over and between the two of you. “You’ll do as I say. Your little cunt needs this, needs me to be patient with her.”

He lets the slick weight of himself fall away from you, leaving you feeling stretched and bruised and all shivery on the inside, yet still hungry for more. And he pulls his hands along the slopes of you, leaving trails of sticky wet along your skin. The proof of all you are, invisible but tangible, with a taste and a smell and a feel. 

You lay your head back on his shoulder, the heat swirls and simmers for now, and your cunt, your cunt, your cunt, you want to give it to him in full, it throbs and trembles against his slick cock. “I’ve never had a heat before,” you tell him although you know he knows. He probably knows everything there is to know about you, which, admittedly, is not much. 

“That's alright.”

“It will come soon, yes?” You peer over your shoulder to look up at him, and he nods down at you, that warm, eye creased look on his face again. You like the sight of it so much. 

“Will I go away from myself?”

“No,” he says gentle, “I won’t let you. I’ll keep you here with me. You have nothing to be anxious about.”

He rolls the two of you over, keeping you in the comfort of his embrace, and he’s huge and steaming and naked behind you. His hairy chest, his hairy legs all along the smooth and sensitive curves of you. And his thing, it’s still trapped between your thighs, heavy and sticky with your wet, and still kind of hard but not as much as before. You reach between your legs to touch it, and he jerks and hisses but lets you do as you please. Curious fingertips gently along the thick round end of it, down the long length to find two heavy and hot weights hanging lower. 

“Where is the knot?” You ask uncertainly, shy with all the things you don’t know. 

“Here,” and he grabs your hand, moving your fingers to the base of it where there’s an area of skin, of a different sort of texture, rougher, thicker, around the circumference of it. You prod gently at it, not understanding. “See, it’ll swell when it’s inside of you, and then we’ll stay connected for a time, and I’ll fill you, and that’ll help your heat. And after a while it’ll go down, until you need it again. Did they explain to you how it’ll happen?” His cock is thick between your thighs again, beneath your exploring fingers. A little harder and bigger than it was before. His body, something like a wonderful miracle you need to know everything there is to know about it.

“Yes, but not– not all the way, I don’t think. They said you’d show me.” You turn back to look at him, searching for confirmation, reassurance, but instead ask: “Why did you change your mind?” And finally, of his own choosing, he grips you by the throat, and presses a small kiss to your mouth. The greatest victory of the day, and it’s only just begun. 

“It’s exhausting, not letting yourself have what you need.” Need, not want. He shifts over you, coming up on his elbow and rolling you so that you’re on your back and looking up at him. You bring your fingers up to explore along his face: the hooked nose, soft mouth, heart brandished beard. He sighs that bull sigh, and you giggle as it tickles your throat and cheeks. Need, not want. That stings. “Fighting against what you are constantly– and you reminded me that we still have control in what we are. That there’s still choice in this, decidin’ to be what we are without resenting it. And we need each other, after all.” Need, not want. 

“I don’t think you need me.”

“No?”

“No.” The truth that you very much feel like you need him, you keep to yourself. And anyways, he knows. You know he knows. 

“M’thinkin’ I didn’t know I did. Or couldn’t say it out loud.” And he mimics your exploring fingers: thumb against the fan of your lashes, up the slope of your cheekbone, prying your mouth open to catch the edge of your bottom teeth and look inside. There’s a warm look in his eyes, like he’s pleased with you, like you’ve done a good job. “Think I’m realizin’ how wrong I was. How I want this all too.” 

Want, not need. 

He bends his head and kisses your mouth, kisses your breast, shows you how much he wants it.  

3. I Was a Child Once, I’m Not Any Longer

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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#vic fic #HSM fic #Joel Miller #joel miller smut #the last of us #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us AU #pedro pascal characters

[dycefic]

The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

---

Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

#short fiction #original story #i aten't dead #the old gods #small gods #household gods #forgotten gods who do not forget

[pricelessemotion]

Never really over | S.H.

summary: [4.2k] you and steve fall apart, then fall back together.

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: so much angst, best friends to exes to lovers, language, gratuitous taylor swift references

a/n: exes to lovers is one of my fave tropes so i hope i did it justice! reader is vaguely asian-coded by accident (though there shouldn’t be any direct references to r's appearance!) lmao happy AAPI heritage month to all my fellow asians

masterlist

The day after your breakup, Steve shows up at your house with a bag of takeout and a six-pack. He kicks off his shoes at the front door while you’re in the kitchen, already grabbing napkins and chopsticks. The light on the floral rice cooker on the counter just turned from cooking to keep warm. Steve is nothing, if not right on time. 

To most people, the situation would seem peculiar. But you and Steve were best friends before your break up and you had promised that you would stay best friends after it. 

You settle in on opposite sides of the worn-down loveseat, a rerun of Golden Girls playing on the television. You’re just about to ask him if he remembered to get extra sauce for the chow mein when Steve, seemingly anticipating your question, silently hands you a small cylindrical container. 

The night goes on as it usually would, with Steve lamenting Keith’s tyranny and Dustin’s antics. He helps you clean up when you’re done, scooping the leftover rice into a Tupperware container saying I gotta get myself one of these, it’s so convenient! He even does the dishes, washing while you dry, never commenting on the fact that you have a perfectly good dishwasher that you never use. 

Once he’s standing in the entryway, shoes back on and keys in hand, he instinctively leans in for a chaste kiss goodbye. 

You flinch, turning your cheek at the last second. The moment becomes a sobering reminder as to why you decided to break up in the first place. Instinct over time starts to feel like routine. Routine over time starts to feel like a chore. Another thing that you have to cross off your to-do list.

For a while, it was grounding. It felt good to be normal. Normal felt like warmth, like coming in out of the freezing cold and cozying up next to a blazing fire. But you knew from experience that the cold always comes back. As the days drew darker, the once roaring hearth settled into a pile of ashes. Being grounded can feel like being tied down. It’s only natural to want to break free. 

You didn’t realize freedom would feel like this. 

“Right.” Steve huffs out awkwardly, swinging his car keys around his index finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He shuffles out the door while you offer a weak goodbye. You know you’re letting the cold in by watching him as he gets into his car. You do it anyway. 

–

Steve and Dustin have taken to visiting you while you’re on shift at the coffee shop. You’re not sure why. The arcade next door seems much more fitted to their shared interests, but they still come and visit you all the same. Usually, when you come upon them, they’re standing on the other side of the till having a whispered conversation that dies the moment they notice you’re there. 

“A latte for me, and hot cocoa for the kid.” Steve says, ruffling the younger boy's hair. 

“I’m fourteen!”

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Maturity. Did you want a coffee? I’m sure our girl over here has some great recommendations.” 

Dustin only grumbles in response, muttering insults under his breath. Steve refuses your offer to comp their drinks, paying and dropping his change in the tip jar.  

You set both drinks down on the counter when they’re done. One is a simple steaming cup. The other is piled high with whipped cream and sprinkles, decorated with a tiny plastic snowman left over from the holidays. 

“Thank you,” Steve says, leaning against the counter. “Y’know, you’re my most favorite barista in the whole world.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only barista you know, but you’re welcome.” 

“So, would you be interested in movie night tomorrow?” 

“Wow, let me think.” You feign contemplation, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I’ll have to check my schedule. I have a meeting with some venture capitalists but I might be able to squeeze you in.”

“It’s a date.” 

“So… you guys are back together?” Dustin darts a confused glance between the both of you, his irises going back and forth as if watching a ping-pong match. 

“No!” You and Steve both blurt out at the same time. Then you both take a moment to look at each other as if to say, I know why I said no but why are you saying no? 

Is it really over?

Dustin, as observant and tactless as ever, gives off a little shrug. You mutter something about needing to go to the back to do inventory. As you’re walking away, you hear Steve say something that sounds a lot like Nice going, doofus!

–

Dustin answers the door when you ring the bell. Steve’s house has the usual suspects for movie night. Max and El are cuddled up together on the floor, practically laying on top of each other. Robin and Nancy are on the loveseat to the left, so wrapped up in each other that they barely even register your arrival. You presume that the sounds coming from the kitchen are Mike, Will, and Lucas, no doubt making one too many bowls of popcorn in the microwave.  

Steve is sitting, his arm draped over the back of the couch. Before, there would’ve been no questions as to where you would sit. The empty couch cushion practically had your name on it. You would’ve already bounded across the room and snuggled up to the boy that felt like home. 

You search the room for another option, but come up empty. Unless you want to pointedly avoid sitting next to him by crashing on the floor with the kids, which would undoubtedly draw attention to the very thing you want to ignore. 

Taking a seat next to Steve, you toe the line between platonic distance and romantic distance.

“What’s on tonight?” You ask no one in particular. 

“The Princess Bride.” Lucas replies, coming from the kitchen with a bowl of fresh popcorn. 

He barely gets a chance to put it down before the three other boys tumble onto the floor and begin shoveling the savory snack into their mouths. Max and El whine about their lack of civility, yelling at them for having spilled popcorn on the floor before the movie has even started.

“Ah, that’s my favorite!” 

“I know.” Steve finally speaks up beside you. 

“We’ve only seen it like a million times.” Max says, rolling her eyes and resting her head on El’s shoulder. 

“Hey! Little shits who eat my food and use me as a taxi service don’t get to complain about my movie choices.”

“Whatever, Steve.” The redhead remarks, with an unmistakable fondness in her voice. 

You settle into your seat. The January cold has seeped into the house and, despite the heating being on full blast, you’re freezing. Steve notices, tugging the comforter in his lap over your frame, enveloping you in a warmth you didn’t realize you missed so much. You murmur a quiet thank you that you’re almost sure goes unheard until he turns, giving you a small smile before returning his attention to the screen. 

In order to properly share the blanket, you have to scoot in even closer. You tell yourself that it’s a perfectly reasonable platonic distance, that you used to do this all the time before you were dating. If Steve is experiencing even a fraction of your inner turmoil, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps looking ahead, paying far too much attention to the film. The palm that would usually come to rest upon your shoulder stays gripping the back of the couch. 

Sometime after Buttercup and Wesley enter the forbidden forest, you fall asleep.

It’s hard to make out anything through the dense fog. The trees around you loom large, foliage so lush and thick that it blocks out the sky, making it unclear if it’s day or night. The only light source comes from an oil lamp. 

The lamp casts a shadow over the face of the person holding it, emphasizing his strong brow and straight nose. You go to move toward Steve, but you can’t. You’re stuck. Ankle deep in sand, coarse and with the consistency of molasses, that slowly creeps up higher and higher. It takes you a moment to realize; the sand isn’t getting higher, you’re getting lower. 

You’re sinking. 

Desperately, you begin grasping at anything and everything that might get you out. It’s futile. The more you move, the further you fall. You’re waist-deep now. Steve is still standing there, stone-faced, oil lamp flickering. He turns, walking into the fog and taking the light with him. 

You open your mouth, wanting to scream. Needing to scream. But only one word echoes throughout. It does nothing to stop Steve’s retreating figure. 

Stay. 

“Hey,” Steve is tugging on the sleeve of your sweater. “Wake up.” 

The fog dissipates. Feeling slowly returns to your limbs. The first thing you realize is that you fell asleep on Steve’s shoulder. The second thing you realize is that, due to your impromptu nap, the distance between the two of you is practically nonexistent. You recoil, sliding yourself as far away from him as you can. Steve flinches at the sudden movement. 

“Are you okay?” His voice is soft and comforting, like a childhood blanket that you can’t sleep without. “It seemed like you were having a bad dream.”

You blink your eyes furiously, trying to shake the sinking feeling that has settled deep into your stomach. 

“Where is everyone?” You ask, avoiding his question. The once lively living room is now empty. Remnants of movie night surround you in the form of stray pieces of popcorn and a nearly empty tub of Red Vines. 

“They all went home about twenty minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You seemed so comfortable. I didn’t wanna wake you.” He shrugs, saying the next words gently. “Are you having nightmares again?” 

Before, you would tell him yes. You always talked to Steve about your nightmares. Most of the time he was there to witness them firsthand, waking up to your shouting and thrashing. Some nights, he would be able to coax you back to sleep with soothing words and tender touches. Other nights, he would stay up with you for hours, talking about nothing. The next day, the deep bags etched under his eyes would serve as another reminder of just how tiring you could be.

“I’m fine.” You wipe the corner of your mouth, cringing at the slight dampness you find there. Great. Not only did you fall asleep on Steve but you also drooled on him. “I think it’s time for me to head out.”

Leaping from the couch, you get to the foyer in record time. Your shoes are already halfway on before Steve appears, standing in between you and the door. 

“You don’t have to. You know the guest room is always made up for you if you want it.” He bargains. 

“I— I have to go. I’m sorry. Goodnight Steve.” 

“Please, you’re tired. At least let me drive you.” He’s practically pleading, already moving to grab his car keys.  

“Just let me go, Steve!” Your outburst echoes throughout the empty house. 

Steve takes a step back away from you. “I’m sorry.”

Regret washes over you like a tidal wave. You can feel yourself being ripped under the current. You curse yourself, not for drowning, but for dragging Steve down with you. 

“No, don’t apologize. Fuck, I’m sorry. I just—” 

“Have to go?” He supplies. 

He sounds dejected like this is another battle with you that he’s already resigned himself to losing. You fumble through another apology, another goodbye.

You don’t dare to look behind you as you make your way to your car. It isn’t until you’re halfway down your street that you spare a glance at your rear-view mirror. Steve is still standing there, the door wide open. 

You don’t know why you keep having dreams where you ask Steve to stay. 

You’re the one who is always leaving. 

—

“She was totally flirting with you!” You scream whisper, keeping in mind that the diner is mostly empty aside from the loyal patrons that come in every weekday for a hearty serving of beef and potatoes.

Steve showed up to the coffee shop today, sans Dustin, asking if you’d like to grab a bite to eat after your shift. You obliged, hoping to make up for your outburst from the other night. He still hasn’t mentioned it. For your sake, you hope that he won’t.

“No, she wasn’t.” You thought Steve’s obliviousness when it came to romance only extended to you. Apparently, you were wrong because he was completely ignoring the way that the waitress was batting her eyelashes at him.

“Yes, she was!” You take a fry from the basket and Steve pushes his strawberry milkshake toward you, already knowing that you were going to subject him to the gross combination and he might as well get it over with. “Y’know, if you wanted to ask her out you could. Don’t let me hold you back.”

“You’re not holding me back. Anyways, isn’t it weird, having your ex-girlfriend be your wingman?”

“I’m still your best friend. Besides, you totally helped me out with Brandon so I just thought I’d return the favor.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks, causing you to furrow your brow at him. Despite having loved him for a long time and having known him for even longer, his inability to read a room knows no bounds. 

“Last week at Family Video?” You utter the words with slow precision, but recognition fails to make its way across Steve’s face. “Brandon Clayborn asked you for horror movie recommendations and you sent him to me.”

“And he asked you out?” Steve gapes at you from over the rim of his milkshake. The idea of grabbing the glass and slogging the pink confection at him crosses your mind, but instead, you clench your fists at your side. 

“Is that so unbelievable?” At your response, Steve’s brows pinch together. He toys with the wrapping paper of his straw, folding it over and over again. 

“And what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Oh.” Steve finally stops fiddling with the piece of paper. It’s shredded to pieces in a pile in front of him. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the bulging leather wallet. “I’ll be right back.” 

With that, Steve slides out of the booth and walks up to the counter. The giggles of the waitress can be heard throughout the diner. You turn toward the window so that you don’t have to see her scrawl her number on the receipt, and you catch your muddled reflection. You don’t know if you look like you’ve seen a ghost or if you’ve become one. 

–

Due to unforeseen circumstances, your second date with Brandon had to be rescheduled. A literal rain check. He’d sputtered out numerous apologies over the crackling phone line, saying how the picnic he had planned didn’t account for a torrential downpour. You promised him that it was fine, that you didn’t even wanna leave the house in this weather. You didn’t think anyone would want to leave the house in this weather, which is why you grew shocked at the sound of the doorbell ringing. 

Then you promptly remember that this is Hawkins and that anyone or anything could be behind that door. Grabbing the old wooden bat you keep under the couch for emergencies, you inch toward the door. The frantic ringing of the bell matches the beat of your heart. Peering through the peephole, you sigh in both relief and frustration before flinging the door open.

“Are you insane?!” You practically scream at the soaking wet boy. “You scared the shit outta me.”

Steve stands in the threshold, shaking his head like a dog would to get all the water out. You flinch as the droplets inevitably fall on you. The fine mist and wind that he’s brought in with him chill you to the bone. 

“Sorry.” He smiles sheepishly.

“How did you even manage to get this wet in the twenty feet from the street to the porch?” You ask, peering behind him to look for the familiar maroon vehicle. It isn’t there. 

“I walked here.”

You balk at him. Sure, Steve has been known to act recklessly from time to time, but never without reason. Instead of taking the time to berate him for being so stupid, you take one look at the soggy shivering boy and shut the door, turning on your heel towards your bedroom. You don’t need to look behind you to know that he’s following you. 

“C’mon, you’re gonna catch a cold if you stay in those wet clothes.”

You rummage through your drawers, managing to find a t-shirt and sweatpants that you had stolen from him long ago. Now is as good a time as any to give it back, right? Stuffing the items in your arm, you thrust them into Steve’s hands and direct him to the bathroom. He doesn’t need direction. He knows the floorplan of your house just like he knows you–all too well.

While Steve is in the bathroom, you go to shut the drawers that you had left open in the rush to find him something to wear. The bottom drawer has always had a problem, getting stuck at the most inopportune moments. Lifting it just a little, you slam the drawer back into place which causes the contents on top of your dresser to shake with the force. The silver picture frame falls on its face and you go to place it right side up. 

It’s a photograph of the two of you from last summer. Robin had pointed the camera at you and at the very last second Steve grabbed you and placed a sloppy kiss on your cheek, causing you to squeal in delight. The memory stings. You almost want to put it face down again so that you don’t have to be reminded of what once was. Instead, you’re interrupted by the sound of a lock turning and quiet footfalls on carpeted floors. 

The moment Steve steps into your bedroom, you’re drenched in nostalgia. It’s been months since you’ve seen him like this–standing in his pajamas in your bedroom. It’s moments like this that are the hardest. The ones where you can feel how everything and nothing has changed. It feels like relief and restriction. 

You realize you’re still standing in front of the dresser and go to sit on your bed. You need to put space between you and Steve. He has this insane gravitational pull and you know that if you stay around him like this for too long, you’ll end up back in his orbit.  

He steps cautiously around the room like he’s afraid of stepping on a landmine. One wrong move and everything could blow up. Standing in front of the dresser, he takes the dreaded picture frame into his hands. He’s still using a towel to dry his hair when he finally speaks. 

“It’s a good picture.” He says, simply. The pads of his thumbs wipe away the layer of dust that coats your sunbleached faces. 

“It is.” You manage to choke out. “Why are you here, Steve?”

He places the picture frame back down on the dresser. It’s perfectly angled towards you. The ghost of your smiling face taunting you in your own bedroom. 

“It’s funny, y’know?” Steve lets out a mirthless laugh.  

“What is?”

“We broke up and the only person I wanna talk about it with is you.”

All of the air has been sucked out of the room. Steve has always been good at taking your breath away. 

“I mean, I get it. I get why we broke up. I do.” He lets out a deep breath before continuing on, not giving you a chance to interrupt. “Except, I don’t. I can’t wrap my head around how one day we were fine and the next day we weren’t. I know that I’m not good enough for you–I’ve always known that. I guess I just wanna know when you finally figured it out.”

His words make you ache. A tightness blooms in your chest and spreads all the way down your arms to your trembling fingertips. You want so badly to reach out to him. He’s on the other side of the room but he might as well be on the other side of the world. You don’t know how to bridge the ravine that you’ve put between the two of you. You know for him you’d make the leap, uncaring of the abyss below. The thought scares you so much that your fists tangle in your bedsheets, hoping for something to keep you from falling back in.   

“The last thing I wanted was for you to feel like you weren’t good enough for me. You’ve always been good enough, Steve.”  

You can tell from the shake of his head that he doesn’t believe you. 

“I thought that maybe you just needed a little space, a little time. Then I have to watch you go on dates and move on like it’s easy. Like the fact that we’re not together anymore doesn’t eat you up inside.”

“It’s not easy! It’s killing me!” Tears collect in your eyes, blurring your vision. “I don’t know why I can’t just be happy with you. I want to be happy with you.”

“What are you so afraid of?” Steve begs, his question punctuated by a boom of thunder and a flash of lightning. 

You found solace in the eye of the storm. Once the storm passed, you didn’t know what to do with the wreckage. Calm didn’t provide comfort. Instead, it only reminded you that there was likely another storm to come. Steve has always been better at picking up the pieces and patching things up. You didn’t want to become just another thing he had to fix. So, you pushed him away. 

He still came back.

This time he brought the storm with him. 

“I’m afraid that the minute I actually enjoy everything, it’ll all get taken away from me.” You confess, roughly wiping away your tears. 

Steve crosses the room and kneels in front of you. His hair is still slightly damp, a stray strand hanging in front of his forehead. You brush it out of the way and he catches your wrist, placing a kiss in the palm of your hand. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He murmurs, lips still brushing your skin. He says it like a promise. You wish the words were tangible, that you could close your fist around them and hold them close. “Tell me what I can do to fix it.”

The words simultaneously endear and exasperate you. Here is this boy who loves you, sitting in front of you telling you to let him love you. Here you are, about to tell him that he can’t. 

“What if you can’t fix it, Steve? What if I’m unfixable?”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes both of your hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles. 

“Then I’ll still love you anyway.” 

Steve looks up and the clouds part. You’ve been so caught up in your doom and gloom, that you’d forgotten what it felt like to see the light of day. You lean down, closing your eyes, pressing your forehead to his. 

“Why?” The question comes out watery and wanting. 

“I can’t help it.” He breathes out. 

You understand the feeling. 

You bridge the gap, uncaring of the abyss that lies below. You’d fall through eternity if it meant you got to do it with him. His lips feel exactly like you remember them–like home. He kisses soft and slow, hands anchored at your hips as if to prevent you from floating away. When you break apart, both of you gasping for air, there’s uncertainty in his eyes. It fades away as soon as you lean back on the bed, pulling at his sleeves and dragging him with you. 

The night is composed of soft apologies and even softer sighs, accompanied by the din of rain against the roof. It isn’t until far into the night that the storm finally subsides, leaving the pavement to glow in the morning sun. 

Waking up next to Steve is a revelation. You don’t know how you ever survived without it. He’s all sleepy smiles and tired eyes, drowsily pulling you closer to him. Resting your head on his chest, you’re soothed by the rhythmic thump of his beating heart.   

“Y’know, you didn’t have to walk in the rain just to say that you wanna get back together. You’re so dramatic.” You joke, hoping that it isn’t too soon to start poking fun. 

His chest rumbles with laughter, the reverberations quelling your fears.

“In my defense, it wasn’t raining when I started walking.” He says, voice still thick with sleep. “Besides, you love it.”

You smile contentedly to yourself, not offering up a response besides a hum of agreement. He’s right. You do love him. Rain or shine.

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington blurb #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington fanfic #mimi wrote ✍️ #steve harrington fic #stranger things

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Vesuvia Weekly: Things the M6 don't do anymore

~ my little creative drabble for the prompt "How Things Changed" (pre- vs post- plague) over on @vesuviaweekly! Hope you guys like this little hurt/comfort/fluffy train of thought :3 ~

Julian doesn't shout in his sleep anymore. He still gets nightmares, still tosses and turns and mumbles and wakes up with a start in a cold sweat - but his troubled murmurs don't turn into the terrified cries that they used to. He's still working on eating better and sleeping longer and it's taking time. But from the moment you first lay down next to him for the night, some part of his brain understood that the warm, safe weight of you meant he didn't need to scream to be heard anymore - or helped.

Asra rarely makes tea anymore. They still love to drink it - multiple times a day, if they can - but now you're the one who makes it. He never got over his childhood wariness of tea kettles in general after the mishap that involved his magic appearing. While you were recovering, it was one of many duties they happily shouldered to take care of you. Now that you're equal partners again, it's one of the many small ways he's begun letting you take care of him in turn. Besides, yours tastes better.

Nadia doesn't run away to her tower anymore. She still visits it frequently, to think, or nap, or clear her head, or give her introverted nature a break from the constant social pressures of being Countess. But she doesn't run away to it, to sit in the circular chamber and pretend (or hope) that the rest of the world had simply ... ceased to exist. She doesn't like the thought of losing a world that has you in it. Now, her visits range from serene to tumultuous, but they all carry hope and purpose within them.

Muriel doesn't forget to tend the fire anymore. It used to be an easy thing to go without. After Asra moved out, after his tormentor went up in flames, it was easy to watch the light in his hearth slowly dwindle and die. It was peaceful to sit in the dark quiet of a stone hut and slip into another long, deep, chilly sleep. But now you're here. And you deserve to be warm. You're worthy of a space filled with golden light and soft furs and beautiful tapestries and good food and warmth. And maybe ... he is too.

Portia has stopped hiding in the library. Don't get her wrong, she still sneaks into it all the time. (Seriously, what else was she going to do when she was handed one of the only two sets of keys???) The library was her space, with stories only she had read, where the skills she grew for herself hid among the bookshelves. Her achievements are much, much bigger now. They look back at her in your eyes, in Pepi's little voice, in a flourishing Vesuvia. She doesn't hide in the library anymore. She emerges from it.

Lucio refuses to eat breakfast by himself, ever again. As a soldier, it was a hurried affair around campfires - nothing like the fun of raucous dinners the night before - and as a Count, it was brought to him in his chambers. He'd sit and eat the pile of sugary goods and eye the mess of last night's debauchery and try not to feel cold and small and alone. After three years of hell, he's not alone anymore. Breakfast is campfire food, or inn amenities, and missing most of the sugar he loves - but it's portioned for two.

#vesuvia weekly #how things changed #the arcana #ask arcana brainrot #the arcana game #the arcana fanfic #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

[iridescentdove]

If it is not too much trouble, may I please request a Yandere? Platonic! BSD x Arlecchino! Reader, let's say that the reader has played an important role in almost everybody's life.

For example, she took Kouyou under her wing when she failed to escape the Mafia, advised and convinced Fukuzawa to save Yosano, treated and viewed (15) Dazai as only a child and not the demon prodigy, never once used or placed Chuuya as the second choice, etc. Things like that, but the reader is still in the Fatui and does run the House of the Hearth and looks after orphans while also training them to be enlisted in the Fatui. So, they probably view reader as a parent figure and someone dear to their hearts and don’t want anything bad to happen to them.

A LIFE OF OUR OWN.

Yandere!Platonic!BSD x Arlecchino!Reader

A/N: I immediately worked on this request on seeing it omg anon you guys do not know how much I love Arlecchino ... also for here I use "Father", but that's only because in the game Lyney & Lynette call Arlecchino that. Feel free to pretend it's mother or something else!

You're the second whole of their hearts.

They'll do anything for you ...

Father.

It's not a coincidence. To take one for an example. KOUYOU, that poor little girl who did nothing wrong. She was such a sweet kid, someone nice ... and yet she was there in the Port Mafia. Taken away and unable to live her life like a child should.

In an attempt to leave the mafia with a man she liked, it was rather unfornature enough – both were caught red handed.

And that man? He was killed.

KOUYOU was desperately holding on, wanting him to open his eyes, to survive and still find a way. And yet deep down, she knew that it would be impossible.

Good things never last.

She began to see the light as something meaningless. That the moment a flower born in darkness is exposed to light, it will wilt and burn away to nothingness. She can't escape. Not anymore. But that also wishful thinking.

That was until you came along and helped her up.

It was like a moment's heartbeat, the moment she looked up. You were right there – holding your hand out.

Even if you weren't expressive as to be expected out of sympathy for what happened, she can tell that you were no ill-intentioned person. So what did she do? She took it. Your hand. And gave you a smile ... one that faintly shined of hope.

Of course, she never left the mafia. But she had you to take care of her ... and treat her like a true daughter.

She was ecstatic to have family of her own.

You even gifted her a little plushie. Of course, of the the most fine and exquisite type of material. Your rich ass is flexing without even saying it out loud. slay

And you never treated her as a second choice.

Just like CHUUYA. As the time passed, he too joined the Port Mafia by boss orders. Honestly – you probably didn't give much of a shit, but that obviously changed.

Even now, your fatherish figure still remains after years. And that may as well never change.

He takes some great pride on his abilities, and he's rather smug about it himself. Although – sometimes he does question himself, and his humanity. Due to basically being merged and being Arahabaki's vessel.

But no, fuck that. You treated him as your own child, and although had more better things to do in the Fatui – this kid was insecure as hell and needed a parental figure.

CHUUYA adores you from the bottom of his heart. You showed him what it was to be human. To be alive. You gave him good reason and even let him visit the orphanage you looked after. Since he was merged with basically a God, you found it curious as well.

Well Arahabaki doesn't have a Gnosis so he's luckily safe

And then also, boom. Your attention extended towards his partner! DAZAI himself, of his young age. And from that time on, you already knew something was up with him.

Honestly – it can't be doubted. He was destined to live in the darkness forever. Nothing in the world can compel that deep etched loneliness in his heart; and even his late friend ODASAKU had acknowledged that.

Even after their unfortunate deaths, you were right there.

He was almost weirded the fuck out at first. You're not treating him like a monster. Or a demon. Not even his position and affiliation. You straight out threw those ourt the trash and instead? You treated him like your son.

It comforted him a little. To know he finally had someone to call his own. At first – just like anyone, he thought he'd lose you.

But you proved him wrong in various ways.

No matter how hard he tried, you kept him his side. Trained with him and succeeded in his defeat (much to his surprise), and gave him a few fatherly hugs and gifts that he would need and like. And DAZAI couldn't help it either.

He wanted you to be his real father quite badly. You were always there, and his eternal loneliness?

What's that again?

No. Even with that in mind, you never stopped to pursue and keep going with the mafioso. You'd go as much as to take him and meet with the rest of the harbingers, maybe taking CHUUYA and other executives from time to time.

Of course, avoiding The Doctor because it might as well just give back DAZAI his trauma.

And when he keft the mafia? You came along with him. Words cannot express how happy and relieved he was. He didn't want to loose his only comfort, his family. And if any9ne ever tries to threaten your familial bond?

He's gonna pull out the fucking demon prodigy card and show them how demonic he can be

In any case, same is due to everyone else. Like the fact you just always seemed to be there in the right place, at the right time. Like when YOSANO was being forced into healing soldier after soldier in the war.

The poor girl. Safe to assume the Fatui didn't really care about such and didn't participate in the war.

Much unless the Tsaritsa commands them to stop it, they may as well do that. But as of now they didn't really care. But that was only an 11 year old child ...

A child. You just had to take her in, didn't you?

And if not – in any case, you went ahead and got FUKUZAWA to save her. You reasoned with him, quite the good convincer yourself. You were a woman of a hundred, if not a thousand faces that could easily fool others.

So he took her in to the agency.

Although YOSANO was never told about what had happened in the sidelines, the moment she saw you walking away from the both of them – she just had that feeling.

She wants to thank you, if it's the last thing she did.

From the time that came on, you continued to do what you did and appeared, woving yourself into the hearts of everyone. At first, it was obviously never easy. But that wasn't a reason to give up. And you're you, would you seriously give up from that?

Many of them expresses gratitude in multiple ways, sometimes a bit unhinged – which you were yourself. There's not a sane bone in your body.

At least, that's what people like to think.

You've come this far into giving others a new life, being a father figure that everyone cherishes dearly and adores. Oh, and if anyone try to tear away that dream or hurt you – even a single scratch on that body of yours ...

There will be hell to pay.

You'd think they got very protective of their father. They can all quite collectively agree that they need no other familial figure in their lives other than you. Dearest you, who saved them from their shameful lives and gave them a future.

Even one who isn't supposedly a kid like SIGMA – he came from a book. He doesn't have a family. But correction, he does.

And it's you.

Or anyone else from multiple affiliations across. The Decay of the Angels, the Hunting Dogs, supposedly those that caught your eye in these several factions.

Suppose the easily jealous ones of seeing you paying attention to kids more in the orphanage, or giving a certain triplets more of time can get them boiling with anger quite enough. Even if it was wrong, it just seemed so right.

And so? They try to steal more of your attention away. This is one of the time they truly act like children once more.

CHUUYA would most likely not want anyone even gazing at your direction. Must they make things worse? You're around kids almost 24/7 and taking care of them yes, but you should only be taking care of him!

DAZAI acts like a child throwing a tantrum. No! No! No one can be with his father other than himself! How dare those kids call you their father?! He's livid, and tries to hide his anger and jealousy, yet he was visibly so eerie and tense.

KOUYOU can bet it was saddening to see you paying attention to work at the Fatui. Come on now, can you blame her? If you took her under your wing, you better be responsible. So she tries to invite you to her own missions and do fun together, just like when she was little. She wants your care.

YOSANO can tolerate it mostly, although at some point she comes with a breaking point as well. She's normally kind and likes hang around you and feel protected and loved, but oh, when you're not looking? Let's see ... pulls out chainsaw

So if a child or two goes missing in the orphanage?

Let's just say it wasn't anyone's fault, dear father :)

#bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #genshin #bsd #port mafia #armed detective agency #bsd yandere #platonic bsd #arlecchino #dazai osamu #bungou stray dogs dazai #ozaki kouyou #chuuya x you #bsd yosano #genshin crossover #fatui harbingers

[danikamariewrites]

Nexus Being

Cazriel x reader

A/n: Happy poly week day 3! I am so excited to give you this scarlet witch reader fic and hope you like it. @polyacotarweek

Warnings: slight angst and fluff at the end

You pace in front of the hearth in Rhys’s office. Lost in thought, sorting through the pros and cons of what your High Lord, friend, and brother has just asked of you. 

Rhys leaned forward. His elbows on his knees, jaw clenched as he waits for your response. The High Lord didn’t feel good about asking this of you. But Helion couldn’t come up with a solution nor Thesan. Prythian was out of options and you are the last resort. 

You stop, inhaling deeply before closing your eyes. Rubbing at your face you turn to Rhys. That distressed look from when he asked you the unfathomable still pulling at your features. 

“She didn’t leave me the book.”

“I know, but you have to understand-”

“No, Rhys,” you say as calmly as you can, “she didn’t leave me the book.” 

The High Lord nods slowly, taking in the vital information you just dropped on him. “She did leave me other books. Spells that can help but that one is gone. I can come up with something but I need all the time you can give me.” 

“I will do what I can, but delaying Koeschi doesn’t seem likely.” Your eyes wander as you think. 

“I haven’t done this since before she died. Not even Cass and Azriel know.” 

“I can tell them if you want.” He offers gently. “No,” you whisper. “I’ll tell them myself. I just need time.” Rhys nods again. It seems like that’s all he can do right now.

———

The first step was Windhaven. The next, a High Lords meeting. Your stomach was in knots over the thought of telling your mates who you are. What you inherited. 

Your mother, an advisor to Rhys’s father, was the infamous Scarlet Witch. A gift that wasn’t supposed to be passed down. Or so harshly. According to Rhys you rivaled your mother in power. 

Scared of the potential destruction you could cause to the world or reality you buried your powers. Only letting magic out when there was an unbearable tightness under your skin. You passed it off as the magic you inherited from your High Fae father. But that can only explain so much. 

Staring at the suit you made changes to to fit your body and be more in line with your fashion sense. Your eyes quickly glancing over the crown that rests across your forehead has you losing a shuddering breath. An intimidating gift indeed. 

You could hear Cassian and Azriel changing into their leathers in their own closet. Speaking in hushed tones. 

Your mates still don’t know you are going with them to Windhaven. Rhys couldn’t give you the time you needed. Thanks to Koeschi’s new impatience the plan has been moved up by weeks. 

A knock on your closet door had you jumping out of your skin. A ring clad hand resting over your chest to keep your rapidly beating heart inside. It was now or…later you guessed. Better now. 

Slightly opening the double doors so your mates could only see you, you stare up at them. They tried their best not to look so tense but failed miserably. “Hey y/n/n, we just wanted to say bye. It’ll be a few days but we’ll be home before you know it.” Cassian said softly, cupping your face in his large hands. Azriel’s shadows began to stir curiously. His eyes narrowed as two floated up to his ears. You swallowed nervously which Cassian mistook as longing for your mates. 

But Azriel knew. Knew you were holding back. Opening the doors wider you look down at the duffle bag you packed hours ago when Rhys told you to. The males looked down then back to you confused. “Why are you…” Azriel trails off. One of his shadows quickly darts into the closet to investigate your secret. When it hits the shield you put up a red ripple, like a rock hitting a pond's smooth surface, disturbs the darkness of your closet. Opening the doors all the way you turn your back on your mates. Not wanting to see their reactions. 

“I have something to tell you.” Your shoulders tense as you feel their apprehensive gazes on you. Raising your hand a pinkish-red light surrounds your fingers. Waiting to do your bidding, to be shaped in your image. With a slight swish of your fingers the shield dropped, revealing your black and scarlet ensemble with the crown to match. 

Turning back to face them you had silent tears running down your cheeks. Their mouths opened as shock took over. They knew that crown. What power you possess. Before the males could ask questions you went on.

”My mother was the Scarlet Witch. As you know she was part of Rhys’s fathers council. I was never supposed to inherit her power, but the universe has other plans. I know she is supposed to be a horror story. But my mother was the kindest woman I knew. She taught me everything to know about wielding this…unusual power. 

“I don’t know everything though. When she died her book went with her. I’m not sure if it just turned to dust or if the gods placed it elsewhere. Truthfully, I’m glad it’s gone. The thing turned sane people mad and I had no interest in ever opening it. My first lesson was that all magic comes with a price and there is a lot I’m not willing to pay for.” 

You turn to face them, standing taller than before, tears now dried. “I’m coming with you. Rhys asked. And before you say anything, know he gave me a choice. I am doing this to save us.” Your voice broke on the last word. Tears threaten to spill again at their silence.  

There was a quiet rage swimming in Azriel’s eyes as he held his tongue, not daring to speak in case he said something he regrets. His eyes glued to your suit. Cassian was in awe of you. Of the power you hold. The bond humming as the full power between the three of you is revealed. 

All Cassian did was hold out his hand to you. Showing he did not fear you. Waving your hands over your torso that scarlet light runs down your body, dressing you in your suit and crown. 

When your mother wore it you thought it was the most beautiful piece of clothing. Now that you wear it you don’t know what to think.

It is your now though. The cloak clasped around your shoulders is your mother’s broach of the three faced goddess. You kept the scarlet corset, adding a black body suit under it. The elbow length gloves stayed the same except for the fingers. You changed them to a black fabric to mimic your mothers hands after using that damn spell book so much. The boots were new too. A matching scarlet leather with black ruins painted on them for protection. 

Taking Cassian’s outstretched hand you grapes your bag in the other. He gave you a small smile. Azriel couldn’t even look at you. Wouldn’t. 

As shadows wrapped around the three of you, you reached out to Azriel only to hit a dark wall guarding his heart. 

———

The trip to Windhaven went exactly as Rhys had planned. Devlon was terrified to see the Scarlet Witch once more. The soldiers fell into line out of fear, ready to listen to Rhys and Cassian’s every command. 

You had trailed them through the camp. Head held high as you kept power eminanting from your hands. You felt uneasy about the whole thing. Like you were lying.  

As soon as you got back to Rhys’s mothers house you made a beeline for the bathroom. Gripping the the sink, closing your eyes, you take a deep breath. A soft knock on the door has your head shooting up. Looking at your reflection your eyes glued to the crown perfectly balanced on your forehead. It had never felt so heavy before.

Another knock, a little louder this time, forces you to open the door. Your met with Cassian’s soft face as he looks down at you. “Hey sweet pea, want to talk?” You nod. He steps aside, following you to the empty bedroom. You noticed your and Cassian’s bags were unpack while Azriel’s still sat at the end of the bed untouched. 

You nervously pulled at the fingers of your gloves, pacing next to the bed. Cassian gently perched himself on the edge of the bed, waving you over to stand between his massive thighs. Cass dramatically swishes your cloak out and places his hands on your hips. 

“I’m very proud of you, sweet pea. Today was tough but you got through it. It is no easy feat to face Devlon and our armies like that.” Cassian pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. Rubbing a hand up and down your spine. 

“Thank you, love.” You softly kiss his forehead, holding his jaw. It’s hard to fully accept that your mates are proud when one of them isn’t here. Azriel hasn’t spoken to you all day. Just to Rhys and Feyre when needed. Other than that he has been doing only the Mother knows what. 

Cass sends love and adoration down the bond noticing the shift in your mood. “Give him time. We’ve all had secrets, he’s just processing.” You nod, running your fingers through his hair. “Can we go to bed, it’s late?” “Of course, sweet pea.” 

Sleep evaded you that night. Trapped in Cassian’s arms you waited for Az to come to bed. Tears pricked your eyes when the sun started to come up, yet there was no sign of your mate. 

—-——

The High Lords meeting had you even more anxious than the camps. Rhys made sure you stayed hidden. 

Before heading into the meeting your High Lord asked you to wait until you were called upon. Your mates didn’t like that. They fought with their brother, accusing him of treating you like a party trick when you were so much more. “Whatever it takes to convince them.” You had bravely told the males you love. It made their bickering cease but you could still feel their unease.

As they left Azriel’s gaze lingered on you. Giving him a small wave, sending a pulse of love down the bond.  

Pacing in front of the doors to the meeting room you toy with the gold rings decorating your gloved fingers. The Day Court sentries guarding the room were tense. You could smell the fear on them as they looked everywhere but at you. 

Rhys tapped on your mental shields. The signal for you to finally present yourself. With a wave of your hand the gold and mahogany double doors open. All eyes were on you except your court. You knew they were sat with smug, nonchalant looks on their faces. “May I present, the Scarlet Witch. Born again and even more powerful than her predecessor.”   

There was an sharp intake of breath that echoes around the room. Helion and Kallias and Viviane looked surprised but bowed their heads at you. Tarquin was just exasperated. Sick of the tricks the Night Court has up their sleeves no doubt. 

Tamlin and Thesan looked shocked. Like they were ready to attack in case you breathed wrong. You stood by Rhysand, looking like the perfect picture of boredom as you stared down your nose at the Lords. 

Beron stood, surprisingly in front of his wife and children. Flames dancing wildly at his finger tips. Pointing at you Beron began his tirade. “We knew how her mother was! How dare you keep this from us Rhysand! The witch must-” Shadows swarmed the Autumn High Lord, binding him to his seat and keeping his mouth shut. 

“Must what Beron?” Azriel asked, tone cold as death. Anger danced in his eyes as he moved to the edge of his seat. Poised to attack no matter the outcome. Before the situation could escalate you hold up a hand wreathed in that scarlet light. “Thank you love, but you can let him go.”    

“If you want to have a chance against Koeschi I am your best bet.” You say staring down the High Lords. “Now,” waving your hands sending scarlet power out candles appear in a circle on the floor and floating around the room. A stack of spell books in the center of the rune on the floor, “I have casting to do and it would be best to leave me be.” 

As they head out Azriel and Cassian linger in the doorway for a few moments. You don’t look back, knowing they’d distract you. Sitting criss cross on the floor you spread the books out with a wave of your hands. Turning your hands palms up the books float up as you do keeping your legs crossed. Closing your eyes you focus on Kosechi, the spell to keep him bound to the lake, and how to rival his power.   

Hours later you're finally back in the room you're sharing with your mates. Leaning against the door you rub at your temples. Mother, you forgot how much of a headache spellcasting gave you.

Your mates stood from their chairs in the small sitting area. Looking at you like you were a power bomb ready to explode at any moment. Breezing past them you stop at the vanity, beggining to take off your rings and other accessories. The crown coming off last.

Behind you, Cassian and Azriel are having a silent conversation. Cass urging Az with his eyes to say something. Azriel clears his throat, "Y/n, can we talk?" Letting out a sigh you turn and lean against the vanity, crossing your arms. You raise a brow at him to go on.

"I want to apologize for my silence towards you, my love. Processing your powers has been a lot for me." You couldn't believe your ears. This was a lot for him? "It's been hard for you? Imagine what it's like for me! I never wanted to inherit this or control it. I live in fear of what I could potentially do to the world. I thought you, my mate, of all people would understand, especially with your shadows."

Cassian looked terrified. He just wanted peace between the three of you restored. The stare down going on between the two of you was nothing like he had ever seen before. Two different sets of dark power ready to be let loose.

Azriel broke first. His shoulders slump with silver lining those bright hazel eyes, now dim from shame. "It made me doubt the bond." You and Cassian were caught off guard by his vulnerability. "What," you whisper. Cass stepped up to hold his shoulders, leaving a small kiss on temple. "C'mon Az, tell us what's wrong."

Guiding him over to the couch, Cassian sits next to Azriel as you kneel in front of him, holding his scared hands. "When you revealed you were the Scarlet Witch all I could think of was the reality bending aspect of your powers. I immediately started having thoughts about the bond between the three of us not being real. That the Cauldron didn't gift me this love. That you created it and my world was going to come tumbling down. I know you would never do that after seeing you in the camps and at the meeting today. Hell, I knew you would never do that period.

"I'm sorry I thought so low of you. I just-I got so scared that you kept this from us, y/n. Please forgive me." He give you a pleading look as tears fall down his cheeks.

You can't deny the pain in your heart at Azriel's confession. You could never in a million years even fathom manipulating a person into a mating bond. Closing your eyes your own tears fall silently down your cheeks.

"Azriel, I would never ever do that. To either of you." Your voice wavers from the lump forming in your throat. "I can't say I'm not hurt but I do understand where you are coming from." Standing, you place yourself on Azriel's lap never breaking eye contact. He wraps his arms around your waist to keep you close. Cassian watched you both with hopeful eyes.

Placing a hand on Azriel's chest you send love down the bond. "Do you feel that?" "Yes."

"Does it feel real?" "Yes." You give him a small smile. "Then it's real Az. No spells, no witch craft. That golden thread between us is as real as the Cauldron." Azriel pulls you into a crushing hug against his chest. "I love you," he whispers into your hair. "I love you more."

"I love you most," Cassian chimes in, gathering the both of you in his strong arms. "Lets make a promise that from now on there are no more secrets between us, yeah?" You both stare up at him, nodding your heads. "Promise," you say in unison.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #cassian acotar #rhysand #cassian x reader #acotar cassian #cazriel x reader #poly!cazriel x reader #poly!cazriel x you #poly!cazriel #poly+acotarweek2024 #ploy+acotarweek2024 d3

[luckyjak]

I have made the mistake of reading reddit, and there is a lot of speculation there that Critical Role, as a company, is gearing up to Nuke Exandria and replace it with Daggerheart. Which I am all for, personally, but that's not this thread.

One chain of comments is that the PC's previous characters would become the gods of this new world--i.e., Vax would become the god of death, Jester a God of Chaos, ect. And someone said Caleb as a God of time.

No no no no no.

*Essek's* the God of Time. Caleb?

Caleb is the god of *change.**

Caleb is the god of hearth. He is the god you pray to in the cold dark of winter to keep your family warm. He is the god of light and fire and hope. He is the god of no more children on pyres, of a difference thinner than a razor.

He's a god of redemption.

They say, at the Church of Widogast, that everyone is capable of redemption. That it is never too late to change.

A popular story at the church is that even a shadowed hand may find its way to the light through Widogast, although there are none alive now who know the origin of that phrase.

#critical role #mass spectulation #shadowgast #caleb widogast #this of course is assuming Veth Brenatto/Nott the Brave isn't the goddess of change #which she damn well deserves as well

[knavesflames]

“Promise”

Just a little thing about Clervie and Arlecchino that lowkey apart my heart thinking about it. Again, very sorry if this is not good!! Am new to writing things down other than in my notes sooo bear with me as I get better pls 😩

Contents: angst, the tiniest mention of self harm. It isn’t graphic, it is mentioned in passing only once, and very vaguely, but thought I’d put a TW anyway🥰

Word count: 2453

Writing under the cut!!:D

At age 9,

Peruere sits in the garden, holding the small box. The lid is open as she places a small lumidouce bell next to the spider. The lumidouce bell will die and wilt underground, but at least the spider won’t be lonely, she thinks.

“Peruere!”

The loud childish voices rings out in the garden once again. A sigh leaves Peruere’s lips. She isn’t in the mood to talk to the person she secretly calls sunshine. Looking down at the splayed out body of her pet spider, her lip quivers. Once, twice, before a tear falls onto the wood of the makeshift coffin. The dread rising in her as she sees her hands changing doesn’t go unnoticed, but she pushes it down. ‘What is that? Why am I changing?’

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sunshine once again, the voice now muffled with chewing.

“I brought cake. Want some?”

Peruere’s now charcoal hands take the cake, pausing as the sunshine (or Clervie, but Peruere prefers sunshine) takes it from her hands and places it on a leaf in front of the small grave.

“You must know spiders don’t eat cake.”

“Yeah, I know! They can’t eat cake here, but in spider world they can.”

Her voice is almost irritating to Peruere, who is only trying to be angsty and sad. But how can she be sad when the sunshine is right there?

“Clervie, I want to sit in silence.”

Clervie can’t help her eyebrows furrowing before she sits down with a small thud.

“I’ll sit with you, then.”

Peruere sighs as her eyes, eyes that are unlike any others in the house of the hearth, glance towards the sunshine. She doesn’t persist. Secretly, she’s glad for the company. Clervie smiles back as she plays with the small patch of lumidouce bells.

“I don’t care that you’re different. I think you’re cool.”

Her eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing before she responds.

“Why? I’m completely different from you.”

“I like that. Even our teddies are different. I think everyone being the same is boring. They won’t be the king because they are all the same. You will be king one day, Peruere. Can I sit with you when you are?”

Peruere feels just a small amount of dread at those words. The words that remind her that one day, she indeed, will have to do what Mother says and fight to be king. Something is off about Mother, she thinks. She is too kind, too caring. She doesn’t like it. Not just because she doesn’t deserve it (that’s what she tells herself in the mirror before she sleeps), but because Clervie, the sunshine, is falling for it. In that moment, she makes a silent vow to protect the sunshine always, even if it is cloudy.

“We can be king together.”

“Do you promise? I don’t want to be left behind.”

“I promise.”

At age 11,

Peruere and Clervie, the sunshine and the moon, sit in a deserted part of the house of the hearth. Their favourite part is the room with the wide window, where they sit and stare at the sky, talking about their dreams. Or rather, Clervie talks, Peruere listens. Though this time, the roles seem to be reversed. Next to them, a tray of medical instruments. Scissors, bandages, gauze, disinfectant. Peruere sits, her blackened, gentle but clumsy hands tying a bow on one of the bandages. The look on Clervie, I mean, the sunshine’s, face was much brighter than ten minutes ago. This is the first of many times, unbeknownst to them. Peruere speaks softly.

“What happened? Your wrists looked like they got hurt.”

“Nothing, Peruere.”

Alarm bells ring in Peruere’s head. Clervie was never this closed off, not with her.

“Did you do this to yourself? Like Céline? She got upset at herself so she hurt herself. I don’t like that, tell me you didn’t do that. It’s dangerous, Clervie.”

Her eyes, shining black, filled with worry. Her hand grabs the sunshine’s, giving it a little squeeze, encouraging her to talk.

“No, that isn’t it. I argued. With Mother. I don’t want to fight everyone to be king. I want to be friends with everyone, I want to eat bulle fruit with everyone. Why do we have to fight?”

“I do not like it either. I want to run away sometimes. Do Mothers always argue with their daughters?”

“I don’t know.”

Clervie’s hands, still trembling from the adrenaline, push open the window. They stare at the stars for a while, before her voice rings out once more, soft, quiet, always optimistic.

“I heard that in Snezhnaya, coloured lights dance in the sky at night. When we grow up, shall we go see it together?”

Peruere wonders if they’ll ever go and see it, or if it’s just another empty promise. Just like how Mother promised her spider wouldn’t die, how the fish she caught wouldn’t be eaten.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

At age 13,

The sun shines. Both the actual sun, and Clervie, Peruere thinks. Her fingers are splayed out on the picnic blanket, the wet paint on her nails shining in the light when her fingers twitch. Painted black, like her skin on her arms, and red, the colour of the lipstick they stole from Mother a few weeks ago, the colour of Clervie’s hair. She makes a noise of satisfaction, secretly looking at Clervie through her fingers. It looks like she’s looking through prison bars, she thinks. But Clervie is the sun. If anyone should be in prison, it’s her, not Clervie. She doesn’t like the way she thinks about Mother, but Mother harms the sunshine. Her sunshine. Her eyes widen, just slightly as she realises that maybe feeling so warm and fuzzy inside whenever she sees Clervie isn’t exactly a usual way to think of people. She doesn’t feel that for anyone else. She stares a bit longer. How the red of Clervie’s hair reminds her of the burning sun. Of the fire in the lounge of the house of the hearth. Fire is good, she thinks. She could protect her sunshine with fire. In a split decision, she takes the red nail polish in one hand, a strand of her white hair in the other. Snow and blood. Blood on snow. Those colours seem to be awfully present in her life as of late, and her heart begins to twist as she thinks of what it means for her future. Before she can think any harder, Clervie’s giggle cuts through her thoughts.

“What are you doing, silly?”

Red paints on the snow coloured hair.

“I’m like you now. I have red hair. That way, we will stay friends forever.”

“I like you too much to leave you, silly. It looks good with your hair. The red. You should paint it every day, and that way, you can—“

Words are cut off by clumsy lips meeting clumsy lips. Only for a second, a second that feels forever. Peruere’s cheeks flush the colour of the painted strand as she mumbles apologetic words.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I-“

“It’s okay. I liked it. I want to do it more. You should still keep the red strand. Promise you will?”

“Yes, I promise.”

At age 16,

Mother has been increasingly cruel, to both her and Clervie. Especially to Clervie. How could someone be so evil to someone so kind is something Peruere cannot fathom. She despises seeing Clervie cry, to hear her quiet sobs at night. Her eyes are always bright, always happy. If not for her own sake, for Peruere’s. But the sun has been hiding lately, hiding behind clouds and avoiding words. The red strand of Peruere’s hair, once painted every day with nail polish to match Clervie’s, now permanently dyed, retouched every eight weeks, hidden under most of her hair to avoid Mother’s wrath. And now? They stand in the field, Clervie, facing Peruere with resigned eyes.

“You know it’s the only way. Mother will kill us both if you are not king. Have you not noticed the children disappearing?”

“I have. It does not mean your life has to end. You cannot take your life—“

“No. That will not satisfy Mother, and you know that. You must do it.”

Hate, fear, dread and sadness twist Peruere’s gut so hard she feels as if she will throw up. She fight the urge to retch at the very suggestion that she dulls the sunshine she has grown to adore so.

“I cannot. I will not. You cannot ask me to do something like that.”

“You must.”

She hates that Clervie is right. She hates that Mother is so twisted and sick that this is the only choice. She begs anyway, something she told herself she would never do.

“Please. We were supposed to go to Snezhnaya together. To see the coloured lights in the sky. There is no ‘we’ without you.”

A chuckle is heard, the familiar chuckle that lights up Peruere’s heart, the chuckle that feels like it’ll reverse her curse entirely. She can’t deny the sadness she hears in it though, especially not when she sees a tear slip down Clervie’s face. The sight brings tears to her own eyes and she looks away, unable to stare at her any longer. The longer she stares, the harder it will be. She knows this, but her eyes move back to her anyway.

“You will look at the coloured lights, and you can trust I will be there in them.”

“No! This is not fair.”

“You know I’m right, Peruere.”

“And I hate that you are. You’re always damn right. Stop that.”

Another chuckle is heard behind tears.

“I plan to.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you have to do this.”

Peruere feels like her breath is being sucked out of her, like she can’t inhale enough and yet, exhaling is impossible. Her brain is telling her she has to. She has to give the sunshine a merciful end, lest Mother give her a far worse fate. But her heart is screaming. Tears drip down her face, her body wracked with silent cries. Her hand goes to the hilt of the dagger she always carries.

“But I love you. You are my sunshine.”

“I love you, too. And so I will always be here when the sun is shining. I am not afraid.”

“I am.”

Peruere is not one to be scared. She never has. But now, her hands are clammy, she feels a sweat gathering. She feels her heart thumping in a completely different way than when they share small kisses and giggles. She feels like she’s killing herself instead of her love. The dagger is unsheathed now, the blade glinting with every tremble of her hand. Oh, God, there it is again. That smile, the one that melts Peruere every time. Images flash in her mind of every time she bandages Clervie after an argument with Mother. Images of what could happen should Mother take Clervie’s life into her own hands, and before she can think twice, the dagger has pierced her skin. Clervie’s clothes are staining with blood as red as her hair.

“No. No, no— please. Clervie, you can’t. Why did you tell me to do this?”

Red ‘X’ irises stare into blue ones. A beautiful bluey green, one that Peruere has always admired. Has always adored looking into. Not now. Not while she watches the life drain from her eyes. Watching the sun burn.

“You will make a great king.”

“Stop that.”

Anger boils inside Peruere, anger like she has never felt before. She swears she will kill anyone who threatens to hurt the ones she cares about. She won’t let this happen again.

“I’m sorry. Thank you.”

Clervie’s soft words fill her ears for the final time before her body drops to the floor with a thunk. Peruere stares down at her, anger filling her so greatly, she becomes blank. She decides she will never feel again. She will never love again. The sun was a star, but the sun has burned and died.

“Do you promise you will be with me in Snezhnaya? Promise?”

“..Clervie?”

She is met with only silence, and the sound of the lumidouce bells waving in the wind.

At age 28,

Arlecchino walks through the halls of the House of the Hearth, watching stoically as the children play, as they watch the two children perform their magic show. She calls out, her voice strict, unfeeling.

“Meet in the dining hall when you are finished. Dinner is served shortly.”

Met with a chorus of “Yes Father”, she nods, satisfied, before turning away. Her heels click against the tiled floor as she walks through the halls, her hair flowing in her ponytail behind her. She takes the long route, avoiding the west wing of bedrooms, something she has avoided for many years. Her footfalls come to a stop as the sun hits her as it shines through the window. She feels a tug at her heart, and she clenches her fists tightly before sighing, turning quickly on her heel. She walks with purpose, walking past the many bedrooms until she slows, coming to a stop in front of the bedroom door she has kept locked. The ring of keys in her pocket makes a sound as she pulls them out, and she listens to the way they jingle as she unlocks the door and slips inside. She blinks back heartache as she stares around at the room. It has been well preserved, it looks like it’s still very much lived in by a sixteen year old girl. She goes about, dusting the surfaces in silence, cleaning up any signs that it hasn’t been touched in such a long time. She opens the window, watering the lumidouce bells that sit on the windowsill outside. She stops by the bed, where two teddies sit— one pink with a white ribbon, one black and white with red ‘X’s for eyes. Her hand, now black with darker patterns all over from how far the curse has advanced, softly pets the pink one, swallowing down a shaky breath. Her nails, painted red and black, like they always have been, gives a gentle scratch under the chin.

“Good morning, Clervie. The children are doing well today.”

Her hand slides into her pocket, pulling out a small, gift wrapped box, placing it by the teddy.

“Happy birthday. I told you I would not forget. The sun is shining brightly, and the colours in the sky at night have been vivid lately. You would have found them beautiful, I am sure. I would have loved to look at you as you stared at them in wonder.”

The birthday gift joins another 11 on the bed, each one in different phases of aging. She stands again, smoothing down the bedsheets before placing a small kiss on the pink teddy.

“See you next year, Clervie. I promise.”

#arlecchino hc #arlecchino genshin #arlebina #arlechinno genshin #arlechinno x reader #arlefuri #genshin impact #arle #genshin smut #genshin wlw #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #clervie #peruere #arlecchino smut #genshin impact arlecchino #arlecchino #genshin imagines

[harunayuuka2060]

Malleus: My love, I have brought you a companion. *has given them a bird*

MC: ...

MC: Thank you, Malleus.

Malleus: *kisses their cheek* See you later after classes.

Lilia: Malleus~! We're going to be late!

Malleus: I'm going—

MC: *has grabbed his sleeve*

Malleus: What is it, my love?

MC: ...

MC: Enjoy your day.

Malleus: *smiles* I will. Thank you.

MC: ...

MC: *when they're sure that Lilia and Malleus have already left*

MC: *talks to the bird* You don't have to accompany me. *walks to the window and opens the cage*

*the bird looks at them before flying out of the cage*

MC: ...

Silver: Oh. Has Malleus already left for class?

MC: Yes. Is there anything you need from him, Silver?

Silver: Yes— No. I mean, I actually came here to see you.

MC: ...

Silver: ...

Silver: I know it must be hard not being able to leave Diasomnia so... *walks up to them and gives them some story books*

MC: ...

MC: What are these for?

Silver: ...

Silver: Even a little, I want you know what the outside world feels like. It's imbued with magic, so you will be able to smell the flowers or hear the chirping of birds or the voices of the characters in those books.

MC: ...

MC: These are great, Silver. I'll be sure to read them.

Silver: That's all I wanted to say. I'll be going to my classes now.

Silver: I hope you have a great day. *then leaves the room*

MC: ...

Sebek: Look, Waka-sama! I've got them some flowers!

Lilia: *chuckles* Sebek! Malleus should be the one getting them some flowers! You're going to make the husband jealous!

Sebek: N-No! That's not my intention! Waka-sama! Please believe me!

Malleus: *smiles* Don't worry, Sebek. You're free to give them presents.

Lilia: Silver? Have you already given them the story books you borrowed from the library?

Silver: Yes, father.

Malleus: ...

Malleus: I didn't notice you giving them anything, Silver.

Silver: Because you had already left when I went to your room.

Malleus: I see. *smiles*

Silver: ...

MC: *doesn't feel anything after reading almost all of the story books, until they opened the last one*

"Once upon a time, in realms of old,

A cherished soul, my kin, I hold,

Their spirit danced, a joyful sight,

A radiant smile, a beacon of light.

Once upon a time, they graced my side,

But now, alas, they seem to hide,

Oh, where have they flown, I ponder and weep,

In the shadows they vanish, secrets they keep.

Will they return, like a fairy's vow?

To my heart's hearth, I humbly bow,

Their chamber awaits, a sacred space,

Preserved with love, their cherished place."

MC: ...

MC: *tears started to fall onto the page*

MC: Why does this seem familiar to me... *not realizing that they're crying*

MC: *then flips over the page to see the illustration it has*

*It's their room.*

Malleus: ...

Malleus: You want me to design this room like the one in this illustration?

MC: Yes. If it's fine with you.

Malleus: *his expression changed but only for a split second* *smiles* For what reason?

MC: ...

MC: I love how it looks...

Malleus: *sighs in relief* I see. I'll make this room similar to this then. *touches their cheek gently*

MC: Thank you, Malleus.

Malleus: Is there anything else?

MC: No. That's all.

Malleus: *holding the book*

Malleus: *burns it*

Malleus: Nothing should be left. *glances at the sleeping MC*

Malleus: *smiles*

Malleus: That is the last one. And there won't be another.

Silver: ...

Silver: *smiles after remembering what MC has said to him*

MC: Thank you, Silver. I have enjoyed my day because of the books you gave me.

MC: I'm looking forward for the next.

Silver: Instead of books, would it be alright to bring you some forest animals?

Silver: I'm sure you will enjoy them more.

MC: ...

MC: *smiles* Yes. Please do.

#twisted wonderland #twst mc #twst malleus #twst silver #twst lilia #twst sebek #in a world of grim

[punkpandapatrixk]

Full Cold Moon in Cancer ♦︎ Moon Magick Pick A Card

Happy New Year~!🍀It’s January already but, gosh, aren’t we all still preparing for the spring equinox this year🍓That’s when the real new year begins, aenergetically~🎍

The Full Cold Moon on 26th December carried a theme surrounding Home and Hearth. It touches on our IC (Imum Coeli) and 4th House in our natal chart. The IC tells us who we are when no one’s watching, and after we become super clear about that, it helps us realise what kinds of company are legitimately good for our sense of belonging in this mortal world.

Your IC can literally shed light unto the reasons you feel alone and separated from the people around. The Full Cold Moon in Cancer—ruler of the 4th House—invites us to take a look at our sense of familyship whilst being incarnate on Earth.

People on this Planet have been struggling with an immense sense of loneliness since the introduction of social media; isn’t that strange? How is it that the more people we’re able to connect with the more miserable we feel on the inside? Well, isn’t it clear that social media has helped us become more aware of what’s truly FAKE when it comes to human connections?💍

Our IC deeply craves real familial connections. Moving forward, wouldn’t you rather entertain soul-based friendships that really care about your wellbeing as a Human being? This Cold Full Moon in Cancer, you’re invited to once again die to everything and everyone that doesn’t make you feel seen, heard, respected, or wanted👻

Fake connections, whether online or offline, can go fuck ‘emselves🥢

[Masterlist] [Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – The Choice to be Free Has Always Been Yours to Make

i d e n t i t y – Knight of Pentacles

Others may think you are mad, but you of all people know there is method to your madness. More than everybody else gives you credit for, you’re actually somebody who’s very strategizing. You are careful with your plans and you think very many things through before you execute your plan. Others simply do not understand this mechanism in your brain because you’re quite unique, quite unorthodox even. This Full Cold Moon, you are invited to ponder if the source of your misery is actually other people’s beliefs about you rather than your actual incapability.

Just because you’re following a strange path of your own doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. Weirdos throughout history have changed societies for the better. We should all be thankful to weirdos—and especially, WITCHES. Did you know that WAY TOO MANY of our advances in science and medicine were actually done by witches? They burnt and hanged the witches and took credit for all of their hard work. Tsk tsk tsk… I raise my cup to all y’all witches who’s working to blast open new pathways for the rest of Mankind🍸Keep doing you. Keep going because spring will surprise you with loads of delights~🍬

s e r e n i t y – Queen of Pentacles Rx

You’re a helpful soul, that much is apparent. But you’ve got to learn some discernment so that you don’t get taken advantage of very easily. What the Queen of Pentacles in reverse is trying to show you is that, unfortunately, too many people in this world don’t even deserve to be helped. Not by you, at least. Unless you’re getting paid for rehabbing messed up people, let them deal with their own mess and grow up from it. Ultimately the Queen of Pentacles Rx is cautioning you against letting messed up people in your inner circle because these types of people are gonna bring their mess into your Life.

You get to decide, with your skilled discernment, who’s worth helping, fighting for; who’s worth keeping because they give you just as much affection. If, in order to keep serenity in your world you must look like a stingy bitch, let it be. Be selective with who you give your time and money to. Make sure you aren’t sucked dry of spiritual aenergy yourself. Your Higher Self and team of Spirit Guides are saying, this whole winter you’ve got shit to manifest—big, big shit. Preserve your precious aenergy so you can manifest real, long-lasting results~!🌳

f a m i l y – 8 of Cups Rx

Having said all of that, this card is saying: don’t easily walk away from things and endeavours that you know from deep within your heart matter. I think you’re so dreamy and floaty that you could have a hard time being realistic when it comes to the physical manifestation of your real desires. You could think, since they’re unrealistic, you might as well give up and choose to focus on other more pragmatic pursuits. If you must leave, leave the people and environments that don’t support your heart’s desires—don’t leave the desires and end up becoming very unhappy with yourself! After all, with your already methodical mind, you actually have all the power in you to bridge your dreams to Reality.

That’s why, honey, the freedom to be free has always been in your mind. Now you’ve just got to make the right decision—what kind of freedom is real freedom to you? The freedom to choose to kowtow to societal expectations or the freedom to walk your own path no matter how lonely (at first)?

‘If you end up with a boring miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it.’ – Frank Zappa

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – Art and Romanticism Have Always Been an Important Part of Your Heart

i d e n t i t y – 9 of Cups

You have many dreams, but if there’s one thing, you’ve always dreamt to be independent, doing your dreamy things in your dreamy space. I think you’re the kind of person who’d be considered a quiet eccentric. You have many interests and hobbies, and you’re quite sensitive about having your me-time uninterrupted. I think you could erupt if someone walks in on your serious activity and startle you or if someone in your family tells you to go and do something in the middle of your reading. That kinda vibe. You’re quite a loner, actually. You’re super weird tho XD Do you maybe identify as an autistic kid, fam?

Anyway, please know that this Full Cold Moon is inviting you to ponder more deeply about your place amongst Humans. I have a feeling you don’t really like Humans or at least, you find human interactions absolutely exhausting, for the most part. If you know this blog, you know already how much I prize individuality and being alone if it means peace of mind and faster manifestations LOL BUTT!! In this reading, I’m getting that many of you may want to ponder yet again how you interact with people, especially those closest to you because sometimes, there really are people who care about your wellbeing more than you realise.

s e r e n i t y – 10 of Cups Rx

Many of you choosing this Pile probably haven’t got a nice family background. Of course, there are a million scenarios for each person but for the most part, I sense that you’ve felt familial connections to be emotionally unsatisfying. That’s why you seek emotional fulfilment in this multitude of hobbies and interests. Clearly you’re a very intelligent person, that much I’d like to iterate. And so, this reading seeks to validate your feelings about your eccentricity.

Art and all those dramatic things have always been integral to your sense of identity. I really think you should indulge, as long as whatever dramatic things you enjoy aren’t detrimental to your mental or physical wellbeing. If you happen to be the type that’s already doing detrimental things in your pursuit of an emotional high, this card is suggesting you pause breathe and eat before you go after another round of pursuing that high.

f a m i l y – Page of Cups Rx

When you’re pausing, you can cry. Accepting our emotions and acknowledging that they make us Human usually comes with a sense of grieving for all the ways we’ve thought ourselves as being in the wrong. There’s not a thing fundamentally wrong with you, it’s the people around you that have made you feel like you can’t communicate with them with striking vulnerability. And if these experiences have caused you to bear a lot of dark thoughts or negative emotions, I’d like you to know it happens to the best of us.

You could literally turn your pains into art, if anything. If you’ve chosen this Pile as your main pile, know that the pain you’ve experienced through human connections could be turned into art and that your Art has the capacity to heal those who come into contact with its backstory. And this, totally will have a significant place on the world stage because, as you can see, human interactions in recent years have gotten weirder and weirder in some capacity. So many people are hurting from getting disappointed by the…government and celebrities? LOL

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – Princess Kaguya, Is That You?

i d e n t i t y – 2 of Cups Rx

At the core of your being, you’ve always been different in that your heart is a lot purer, your morality is criminally significantly higher, you’re compassionate and can empathise with people on a level that’s beyond the comprehension of most others. The way you’ve experienced this Human Reality is incomparable to what most others have known. Basically, you’re an alien! And that’s an incredibly modest thing to say about you.

What you genuinely wish to see manifest in this world is vastly more high-vibrational than most people would even care to think about. I hope you accept that you are genuinely such a good person when you’re in your best element. What’s really difficult to maintain is your faith in people, for the most part, because you haven’t really met anyone who’s capable of giving their heart to you as deeply as you’ve given yours. This whole experience has broken your spirit and faith in a lot of things.

s e r e n i t y – 9 of Pentacles

And thus, you’ve carved out a Life of your own, quite separate from most people you’ve ever known. I’m sure you’ve burnt a lot of bridges up until just recently, and I sense, many of you simply know there’s still a few more to burn going forward. This is your confirmation that you’ve done the right thing. In this Human world, too many people buy into the idea that to be good is to be social; but you’ve experienced firsthand that that’s often not the case. You know firsthand that many people’s demons get activated by some weird connections to other people’s demons. And you don’t like that.

So you made a decision to walk away from most aspects of social life and worked your butt off to polish your skills. Some of you have spent many years studying; some of you have spent very many months working on a glow-up; some of you have deepened your spiritual prowess and connected to higher realms; basically, you’ve died and become a ghost… Springtime will bring you the resurrection you deserve, bitch!🎍

f a m i l y – King of Cups

About your Soul Fam though, I feel that travel is highly indicated for you. Some of you, you could be meeting a Soul Fam member during travels, but for the majority of you, this aenergy is giving the idea that you’re literally meant to travel the world or live abroad, perhaps even for the rest of your lives. Highly advanced souls can often have a narrative in which they’re expected to die on a land different from the one they were born into. So, if you’ve been thinking of moving to a different country or state, this is your confirmation that it is indeed part of your soul scenario.

Thanks to modern travel, it’s so easy for highly advanced souls to connect with their true Family members from different countries and that’s something we’re glad about LOL If you’ve ever wondered whether you’re going to die alone and sad, that’s totally not the case. If anything, you have so many Soul Fam members who are going to be just as highly spiritual, profoundly dreamy and vastly empathetic as you are. You’re going to be very glad when the time comes for Soul Families to reunite in the upcoming couple of years~ YAY~!

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[Masterlist] [Patreon] [Paid Readings]

#Moon Panda Pick A Pic #full moon #full moon in cancer #pick a card #tarot pick a card #pick a card reading #pac #tarot pac #pac reading #witchythings #witchblr #witchcore #mindset #self care #personal growth #girlblogger #girlblogging #mental health #spirituality #spiritualhealing

[serene-sky-kid]

Veterans and their Moths

sorry for the inactivity but here are more sketches

I might paint some, I like the first and the second one, I will also do the "less moth" version of Berk, which is in process (if the commissions don't make me disappear again). lore things, a lot of text ;v; vvv

Orion and Berk are "siblings" cared for by the same veteran, although in the case of orion it is the second veteran to adopt him. You can tell they were raised by Reah because they look like they came from a tribe in the forest.

Hearth took care of Serene, Serene has many siblings but few have decided to continue their journey, part of her elegance comes from Hearth's influence, thanks to him her life as a skykid has not been difficult, but she can be a bit fearful when she has to do things on her own.

Icarus did adopt a moth, but to prove that he could take care of one too, since everyone seemed to have one but him. When you ask him the story about what happened to his moth, he changes it every time…

Marine doesn't hate veterans, but now that she knows more about the world, she will be the veteran who accepts the candle from every moth she sees.

#sky children of the light #sky cotl oc #sky cotl art #skykid #sky cotl #sky cotl fanart #sky: children of the light #skycotl #sky: cotl

[lychniis]

⚘ — COSMIC BALLET.

i. SYNOPSIS : sometimes you wonder if your spark could outshine his centuries old light. ( jing yuan x reader )

ii. WARNING(S) : mentions of mortality, comfort, Jing Yuan needs a hug, we all do, really. This is all very rough and unrefined I wrote this on my phone hdhdhdhd. Inspiration.

# masterlist

&& . jing yuan · ( hello dear sun of mine ; you shine ever so bright )

JING YUAN SHINES WITH A LIGHT too bright for a human. It's the sun embodied, carved onto muscle and skin like fire on flesh, and the art of kintsugi itself, and the people would look upon him and walk their orbits and live their lives.

He'll pour his wine out and rearrange his xianqi pieces and watch the years on the Luofu tick by with war, then peace, then war, then peace again. He'll change strategies. He'll land his checkmates. He'll count every victory and loss. Then he'll shut his eyes and dream of a world where he was a distant speck, anything but a burning star.

And still, he shines —

( Bright, bright, brighter and you fear the hearth shall soon give out. )

— And still the people look to him. For the planets center their suns, the asteroids chart their course, the universe exists in itself, a state of orderly chaos. Jing Yuan was the Luofu’s heart, the people's heart and that great light was a terrible thing that could never be diffused ( only burn out as time wears upon it ).

You wonder where he gathers his strength, if he could keep dancing this cosmic ballet. Jing Yuan was still Jing Yuan, a human with his soft insides and his fragile soul. And he holds that sun in him. He holds the face of The Hunt. He holds onto Lan's will. He falters. You watch him stagger at times. You see his weariness and something, something in you cries.

You wonder if you could do such a thing too ( you cannot, for your life was a limited, fleeting thing and the daunting weight of immortality scares you too much, like the cold metal of a vice ). You wonder if your comfort would show any effect.

"If you are the sun..." You ask him one day, when the world was quiet and you slip deeper into the warmth of your sheets. "Then what am I?"

You feel his weight shift behind you, his warmth press against your back and his breath against your skin. They were the subtle hints of proof, of his life, of the humanity that stirs in him. You inch closer. "That's a strange question to ask in the middle of the night."

"I know it is. But I'm curious. And I can't sleep when I'm curious."

He laughs that deep, rich laugh. You feel something, it's a wild sort of adoration, a strong urge to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. It hurts. You push it away.

"A spark," he decides after a moment's silence, like the word is a funny joke you don't quite understand. "Sparks hold potential. Sparks can burn brighter."

"Not as bright as you."

"Of course you can." He replies. He seems sure of himself. He kisses your lips, your neck. He looks at you with a reverance, with worship on his fingertips, with a wistful, desperate longing. "They may not see it, but I do. I will."

You want to laugh. He sounds silly, foolish, and it was a strange way to describe someone as meticulous as him. You only hold a few decades of life left. You hardly believe you could come to be something so profound. "Why?" You ask him.

He gives pause. There is a sacred thing nestled in your question, something that should be handled delicately.

"Because..." He carefully picks his words. You feel his fingers curl in with yours. "You're mortal." Your lips part. He keeps speaking. "And when you love me, when you live and feel as you do — in my gaze, dear heart, you far eclipse this old worn soul of mine."

Ah. You blink. Ah, he was being sincere.

"Do I?"

You sound small. Jing Yuan smiles. He leans into you, nose grazing against yours. The gold in his eyes have dimmed to a mellow affection.

"You do." He nods. "And I am honored, so honored to be loved by you." He kisses your knuckles.

You do not speak. But you hug him, hold him as close as humanly possible. Jing Yuan shuts his eyes. He lets his light dim in your presence. You let yourself eclipse him, as he says you do.

You let him rest.

❪⠀🎬⠀❫ AINE SPEAKS ;;

BAHAHAHAHA I wrote this whole thing in college on my phone help dhdbdjd. But hey, something short, a bit of a buffer so hehehe.

if you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill this form up!

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AINE | 2023. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.

#&&. my writing !! #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #txt . jing yuan ; #astronetwrk

[edgeray]

Arlecchino is a selfish person.

(Arlecchino x Reader)

Living in a world like Teyvat inherently makes one selfish. For Arlecchino, her life has developed and progressed up to this point only by sheer selfishness. Survival is only gained through selfishness, a fact that she had to pick up quickly when she was first placed in the House of the Hearth. There, the very process of rising up to the ranks required stomping over others for more favor from the former Father of the orphanage. Children brutally betrayed their own sisters and brothers for just the most marginal amount of praise and grace from the Matron. Arlecchino knows now, that even after the murder and deaths of many, she could not entirely blame them. She cannot admonish inhibiting selfishness either, it is simply the way that is life. Because she knows that very selfishness runs through her veins as well.

Arlecchino discarded the notion of romance or friendship in her future when she was a child. Neither of the two can occur, not when the only person her world can afford to revolve around is herself. Trusting others was the demise of many. It was a foolish and naive dream that the youth of the House of the Heart had, one that she intended to remove it from the depths of her mind.

That was until she opened her eyes, and became sick of what the House of the Hearth had become: simply a machine to produce children that would surely die of their own aimless loyalty to their archon. When she eliminated the Matron and sat upon her chair to take her place as the Father, she intended to get rid of this impractical system. There was no need for this continuous cycle of death anymore, and so with that, she enrooted in each child that selfishness was misplaced here and that all the children here were one another's family.

Regardless of the change to the House of the Hearth, it doesn't change Arlecchino's nature. She knows that, in theory, forming friendships and relationships is ultimately beneficial for the children, but the belief cannot dismantle the injected value inside of her. She had always been seeking for her own benefit, even her current position is in that manner. Serving as the Tsaritsa's loyal dog has provided her with many advantages that she will continue to take, so long as the Tsaritsa proves to be beneficial.

Even with you, she is selfish. She is a taker--she reaps as much as she can from another with as little to give from herself as possible. And that is what she does with you: she takes from you whatever you're willing to give. Reciprocating is a difficult task for her and it is here that she doubts her relationship with you. Still, you are persistent and unfaltering, the bits and pieces that she does share you drink in greedily, whether that be her touch or the small acts of service she does.

She kisses you because your taste is sweet. She touches you because you are soft and warm in contrast to her harsh and cold exterior. She enjoys your presence because you are a distraction from the depraved and monochrome life she leads.

She does not know how she fell in love with you. Not because there are no traits of you that aren't loveable but you are opposite to her. She knows that love is selflessness. Maybe it is because you are the embodiment of selflessness that she starts learning how to be better for you. A relationship is more or less a balance of taking and giving, and when you give her so much, she wonders if she were to do the same, would it garner the rewards that you seem to get?

When you give her your tears, and she cups your face and wipes them away from your beautiful eyes, would you do the same for her? When you hold her so tenderly in your arms, she wonders how is that you enjoy her presence outside of just her body warmth. When you bring her a homecooked dish or a purchased pastry with that radiant smile on her face, she suppresses the inquiry on how spending the effort and time on her can possibly make you this pleased with yourself.

She does ask you one day. Why you're so adamant about doing these things for her? You answer that it's because you get to see the small quirk of her lips and the soft flare of her red crosses. She doesn't understand how her expression could make you self-fulfilled. How can you love someone so selfish?

The response that comes from you baffles her.

If she was so selfish then she wouldn't have considered it in the first place, would she? The kisses that she gives is enough to make your heart race. An embrace from her is like an embrace from heaven, and every night within her arms feels as ethereal as the night prior's. Her firm and crass reminders to treat yourself more gently are comforting and heartwarming. Her protectiveness over you tells you that you are loved, worthy of her protection and consideration despite the numerous children and duties she has to attend to. When she pauses her work, without any care to how much or how little she has left incomplete, to greet you properly every time you come home, you're sure that you will always go back home to her. And when she whispers 'I love you' when she thinks you're asleep, you know that those are genuine.

She gives you plenty, you reassure her with your usual grin.

Arlecchino is a selfish person. Or so she thought.

#lowkey... i kinda don't like this one. #does this one even make sense? #i have no fucking clue what I'm going on about #anyways #anyone got any ideas for the next one? #why was this one lowkey long #arlenation enjoy ig #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #edgeray.writes #edgeray.blog

[mlbigbang]

2023 Adrinette Fic Rec List

It’s the end of the year which means it’s finally time for the ML Big Bang’s yearly fic rec lists! We’re really excited to bring you our contributors’ favourite fics started this year to supply you with plenty of reading material while you’re waiting for the Big Bang fics’ publication in January.

Fate, Destiny... A Hamster by @mostmagical

After finally moving into his very first apartment per Ladybug’s suggestion, Adrien discovers something no movie or TV show could have ever prepared him for: someone else's hamster. Marinette was so excited to have her first pet. If only it would stop escaping! At least now there’s an excuse to talk to the new neighbor. (Adrinette Never Met AU)

This fic is peak adrinette identity shenanigans! Adrien and Marinette star as the next door neighbors losing and finding the titular hamster, falling in love, and avoiding an identity reveal like the plague.

If I Let Myself Love You by @uptoolateart

It’s hard to be a normal girl with a normal life when your mother has terminal cancer. And when fashion model Adrien Agreste moves back to Paris and wants to be Marinette’s friend – or maybe even more – her life is turned upside down again. How can she risk opening her heart to love when her whole world is falling apart? Especially when Adrien is hiding a dark secret of his own…. - COMPLETE FIC – updates on Sundays *** No kwamis AU - 100% Adrinette. About half of it is fluffy and half heavy. Please read tags for trigger warnings. ***

It is such an incredible balance of beautiful, heart-wrenching and funny! I adored the relationship between Adrien and Marinette, how it developed throughout, how natural it was, how they both helped each other through their grief. Just beautiful.

hearth by @asukiess

Because how do you describe a dream once you wake up, when it’s fleeting and slipping through the cracks in your mind like it’s a sieve? You can barely wrap your lips around the concepts and words before you realize it has slipped through like water, and what lay in your hands is just a pang in your chest? When every moment away from it clouds your mind just a little more, until the memories are threadbare? or: Adrien understands what it means to have a home.

call it even by @sha-nwa & @anna-scribbles

After a year of dating, there is one thing Marinette knows for certain: it's her and Adrien against the world. Through it all, Adrien is kind, patient, and endlessly understanding—even as she tries her best to keep her secret superhero identity hidden from him along with the rest of the world. Nothing could ruin it, not even the supervillains of Paris: Hawkmoth and Chat Noir. (adrinette dating // ladynoir enemies au)

A really well-written Adrienette fic featuring Ladynoir as enemies.

All the Missing Pieces by @uptoolateart

At 14, Adrien stepped into the time burrow and saw the truth no one could have guessed. When he came out, he was changed forever. And after defeating his father, he was finally free...or was he? At 37, Adrien has everything he ever dreamed of – married to Marinette, three kids, the hamster – but none of it has turned out as expected. Marinette’s career is such a success that she’s never home, Hugo is an angsty difficult teenager, and Adrien is still struggling with his secret identity as a sentimonster. And now, Lila Rossi is back after more than 20 years. But has time changed her? Or is she up to her old tricks?

It's my actual life (except I'm not good looking lol), and I vouch for how WILDLY accurate its treatment of the emotional issues of stay-at-home-dad stuff. I just cannot recommend highly enough how it handles jealousy, isolation, parenting struggles, etc. Not me in the comments every chapter telling the author how she got the feels so perfectly right.

If I Let Myself Love You by @uptoolateart

It’s hard to be a normal girl with a normal life when your mother has terminal cancer. And when fashion model Adrien Agreste moves back to Paris and wants to be Marinette’s friend – or maybe even more – her life is turned upside down again. How can she risk opening her heart to love when her whole world is falling apart? Especially when Adrien is hiding a dark secret of his own…

So absolutely sweet. So emotionally devastating. Gets meta by taking advantage of how AO3 works at one point. Next level in every way. I loved the developing Adrienette friendship. I loved Marinette and her father. I loved Marinette's feelings about her sick mother. Please everyone read this fic your face will melt with emotion, and you weren't really using your face, were you?

Our Tales are Endless (That's Why I Tell Them) by joonapeach

Marinette lives a simple life - one surrounded by pretty dresses, fresh macaroons, and the calming view of Paris. It's a life she thinks she has always fit in. And yet sometimes, when a certain boy comes by her shop with a flower and a new adventurous story, she can't help but wonder if there's something else she's missing.

you don't even know me at all (but i was made for loving you) by @ladyofthenoodle

They didn’t remember each other. The hospital told them there’d been an accident—brain damage—but Alya had told them the truth, later. Who’d they’d been to each other. What they’d given up, and why. But even with their memories of each other gone, Adrien and Marinette are still inextricably tied together—by law, by their social circles, and by their hearts. And in the apartment they share, there's only one bed.

If you like amnesia AUs, angst with a happy ending, married adrinette, and only one bed scenarios, you need to read this fic! It's beautifully bittersweet and will break your heart before putting it back together.

#ml #miraculous ladybug #miraculous #ml big bang #ml big bang 2023 #adrinette #adrienette #love square #fic recs #ml fic recs #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng