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bump1nthen1ght · 3 years

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Thicker than Water (Demon x Reader) Chapter 1

Pairing: Female Reader x Gender Fluid! Demon

Genre: High Fantasy

Warnings: Arm Injuries, Several mentions of blood

Word Count: 1870 Words

Summary: A summoning gone awry ends up in your favor

Chapter 2

A/N: Alright, I know I literally just posted a demon story but this post showed up on my dash and my god if I have never been more inspired to write a fic. I legit wrote this in 2 hours in a frenzy. Also I plan this story to be multi-chap, but still rather short, so maybe 3 parts in total

Before that night, you had never known what nearly-passing out felt like.

Your mother had done it, once or twice, usually after a particularly stressful day at the shop. If you didn’t check on her between your studies she may forget to eat entirely, your father as well. But you had been lucky; Someone had always been there to catch her, to cradle her head and spoon-feed her strength back.

On the forest floor, surrounded by the smell of your own blood, you have no such luxury.

The black spots flickering in your vision blend into the desne canopy above you and your tears only muddle your sight. The iron and copper of the summoning circle drawn around you drown out the scent of fresh pine and grass, while your ears can only focus on your own heartbeat and the bickering of the four boys.

Oh, that’s right, they’re still here.

It seems you had lost more fluid than you realized, probably because of your incessant crying. You had tried to stop the flow, but your brain was losing coherent function with every second. The boys conversation sounds far away and hollow, bouncing off your eardrums and confusing your sense of direction

“You idiot, I told you not to go for the arm!”

“We needed a lot of blood!”

“But she needs to read the ritual dumbass! She can’t if she dies!”

Ah yes, the ritual, it all is flooding back to you now.

Having received a private education from your father at your family’s apothecary, you were already prone to isolation as a child. It didn’t help having no siblings, nor a lacking natural talent for friend-making. Although you had lived in the city all your life, the young people your age knew very little about you, and you them.

You knew they had rumors about you, The daughter the apothecary hides away; That your gaze can turn people to stone, that you can curse and poison people with a couple words and the right ingredients.

The truth was you weren’t so glamorous. You knew your way around a medicine cabinet, sure, but nothing about poisons or magic spells. You didn’t have any special abilities to compensate or explain your reluctance for socialization. Just some overprotective parents and a shy disposition.

So when the handsome postmasters-son began to pay you special visits, you let your guard down. You let him walk you to and from the market, memorizing your weekend route. You let him in for a bit of tea late at night, especially when it seemed so cold, and told him where the spare key was kept. And yes, you even told him about your favorite secluded spot in the forest, where the sounds of civilization were far away, where you could be alone.

And here, in these last moments of your life, you can’t help but feel so naive.

“Hey, hey!”

A boot taps your cheek, shaking you out of your revelry. Your glassy eyes look over to your right.

It’s one of the local merchant’s boys, you think his name is Nicholas? It doesn’t really matter. All you knew about him was that he was a bit rough around the edges; always nicking things from pockets, looking up ladies skirts, and skipping his lessons. That’s what your dad complained about anyway.

A page is shoveled in front of you, dangling over your face. Your eyes take a while, but focus on the words. Nicholas’ boot heel digs into your neck.

“Read it out loud, or we’ll kill you.”

Clearly I’m going to die anyway dumbass, why should I help you?

You might’ve retorted, if you were in such a physical condition to do so. But instead, you do as you're told, and start speaking.

To your left, the postmaster’s son, Richard, sucks in a breath with anticipation. Any false composure he had while luring you here is gone, his feet tapping with excitement as he holds your left arm and lef bound spread eagle.

Holding your right leg is Markus, another merchant boy. He picks at his teeth.

“What are you guys going to wish for?” He whispers. It goes in your ear and out the other, too focused on forming coherent sentences.

“A full-harem of babes, obviously.” Simpers Hunter, the son of a landlord. He isn’t ugly, only a bit plain, and has enough money to boot. Compared to the other bachelors in town however, he has had little luck in procuring a courtship.

“A million coins could get you that and more, idiot. That’s what I’m wishing for.” Whispers Richard.

“What are you going to wish for Nic?” Asks Markus

“Oh my gods, will you guys shut the fuck up?”

Nic snarls, unconsciously digging his heel back into your throat. You choke and stutter, but keep going. The runes around you, written in your own blood, begin to glow.

All of the boy’s eyes widen and they step back from you. Your limbs sink like dead weight as the words begin to flow out your mouth with no thought. The paper with the chant drops to the ground, out of your sight, but it's like your brain has been reprogrammed; You know the rest, know it in your bones.

The grass begins to simmer and burn under the summoning circle, smoke swirling into formation above you. When the final word whispers out of you, you feel your body go lax. You don’t even remember tensing up

I guess this is it. Sorry Mom, Sorry Dad.

You clench your eyes, just hoping the demon will be quick. That it will at least leave a recognizable corpse.

“Holy shit.” You hear muttered, unsure by whom.

Your eyes are closed, body teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, but your senses are still intact. A hot wave of breath washes over your face and the ground below you trembles with heavy footsteps. The boys are quiet but you can hear their hearts pounding. They thrum with life, while yours slowly fades.

“Why have you summoned me, mortal?”

Even half-dead, your muscles tense in fear. The demon's voice is deep and resonates like a crowd talking all at once. It reeks of inhuman power and cracks like thunder.

A brief silence passes, before Nicholas finds his courage.

“We have come to ask for a wish.”

Later, when recounting the story, you will mention that the demon looked over to Nicolas, unamused, despite never seeing it yourself. The demon huffs, the heat of it blowing over you once more.

“I don’t believe I asked you.” The demon mutters. The cacophony of voices blend together into one, bland and emotionless. Even in your state however, you are able to decipher a couple of louder tones which overpower the others. They seem...angry.

“But...you…”

“I asked….”

Your eyes snap open as a wet droplet lands on your cheek. Lingering above you, drool seeping from their unnaturally sharp teeth, is the creature. It’s face resembles that of a goat, but sharp fangs stick out from their lower lips. Their eyes are golden and shine in the night, piercing right into yours. Despite the part of your body screaming out in terror, another part feels oddly….comforted. It’s why you don't startle when they brush a hand against your cheek, their thumb wiping away your tears. Their palm is warm, not like a blistering flame, but like a thick quilt. Like hot chocolate on a rainy day.

“......What do you need of me, little one?”

Their hand, padded and calloused, slides down your arm, closing up the large gash on your inner bicep. In another movement, they do the same to the other. Power and vitality seems to sink back into your body, drip by drip.

Words escape you, but not Nicolas.

“Excuse me, demon, but we're the ones who summoned you.” The sarcastic tone of his does little to hide the quivers of his fear, especially when the demon's neck turns toward him at an unnatural speed. Still, he persists. “Not her. And we want-”

“Do you take me for a blind fool?” The voice bellows, sending all the boys to their knees. Markus clutches his ears while Hunter whimpers on the ground. Nicolas falls back to the ground, eyes widen. The demon stands to their full height, several feet above all of you. “Do you think I was born without smell, without sense?” The step away from your body, swiping at the ground with their fingers, taking a small bit of your blood with it.

The demon sticks their thumb and forefinger in front of Nicolas’s face, causing him to yelp and fall onto his back. “Is this your blood which forged the connection? Was it your words that spoke me into existence? Was it your body which came to the brink, wrenched open the door and pulled us both through?”

Nicolas, trembling like a leaf, shakes his head no. The demon’s eyes jerk up to the others. “And was it any of these young men?”

Richard furiously shakes his head, while Hunter stays collapsed on the ground. Markus pushes himself away, hands still clamped around his ears. The demon sneers, before turning and walking back to you.

The demon kneels before propping your upper body up with a gentle touch. A comforting claw rubs your lower back while another paw rubs the tension out of your shoulders.

“Now, mistress, what may you ask of me?”

Your muscles may no longer tire from blood loss, but your mind truly feels like it’s on the brink of breaking. The demon, with fearsome fangs and a soft look, looks to you for an answer.

“I-I…” You mutter as the demon continues to massage your back. They hum.

“Take your time, it is alright. Rituals are difficult, I can only imagine the toll your body feels.” The mass of voices have synchronized, fading from a hundred to a single, harmonious tune. It is cavernously deep, but pleasant. It reminds you of the portly older man who used to read stories aloud every holiday.

You feel your body unconsciously turn towards your captors. Nicholas stays stuck to the ground, the whites of his eyes almost glowing in the darkness. The others have slowly moved to their knees, all terrified with shaky limbs, and look like they might make a run for it. Markus is slowly inching towards Nicholas’ shoulders, trying to lift him up to his senses.

For the first time in your life, a deep, boiling hatred burns your skin.

Cowards. You sneer, with all the malice stored in your reserves.

“I want-I want…” You stumble as the anger bubbles out of your belly. “I want them to hurt. To feel humiliated.” Nails bite into the palm of your hand, letting out blood as you clench knuckles. “I want everyone to know what they’ve done, who they are, every fault they’ve ever been guilty of. I want them alive, but I want them to burn.”

The demon smiles, pulling you in for a hug. You collapse into their embrace, keeping your eyes locked onto the boys, those rats. The demon hums a contented tune as they rub your back.

“As you wish, my master.”

#monster romance #demon x reader #reader insert #monster x reader #female reader #my writing

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henshengs · 4 years

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Hunger Games AU, part four

Parts 1-3 now up on ao3! I think I’ll probably post 1 chapter there for every 3 here.

Meng Yao can’t remember with precision when exactly he first heard Lan Xichen’s name. His memory isn’t perfect, despite the considerable effort he’s gone to in order to create that impression. At some point he learned the names of each current Sect Leader and their heirs. He knows that when he watched the broadcast of Nie Mingjue’s victory tour, from the security of his tiny office in Qinghe, he was able to put a name to each face that flashed on the screen as Chifeng-zun was introduced to various sect leaders and their families. In Lanling the eighteen-year-old victor was the guest of honor at a lavish banquet, provided with alcohol he did not drink and food he barely touched. In Yunmeng he was challenged to a sword fight by a young, bright-eyed boy who was promptly slapped on the back of the head by sect heir Jiang Cheng. In Gusu he climbed the winding path to Cloud Recesses, accompanied by gasping out of breath camera crews and guards, and was greeted with gentle politeness by a tall and photogenic boy who Meng Yao knew must be Lan Xichen, heir to the Gusu Lan sect.

The cameras tried to get good looks at Lan Xichen, who after all was first on the list of young cultivators and a frequent topic of tabloid speculation, but Lan disciples blocked them from getting too close, and the cameras returned to their current darling, the young sect leader and child killer Chifeng-zun, with his thrillingly intimidating glare, his broad shoulders and haunted eyes.

Chifeng-zun stepped across the Cloud Recesses boundary, and the cameras tried to follow- and cut out, the live image flaring and dying to blackness.

Meng Yao doesn’t know what apology or excuse was later given to the Wens.

Apparently not one good enough. Or perhaps that was only one tiny incident among a larger pile of insubordinations. Or perhaps the reason for Gusu’s punishment had nothing to do with rebellious sentiment. Perhaps there was an economic or logistical reason.

Half prone on the garage floor, Meng Yao watches the Qinghe carriage pulled out of the way so the Lan carriage can go ahead of them. This is accomplished via sliding rails underneath parts of the floor. The horses, blinkered, are unalarmed; Meng Yao is bitterly jealous of them.

His stylist injects something into the tender skin around his eye and jaw; “It’ll delay bruising, at least until after the parade,” she says. She reapplies his makeup, with emergency powder and brushes she apparently keeps on her person for such situations as this. “Get him on his feet,” she says, and Nie Mingjue’s hands tighten on Meng Yao’s shoulders, his body tense under Meng Yao’s back, before reluctantly lifting Meng Yao gently upright.

Someone in a medic’s robes is there, with a suddenness that makes Meng Yao think either they have someone waiting in the garage for situations exactly like this, or one of the batons hit his head and he’s losing time. He should feel more alarmed about that than he does, he thinks. The medic waves a wand over his body and applies gentle pressure to his acupoints. This must not reveal anything immediately fatal, because he’s being bundled towards the carriage.

“Wait,” Nie Mingjue demands hoarsely, and there’s a pause brief enough for Nie Mingjue’s hands to find their way back to Meng Yao’s shoulders, to squeeze as though he wants to fold Meng Yao into his arms. Don’t, Meng Yao thinks, still muddled. Footage from inside the garage will almost certainly not be televised, but the Wens will still see it. Meng Yao can’t control the reaction he’d have, right now, if Nie Mingjue were to be tender with him.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved when the tenderness doesn’t come.

“It won’t be for long,” Nie Mingjue says, something cresting under the dark water of his words, the unrevealed shape of it distorting his voice. “Just get through it.”

Meng Yao nods.

The guards lift him into the carriage, his stylist barking out sharp instructions somewhere in the dark. Zonghui puts out a hand to steady him, when he nearly tumbles out. “Thank you, shijie,” he says, quietly, as the carriage starts to move.

She snatches her gloved hand back as though away from a boiling pot.

He hates her, then, but that’s fine. That only makes it easier to turn his head away from her and say, even quieter, “We should be allies. For the sake of Qinghe. If one of us wins, Qinghe will receive the benefits and honors.”

He waits, as the horses begin to trot, gilded hooves striking sparks on the cement. The light at the boundary of the garage approaches. Just before they cross the threshold, he hears her say flatly, “Agreed.”

So tonight has not been a total loss, he thinks, as the carriage emerges into the city night and his senses are overwhelmed with lights and the sounds of huge crowds of people cheering and calling out. A flower petal hits his head, lightly, and he looks up into a cascade of them, tossed from windows high above the street. It is silky soft, and he rubs it between his fingers for an indulgent moment before letting it drop. Before forcing his eyes to seek out the giant screens set up at intervals along the parade route.

He already knows he’s lost any advantage he might have gained through the parade, through his stylist’s costuming choices. The Gusu carriage is ahead of them now, and he can hear the shocked murmurs and mutters rippling through the crowd as it passes. Two male tributes, at least one injured, and both sect heirs with famously handsome faces. No one will be paying attention to anything else tonight. Meng Yao can’t blame them. The cameras keep returning to the two tall pale figures, both standing ramrod straight, both with bloodstains on their robes. One of them looks younger- Meng Yao calculates quickly in his head and decides that Lan Wangji must be fifteen now, the same age as Huaisang. The young face is cold and rigid as ice. The older Lan brother holds himself just as expressionlessly, but there’s something softer about him. He’s eighteen, Meng Yao knows. Eight months younger than Nie Mingjue. A few more weeks, perhaps, and the Wens would have needed to break the rules even further to include him in the Competition.

With reluctance, the cameras quickly skip over the other competitors. They linger on the Yunmeng carriage, because the boy- Wei Wuxian, dressed in purple so dark it looks black in the nighttime lighting- is putting on a show, perching on the edge of his carriage blowing kisses to the crowd, throwing paper talismans into the air where they burst into showers of sparks and butterflies, responding to the shouts of the crowd with big wide grins and words Meng Yao can’t hear but which must be entertaining because laughter follows him in a swell. The girl, dressed in pale lilac and garlanded in lotus blossoms, is clearly not a performer like her martial brother, but she’s laughing and smiling at his antics, which is probably half the purpose of them. Meng Yao moves Wei Wuxian up his mental list of likely threats. This boy’s going to gain himself a lot of fans. Some of them will pay well to keep him alive.

He sees only flashes of the other carriages. The blind Shudong competitors, dressed in funerary white as though resigned to their fates, the boy’s white bandage matching the girl’s white eyes, are holding hands. Their carriage is emanating a spray of white fog, making nearby observers shriek and shiver. The Lanling carriage is shimmering gold, exuding wealth and luxury, the boy and girl both wearing elaborate headpieces that drip jewelry as though they’re being married. The Yingchuan competitors are very clearly dressed to mimic the Wens, in recognition of their favoritism. Meng Yao catches a glimpse of himself and Zonghui, before the cameras rush back to the Lans, and at least his face looks unmarked, at least his smile is impeccable despite the dizziness in his head.

The ride can’t take longer than half an hour, but it feels like an eternity before the horses clop to a halt, each carriage arranged in a semicircle below an enormous lofty balcony. Meng Yao squints up, through the lights and the still-falling petals, and does his best to get an in person look at the Chief Cultivator.

He’s not disappointed. The figure on the balcony is distant, but there’s still something in the air, a coldness, a sense of power draped around Wen Ruohan like a cloak. When he speaks, giving the traditional welcome and then segueing into a speech about the importance of unity and power, the crowd listens, silent, spellbound. Then he turns, and disappears through the giant doors behind him, and the spell is broken. The horses take each carriage back to the Training Pavilion.

The huge doors slide down and Meng Yao is left blinking in sudden darkness. Zonghui has to help him down from the carriage, because his feet are unsteady and there’s a ringing in his ears. He looks through the gloom, looks for Nie Mingjue, expecting at any moment a steadying hand on his shoulder, but the familiar outline is missing. He was probably removed from the garage, Meng Yao realizes, to prevent another incident when the carriages returned. The other competitors are getting out of their carriages, too. The nearest ones are the Lans. Meng Yao sees a flash of white ribbon. Meng Yao had a plan, and it involved the other competitors and their mentors, he knows it did. He takes a step forward, but someone is catching his arms. Someone’s fingers are on his face, pressing a pill through his lips. He stops moving. He swallows. The ringing in his head grows quiet. The flash of white is gone.

After Nie Mingjue came back from his victory tour, he’d write letters to Lan Xichen, and receive them, in return. Correspondence between sectors was a privilege of the gentry. Meng Yao has a feeling that this may no longer be an accessible privilege, but he can’t know for sure. What he knows for sure is the way the paper envelopes felt smooth beneath his fingertips, the hand-written characters on the other side of the folded paper just barely visible through the thin skin of the envelope. What he knows is that each time he received a letter, Nie Mingjue would smile, and for a time he would be happy.

Nie Mingjue’s happiness was rare, after his return, and had come to be a treasure Meng Yao prized above all others. He had hunted it with luxuries carved out of Nie budgets already strained by new Wen taxes, with humorous anecdotes of Huaisang’s misadventures, with gentle pressure to tense back muscles, late at night in the Sect Leader’s quarters. Nothing had worked.

Meng Yao doesn’t think Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen were lovers, because on the first night of his return Nie Mingjue had clung to Meng Yao’s naked body, his head resting on the softness of Meng Yao’s stomach, and whispered that there had been no one else for all those months, that some of the Wen-dogs had tried to touch him but he had not let them, that Meng Yao was the only one Nie Mingjue wanted touching him. The kinds of words men said to their lovers all the time, but from Nie Mingjue, Meng Yao knew that they were true.

And yet Nie Mingjue had smiled, every time Meng Yao delivered a letter, smiled as though he had suddenly found himself in the most beautiful garden in the world, with his favorite person standing on a low bridge in front of him, like the moon come down to earth.

Meng Yao finds himself craving a glimpse of that moon, but instead he’s being led back into the glass elevator, away from the heat and the beautiful horses. There are too many reflections in the glass. Zonghui’s gloved hand is on his arm again, and he catches himself leaning into it, as though she were Huaisang, and that unnerves him enough that he jerks himself in the other direction, leans his forehead against the cool glass and lets time slip away.

The Nie delegation has the fifth floor of this vast building to themselves. There’s an impression of red and gold paneling- typical Wen interior decorating- and then he’s on a rosewood couch, dark cushions under him, and the medic is back, light fingers brushing over his meridians. They expertly tap his chest and he finds himself coughing up blood, feeling it dribble down his chin. The medic wipes it away. His makeup must be a mess.

“How is he?” Meng Yao hears Nie Mingjue asking Zonghui.

“The medic says he will be fine tomorrow,” Zonghui replies, voice clipped and professional. He can’t help but admire her. She’s as good as he was, at her age. “He does not seem fully aware of his surroundings. The medic advises rest.”

Meng Yao hears Nie Mingjue grunt. Can imagine the sharp, decisive nod. “You should also go rest,” Nie Mingjue says. “We will start training early tomorrow.”

Silence, as Zonghui bows. Then Meng Yao hears her say, “Yes, Sect Leader.”

Her feet make a very soft sound on the wooden floors. She must have taken off her heavy boots at some point. Did Meng Yao? No, he thinks his shoes are still on. He wonders if Zonghui will be able to remove her elaborate clothing by herself, or if an attendant will be present in her rooms to do it for her.

The medic steps back. Meng Yao pushes himself to his feet. The world stays where it is, around him; good. He bows, deeply. The medic bows back, not as deeply but still, it’s nice that they do it at all. Meng Yao waits until they have turned and left through the beautifully wrought doors of the suite before sitting back down and removing his shoes.

Nie Mingjue is at his shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Meng Yao says. His voice sounds acceptable, he decides. “Please do not worry on my behalf, Sect Leader.” He looks around. “Might this one trouble you by asking if you know where this one is to sleep?”

Nie Mingjue clears his throat. “Come with me,” he says.

Holding his shoes in one hand, Meng Yao follows. Out of the main open space, down a corridor and into a large room with a wide bed. Nie Mingjue goes to the far wall and touches a panel, adjusting something until the black walls suddenly come to life, showing a calm scene of falling water over smooth stones.

“Your room is on the other side,” he says. “But they’re more or less the same.” He flushes. “You can stay here, tonight.”

Meng Yao tucks his shoes under his arm and bows. He feels himself wobble near the nadir of the bow and lets it happen, so that Nie Mingjue will swallow up the space between them with his long stride and catch Meng Yao’s arms. “Here,” Nie Mingjue says, and he takes the shoes, and sets them down, and then his large hands begin the process of undressing Meng Yao. There is something perverse in having a Sect Leader undress a commoner, but it’s not the first time this has happened. Meng Yao lets himself enjoy it.

“I need to remove the makeup,” he says. “Is there a washroom?”

There is.

In the small illusory privacy of the washroom he stares at his own face in the mirror, until he feels dizzy again. He washes off the makeup, and braids his hair for sleep. He walks out, naked, uncertain what will be required of him. Nie Mingjue is undressed but clothed in night robes. He is holding out a soft gray robe for Meng Yao. Meng Yao shrugs it on. When Nie Mingjue lies down on the wide bed, he lies down too, and lets Nie Mingjue wrap an arm around his chest and pull him close. The room darkens, but the sound of flowing water remains.

Nie Mingjue’s breath on Meng Yao’s ear makes him shiver. “Xichen,” Nie Mingjue breathes. “Did you see him?”

Meng Yao shifts, rolls over in Nie Mingjue’s arm so he can whisper his response into Nie Mingjue’s neck. “He didn’t look too badly hurt. I think his brother has a broken leg.”

He feels Nie Mingjue tense in anger at that, and then sigh, and slowly relax. “Thank you,” Nie Mingjue says, into the dark. His arm tightens, pulling Meng Yao closer. Meng Yao wonders what the hidden cameras in the room are making of this. How he can spin it to his advantage. He wonders if Nie Mingjue will still want to hold him like this, if he survives the next month. After Lan Xichen dies in the arena. Because whatever Meng Yao’s chances are, he knows that Lan Xichen’s are less than nothing. No matter what Meng Yao does, that rare smile of happiness on Nie Mingjue’s face will not survive.

#nieyao #nielan #meng yao #my fic #the hunger games au

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twilights-800-cats · 4 years

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<< Allegiances || Chapter 11 || Chapter 12 || Chapter 13 || From the Beginning || Patreon >>

Chapter 12

It was dusk by the time that Mothwing returned to the RiverClan camp, her paws muddy and aching and her heart feeling as if it had been wrapped in thorns. Her stomach roiled as she recalled the image of the rabbit’s torn-open stomach, and she knew the smell of vomit clung to her pelt.

No Clan should have to suffer like that, she thought. How long can WindClan last without rabbits, and with Twolegs driving away what prey remains?

She ignored the curious looks and mews of her Clanmates as she padded across the clearing towards Leopardstar’s den. She would tell Mudfur everything, but right now some part of Mothwing wanted to talk to her mother, to be comforted like a kit.

Leopardstar looked up from her nest as Mothwing padded inside of the hollow willow log. “What’s wrong?” she asked, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Mothwing took a deep breath before spilling all that had happened in the WindClan camp – the destruction of their territory, the death of Graytail, the poisoned rabbits… it all tumbled from her mouth like the waterfall in the gorge, and Mothwing felt like she was lashing herself upon the rocks as she spoke.

Leopardstar was silent for a long moment after Mothwing was done. Then, in a quiet tone, she meowed, “I am sure you did your best… I’m proud of you, Mothwing. That had to be difficult.”

“It was,” Mothwing rasped.

Leopardstar got to her paws and brushed her muzzle against Mothwing’s. Mothwing leaned in, taking comfort in her mother’s clean, fresh RiverClan-scent, untainted by hunger; but she felt the tension in the dappled she-cat’s muscles and knew that the sympathy wouldn’t last.

“Are you certain that all the rabbits in the forest are poisoned?” she asked.

Mothwing sighed. “I can’t say for sure,” she admitted, “but even just one or two…”

Leopardstar nodded in understanding. “Come,” she meowed. “We must tell the Clan.”

Mothwing swallowed and followed her mother out of the den. Already every warrior seemed to be gathered close, as if anticipating a meeting. How would they react to the news? WindClan wasn’t exactly an ally these days. Mothwing caught sight of Falcontail in the crowd, who leaned over and whispered something to Leafwhisker and Blackclaw, both of whom curled their tails in aggression.

What if they want to attack WindClan? Mothwing shivered, glancing at Leopardstar. The RiverClan leader was making her way up the Clan Root, sitting herself down at its peak to look over her Clan. There was no need for Leopardstar’s signature call – all were present to listen, eyes bright and curious.

“Mothwing has returned from WindClan,” Leopardstar announced, “and the news is not good.”

“What happened?” hissed Mudfur. Mothwing flinched at his tone as he slid into position beside her. “Why didn’t you come to me first?”

“I’m sorry,” Mothwing whispered back. Leopardstar was already launching into a brief explanation of what had happened in WindClan territory. “It all happened so fast…”

Mudfur sighed, giving Mothwing’s ear a lick. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “But come to me first, next time.”

“… and I have come to the inevitable conclusion,” Leopardstar meowed on. “RiverClan cats can no longer risk hunting rabbits.”

“What?!” gasped Heavystep. “All because some WindClan cats got sick?”

“It’s not a risk we can take!” Mothwing insisted, getting to her paws. “You didn’t see how sick it made them – Graytail died from whatever was in those rabbits, and Bristlepaw might still die!”

“Rabbits cross the border all the time,” Tawnypelt reasoned, facing the Clan with her chin high. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take, either. RiverClan has never needed rabbits to survive anyway; it’s not a huge loss to our fresh-kill pile.”

Mudfur sighed. “StarClan, what is happening to the forest?!”

“Are you sure it was Twolegs that did it?” asked Brackenflight. Her striped tail lay still where it was, wrapped around her paws; but the senior warrior looked disturbed. “And their territory… could the Twolegs be trying to kill WindClan?”

“Why?” wondered Frostsplash. “I’ve never seen Twolegs do stuff like that; I’ve lived around them for long enough…”

Mackerelpaw looked confused, too. She hung her head helplessly. “I don’t get it…”

“First Fourtrees, now WindClan,” mused Mosspelt. “I think it’s clear that the Twolegs aren’t something we can ignore.” The tortoiseshell queen looked up at Leopardstar, her eyes hard. “They’re clearly a danger.”

“And WindClan needs help!” Mothwing chimed in, looking up at her mother too. “There has to be something we can do! They’ll starve to death without rabbits! There’s hardly any other prey on their land!”

Leopardstar’s ears flattened, her eyes troubled. Mothwing gave her most pleading look, beseeching her mother to do something. It can’t be StarClan’s will that WindClan starves! Please, Mother!

“Twolegs are one thing, but why should we aid WindClan?” snapped Leafwhisker.

Blackclaw grunted in agreement. “They’ve done nothing but steal from us – first our water, then our prey. What’s next?”

Mudfur curled his lip. “We gave them water to combat the dry spell,” he reminded. “And we have a duty to aid the other Clans in times like these.”

“You do.” Falcontail’s voice was sharp and cold. Mothwing stared hopelessly at her brother – she wasn’t at all surprised he was speaking up about this. “Medicine cats have their own code. The rest of us follow the warrior code, in case you’ve forgotten – and the warrior code strictly states that Clans do not share prey.”

Leafwhisker was bristling. “You think we’ll be able to survive leaf-bare if we let WindClan hunt on our territory?” the tabby warrior hissed. “And what if those Twolegs destroy their land? Where will they go?”

“Not here!” Blackclaw sniffed. “I won’t stand for that!”

The Clan clamored. Mothwing looked up at Leopardstar, hoping and praying that her mother might say something to soothe the tensions – but found that Leopardstar was staring at Falcontail, looking just as hopeless as Mothwing felt. Was she shocked at her own son’s words, too?

“RiverClan has starved in the past!” Shadepelt yowled over the din, her voice hoarse with age. “The other Clans helped us then. I think it’s time we paid that debt forward.”

“I agree,” Tawnypelt meowed, raising her voice firmly. “A lot of us wouldn’t be here today if ThunderClan hadn’t helped us when the river flooded seasons ago.”

Falcontail bristled. “WindClan has always had problems like these, and they’ve pulled through on their own.”

“You wouldn’t be here without WindClan’s help!” Mudfur snapped, bristling. “If they hadn’t come with medicine when you were a kit you and Mothwing would’ve died of greencough, and who knows how many more would have joined you! How can you throw that debt away?”

Falcontail’s ears pinned in response, his eyes blazing with hostility. Mothwing stared at her brother – why did he have to look like he was ready to attack Mudfur?! She edged herself forward, shielding her mentor with her younger, stronger body.

“Tallstar should ask ThunderClan,” Blackclaw stated firmly. “They’re the ones that like sticking their whiskers into every Clan’s business!”

“Definitely,” Leafwhisker agreed, nodding. “Tallstar and Tinystar have always been friends. Neither have respected the warrior code much!”

Mothwing trembled, watching as her Clan parted like a river with a stone thrown into it. Both sides looked ready to raise their claws to defend their opinions, and Mothwing’s stomach churned even harder.

What do I do? She thought, looking up at the sky. The stars that sparkled there were silent. StarClan, tell us what to do!

It wasn’t StarClan, but Leopardstar, who called an end to the debate. Her sharp, wordless yowl cut through the fighting like the roar of a beast, causing the entire Clan to fall into a shocked silence and turn their eyes to where she stood upon the Clan Root.

“That is enough,” Leopardstar stated firmly, her eyes passing over the Clan. Many looked embarrassed to be caught in her gaze. “At this time, RiverClan cannot aid WindClan – that is the end of it.”

Mothwing stared up at her mother, shocked. How could she say that? “Leopardstar, why?” she pleaded. “They need our help, and with the Twolegs-”

Leopardstar silenced her with a hard glare and a sweep of her tail. “The Twolegs are temporary – they will do their business and then be gone, and all will go back to normal. RiverClan cannot afford to share hunting rights with WindClan with leaf-bare right around the corner, especially when we cannot trust that they will give those rights back.”

“But-”

“I have made my decision,” Leopardstar declared. “And I will not change my mind. Tawnypelt, ensure that no rabbits are on the fresh-kill pile, and make sure everyone in the Clan knows not to touch any we find. Send a message out to ThunderClan about the rabbits – hopefully they can spread word to ShadowClan before any of their own cats fall ill.”

Tawnypelt blinked. “Of course,” she meowed. Mothwing stared at the Clan deputy. She didn’t look happy with Leopardstar’s decision either, so why wasn’t she saying anything? Tawnypelt, speak up, please! You can make Leopardstar see reason, if no other cat can!

“As for the rest of you…” Leopardstar’s piercing gaze scanned the clearing once more. “You are dismissed.”

The Clan dispersed into groups of muttering cats, eyes flashing everywhere. Mothwing felt their gazes on her, and when she saw how many looked doubtful, hostile, even, she felt like retching.

Mothwing sank her claws into the earth, looking up at the stars. Why didn’t StarClan send a sign? Why were they so quiet? What did they have to gain by letting WindClan starve without aid?

Please, tell me! She begged. How can you watch as we fall apart?

#tb au #tb moonrise

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bitter-sweet-farmgirl · 3 years

Text

Other Writing Prompts

This is just a compiled list of prompts I’ve collected from Pinterest and other random places, but don’t particularly fit anywhere or just would only fit into the Marvel or Star Wars fandoms. I have other prompt lists that get more specific or more vague as well. If you want to use one in a request to me, just use the following ‘Character Name and Prompt No. 35 from the Other Prompt list’ for example + some details if you’d like.

I didn’t organize this list by mood since it’s about 200 prompts.

Key:

‘*’ Denotes something that could be used as dialogue.

[*] Denotes a swear word that I removed.

One evening, a portal to hell opens at the foot of your bed. A demon strides through, rips off your covers, and begins to drag you through the portal by your ankles saying, "you're going to help me settle a bet."

"But what is power?" "Loyalty"

The girl wrote in the journal as fluidly as fish swam in the sea, or birds rode the wind. It was beautiful, how gracefully she crafted her spells.

"You do know that when you wipe my memories, it doesn't actually work, right? One of the perks of being me." The villain froze at the hero's words. They'd just attempted their grand entrance four times in a row, trying to anticipate the hero's response. Blanking their brain when they didn't quite get it perfect. First impressions were important. PR won battles as much as soldiers did. "Don't worry," the hero grinned, looking the villain up and down slowly. "You're doing great. Very impressive." Now they definitely had to die.

The villain prowled closer, gaze intent. "Mm. The last time someone looked at me like that, we didn't get out of bed all weekend. Good times." "Cute bravado, it won't save you." "You're blushing."

"You could be so brilliant if you only turned your mind to creating things instead of destroying them." The hero murmured. They paused to tighten the villain's restraints, before glancing up to catch their eyes. "I've never seen anything like you. You're stunning." It was so earnest that, for once, the villain didn't quite know what to say. The hero wet their lips, practically on their knees. "Just let me help you, please. You'd be a terrible waste to the world rotting."

"Oh, I could just take you apart. See how long that cold, untouchable reputation of yours lasts then. You're trying so hard to pretend you're not even human, but look at that..." The hero pressed a hand above the villain's heart. They both felt it pounding far too clearly. This was not supposed to happen. There was a reason nobody was supposed to get close.

"If you want me," the hero panted, "come and get me." The villain paused, languidly sweeping a hand up and under their chin. "Want you in which way, Darling? Don't get me wrong, both involve ropes, but it's an important distinction to make before we proceed."

You're a villain that fell in love with a hero. Though the strongest villain on the planet, you constantly lose to your hero, since you just love the rivalry and don't want it to end. As you are being arrested one day, your hero is attacked by another villain; one too strong for them to beat.

Stab options: Slowly raise their hand to the wound and/or pull out the weapon impaling them while everyone stares in horror before collapsing to the ground from shock and/or blood loss and being caught just in time by a friend/lover.

Hide the wound beneath a dark item of clothing in preparation for the dramatic reveal later where another character touches them and their hand comes away bloody or they overexert themselves and they stumble and wince but still try to insist that they're fine,

even though they are clearly in pain and struggling to stay on their feet. And as the other character peels back their jacket it becomes clear that they're badly hurt and have been for awhile.

Character A tilting Character B's chin up to get a better look at their face and the evidence of the fight. Character A delicately thumbs away the streak of blood by Character B's mouth, saying nothing as they examine it. After a brief pause, Character B's heart skips a nervous beat as Character A looks them dead in the eyes. Their voice is quiet and tense, their anger barely restrained. "Who did this to you?"

"I will deny you death until you beg me for it."

"Hold on you died." "Yeah, well it didn't stick."

As teenagers, a boy and a girl agree to marry if neither have by their 35th birthday. Follow the boy as he attempts to sabotage every relationship the girl has till then.

The hero shows up at the villain's doorstep one night. They're shivering, bleeding and scared. There's also a slightly dazed look in their eyes--they were drugged. They look like they were assaulted. Looking up at the villain, swaying slightly as they are close to passing out they mumble, "...didn't know where else to go..." Then collapse into the villain's arms.

"I loved the woman you were before. Not this monster."

"I dare you to touch her again."

"By the Gods! You love her, don't you?"

"Come here." "Why?" "Just come here." "No, you're gonna hit me."

"Shh, shh." The villain wiped the tears from the hero's face and pressed a kiss to their forehead. "Don't struggle, you'll only make it worse for yourself."

"Hey, hey, hey. Baby, what's wrong?" The hero shuddered from the dram--startlingly vivid. Of fighting and faces, and the the icy clench of betrayal in their chest already fading into unconsciousness. And yet, they couldn't stop crying. Shoulders shaking, uncontrollable sobbing. The villain gathered them close, tucking the hero's head against their chest and making safe, soothing sounds. "Bad dream, huh? It's alright, nothing will touch you while I have you."

"Nobody touches you other than me, do you understand?" The hero looked at the other villain, dead on the floor. Dead before they even touched them. And they hated themselves for the flicker of gratitude, of feeling protected, when everything was all wrong and there was nothing safe in this game at all. Their villain was not kind. Only possessive. "Can we go home?" The villain liked it when they called it home.

They hadn't wanted this. Of course, they'd wanted the hero to stop fighting them. Wanted them broken, despondent, but... The person staring blankly at the walls, terrified of their own power, wasn't what they wanted. "Darling, you're beautiful. You don't need to be scared with me, I promise you that. Look--try and attack me and I promise I can stop you. You're safe with me. You couldn't hurt me if you tried. I'm just like you."

"You killed someone. Do you really think they're ever going to want you back?" The hero looked up at the villain, desperate, shattered. "I'll always want you, even if they don't." The villain said. "I understand what it's like. It was an accident, wasn't it?"

"You're not as evil as people think you are." "No, I'm much worse."

"I was a King!" He bellowed, spitting at the girl's feet. She smiled at him, her eyes sad and yet full of mischief. "And I was a god."

He pulled against the ropes with all his might, but they wouldn't give. "Don't bother," a voice said." He looked up to discover a thin girl bound with the same rope. Although it was dark, he could see her bruised eyes and wrists. "I already tried."

"Don't ever try to get inside my head," he snarled, slamming me against the wall. For several beats we stayed there, his grip crushing my wrists. Finally, his eyes softened. "It's too dark for you."

"You think you have a choice, and that's sweet and all, but it's time you take up the knife and do what you were made to do."

"You-you are--" "Beautiful, a genius, immensely talented--" "Dangerous."

"Sorry, I have a clingy and feverish assassin on my lap. I'll call you back when I've convinced him that a cold doesn't mean he's dying."

The villain pressed their lips to the hero's, silencing their sobbing pleas. "Shh." The villain murmured, angling their knife at the hero's throat. "It's better this way."

He was leaning against the wall, trying to support his own body weight, and his gasps of pain were like music to her ears.

"You just killed five men, what do you have to say for yourself?" "Oops?"

For a second, I thought she could actually see me.

Every person on the planet is born with a tattoo on each arm. One matches your soulmate, and one matches your worst enemy. However, most people have no clue which is which. You do, because they are both the same.

In a superhero-supervillain story, you're the hero's love interest, and as such, in classic use-their-loved-ones-against-them fashion, the villain keeps kidnapping you as leverage against the hero. However, an unfortunate complication has arisen; having spent so much time with the villain, you begin to realize you're falling in love with them.

You never kill the spiders in your home. You just whisper; "Today you, tomorrow me." When you set them outside. Now, in your most dire moment, an army of spiders arrives to have your back.

"I feel nothing for you. Absolutely nothing!" "Is that so?" His tone was amused, which irritated me more. "Yep. Nothing." He took one towards me with a smirk on his face. I swallowed, refusing to back up. He laughed at me discomfort. "Relax, Princess. I am not going to jump on you." That relieved me somewhat, until he added, "not until you ask me to anyways."

The hero shows up at the villain's house, hurt, broken and defeated. But it wasn't the villain and they are extremely angry that someone hurt their hero.

The phone rings. The voice on the other end says "we need you again." Then hangs up.

"What's the word for that infestation of tiny creatures over there?" "Those are children. That's a school."

Everyone has a guardian angel except you. You have a guardian demon. He deals with things in a much more violent, but more effective fashion.

"You have to go, you have to run away!" "Run from who?" "From me."

"Small fire! I said to set a small fire! This is not small!"

Two people running away from a blind, arranged marriage, in which one is supposed to marry the other, meet on the road by coincidence and fall in love with each other.

*Not every prince is charming

When people are born, they are assigned a soulmate. They have an original song in their head that only them and their soulmate know. A person just broke into your house and you're pretty sure they are here to kill you. They're humming your song under their breath.

"What? Do you think I enjoy this? This infatuation of mine? This horrible need to know you are okay?" To realize you can hurt me in a way no one for the past thousand years has been able to?" "Well, stop it then! If caring about me is such a nuisance to you, stop it! It doesn't do much for either one of us." "I CAN'T. That's what kills me. The fact that you can even ask that of me shows how ignorant you are about the power you have over me."

"I want to take a shower, so you should probably join me. It'll save water."

"It's midnight! Where the hell were you?"

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I might have slept with your [clothing article] when you were gone."

"No one has to know about us, I know this could ruin you."

"Just pretend to be my date."

"You should sleep." "I'm not human, therefore, I do not require sleep."

"You broke me and now you expect me to follow you out onto the battlefield? NO. The answer is NO."

"You take me instead, do you hear me? Give her back and take me instead."

"Wait, something doesn't feel right."

"Did you hear that?"

"Stay here and don't move. I'll be right back."

"You told me you were okay! You promised!"

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

"How long have you been covering this?"

"You've been trying to deal with this yourself?"

"We could have prevented this!"

"If you didn't want to be a burden, you should have gotten it treated right!"

"You didn't think it was that bad? Are you looking at it?"

"You are not fine!"

"You look really cute in that sweater."

"No, like... It's just, I can't believe you're actually wearing my clothes."

"You know I hear you talking, but I still don't have my coffee."

"Do you want to know the hardest thing about having a soulmate? It's not the separation in the beginning, not the endless nights lying awake, hoping and praying tha someone was made for you. It's... It's the love. It's too strong, and you can't fight it. I've tried. Believe me, I've tried... But I'm always going to love you. And I need you to know that."

"You would risk the lives of millions for one person? Why?" "Because it's not just one life... It's yours."

"This might sound selfish, but I don't care about the world. I only care about you."

"I still believe there is a good person in you."

"It was necessary."

"Did you think I really cared about you?"

"This was my plan all along."

"There was no other way."

"How cute. Struggle all you want, you won't be leaving this place."

"This is what you get from trusting me."

"It's too late to go back."

"I'm sorry this had to go down like this."

"That's right, I lied."

"It's all for a good cause."

"You were so stupid. You should have known."

"Just so you know... I don't regret anything."

"Shame. I kind of liked you."

"This is my responsibility."

"You will no longer love me if you see who I truly am."

"I'm a monster." "No, you're not."

"You'd better put that knife down."

"But I did all of this for you?" "I didn't want you to kill anyone."

Person A wins a big stuffed animal for Person B at an amusement park and offers to carry it for them. Person B says they'll carry it themselves and carries it around smugly.

While on a date, Person A very shyly touches Person B's hand and Person B reassuringly (and tightly) holds Person A's hand.

You press your ear against the wall, just in time to hear the scream.

AU where everyone is born with a very unique tattoo on their ankle, nobody else in the world has that tattoo. Every time you fall in love, their tattoo appears somewhere else on your body. (i.e a new tattoo appearing on a celebrity's body in new photos and a very lucky fan (who'd just met them), realizing that it's their tattoo.)

He/She kissed his/her brow as the world around them burned. "See you in the next life, my love." He/She whispered.

"Is everything supposed to go dark?"

"You'd better not die on me."

"They just got a lucky shot."

"Next time, don't call me over only to find you in a pool of your own blood!"

"You need to keep pressure on it."

When a character doesn't realize they've been shot or whatever and their hand brushes against their side and comes away wet with blood, and they're just staring at it like WTF is this and then their knees just totally give out on them and they sink down, maybe gasping a little as the reality finally hits them.

A character that knows they've been shot, but waits until the rest of their crew is out of sight to put their hand against the slowly spreading stain of blood on their shirt, then trying to steady their breathing so they can follow without letting on how injured they are.

Or the character who doesn't realize they've been hurt trying to see if everyone else is okay only to slowly realize that everyone is looking at them with mounting horror. Then they touch their side to find it's wet and oh no.

"Pull the trigger. PULL IT!" He screamed as he took the gun being held in his enemy's hand and pressed it against his own stomach. "I can't!" His enemy screamed. "I can't kill you!"

"You were more fun when we were kids," the villain sighed. "You worshiped me then. It was so cute." "When we were kids, you weren't such a colossal prick." The villain laughed and traced the weapon along their cheek. "Now, you know that's not true. You changed. Not me." The laugh dropped, to something more contemplative, softer, and yet no kinder. "Why did you have to?"

"Isn't that what people do?" The villain asked softly. "Learn to love each other? Could you not learn to love me? You-you who seem to have such a heart to love the world and everything in it?" The hero turned their gaze away, jaw clenched, pity and anger tugging at them in equal measure. "I would not be unkind to you," the villain persisted. Cupping the hero's face, thumbs stroking their jaw. "I would never." "Kidnapping people is unkind." The villain's grip tightened. "Making people fall in love with you and refusing to love them back is unkind." Oh, hell no. The hero knocked their hands away, expression ablaze with rage that they even dared say that. Their heart slammed, anger overtaking pity, teeth bared in a snarl. "I will never love you. Never."

"This isn't the way to make people love you!" "Love?" The villain laughed at that, fondly even, as they looked down at the hero kneeling before them, heat in their eyes. "My sweet thing, this isn't about love."

"All that time locked away, and not a note from you. No visits, no letters, nothing." The villain trailed their fingers along the hero's sides, relishing the sight of them all chained up for them. "You're lucky I'm nicer and won't just leave you here to rot, inmate." The hero snarled at them, making an indignant noise. "Aggressive behavior, now that would be a shot."

"I enjoyed your visits." The villain said, "but it's just not the same with a thick glass wall between us. I know you felt the same way." They didn't look at the hero, making cooing sounds at the hero's child in their lap. The hero's mind raced, desperately trying to think of some way to fix this. To calculate how long it would be before back up came. The very sight of the villain holding onto their baby left them sick with dread, even more so as the child gurgled and laughed. "You never told me about this little one, no they didn't, no they didn't." They smothered a kiss to the child's forehead. "They look like me."

"Shh, shh." the antagonist settled themselves comfortably on the protagonist's lap, looping their arms around them. One hand cupped the back of their head and stroked soothing fingers through the protagonist's hair, guiding their head to rest on the antagonist's shoulder. "It's alright, calm down..." The protagonist's wrists strained against the chains binding their limbs to the chair, heart feeling like it might jack-knife out of their chest, nerve-endings jangling. "Just match your breathing with mine." The antagonist continued, concerned. "We both know I'm going to hurt you regardless so there's really no point in having a panic attack about it. Come on, deep breaths. No

need to cry now, that's good. You can do it." They continued to make soothing sounds, crowning the protagonist's head with kisses.

"I really thought you could save me." The hero cradled the villain close, for now, too many things reeling through their head. "Yeah, so did I."

"You said if I did this, that we'd be done." The antagonist smiled, brushing the protagonist's hair back from their forehead. "You must have known that would never happen. Look at what a great team we make--we're unstoppable!" Their smile softened and the protagonist hated that it still made their stomach flip. "You're incredible!" "Incredibly done." "If I let you go, you'll die. The world can't maintain you the way I can."

"You were everything to me." And now, this. Betrayal and longing, relief at life and despair at monstrosity, sunk like a fish hook in their chest. Painful, inescapable. "How could you?" The antagonist's brow furrowed. They reached out a hand, gently catching the protagonist's tears on their fingertips. "You say that as if we've met before." The protagonist's heart dropped out. "What? You don't remember me?" The antagonist continued to stare at the tears for a moment before their hand clenched to a fist. They nodded to their guards. The protagonist struggled as the security seized hold of them again, dragging them up and backwards. Their desperation pitched. They grew sure. "You don't remember, do you? What's the last thing you remember?" "Oh, and gag them," the antagonist said, looking away. "They're boring me." "[NAME]--" the guards cut them off. The antagonist didn't look at them once as they were hauled out of the room.

They tried again, and again, and again. Each time, they were deftly deflected, tossed aside, pinned, knocked back as if their attacks and all their training was nothing. The villain was good. They tried for over an hour, ears ringing, nose bleeding, ribs cracked, fingers broken, until they were too exhausted to put any strength into a punch and the last lunge ended up more with them sobbing and shaking in frustration against the villain's chest. The villain caught their wrists firmly and twisted them into a more secure hold. They manhandled the protagonist, stumbling in front of the mirror so they could get a good look at just how pitifully outmatched they looked. "This is what you wanted? I'm sure your parents would be delighted to see this."

"Teach me." "What?" The villain started. "Teach me how to fight like you." It was the most incredible thing they'd ever seen. "...You want me to teach you how to kill me?" The villain let go and let them crumple to the floor. "[*]. I need a drink to deal with you."

"I said that's enough now." The villain caught hold of the hero's wrists as they tried to keep fighting, tossing their weapon aside before drawing them close. Arms wrapping around them in an embrace that might have been comforting if it didn't have the unyielding restraint of shackles. "There we go, easy now." You've been hurt enough for one day." Thrashing against the hold did nothing but exhaust the hero and eventually they sagged. They sank together to the ground in a tangle of limbs, rocking slightly. 'You hurt me,' they wanted to scream. 'This is your fault.' "Shh," the villain murmured--warned, they didn't even know anymore. "It's enough. You've done more than enough, you'e fought so bravely, but just listen to me. There's no shame in surrendering and living another day, right?"

The villain was curled up in their bed. Fast asleep, in their bed. No broken windows, no broken locks--just there. A bolt of rage shot through the hero before they got a better look at them and... Oh wow. They let them sleep, Tucked over another blanket and went into the kitchen and made food, something warm to drink and fished out some painkillers. Their eyes flickered over when the villain made a clammy appearance. "Sit down," they ordered. "You're not going anywhere until I've taken a look at your wounds." The villain sat, huddled up in one of the hero's old hoodies. "You're not interrogating me. Or angry." "Oh, I'm furious. But shockingly enough for once not at you. If I ask you what happened, you're going to run aren't you?" The villain didn't deny it. This was different, somehow.

"I loved you at your darkest."

The fighter frowned when I stepped into the ring, his stance slackening a little as he took in the sight of me. The roar of the crowd was deafening as they grew rowdy, waiting for the fight to start. But he said, in a low growl of a voice, "I don't fight girls." My lip curled as I replied, "too bad, because I fight boys." And knocked his legs out from under him.

"You took a bullet for me." The villain stared at them, numbly almost, as the protagonist gasped for breath that didn't want to come down. "That was stupid of you." They wished they had some excuse, some clever plan, but it had simply been instinct. They wished they had some witty comment, but it hurt too much to think. The villain stepped closer, standing over them. Watching them pant, propped weakly on one elbow, the other hand clamped to their side. "I wish you hadn't done that," the villain said. "So do I, [*]." They squeezed their eyes shut. They snapped open at the touch of hands, and the antagonist's face was right there. Close. "Are you scared? Do you want me to make it quick for you?" [*]. Really?

"You can't just keep me!" "You'd prefer I fight you and your friends?" The villain returned. "I wouldn't. And you are an excellent piece of peace-keeping leverage. A noble cause. I would have imagined you'd be all aboard.

"Don't do this," the antagonist entreated, anguished, wary. "You don't have to do this." The protagonist stared back, heart drumming in their ears, a dozen longings swelling beneath their tongue. "I don't want to. You're all I ever wanted." It hurt to, finally, admit it aloud and the antagonist's breath hitched. "But this is--this is wrong. Can you really not see that?" "Loving you can never be wrong." Their chest ached. "The things you do for love can."

"Not what you expected?" The villain smiled, frosty. "I had plans other than you too. I suppose we'll both have to make do." The hero drew back, wide-eyed, because no. This was not what they'd expected at all. A little awkwardness, a little chill, not a dead body on the bedroom floor. "What are you?"

"Don't worry." The villain caressed their partner's cheek, down the oh-so-vulnerable line of the hero's throat. "I won't hurt you. Suspicion always turns to the spouse first in these things." "I'll tell." "And then where would that leave you? Like it or not love. I'm all that you have in the world now. We need to look after each other."

When someone's heart breaks, so does a piece of our world; this creatures fissures,

valleys, and even cracks in the pavement. Tell the story behind the Grand Canyon.

"You're such a complete disaster." Groans the villain, scooping the unconscious hero off the sidewalk. "Like, holy hell, how does anyone let you out of their sight? Stop picking fights with people you aren't ready for."

"Fix it." "I can't." The protagonist dropped to their knees, a sick feeling curdling in the pit of their belly. "Please--see, I'm begging and everything. Fix it." They swallowed hard. "Please." Their voice cracked. "I can't." The antagonist said. They tugged one hand through their hair, jerking the other in a gesture for the protagonist to get up. "I'm not saying it to spite you, I literally can't. This is beyond my power. I'm sorry." The protagonist stared at them in numb disbelief.

"Hand over the girl." "Not going to happen."

"Does it hurt?" The hero asked carefully, looking at the huge scar that trailed from the other person's shoulder, down their chest to their stomach. The scar was pale in colour and bumpy; raised above the skin ever-so-slightly. The other person looked away, blinking fast. "It did. Years ago, when I first received it." "I can't believe someone could do this to you," the hero whispered. That got the other's attention, their head snapping towards the hero. "You did this. YOU did this to me and you don't even remember." They hissed.

"You need to eat something." The hero scowled, wrapping both arms around their grumbling stomach. "You need to mind your own business." The villain stepped forward slowly, arms held out in front of them, palms up. "You fainted on me last week, and I can hear how hungry you are. If you won't take my money, at least let me buy you some food. You help everyone, let someone help you for once. Don't let your pride stop you from taking the help you need to continue saving lives." The villain smiled crookedly. "To continue stopping me."

"Your city is in ruins. You are--" The villain stopped, gloves half off, and raised an eyebrow. "You're wrapped in my cape." Swaddled in the thick fabric, only the hero's face was visible, their expression trapped between a scowl and a pout. "It's cold down here, and you left it in reach. If you weren't too tight to heat your lair while keeping me prisoner down here, I wouldn't have had to resort to thievery." "You look adorable," the villain said, forcing a sneer into their voice. Because they did. They looked adorable and warm and perfect.

Character B bleeding heavily while Character A tries to staunch the blood, but Character B is more concerned about the fact that stoic Character A is sobbing and panicking.

When help is a few hours away and Character B has to stay awake, Character A rambles loudly about random stuff, trying not to break down and cry and to keep them awake.

"Show me your scars," he said. "But... Why?" She asked quizzically. "I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn't there," he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.

"You go ahead, I'll hold them off for as long as I can."

"Don't talk to me. It's 6 AM and I haven't had coffee yet, so anything I do or say cannot

be held against me."

"Dude, that jacket is mine, give it back."

"YOU USED MY TOWEL?!"

"Where is he?" "My lady...." "Answer me."

"Wait, when did I take off my clothes?"

"I"m fully convinced you never graduated kindergarten."

"I'm not here, actually, this is a projection from.... [planet].... I moved there recently."

"You have no idea how to make toast?!"

"I haven't showered in four days."

"You're more zombie than human."

"Fix her." "No." "Because you can't or you don't want to?" "Because she'll break again. And you'll be back here, on my doorstep, begging me once more to fix something that wasn't meant to be fixed." "So you don't want to?" The healer's eyes were cold. "No."

"You made me love you." The hero said. They stared out of the window, quietly, watching the rain spit down across the streets. The villain froze in the doorway, studying them, the cup of love-potion spiked tea still cradled in their hand. "I've known for weeks," the hero continued, idly almost. They didn't glance over. "It's obvious. Too sweet in the tea." "You're still drinking it." "I wanted to see what you would do. Waited." The villain swallowed at that. They hadn't done anything--aside from give the tea. Perhaps that was the most damning thing of all.

"She's crying, what do I do?" "Go comfort her." "How do I do that?" "Start with hugs." "With what?"

"I always knew I'd take a bullet for you," I say as pain ebbs through my chest. He/She crouches beside me, clutching at my shirt. Sobs echo from him/her as my lids grow heavy from the weight. "And I always knew you wouldn't take one for me." I whisper and shut my eyes.

First she realized she was pregnant, then she realized her baby would only be half human.

An all female crew is picked for the first [planet] mission. They all come back pregnant.

Imagine a villain getting injured and losing their memory and the hero finds them and takes them back with them, taking care of them and the villain gets their memory back after like a week but doesn't say anything because the hero is being so nice to them and nobody has been that nice to them in so long and they don't want it to end and they're maybe getting fond of the hero, but don't tell anyone. But eventually something happens and the hero is in trouble and they're trying to get the villain to run away because they still think they're an amnesiac with no idea how to defend themselves and they've grown to like them and don't want them to get hurt, but the villain just pushes past them towards whatever is trying to hurt the hero and just goes guns blazing and destroys them.

"I wish I had a camera."

The shackles grazed her wrists as she changed positions in an attempt to get comfortable.

You live in a world where your soulmate is unable to hurt you, intentionally or otherwise.

You are fighting in a war when one of the enemy's knives harmlessly glances off of you.

The rain came down in heavy sheets. He pulled his soaked [type of hat] down to protect his eyes and moved forward. Where was she? Would he find her in time? A dark shape against the bridge railway caught his eye when the lightning flashed. He rushed forward and grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. He couldn't tell for the rain if she was crying or not, droplets streamed down her face. Her mouth opened to let out a cry, but when she saw it was him, she pleaded with her eyes. He only nodded and put his arm around her. He'd protect her.

My head pounded as the toxin flooded my veins, but when I looked at her I could tell what it was doing to her was much worse.

A woman has been dating guy after guy, but it never seems to work out. She's unaware that she's actually been dating the same guy over and over; a shapeshifter who's fallen for her and is certain that this time he'll get it right.

"What have you been doing? Actually, don't answer that, I don't want to know."

"You're hurt!" He pulled the arrow out of his chest. "Oh, that's nothing." She stared at him. She'd thought she'd seen the arrow pierce his heart. How was he even alive? He laughed. "Don't worry, dear. It takes more than one little arrow to kill me." She was pretty sure she'd seen his eyes glimmer for a second.

"It's 2 AM. I think that's enough of that."

"Watch, this is the best part!"

"Why are you doing this?!" The villain grinned, their malice as tangible as the ground beneath the hero's feet. "Because you fell in love. And you needed to learn that love won't save you when there's a gun to your head."

It's not like she meant to trip and spill coffee all over him. It was just the way of her people.

The villain gently lifted the hero's chin with a fingertip. "Don't you see? We're the same, you and I." The hero narrowed their eyes and smacked the villain's hand away. "You and I will never be the same. I'll make sure of it." The villain grabbed the hero's wrists in an iron grip before they even knew it was moving. "Darling," the villain chuckled, "you don't have a choice."

The villain snarled, "you will find the moment you hurt them is the moment I tear out your heart and shatter your bones. If you dare destroy them as you have threatened, then they'll find nothing left of you."

"You're not allowed to die, dammit!" The villain's voice quivered, threatening to break as they shook the hero's limp shoulders. "I promised myself you wouldn't die here. I promised you I'd get us both out of this. Dammit, I promised!"

The villain's breaths were shallow and panicked as they laid the hero on the ground, blood staining both their hands. "Damn it," the villain muttered as they ripped a piece off their shirt and pressed it flush with the hero's ribcage. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Didn't want you to think I was weak," the hero mumbled, their face an already alarming shade of white. The villain grimaced, tears blurring their vision. "Well, I'm afraid you're about to witness first hand just how weak I am."

"The world is ruthless, unforgiving. I came to realize that long ago when my wife was

stolen from me." She lifted her hood to reveal her face. "She wasn't stolen. She left."

The villain shook their head. "What a pity..." "Let me go!" Begged the protagonist again. "Please," she sobbed. "Please. "You could have been Queen. It's a pity you chose this path instead." The villain lifted their dagger.

"I"m the daughter of a King who forgot my name."

"Go to him. He waits for you."

*He became King because he wanted to marry you.

One night, a dark King appeared and offered me his hand, his heart, and his Kingdom.

Arranged marriage AU where I am the Prince/Princess who sneaked out to a tavern and while I was there I got into a fist fight with another patron. Fast forward to the next day where I am meeting the person who has been engaged to me since birth and oh wow your eye looks horrible, what did I do.

Your father is forcing you to marry someone you've never met. The night before your wedding you tie your sheets together and make your escape through the window. Halfway down, you make eye contact with someone doing the exact same thing a few windows over.

"If a god falls in love with you, you can never really die."

Person A and Person B are in the kitchen. Person A is short, while Person B is slightly taller. Person A: *Struggles to retrieve items from top shelf* Person B: "Do you need me to get it for you?" Person A: *Gasps* "How dare you insult the vertically challenged!" Person B: *Laughs* "Okay then..." Person A: (Moments later) *Defeated sigh* "Help meee....."

Person A: *Completely serious* "I have to get something off my chest." Person B: *Fingers crossed* "I hope it's your shirt, please."

Person A noticeably disheveled as they enter the room. "Sorry I'm late, I was doing stuff." Person B, also disheveled and grinning smugly enters the room after. "I'm stuff."

The villain smiled, watching the anguish on the hero's face as their so-called friends handed them over. "I guess," the villain sighed. "You're nobody's first priority." They reached out, pulling the hero closer by their restraints. "Except mine, of course. Don't worry. There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you." The hero shivered, turning their head away.

"I'm all yours," the hero held up their hands. "Just leave them out of it. This is just you and me, right?"

The villain panted for breath, hands bloody--a little dazed and starting to shake. "They were going to hurt you. I-I panicked. I know it's bad that I--" "Shh." The hero held out an arm and the villain crumpled against them. "It's alright. You were only trying to protect me, weren't you?" The villain nodded. "Then I forgive you, it's okay. But you know there are going to be people who don't see it my way, who wouldn't understand like I do." "But you can make that go away. You can do anything." The villain said. It took everything the villain had not to shiver with delight.

"There," the villain carded their fingers through the hero's hair. "Isn't it better to feel clean?" No more blood or grime or gore on battered skin. Instead, fluffy towels, steaming water, soothing scents and oils which soothed all aches and pains. "It would

feel even better if you weren't in the room. Bit creepy, that." "You know you can't be trusted not to abuse my hospitality."

"Stop it." The command, the quiet authority cut straight through to the villain's brain. "You're overthinking," their sidekick said. "You know what you get like when you start overthinking. Come here." The villain moved over thoughtlessly. Their sidekick guided them gently down onto their knees, taking the villain's head in their hands. Their fingers massaged soothing circles and the villain's eyes fluttered closed. "That's right," their sidekick murmured. Good. Just focus on me. Take some deep breaths."

"You are so terrified that people will never love you, that they'll leave you," the protagonist murmured. "That you would never give them the chance to do either." The antagonist stilled in the doorway, just for a beat. The protagonist looked at them, heart seized in their mouth. "That's not love, you know. Love necessitates choice." "Just as well then," the antagonist replied. "That I'm not looking to give someone the chance to love me. Sleep tight." The door slammed shut behind them.

"I miss you." "You miss an illusion." But the villain paused all the same, hand rising as if about to touch. Faltering. Their hand dropped. They steeled themselves. "Take them away." Cold.

*And mighty we became.

"That has got to be the lamest pick up line in existence." "Don't worry that's just Plan A." "So what's Plan B?" "To take you hostage."

"I'm fine," the antagonist said. "Okay." "I'm fine." They'd just said that, and the protagonist was starting to look concerned. "Just fine. Everything's going to be fine." Oh wow, they couldn't stop saying it, couldn't stop gabbling it, couldn't breathe over it, choking on that word. Fine, fine, fine, always perfectly fine.

The villains lungs strained for air as the hero slammed them up against the wall, face inches away. Fear licked up their spine. "You're sorry?" The hero spat. "Sorry doesn't even begin to cover what you're going to be for what you've done. You don't get to cry over your guilt. You're not the one who got hurt."

In the heat of the moment, whether this is a fight, chase, or the characters are under gunfire; they escape and get to cover. However all is not well when Character A turns to see Character B leaning heavily against a wall, clutching at their side. Character B slowly looks up and shows a blood covered hand before saying, "so. Slight problem," before collapsing onto the floor.

"I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don't trust your cooking. Stay out of my kitchen."

Person B dancing around their home, headphones in, eyes closed, singing as loudly as they please to their favourite song while Person A stands in the doorway watching their oblivious partner with a loving smile on their face.

Person A: "How can someone say Person B is evil? They're the most precious soft little soul." Person B: *Wiping blood off their face* "YEAH, I'M ADORABLE!"

Person A walked into the house, threw their bag on a chair, and laid down on the carpet with an air of defeat. Person B walked in a few hours later, saw Person A on the ground and set to work. They picked up a few blankets and pillows. Then Person B walked

over to Person A, laid everything out, then proceeded to lay down with Person A. Person A slowly curled up to Person B and fell into a restful sleep. Five hours later, they're still there. Just soaking in each other's presence.

Person A was sitting up in bed, headphones on and staring intensely at their Ipad screen, which flickered brightly in the dim room. Person B rolled over and slowly sat up, glancing at the clock and seeing it was well past 2 AM. Person B leaned up against Person A, with their eyes still closed and asked why Person A was still up. Person A popped out an earbud and quickly *states reason* and then turned their attention back to the screen. Person B yawned loudly, grabbed the device and tossed it off the bed. Right before Person A could protest, Person B curled an arm around them and forced Person A to lay down. Person A fell asleep within minutes, tucked securely in Person B's arms.

Imagine your OTP getting ready for bed and Person A is sitting on the bed. Person B tries to sneak up on them with a hug or a kiss, but Person A has quick reflexes and thinks they're being attacked. So they accidentally hit Person B in the face and they fall back onto the bed. Person A quickly realizes who it was then, and keeps saying sorry really fast and hugs them and kisses where it hurts.

Imagine Person A walking into the kitchen, only to find Person B in tears. Person A immediately rushes over to Person B's side, fretting over them, consoling and asking what happened. Surprised, Person B explains they were simply cutting onions.

Person A is baking cookies and has to split their attention between the timer and fighting off Person B, who keeps trying to steal cookie dough from the bowl.

Imagine your OTP making out on a couch, but then one of them accidentally rolls off and the other one is either frantically asking if they're okay, or laughing their head off.

Imagine your OTP ice skating and one of them falls so the other tries to help them up, but they lose their balance and fall on top of the other.

What if he held you tightly in his arms as you lay on his chest, drifting into sleep by the sound of his steady heartbeat. Feeling the slight vibration of his lungs as he hummed softly. His hands brushing lightly in your hair as his lips pressed against the top of your head, but stayed there for awhile. Then he let out a faint sigh, taking his lips away, seeming to be deep in thought.

You shift around in bed, trying to find a comfortable position. No success. You hear your boyfriend stretching. "Can't sleep, my love?" He asks, letting out a sleepy sigh. "Come here," he whispers. You move over to him and he snakes an arm around your waist and wraps his leg around yours as you rest your head on his bare chest.

As you lay in bed alone, struggling with reaching sleep, you toss and turn before huffing out in annoyance at still being awake. A small fraction of light creeps into your room until the door closes and the edge of your bed dips down underneath his weight. He carefully climbs under the covers, reaching an arm out for you, pulling you closer to his body, your back to his front. "You can sleep now, love. I'm home. I love you." He gently whispers in your ear, lightly kissing your cheek and then laying his head on the pillow next to you, leading you to fall into a dream-filled sleep of your boy being back home.

#writing #writing prompts #writing prompt list #prompts #other writing prompts #fanfic #fanfiction #marvel #star wars

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dat-paw · 4 years

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07 NONAGENARIAN

“Freshen up your coffee, hon?”

The waitress’ words shook Jude out of the daydream he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. That had a tendency to happen, this time of the year. You’d think he’d be used to it, after all this time, and yet it always caught him by surprise just the same.

“No, thank you.” Jude answered, looking up at the waitress with kind, patient eyes. The waitress had been keeping her eye on his table all morning with the sort of businesslike concern a food service employee might reserve for an out-of-towner with no idea what to order. She’d seen this miqo’te youth come in and sit at a table all by his lonesome, ordering nothing but cup after cup of plain black coffee, and had resolved to save him from his indecision.

She did not recognize who he was, and so she had no way of knowing this, but unfamiliarity with the restaurant’s fare was not the issue giving the miqo’te pause. Jude had in fact been coming to this eatery for longer than the waitress had been alive. He had even personally known the proprietor… But that was years ago, before the proprietor died and the new owner changed the name of the establishment.

The restaurant hadn’t been called the Drowning Wench for almost twenty years now.

“Can I bring you something else, then? You’ve barely touched your eggs and bacon... Something wrong with it?” The waitress asked, nodding toward Jude’s heavily laden plate.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong with it… Nothing at all.” Jude insisted with another warm smile and a wave of the hand. “I’m, ah… Just a slow eater.” “At least let me warm it up for you, it must be cold by now.” “I like cold eggs, if you can believe it.” Jude replied. The waitress smiled as though she thought the miqo’te was pulling her leg. Jude picked up on this and raised his coffee cup in her direction. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Believe me, it’s better than it sounds.” The waitress laughed. “Well, alright then… I’ll leave you to your cold eggs. Just let me know if I can bring you something hot, okay?” To this, Jude offered a wordless nod that sent the waitress on her way. The excuse he’d given her was a half-truth. He really did like cold eggs, but being a slow eater wasn’t the reason his food had gone untouched. Like the daydream he’d lost himself in earlier, his loss of appetite was just another symptom of the wistfulness that always took him this time of year.

It was his ninety-seventh nameday. That alone didn’t bother him overmuch. It wasn’t even something he would bother to keep track of, if not for the fact that this date on the calendar happened to be shared by his wedding anniversary. This would have been the eighty-ninth.

Slipping back into dreams, Jude thumbed the simple silver band he’d worn for the past eighty-nine years. Enchanted as it was, the inscription it bore was still as legible today as it had been the day he’d first gotten it. The engraving was written in Old Auri, a language that was no longer especially common, though Jude remained fluent. Even if that were not the case, he’d know the inscription by rote, like a memory held deep in his heart:

My Sun, My Azim, My Lion. I will be with you always. From this day, until the end of time.

He could still picture her face in his mind’s eye, clear as a bell. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine Sayoko was here with him. She’d sit next to him, resting her head on his shoulder the way she sometimes did. She’d order fresh juice- not coffee, not this time of morning. And she wouldn’t order a meal of her own, instead satisfying her hunger with a few bites off Jude’s plate. She never ate very much, and even if that were not so, Jude always ordered enough for the both of them anyway. He was always happy to share his plate with her, as she well knew.

He could see it so clearly that it almost felt real… Real enough that he wanted to stay there with her, in that pleasant daydream. But the arrival of his guest, who was presently easing themselves into the chair across from Jude, broke the spell and brought Jude back to reality.

[“I’m glad you came, Martin.”] Jude would say to his guest, speaking in sign language.

Martin was a miqo’te like Jude, though these days, it was only vaguely clear that this was so. A walking cloud of pink hair, flowers and underbrush, his sibling seemed to drift deeper and deeper into the Twelveswood with each passing year, becoming more wild with every yalm they retreated into the forest. Antlers had begun to sprout where once there had been only miqo’te ears, and atop their head, they wore a crown of razor branches that could only have come from the Thornmarch- a sign of feral royalty, or perhaps something more ominous.

[“I would not miss our nameday.”] They replied, their long, thin fingers moving like brown spiders.

[“I started without you, knew you wouldn’t mind. Would you like to order something? I could call the waitress over.”] Jude asked. Martin shook their head, sending a cascade of leaves fluttering to the ground.

[“Thank you, no. In the free cities, even the water tastes foul. It pains me to be here… Nothing grows in this dreary place.”] They replied with a world-weary sigh. Mismatched green eyes stared out from a mass of pink tangles. [“Are you keeping well, Brother?”]

[“Well enough. I look after the house, check in on the new tenants from time to time… Run my bakery on the weekends… I keep busy.”] Jude replied with a sort of half-shrug. Martin lowered their head and fixed Jude with the kind of searching look that had always unsettled him. Even after ninety-seven years, he had the impression his twin could see right through him. In a way, that was the precise truth.

[“It is good to keep busy… Good to have purpose in life.”] Martin said knowingly. Jude looked down at his coffee, unable to meet his sibling’s eyes. It was quite similar to something his wife used to say, before she passed. At the time, Jude had been fond of suggesting that the two of them retire and become people of leisure, doing nothing but lazing about their cottage reading books and eating sweets.

“You would never be satisfied with that sort of life, my lion,” Sayoko replied, “And for that matter, neither would I.”

“And why not?” Jude asked, grinning. “We’ve worked hard, haven’t we? All those years adventuring to save up and buy a bakery, and now the bakery’s a success! It’s doing well enough that it practically runs itself!”

“Practically.” Sayoko repeated, flicking Jude’s nose lightly. “But you like the work we put into that place every week. Ordering the supplies, kneading the dough, baking the bread-”

“Taste tests…” Jude interrupted, leaning over Sayoko’s shoulder to dip a finger into the mixing bowl she was holding. Before she could stop him, he’d scooped up a bit of chocolate frosting on his finger. The golden-eyed Xaela laughed and grabbed his wrist, bringing his finger to her lips to steal his ill-gotten treat. “Yes, those too.” She continued. “You like having things to do, Jude. That’s what I mean. We both do. We weren’t made for lives of leisure… We’d just get bored.” To this, Jude’s only immediate reply was wrapping his arms around her waist, sighing happily. “Nothing about you bores me.” He whispered.

[“Brother.”]

Jude shook his head, the remnants of the dream fading like the last rays of sunlight in late afternoon.

[“You went away again.”] Martin signed.

[“Sorry. It’s this time of year, I suppose I get a little bit nostalgic.”] Jude explained with a sigh. [“I miss her every day, Martin.”]

Martin reached out to place a hand on Jude’s in solidarity before signing their response.

[“I know you do, Brother.”] [“Couldn’t you… Just do your aether thing to… I don’t know…”] Jude grasped for words he didn’t have. Martin lowered their head again, this time a great air of sadness coming over them.

[“Brother… She has rejoined the Lifestream. No power in this world can bring her back from that. Nor should it.”] Martin spoke with the sort of tired urgency that indicated they had had this conversation before, and Martin was beginning to grow weary of having it. [“ Even if such a thing were within my power... It would not be her. Not really.”]

[“I know.”] Jude replied, his shoulders sagging in defeat. [“I just… I was sort of wondering if there was anything you could do to my aether to help.”]

[“I could take your memories of her… Or make you dream of her every night. But I do not think you would thank me for either of those things.”] Martin answered with a sorrowful shrug.

[“No, I suppose not.”]

There was a pause while Jude chewed a bite of eggs. It tasted like ash in his mouth.

[“You don’t have to stay with the mortals, you know. You could come with me. Back to the Black Shroud. The forest would welcome you.”] Martin said slowly. There was a certain reluctance to their words that suggested they knew what Jude’s answer was going to be. Sure enough, Jude shook his head.

[“I belong with the mortals, my dear sibling. My place is here among them. I know that they are weak, and flawed, and… And they do not live forever.”] He thumbed his ring again. [“But that is why I love them so. Their lives are so brief and fragile… They hold it precious.”] [“Mortals hold very little precious, Brother, save their hunger for violence. You and I are proof of that.”] Martin sighed, smiling sadly. [“But I admire your faith in them, even if I do not agree.”]

Jude smiled ruefully and raised his coffee cup to his sibling. “Happy nameday, Martin.” Martin returned the smile and offered a small nod.

[“Happy nameday, Jude.”]

It was a quiet, dignified sort of moment between the two Allagan nonagenarians… And it only lasted until the sound of approaching clapping reached their ears from the restaurant’s kitchen. The waitstaff was approaching, carrying a large cake and wearing party hats.

It was the nightmare shared by anyone who had ever gone to a restaurant on or around their nameday- the terror of the restaurant staff finding out, and taking the opportunity to sing a nameday song.

Jude’s mismatched eyes shot toward the approaching waitstaff, then back to Martin.

“YOU DID THIS.” He hissed, his voice dark with anger. Martin smiled coyly. They shrugged, pleading innocence. The worst lie of the morning.

And then the singing began.

#FFXIVWRITE2020 #Martin Freepaw #Jude Paw #Sayoko Kinme

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damienthepious · 4 years

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y’all already know why i’m here let’s just cut to the fic yeah? love you love youuuu

Something That Matters More

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, The Keep, Rilla, Sir Caroline

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin' Tuesday, Seasons of the Citadel, Pre-Relationship, Canon Compliant, Suicidal Ideation, (canon-typical and kinda vauge but still), Alternative Perspective, Angst

Summary: When the Keep finally wakes again, Arum is still curled with his back against the front door.

Notes: The third and longest of my pieces for the @seasonsofthecitadel zine!

When the Keep finally wakes again, Arum is still curled with his back against the front door.

Perhaps he should have slept while the Keep did the same, but his mind races and roils without the buffer of his home, the soft influence at his edges. He cannot possibly rest while his thoughts are circling so, while he is haunted by the memory of Amaryllis’ voice and eyes and justified hatred, while the consequences of the loss of the Hermit loom large above him, while his knowledge of the Senate’s intentions grips him by the throat-

The Keep sings like stretching, a deep gradient of sound, and Arum scrambles to his feet again and he is relieved in a way he did not know he could be. His Keep is-

(saved, and he lifts Amaryllis without thinking, her warmth in his arms and her laughter in his ear and-)

Awake. Aware, again. It hums slow satisfaction and greets Arum with gentle vines and informs him that it believes the petrification has been reduced by half, at least, while it slept.

It pauses for a long moment then, and Arum can feel the Keep shivering off the metaphorical dust, can feel it pulsing its consciousness throughout the structure, taking inventory of itself besides just the shrinking blight. It hums confusion, and then-

A question.

Arum flinches, and drops his eyes.

“Gone,” he says, quiet. “Long gone by now, I should think.”

The Keep trills, confusion and concern and disappointment, and Arum… well, Arum agrees, but he cannot bring himself to say so. He sighs.

“The cause of your illness has been discovered, and we have made steps towards recovery. Amaryllis kept her end of the bargain.” His shoulders sink and he clings to the vines the Keep has draped around him. “I kept mine. We’re even, now. It is finished. She is gone.”

There is another pause, the feeling of a sigh drifting through their link. Then there is another sensation. A strange flicker of attention as the Keep takes stock of their wider territory, and then a sharp little lance of worry.

Arum tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, and after a moment he understands.

“Still… she is still in the swamp?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. “She should have reached the edge by now, no matter which direction she chose. She should be… well on her way back to her h- back to that Citadel. Why…”

Arum and the Keep feel out into the swamp together, reaching and searching, and they recognize the danger at the same moment.

The amalgam- the vicious little construct that Amaryllis created in her bid for escape-

It is still alive. Alive, and quite close to where Amaryllis is, right at this very moment.

“Keep,” Arum says, frantic. “Keep please I- a portal, now, bring me close, I must-”

He pauses.

“I must hold up my end of the bargain,” he finishes, voice uncertain. “If… it is not… if she does not escape my swamp alive, I have failed to satisfy our deal.”

This explanation is, by any estimate, unnecessary. The Keep is already constructing the portal as he speaks.

He has to wait an impatient moment as the Keep brings him a set of knives, but as soon as he is armed he is through to his wilderness, and he hears Amaryllis’ voice that very same moment.

“-and if we don’t get back and tell the Queen—” she says, her tone sharp, and Arum flinches hard when he hears another voice. Another human. The bisected corpse of the amalgam lies in the mud a few feet away, and the Keep informs him belated moments later that the creature is already dead.

“It sounds like we’re running out of time, then.”

Arum buries an instinctive hiss at the mocking in the unfamiliar voice. He creeps closer, slipping into the branches above as silently as he is able. An argument, then? Why would this stranger, a knight judging by the armor and the sword, why would they destroy the amalgam and protect Amaryllis only to speak to her so unpleasantly?

“We are!” Amaryllis cries, and Arum slips just close enough to see her from above, then, through the green. He sees her glaring up at the other human, her jaw set and her lips turned stubbornly down. She has only been away from him for so brief a time, but still he feels her presence again so keenly, so strangely.

“A fact which concerns you greatly.”

“It does,” Amaryllis grates out.

“Then in that case, I think you ought to get on with it,” the knight says, “and tell me: where is the lizard I must slay?”

Arum does not breathe, for a moment. It does not look as if Amaryllis breathes for that moment, either.

“Please…” Amaryllis says, and her eyes are wide and desperate, and Arum does not understand why she is hesitating. “He’s…”

“He’s what?” the other human says, hungry and eager.

There is a breath of pause, and then Amaryllis’ shoulders sink, her head drooping. “He’s… that way,” she says, halfway a sigh, hopeless and dull.

Arum is not disappointed by this. He is not surprised. He held this human against her will, kept her a prisoner, and despite any understanding they may have come to, they were only ever going to be enemies when all was said and done. A war is on, he had told her, and clearly she understands that. Arum is a monster, responsible however indirectly for countless deaths, and soon to be responsible for countless more. It is perfectly logical for her to explain to this knight where to find him. How to kill him. He never asked for her forgiveness, and he never expected it. He is not disappointed-

But when Arum pushes past the pressure in his lungs, when he makes his eyes focus on Amaryllis again, she is pointing in the wrong direction. She is pointing- as near to the opposite direction from the Keep as she could possibly manage.

Arum stares, his claws digging into the bark of the tree he is clinging to. What is she- why-

Her shoulders are tight, and when the knight looks in the direction Amaryllis is pointing with a satisfied half-smile, Amaryllis’ eyes raise again, narrowed and angry for only a moment before the knight turns her attention back and Amaryllis flattens her expression to something resigned.

She is- Amaryllis is-

She is aiming the knight away from Arum and his Keep. Deliberately. Intentionally.

Arum cannot focus on the words that follow, because he is staring at the little doctor, his mind turning and turning as he tries to reconcile that knowledge, the idea that she- that Amaryllis- that she would protect him. That she is protecting him. That she would look a knight in the eye and lie for him.

The knight is helping her move, now, and Arum understands what Amaryllis means to do only a moment before they step into the sunlight. Into the patch of gold, pooling among the duller green.

A stubborn, stubborn part of him wants to leap to save the Hermit, to protect it from that light it so dearly desires, but-

Arum knows what it is, to cling to the desire for life for so very long. An unceasing and unrelenting toil, because to loosen his grip on that desire will spell his end. Yes, Arum knows how it feels to live because he wants to live in some obstinate, contrarian way. To live because he must.

Arum knows, also, how exhausting that is.

Perhaps the Hermit deserves to rest, now.

It chimes one last time before it is kissed once, and only once, by honeyed light.

Its creations, Arum’s creations- those that remain will live on, their impact yet to be seen, but the potential of the Hermit ceases in an instant. The knight complains, but Arum is not listening. He spares attention for Amaryllis’ deflection only because he is- he is unsure he has ever seen her fully in the sunlight before.

He does not have the words for Amaryllis in the sun. Not even in his own mind. Some moments are too big for such small things as words. He hopes this moment is not too big for memory, as well.

He feels her absence, stretching into his future like a missing limb, like a wound. She steps out of the narrow shaft of light, and Arum’s eyes follow her. Of course they do.

She is brighter, by far, than the light she leaves behind.

Arum exhales, slow and unsteady, and forces himself to stop watching as she walks away. He- he came out here to ensure that she would not die before she left his swamp, he reminds himself, and he needs not worry himself over the matter, now. His assistance is not required.

She is with a knight, one dangerous enough to slay a magical construct that even he and his Keep failed to effectively destroy. Amaryllis will be safe, even if the knight seems- obnoxious and unpleasant. She will be safe. She will be…

He stills, claws digging into the wood.

No.

No, Amaryllis will not be safe, even with her grim-eyed bodyguard. She will not be safe.

She will leave his swamp with her eyes sharp and her heart still beating strong, but out there, out in the wider world, out with the rest of her kin-

She will die.

The thought hits Arum with the force of an arrow as he watches them walk away, the knight urging Amaryllis ahead of her despite the limp and the shoddy crutch. The both of them are going to die. All of them. Amaryllis, and- and every human. The entire Citadel. The place Amaryllis claims as home. If the Senate is successful, if they manage to force his prototype into a quicker growth-

They are all going to die.

Arum already knows this. Of course he does. Arum knew, when the Senate came to him, what they intended. He knew, with the power of the Hermit, that their goals might even be possible.

He knew, and did not care. Or- worse. He cared only that the end of this war would mean that the Senate would have no call to ever contact him again, or to conscript his services. If the war were to end, if humanity were eradicated-

It would have been convenient, for Arum.

Convenient. Amaryllis dead, and he would never have…

Without her, his Keep would be dead as well. He has no misapprehensions about that. And now, now she has aimed this knight of the Citadel away from him, and from his home. She has destroyed a tool she could have used to defend her people (he knows she is clever enough to learn to use the Hermit to its potential, he has no misapprehensions about that, either), but she chose to destroy it rather than allow it to be used and misused, and Arum-

Arum would have destroyed her, sight unseen.

(Would have destroyed Sir Damien, as well. Another bright, stubborn, fascinating creature he never would have known, another clever, infuriatingly charming-)

She is gone now. Step by step, further and further from Arum and his Keep. Far, far beyond him. Arum is alone in his own domain again, just as he desires. Alone, and the Keep on the mend, and he could simply return home now. He can tuck himself into the safety of his Keep and duck his head and wait to see who triumphs, the humans or the Senate. He can hide away in safety as he has always done, until the dust settles at last on this pointless conflict.

But there are consequences to his actions, and there are consequences to his inactions, as well.

If the humans perish, he will bear his share of responsibility for their fate. He will have their blood on his claws.

(He has already suffered honeysuckle’s blood on his claws.)

If the Senate destroys them, it will be with the weapon Arum created.

Arum chose not to kill Sir Damien in their duel, chose to let him stand and fight again. He chose not to kill Amaryllis, chose to let her walk away.

It is- ridiculous, of course, but-

Arum could be content to continue on alone, secluded from the world, if he knew they were somewhere, safe and bright and alive, even if they were far from him. Knowing that they will die, from his action and inaction-

It is unacceptable. He cannot bear- he could not endure it.

If that is the price for his survival, Arum- Arum refuses to pay it. He would rather pay his own life than theirs.

A strange realization to come to, ten feet in the air with his claws digging deeper by the moment into bark. He releases his grip on the poor flora at last, and drops down to the muddy ground below. He steps closer to the little pool of sunlight where the Hermit met its end, but he does not quite step into the light.

There is no trace left of the bloom, not a glimmer of magic or a sprinkling of dust.

The Senate intends to use Arum’s creation in their plan, but it is still… flawed. Slow-growing, unpredictable, and perhaps just as dangerous to monsterkind as to the Citadel, despite the focal object Arum managed to obtain.

… perhaps Arum could petition the Senate for the opportunity to amend those flaws. Perhaps, if Arum could just get close enough, he could-

Arum could… what? Sabotage the thing? Endeavor to destroy it? Even if he were successful, he would never survive the attempt. The Senate would annihilate him, burn him out from his bones, and then-

(Amaryllis aims the knight towards a false trail, fire in her dark eyes, and holds the Hermit out in sunlight)

(Damien gives a scrap of silk not his own, and allows Arum to rise again)

(the nature of caring is sacrifice)

And then, even with Arum dead, Amaryllis would be safer. Honeysuckle would be safer. The Senate would not even be able to then use Arum’s talents or the Hermit to further endanger their species. The Keep would grow a new familiar to follow him, and the Universe would continue on as it always has.

It is not a meticulously constructed plan, but it is not without merits, he thinks with a breath of grim laughter. The Keep will certainly not approve, but the Keep nearly died because Arum failed his duty as caretaker, because he failed through inattention to both of their needs.

Perhaps the Keep deserves a better Lord than he.

He will not resign himself to that fate, though. Despite all likelihood, he will choose to believe that he will survive this mad new strategy. In any case, he would rather not cause the Keep to mourn, and he suspects, as well, that Amaryllis would disapprove of that sort of hopelessness.

He crouches down and reaches to scrape up a clawful of rich, wet soil, watching as some tumbles dark between his fingers to find the ground again. He smiles, wistful, and tucks the dirt into a satchel at his side.

Arum will come home, if he is able. If the universe grants.

But first, there is something more important he must do.

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #seasons of the citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lizard YEARNIN tuesday freal tho

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pookapics · 4 years

Text

Sugar, Butter and Flour - A CEO!Steve Rogers x Baker!Reader (Christmas Series) Chapter 3 ~ The Need For A Christmas Miracle

Warnings - Mention of Loss, Fluffy Romance and flirting, Sister!Nat playing Matchmaker

Word Count - 3185

A/N - This series will be completed by the end of January! Sorry for the delay! December was extremely busy due to university deadlines I had due!

Masterlist - https://protectthelesbians.tumblr.com/post/189337379588/are-you-wanting-a-heart-warming-fan-fiction-just

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Your POV

Both of your arms were occupied as you shuffled to your rickety car, you didn’t drive much due to living above the bakery, you only used it to do the deliveries or to get out of the city to make visits home. Piling the boxes into the backseat, securing the seat belt across them so they’d be secure during the ride. Your patchwork scarf wrapped around your neck as to block the coldness of the wind from breathing up your neck, the weather was dropping in the city quickly, icicles forming from the swaying sign which was being battered around in the wind harshly.

Scuttling back to the store, you locked up and flipped on the closed sign before heading back to your car which was waiting for you on the sidewalk. Sliding into the driver’s seat, switching on the engine, your cold fingers fiddling with the heating to try and get some warmth into your bones. It was time to head to Steve’s office, checking for the address in your text messages with him, inputting the address into your google maps app as you sat still parked on the sidewalk. With the google maps voice going off on the seat next to you, using it to direct you through the large and ever-growing city which seemed to expand more with the blink of an eye. Eyes on the road, fingers tapping the wheel to the rhythm of a song you heard on the radio, trying to make it through the traffic and the chaos which was driving in the city. Christmas lights hanging above all the cars, softly twinkling in the December afternoon, bringing a smile to your face with the growing festive cheer.

The party was 4 days away and you were organising everything you’d need before then. With the menu decided upon somewhat, using today’s delivery as research as to what people in the office liked. You wanted to make something that was one, a crowd-pleaser and two, something that would make people smile. Seeing smiles on your customers faces was the most important thing to you, you weren’t one for confrontation, preferring social harmony. Though sometimes that wasn’t possible, you hoped that someone felt a bit lighter, a bit happier after eating one of your sweet treats.

“TURN LEFT AND YOU WILL HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION.”

Google maps snapped you out of your thoughts, taking a turn to the left and seeing the tall tower which Steve mentioned in his messages was the office. He said that its impossible not to notice the building due to the sheer size of it but also the design, a collaboration piece between Tony Stark and his wife Pepper. After finding a spot and paying for parking, you began to haul the cake boxes out of your car, swaying a little as you became off-balance but re-centered yourself quickly as not to drop the cakes. With boots clicking against the sidewalk, you approached the large doors of the building, feeling intimidated by the sheer size of it all. The atmosphere was heavy, the enclosed space of the reception space felt unnerving. Your bright green coat stood out amongst the monotone colour palette of grey, silver and hints of blue, you stuck out like a sore thumb to the receptionist

“May I help you? Do you have an appointment upstairs?” The tight-lipped receptionist eyed you as you struggled to hold the two boxes in your arms, you nodded “I’m here to see Steve Rogers, this is a delivery for him and the people in the building.” You cracked a smile to lighten the mood, but she simply glanced back down to the computer and then back at you “Ah yes, Mr Rogers had you down for 12 o’clock. It’s not 12 o’clock.” The receptionist glared at you, face blank as you eyed the clock for a moment “Well its 11:55, its better to be early than to be late as my grandma used to say.” you held the boxes, hands slightly sweaty.

The receptionist for a moment opened her mouth, obviously ready to lay it on into you when a voice interrupted the uncomfortable quiet “Alright Janet, no need to be a sourpuss to the visitors, don’t want to make enemies before the Christmas party.” Sam walked in, holding his briefcase, he must’ve come back from a case elsewhere and arrived at just the right time. Sam approached the desk as Janet stuttered “I’ll just lead this little lady up since we’re heading to the same floor, okay Janet?” Janet grumbled and nodded, going back to her Sudoku book which she had on her desk. Sam grinned “Follow me then, want me to take one of those boxes for you?” he asked “Yes please, I don’t want to drop these on the carpet!” giggling as immediately Sam lightened the air as the two of you entered the lift.

Sam held one of the boxes and tried to open the lid to catch a peek at what goodies you’d brought “Hands off Wilson! No snatching till we get to the office floor!” Sam retracted his hand “Okay Mooom~.” he teased, making you laugh “Steve was right! you and Bucky are 5 year olds trapped in adult bodies!” making a comeback as Sam quirked a brow “So you and Steve been talking huh? About me and Bucky as well? aw shucks I ought to blush!” Further proving Steve’s point which he’d made in texts, that didn’t stop you from blushing at Sam’s insinuating tone at you and Steve talking together. You were saved by the bell as a gentle *bing* rang and the doors to the lift opened revealing the office floor.

Sam led you out and glanced around the office, the only sound was that of keys clacking from quick typing from the many desks which littered the room. Glancing around, you saw a sea of people just sat at their desks, eyes on their computer screens which only small whispers of chattering could be heard. Sam touched your shoulder “Let's go see the big boss before these delicious smelling treats get snatched up.” carrying the box of treats under one arm as he led you through the office to a separate office. The walls of the office were made of glass, the room was sleek and modern in style, in the corner of the office was someone wearing a deep blue, almost black suit. When the person turned around, it felt like that moment back in the bakery as you locked eyes with Steve through the glass, your little heart couldn’t handle this. His soft golden hair styled away back from his face, the beard shaping his features giving him the rugged look but also still professional and powerful in this work-setting. Raising your hand gently, you waved to him softly as you saw him crack a smile when you did so.

Sam opened the door to Steve’s office, light was shining in through the glass walls and shining onto Steve’s face gently, the same brief beam of winter sunshine hit your eyes as you entered the office with Sam, making you squint for a moment. Hands holding one of the cake boxes, you walked up to Steve happily “Delivery for Steve Rogers.” you joked as Steve smiled “Why thank you, Ma’am.” he winked faintly and glanced at the two boxes of cakes “We should get these out on the office floor, Sam’s drooling on the box.” making you laugh, to Sam’s dismay. Steve held the door to his office open for you and guided you towards a table where stood a coffee maker, a water cooler and a sad looking fruit bowl with clearly neglected apples and oranges. Placing the boxes down on the table, you began pulling paper plates and recyclable cutlery from your backpack, all would be able to be recycled when you brought the rubbish back to the bakery.

Gently, you lifted the lid from the cake box, revealing colourful desserts filling the box to the brim, varieties of danishes, pastries to cakes and muffins. Each muffin baked beautifully, golden and risen and puffed up, airy and not too heavy. Cupcakes were iced intricately, the icing never fell or drooped down, the sweet coating swirled and pulled up into a peak which hadn’t been dented. Decorations littered the cupcakes top, varying from candy canes to snowflake sprinkles, some had little festive toppers such as a Santa face or reindeer made of icing. People from their desks watched as you set up the table, Steve helping you which made them raise a brow in confusion, never seeing their boss like this before. Standing back from the table, you watched as one by one, people rose from their desks and wandered over to the table to investigate. Nerves rose from your stomach to your face, cheeks becoming warm and as did your whole body, Steve’s hand brushed against your shoulder “Would you like to take off your coat, you look rather warm.” With your head turning to look at him, you nodded and unzipped your coat and peeled it off your arms, still wearing your apron from this morning underneath, not a dirty apron but an apron nonetheless.

The festive apron standing out against the formal business wear which everyone was wearing, most definitely.

But you broke out of that thought as you saw these tired business-folk, fatigued from their work and the energy of the holidays, brighten up as they took a bite into the treats you brought in for them. Sam had sneaked in and taken a few danishes for himself, Steve still stood beside you as you felt your heart swell. The down-trodden atmosphere of the office when you entered now gone, like you cast a magic spell over them and rid them of their fatigue for a just a moment during their lunch-break. Steve chuckled and looked at his employees, chatting together happily as they devoured the sweet treats you had brought in.

A few people came up to you, empty paper plates covered in the remains of whichever treat they’d devoured, eyes almost childlike as they began to compliment you on your treats. As a small business owner, reaching out to a large audience like this was extraordinary, you had your usual customers and a few delivery jobs you did for the bakery, but you never had this sort of outreach before. People asking about where you were based and being interested in your growing bakery, quickly reaching into your jacket pocket, said jacket placed on a chair close to the table. Handing out a few business cards to the interested people, smiling and chatting with everyone. Occasionally turning your head to look at Steve, who was still stood by your side and smiling.

Steve’s other close friends and colleagues came up to you such as Wanda and Nat, holding their own paper plates in hand. They seemed like they would get on so well with your best friend, Dot, especially Nat with her strong personality. But you could tell she had a sweet side to her, especially by the choice of dessert she chose, a simple cupcake with sprinkles powdered atop it.

Wanda smiled “So you’re the baker that’s catering for the party?” her voice sweet and kind, you nodded “Yes! I’m doing market research to see what you guys like before the party, want to make a people pleaser kind of treat!” smoothing out the wrinkles of your apron “I think everything you brought is a people pleaser to be fair.” Nat pointed her finger to the near empty cake-boxes where only two cupcakes left, the entire spread had been devoured “W-Wow!” you retrieved the remaining cupcakes and had one yourself “I think anything you make will be a crowd-pleaser (YN), literally anything.” Nat laughed and licked smeared icing off of her finger. Smiling, you glanced to Steve who’d retreated into his office when you weren’t looking and glancing to a frame which was on his desk.

That’s when you remembered.

Reaching into your bag, you pulled out a small paper bag which was adorned with festive design but also your logo for the bakery “Excuse me for just a moment.” You walked through the small crowd of people surrounding the tiny table in the office, bag in hand. Squeezing past the crowds of people to reach the door to Steve’s office, his eyes still affixed to the photo frame. Softly, you knocked on the door, breaking Steve’s eyes from staring at the frame and locked on you. He gave you his usual smile, using his hand to motion for you to enter, ushering you inside.

Heading into his office with the door closing behind you, stepping up to his desk where he was sat “For you.” handing the paper bag to him which held another treat you’d chosen for him specifically. By now, you’d learnt what he liked in his desserts. Steve grinned “You are full of surprises, Miss (YN).” He took a peek into the bag to see what you’d brought him “I try my best Mr Rogers.” shrugging and looking around his office, sneaking a look at the photo he’d been looking at on his desk.

It was a photograph of a younger Steve, not much younger but by the lack of beard you could tell that this was some time ago, in his arms he held a small baby, definitely Sarah, who looked no older than 5 months in this photograph. Her little head dusted with golden blonde hair that looked almost white in the light of the photograph. Steve, who had opened the bag for the sweet treat and had just taken a bite, had spotted you looking at the photograph “That’s from Sarah’s first December, she was so entranced by the snow.” Speaking fondly of his daughter.

Smiling, you looked at Steve “She’s an amazing little girl, Steve. She’ll steal so many hearts. I can already tell.” You admitted, those round brown eyes which resembled warm honey, could and would melt anyone’s heart. Steve chuckled “She’s stolen mine completely and utterly, guess that just come’s with being a parent.” he took another bite of the muffin you’d chosen for him today. Glancing to Steve, you just nodded and sighed contently as your eyes looked around his office.

“You know you always hum Christmas songs when you’re daydreaming?” Steve broke your wandering eyes which were gazing out of the window of his office “Got a problem with that mister? I happen to like being in a festive spirit.” Cheeks adorned with a soft shade of pink as Steve chuckled “Okay Mrs Clause! I get it! Just because I’m not as big of a fan of Christmas as you, no need to be like that.” You laughed at that “Mrs Claus? Well okay then, Mr Grinch!” winking as Steve laughed loudly, sitting back in his chair. The sound of his laughter ringing throughout the office which made everyone’s head turn for a moment and they tilted their heads, hearing the sound of their usually stoic boss laughing an almost jolly laugh. Steve placed his hand over his mouth for a moment as you smiled widely “As retaliation for your dislike for anything festive, I will leave this here on your desk! To spread some Christmas cheer!” joking around with him as you retrieved one of the icing cake toppers that was on your cupcake and placed it atop his name plaque.

A small red robin placed atop his plaque “There!” sticking out your tongue as you affixed it onto the plaque, concentrating. Smiling as you saw him raise his brows “You are ridiculous but that’s what I like about you.” Steve eyed the robin cake topper and looked up at you “Then I will continue to be ridiculous, Mr Grinch.” crossing your arms just like he usually did and faked a grumpy face which immediately dropped when you noticed the time “Oh dammit! My parking runs out in 5 minutes!” Not wanting to get a ticket on such a happy day for you, Steve shook his head “Time to make a break for it.” to which you nodded and waved bye to Steve “I’ll see you later Steve! I’ll text you your bill for today.” winking jokingly as you left his office and gathered the rubbish and empty cake boxes, going to take those back to be composted at the bakery.

“I’ll look forward to it!” Steve called out as you entered the lift and descend down to the ground floor, rushing to your car before you got a ticket. Rushing past reception, you stopped for a split second and retrieved the final cupcake from the box and placed it on Janet’s desk “Have a nice day, Janet!” Hoping that would make the disgruntled receptionist finally smile. Which it did, you rushed out the door to your car and just getting their by the skin of your teeth. Piling all the rubbish into the back of your car and into the boot. Taking a final glance up to the Avengers Building before getting into the driver’s seat and starting your journey back to the bakery.

Meanwhile, still up in the building. Two women stood with their backs resting against the wall as they were standing in silence. Nat’s fiery red hair cut so that it hit her jawline with a strand swept behind her ear, the pearl earring exposed, her eyes trained on her long-time friend who was in the office across from her. She cared for him like a brother. Truly.

“You know, I’ve not seen him smile like that since you know....” Wanda broke the silence between the two of them and looked at Nat who just sighed and gave a simple nod. She had been watching the two of you from their position in the room intently and especially when (YN) had left. Nat glanced to her friend “I know, Wan. I know.” thinking back for a moment and glancing back to Steve’s office “But I think he’s finally ready. Ready to have that again. He deserves it and I think she’s good for him.” Nat cracking a smile, Wanda couldn’t help but smile when she spotted Steve who was sat at his desk and in his hand he held the robin cake topper and moved it from the name plaque to atop the photograph of him a Sarah. His finger tracing the details of the little robin decoration.

Holding it as if it was the most delicate and his most treasured object. Nat smiled “Yeah I think she’s just what he’s missing.” The missing puzzle piece which was missing from Steve’s life for the past 5 years. And from what Nat could see and hope, you seemed to fit perfectly in that blank space in Steve’s heart. She just hoped that Steve had the grasp the opportunity before it runs away from him, he deserved all the happiness and so did that little girl who he’d raised.

All they needed now was a Christmas miracle.

END OF CHAPTER 3

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TAGLIST! - @chuckennuggets1213 @imsonick @nervousstrangersandwich @justthatfangirloverthere @sheadre @125bluemachine125 @giggleberts @kind-sober-fullydressed @fluffyirwinie @kaithezaftig @ilovesupersoldiers @royale-skeleton-key @mcuwillbethedeathofme @https://coldmuffinbanditshoe.tumblr.com/ @amberkay284

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brent-sunborn · 4 years

Text

Shadow Savior

(( Follows The Attempt / Co-written with @kidcatgemini ))

“This how y’ thought y’d be fucked t’night, lass?”

Syrielle had no time to react. Hardly any time to blink! She moved to bring her hands up to try and block the blow, but one of them was held down. The other came up much to slow, as Alteris brought the jagged piece of glass down. She screamed!

But rather than the sharp pain she anticipated, she felt Alteris pull away from her entirely! She sat up quickly, and saw why. Another elf had come up behind Alteris and pulled him back off of her! The two grappled a moment, before Alteris was thrown - behind the counter, into a large cabinet of fine porcelain dinnerware. Plates, bowls, teacups and shelves all shattered, coming crashing down atop the would-be assassin!

Syrielle gasped, and looked to the other elf. Gattius? No. Another Void Elf. Dark leathers, long hair… familiar blacksteel daggers and a plated face mask…

Alteris brought his legs back up beneath him quickly, seeming stunned! He narrowed his gaze at the other ren’dorei, seeming just as shocked as Syrielle to see him here! It didn’t last long. The elf lunged for Alteris, slamming him back into the shattered cabinet with one hand, and stabbing him without a moment’s hesitation with the other. Alteris let out half a gasp, unable to breathe for the moment… before his body disappeared in a plume of shadow. The other elf grunted, gripping his side with his free hand as Alteris vacated it. He braced, tensing as if he had expected the random jolt of pain to shoot through him as Alteris’ body vanished from sight. It was over… Alteris was gone. And the other elf turned his narrowed gaze to Syrielle.

The Cryomancer was frozen with fear, recognizing Brent Sunborn as he turned his deadly gaze towards her. This was the first she’d seen him in his ren’dorei form, much more threatening than his Sin’dorei one had been. Last time she’d seen him, he’d abducted and delivered her into Tharinel’s hands; an event that left her well traumatized.

Panic set in and her mind went blank. Pupils dilated and her pulse increased as adrenaline flooded her system. She wasn’t even thinking about Alteris or what had happened to him. All she could concentrate on was getting away. She scrambled off the counter, but let out a pained cry. Her bare feet landed in the mess of whiskey and shards of glass now covering the floor thanks to Alteris’ improvised murder weapon. Pain shot up her legs as the shards implanted deeply. Worse yet, she slipped as she tried to move forward, landing hard on her hip.

Tear filled eyes looked up as the threatening figure brought a knee down in front of her. She couldn’t find her voice to scream or cast a spell, so frozen by fear she was at the sight of him.

“Relax.” he said, tone curt - irritated. “I’m not here for you.”

His ebon-steel dagger slipped silently back into its sheath at his hip, reinforcing his claim. With a bit of a light scoff, Brent took hold of Syrielle’s foot and began to pluck shards of glass from it. His gaze parted from hers, instead intent on the task at hand. He would’ve preferred not having to deal with her at all; collateral was always so messy. But at the same time, he couldn’t let Alteris kill her. Despite having delivered her into such dangers before… things had changed.

Nepen’thea had still cared for this one, after all.

So instead of silencing another witness, the Ghostblade set to helping her out. At least, enough so she wouldn’t bleed out all over the floor in her pathetic panicked state. The larger chunks were removed easily enough, and the smaller ones hadn’t set in too deep. He ripped at the hem of her nightie to retrieve a length suitable enough for a bandage - so paralyzed in fear, she did little to oppose him. Fear… or perhaps confusion, at this point. He didn’t seem concerned either way.

“He’s not dead yet.” he informed her - because revealing that the elf who had just tried to kill her was still out there seemed like a smart thing to say to the fear-struck cryromancer. “But he’s far from here. Trapped. He’ll be dead soon enough.”

The makeshift bandaged tied tight and snug at her foot, before Brent stood. Halfway. He still hovered over Syrielle, offering her a hand up from the floor. Brow still knit in agitation, he waved a few fingers quickly at her, beckoning her to make haste.

“Get up.”

By now, Syrielle seemed to have regained some basic functions. She blinked up at him in confusion. What was he doing here? Why had he saved her? Why would he care to help her at all? Was this a trick?

Still, her hand took his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She winced as she put pressure on her damaged feet, but the makeshift bandages made it at least possible for her to stand upright.

“Wh-what’s going on?” She finally managed to find her voice, small as it was, “Why are you helping me?”

“--I’m not helping you.” he snapped back, almost defensively.

He eyed the Cryromancer, gaze lingering as he turned. She seemed okay… now, at least she wasn’t sniveling and flopping about. He sighed slowly as he stepped away from her; it was the least threatening thing he could think to do, at this point. Instead, Brent looked over the shattered porcelain and shelves that broke during the brief altercation. He gotten Alteris out of hiding, now he only had to get back and finish the job.

“... Not intentionally, anyway.” he elaborated. “Came to kill Alteris. He just… happened to try to kill you, too. Almost let him, honestly.”

He shrugged, glancing back to Syrielle.

“But Thea liked you for some reason.”

Alteris had mentioned pissing some people off when he’d requested to lay low. Obviously, he’d lied about not being traced back to the Starfrost manor. He’d also conveniently forgot to mention that Brent Sunborn was one of the people hunting him. Syrielle’s hands balled into fists as she realized the dangers Alteris had purposely put them in. Gattius has trusted him, so Syrielle had trusted him as well.

And once again, trust nearly got her killed.

Her ears flicked, and perked up as a Brent made mention of Nepen’thea. The Cryomancer had wondered for some time if she’d survived the Void explosion as well. Now she knew that she had.

—but then, why was Sunborn speaking of her in past tense? Her ears lowered at the implications.

“...liked?” She repeated, hoping she was reading that wrong.

Brent was quiet for a moment - but the silence spoke volumes to confirm it. He looked once more to the cabinet, where his quarry was last seen. Subtly, he tilted his chin up in that direction, as if to motion to it. To point it out.

"Her killer." he practically whispered, though pain and anger both rang through loudly in his words. "She'll be avenged."

Syrielle’s ears wilted and she leaned back against the counter. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. Nepen’thea had been an enemy of the Phoenix Guard… a cultist playing with ancient dark forces. Surely, her death was a good thing for Azeroth, but Syrielle only felt sorrow at her passing. She remembered the beautiful, friendly elf that helped her get her bearings when she’d first arrived in Dalaran. Her best friend and lover. What had happened for her to turn onto such a dark path? Could Syrielle have somehow done something to stop it had she noticed her friend slipping away? Had she been too wrapped up in her studies to notice the signs?

And Alteris… anger flared. She’d allowed him into her relationship, into her home. And he repaid her by attempting to end her life. The selfish fool clearly didn’t care for anyone except himself.

She took in a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in her throat as she looked up at Brent. She gave him a nod. She had no doubt that he could get the job done.

“Thank you.”

“Hmph. I’m not doing this for you.” Brent replied, coldly. “I’m just running down Thea’s killer. Don’t get it twisted.”

The Ghostblade exhaled sharply out of his nose, a scoff stifled by his metallic mask. He really would’ve preferred not to have to interact with anyone at all during all this. But if it had to be someone… someone Nepen’thea valued was probably the best he’d get. He shook his head, before looking to Syrielle once again.

“Don’t forget about her. I know what you meant to her. Even after Suncrown Village…” he trailed off, letting the pause linger for a moment. “She never bore you ill intent. Your friends, sure, but not you. And… she had nothing to do with when I…”

Another pause - he knew she remembered that well enough. It was true, though; Nepen’thea had nothing to do with the deal Brent had made with Tharinel. He wanted to make sure Syrielle knew that. It was a sobering realization that, of any other living being on Azeroth, this weepy, dorky, Cryromancer was probably the only other person Nepen’thea truly loved.

“... Just don’t forget her. Because once we start forgetting her… that’s when she’s gone for good.”

He fidgeted, uncomfortable with the vulnerability that hung over him. But it had to be said.

“I know I, of all people, don’t have a right to ask anything of you. But if you really wanna thank me for this…”

He nodded once. More than enough words had been spoken. Far more than he’d planned to say to anyone at all tonight.

“I could never forget her,” Syrielle shook her head, “Never.”

She brought a hand up to wipe at the tears. She couldn’t quite hold them back. Knowing Nepen’thea was truly gone now. Knowing she had nothing to do with Syrielle’s capture and torture. Answers to questions that had kept her awake over the past year and a half. There was closure now. Relief.

Now, she could truly mourn the loss.

“Stab him a few extra times for me, yeah?”

It seemed like a good place to end the conversation. With a final nod, Brent stepped into the shadows… and out of sight.

(( @nepenthea for mention ))

~*~

#character story #Syrielle Starfrost #Alteris Sunwhisper #Brent Sunborn #Nepen'thea Dusksinger #void elf #blood elf #Quel'Thalas #warcraft

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intensitystoner · 4 years

Text

Adjective challenge 3 – Profuse Sifki

The lordess of the neighbouring land matched him well at being spoilt, people would say. Her lawless acts, cleverly forged but following only her own mood swings, were a mockery of the entire system. Oh, except the land’s riches, she abused that to the limits of tolerance, and then further out of sheer spite against those attempting to reason. They were going to be a good match, people would say. If only they hadn’t used that determining phrase; then Loki would have accepted the invitation without a second thought. But people, the people, these low-rank nobodies, determining his path? Not in this life, no.

He fiddled with freshly borrowed codices, next to the table loaded with adorned golds, cashmere, ivory, and a hint of seidr, unoffensive. These factors had intruded his consciousness even though he’d been deliberately ignoring the gift all day. It was the umpteenth token of Sigyn’s desire for his company, arriving since his mischiefs had outgrown the palace grounds and reached across the realm, along with his fame. He really couldn’t have denied he enjoyed it if he had wanted to. His discontent lay entirely in the interference of outsiders, such as rumours, Thor’s good-natured and witless goading, or Father’s belief that he had a say in it. Come to think of it, Odin was the one that initiated the relation, through a pact with the land’s ruler: Sigyn the lawless maiden. That made it a strong capital NO.

With the momentary grudge stealing his consciousness, he unwittingly reached for the intriguing item, the one enchanted, in the neat pile of gifts. It was in his hand before he’d have resisted the urge and kept denying his curiosity. His sigh escaped through his nose while he opened the long, shallow box lined with jewels.

Inside lay a knife, the light melting on its triple fangs of reinforced mercury – his trained eyes quickly recognised the hint of blue shine. The self-willed fluid entrapped in a solid form of existence bore qualities that would stand against most in battle. The handle magic-wrapped in the softest fabric, gentle to the palm’s skin but never pelting off from strained use. The majority of the sorceric energy, however, tingled under his fingertips in the container’s cushioned filling. He closed the box, placed it back on the table and contemplated the meaning of it. Something would happen the moment he removed the knife, so much he could tell. Most likely, she would find out this way that he liked the gift: this was a simple and useful spell. The other possibility was that she had lost patience and was trying to lure him into a trap through a binding spell. In her position, it wasn’t impossible to get help from an enchanter to bind either Loki’s body or his mind to herself. If that was the case, she’d made great miscalculations about his cunningness. Although she chose the honey trap quite well: the knife came from a faraway land where a cold star’s breath was used to forge it before its rebirth. As an addition to the fun, many would have killed for such a possession. Loki’s readings on it told that this fabric was both fluid and firm, capable of alternating in a second according to an experienced user’s will. It was a challenge intriguing enough for him to pick up the case again to just feel it around with his inner senses. Lounging with the box in an armchair, he sketched up some scenarios in his mind about using the unwrapped gift to turn the palace folks on each other: the list of possibilities and forks in the planned thread of events went up to Plan K by the time he finally decided in which nobleman’s path he would forget the enchanted thing for a start of the fun.

It was several days later that he saw the knife again, in the hand of someone he only expected in Plan H or so, and even there not like this, fending for her own life with it. She was being assaulted by a swirl of two moderately sized chain hooks, brave snarls against the sharp metals grazing her skin with a speed she struggled to overtake. She didn’t have her usual sword and shield, indicating that the attack reached her unprepared, though not frightened; light followed the knife in her hand tardily as she laboured to reach past the vicious chains and plant her weapon into her opponent.

The owner of the flying hooks was screeching like a Stormbird. Both her verbal and physical threats aimed to dishearten Sif. It was an unprecedented, most likely futile endeavour: although the Warmaiden seemed to overlook or deliberately ignore the potential of the volatile metal in her grasp, she was no less daunting as an enemy than with her double-bladed sword. Sigyn, who was suddenly here from her faraway palace for some reason, was tirelessly shredding the fort of resistance.

Eyebrows arching in surprise, Loki leaned to the wall with a shoulder to observe the amusing scene. The brawl halted for a moment as his presence was noted. But the ever-flying chains wouldn’t stop to fall idly: while the maidens glanced at him, Sigyn's upward slash sent blood drops into the air. Sif yelped and her lower arm collided with the second hook assaulting from upwards, possibly by a lucky accident. The chain dropped and jerked back up immediately, but the movement got broken as the Warmaiden pushed forth to hold down her opponent's arm.

"That is enough mindless fray," Sif pointed out firmly, her voice unaffected by the blood pouring from her left cheek.

"Thief," spat he foreign lordess. "I'll make sure you no longer have hands to touch what is not yours!"

"You are wrong if you accuse me of something as lowly as theft!" Sif retorted. "Look better before you throw your accusations! You're the one trespassing unannounced, summoned at your will! Be wary until I report you!"

"Liar! That knife isn't yours!"

"It is a present!”

“Like hell it is! You stole it, snake!”

The Warmaiden kept her prepared look on the lordess, who hissed her last note staring at Loki, her steel-coloured eyes narrow and urging.

The younger prince had solved most of the puzzle by now; it manifested in his tongue tip licking lips tight to prevent a triumphant expression. The spoiled ruler had indeed been trying to meddle in the events, and thus into Loki’s fate, by catching the moment he showed interest. A capital mistake. Pity.

“Lady Sigyn,” he greeted with a mild bow. “Your visit is mightily unexpected. How did you make it here so fast and quiet?” he asked, his eyebrows arching in innocence that clearly confused her.

Her tone remained unswayed, however. “Prince Loki,” she uttered while roughly jerking her hand away from Sif’s grasp and walking up to him. “I wished to be swift at seeing you once it occurs that my gift pleases you.”

“Your attention is precious. However, your unannounced entry to the land is likely to break the treaty between out nations.”

“That is no matter as long as there is a way to remedy it,” Sigyn said softer.

“You’d still better get briefed in with the rules,” Loki noted, royally ignoring the suggestion in her tone. “May I propose the library in the East wing?”

His smile was chosen lenient as she eyed him from personal closeness, her back deliberately turned to the brunette who idled around occupied with her bleeding wound. After all the years spent on common battle grounds, Loki recognised the readiness to strike in her casual posture. Was she worried for herself still? Or possibly for him?

“It could be a fine solution, if you care to guide me there,” said the lordess meanwhile.

“As much as it pains my heart, I have other duties to attend to. Please, have these fine soldiers show you the way.”

The eyes of faded blue didn’t follow as he gestured towards the three gold-clad guards entering the room. He waited patiently for her to process the words, the message, her proclaimed status. Her jaw was tense, her chin raised as she obeyed the royal command, although without an answer.

By the time she was out the door, Sif had made it halfway to the opposite exit. The prince was lucky to have long legs, because running would have felt mightily humiliating at the present situation.

“Lady Sif, I would take a look at your wound,” he announced across the hall before she’d have disappeared for good, as he knew she was never distracted by empty chatter.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she dismissed him lightly.

“I know, not for you,” he said as he caught up and his closeness forced her to stop and face him. “Still, it would be foolish to leave it, or to rely on the healers. I have the spell that could make it undone without a trace. A moment, no longer.”

“It’s a gracious offer, but it’s a waste for a scratch like this.”

“Please, allow me. I couldn’t sleep well knowing your beauty got scarred permanently by my fault. Against my intentions,” he added quickly at her look that let him know how ridiculous it sounded from the infamous forger of cruel pranks.

“How would it be your fault?” she wondered aloud.

“Well,” he faltered but for a moment before finding the right words; “It should be if I let you pay such price for an insignificant blade.”

He stepped closer before she could have responded, and she let his teal-glowing thumb trace her cheek; her look cast down to the side all the while, motionlessly enduring the shiver at his fingers over her neck. Enduring. He didn’t realise he was holding his breath until he finished the silent spell. He felt a dire need to deny, to divert attention away from his urge to swallow.

“Let me guess: a devoted admirer?” he inquired slyly.

“It is indeed a present,” she answered while her gaze lifted to his collarbone. “One that means nothing to me, personally.”

“A great loss for him,” Loki assured her, and a mild bow ended their interaction.

So the precious knife had been given away. Not by the man Loki had left it with, that one thing he knew. Those inclined to court the Lady Sif had carefully been excluded from his calculations: there were a few people he didn’t want to harm purposefully, however unknown this fact was around the palace. Had someone stolen it then? Or gifted it away, as unlikely as it was with the general nature of any society? What route had the knife travelled on before ending up in the Warmaiden’s hands? Finding it out would be his primary occupation for the next period, he believed.

“Your Highness–”

He frowned lightly before turning back to her: she knew his name well enough, proven many times on unofficial nightly monster-hunting adventures of Thor and his entourage of fellow adventurers. He knew that such a thick formal veil must have been covering something up.

“This blade, it appears valuable,” she said in a tone wavering ever-so-slightly; “a fine ornament for someone’s matching grandeur. In fact… I believe it suits you best. So I’ve been meaning for you to have it.”

Been? For how long? Loki gazed at the knife offered on an open palm. He stood dumbfounded between his own greed for havoc and the rebellious benevolence of people.

“No,” he breathed through his surprise. “It would be but a speck amidst my powers. But it shall do good service in protecting you.”

“Are you implying, in exchange of my good intentions, that you hold me weak?”

He laughed silently now at her flaring pride, her well known desire to prove herself equal with the sturdy warriors all around. She most likely failed to see how it only gave away her fragility. His hands engulfed her persistent fingers and closed them over the blade’s handle, the warm skin smooth against his palm like they didn’t hold swords and shields every day.

“Your strength does not need boasting, it’s the truest power I have seen among these goofs. It wouldn’t be lessened by a little… friendliness.”

Her look was on his face by then, allowing the lights to dance in it.

“Thank you,” she uttered softly, and for a moment, Loki got startled that she knew everything, that his initial malevolence with the knife was clear to her, that she knew he had always held the knife his own tool, and letting her keep it was an act of purposeless grace. But there was no scorn or triumph or malice on her features, just a clear look he knew so well from watching her interact with others. He could never solve it, it looked too straightforward, too honest to be real.

And then all thoughts stopped when she rose on her toes and kissed him on the corner of his mouth, lingering there with her softness for a second.

“So I don’t remain in your debt,” she breathed onto his skin, and she was gone before he could even have collected his composure for an appropriate response, leaving his mind to be drawn back to it from any cunning route for the night.

#sifki #fanfiction #da orky writing #sifki adjective challenge

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archmage--khadgar · 5 years

Note

AU where everything is the same but Khadgar lives vicariously through his recently adopted son Anduin.

(YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF, ANON. Also, it got long so there’s more under the break! It keeps deleting the break, I have no idea if it’s like that for anyone else, but if so, APOLOGIES FOR THE LONG POST, I legit can not fix it.) Khadgar was awkwardly flattered to discover the statue of himself outside of Stormwind when the Dark Portal was reopened, and he was finally able to return to Azeroth. More surprisingly, was when he was introduced to Anduin Wrynn, the son of Varian Wrynn and named for his old friend, Anduin Lothar. The last time Khadgar has seen Varian, he was still a child. It was hard to imagine that young boy as an adult, as King but was quickly saddened by the news that Varian had gone missing some time ago. Anduin was more than happy to hear stories of his father as a child, and of the hero, he shared a name with. He wanted to know more about the Outlands, about the Naaru, about the Orcs that had remained on that destroyed world. Khadgar sympathized when hearing about Onyxia’s deception, and relayed his own personal experiences with the Black Dragonflight. Khadgar had to return to Shattrath but happily kept in touch with the young boy. When a new plague had begun to spread across Azeroth, Khadgar opened up Shattrath as a place for healing and research. Any undead that tried to sneak its way through any portal was quickly and easily destroyed by A’dal. When Varian returned, Khadgar wasted no time in revisiting Stormwind. The High King of the Alliance was elated to see Khadgar again. “You haven’t aged a bit!” Varian exclaimed. “Actually, you look younger, without that beard. Remind me to never grow one - don’t tell Velen I said that.” Khadgar joined Varian and Anduin for dinner, after all, Varian needed to defend himself from Khadgar’s wild tails of him as a child!

“Anduin, don’t listen, I never went to Goldshire when I was young.” “That inn was used as a base so much, I’m fairly certain you practically lived there.” “Light’s sake Khadgar.” Varian tried so hard to not laugh. “You clearly have not been there lately. Anduin, to clarify, Goldshire used to be a very upstanding, quaint town.” While Khadgar returned to Shattrath to continue to monitor the Legion, he once again remained in contact. When Deathwing attacked, Anduin was quick to tell his father about the threats Deathwing had personally made against Khadgar. About the nightmares. Varian was even quicker to urge Khadgar to remain in the Outlands, to keep a lookout for the Legion, to stay safe. “You’ve done more than enough for Azeroth, Khadgar. You don’t need to come running every time there is a problem.” “..If you need...ANYTHING....” “Yes, we will contact you.” When Anduin went missing on a strange continent, when he was later crushed by a bell but survived, when be befriended a young Black Dragon who claimed to be the uncorrupted Son of Deathwing, Khadgar’s emotions were rocked every day. Wrathion, at least, knew just as Khadgar did that the Legion would one day return. Anduin spoke highly of the whelp, so Khadgar decided that if Wrathion ever wanted to reach out to him, he would listen. And then Garrosh and a Bronze Dragon made a passage to Draenor, 30 years in the past to alter history. Despite the loss of the Dark Portal, mages were still able to teleport between Outlands and Azeroth with relative ease. Khadgar was able to return once again, to plan an assault with Thrall, Maraad and other heroes of the Alliance and Horde. Once more, Khadgar had to help stop an invasion. “Khadgar, you better return. Alive.” Varian ordered. “Oh, I make no promises.” “Khadgar. Please. There are so few who are still alive who personally knew my father. You are a dear friend to this family, my...family.” Varian reached out to grasp Khadgar’s arm. “Azeroth will always be your home, and this city is always open to you.” Khadgar did survive. Khadgar did return to Stormwind. To warn that the Legion had finally returned. Everything happened so fast. Varian was dead. Everyone swarmed around Anduin now, as he was technically old enough to be crowned King properly this time. Advice, sympathy, expecting him to be a leader while still treating him like a child. Khadgar had much work to do in Dalaran. But he was very good at being in two places at once. Khadgar was also very good at being sneaky; when he wanted to be. Where was he going? People always asked Khadgar when he would leave to rest or “do business” without the aid of champions. People often thought they would hear Anduin talking with someone around the corner or in the other room, but investigations would always show that either Anduin was alone or that...Anduin wasn’t there at all. “Perhaps Stormwind Keep is haunted. I’ll have a priest look into it.” “My King....aren’t you...” “Well. Yes. But spooks and ghosts aren’t my expertise, as I’ve never had to fight Undead before. I’ll find somehow who’s more...knowledgable.” Anduin’s eyes lip up as he was introduced to the vast libraries of Karazhan, to A’dal, to many wondrous places in Outlands and Azeroth that Anduin had only heard about but never visited. These adventures could never last long, but these brief moments of watching Anduin’s face light up with every excursion filled Khadgar with more life than any spell or gem had ever given him. Khadgar learned to love Azeroth all over again through Anduin. Although they had grown up differently, they both found themselves in leadership positions way before their 20th birthdays. Children expected to lead and save the world from otherworldly monsters. It simply wasn’t fair. Perhaps through Anduin, Khadgar could see Azeroth through the eyes of someone young again. Their adventures quickly became self-indulgent, disguising themselves as a father and son, doing simple things like going for ice cream, attending the Darkmoon Faire, and fishing. However...Anduin was the one teaching Khadgar to fish. “Medivh taught me how to fly a Gryphon...though...all he needed to do was tap my forehead.” “Really? The power of the Guardian is that strong?” “Ohh, yes. Yes, it is. It was quite painful too. Unless it’s an emergency situation, I would never recommend learning anything that way.” Anduin was quiet for a moment. “I don’t suppose you can teach me how to teleport via that method, could you?” “Probably not, and I wouldn’t do it even if I could, teleporting requires intimate knowledge and familiarity with the leylines, and, furthermore, being comfortable tapping into them. I can’t teach comfort. So no, I will not teach you how to teleport.” “Hmm. You know, as King, I could simply order you, right?” “Oho! But I have leadership in two cities that are neutral, and not a part of the Alliance!” Khadgar chuckled, pulling Anduin’s hood down over his face. Anduin chuckled, promising that negotiations would continue later. This is how it was until the Horde and Alliance became enemies once more. It was too dangerous to sneak out now, and Anduin this time, had to go to battle properly. “Khadgar, I promise I will not allow the Alliance to pull Shattrath or Dalaran into this fight for as long as possible. This war isn’t right.” He confided in the vision he had of his father, knowing that Khadgar would understand what it was like to experience such things. When he released Saurfang, he sent a letter to Khadgar, asking if it was the right thing to do. He sighed in relief when Khadgar said yes. Greymane’s approval, if he ever found out, didn’t matter. Anduin didn’t want this war, the Horde and Alliance should be working together to save their world from the damage caused by Sargeras! At least Khadgar and Magni understood. At least he knew that Khadgar supported him in ways no others would. Many would lament that it was such a shame that he and Khadgar were not related by blood, that they were not family. But Anduin knew better than that. He knew that family was not determined by blood alone. He and Khadgar both knew they were family, even if no one else felt that way.

#khadgar #anduin #varian #world of warcraft #AU Drabble #Anonymous

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clawabiding · 5 years

Text

Hakon Katlasch

(CW: violence, boners, some nsfw content)

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe!

At a certain point, shock and trauma reduce the body’s ability to perform its basic autonomic functions. Respiration is the first to go, but it’s the pyramid of failures to follow that stills the aether and invites death. Most often, something vital to life breaks in the living body long before this point, some mechanism key to existence is pulped or mulched or crushed or split and it isn’t a matter of an overwhelmed system grinding to a halt, it’s an abrupt stop. An immediate end. The conscious mind simply has to catch up.

It was a blessing and a curse that Hakon, built as he was, could take a tremendous amount of battery before he lost consciousness. It let him survive these moments through rote and practice, dedicating what little awareness remained in his beating-swollen brain to the manual control of his lungs and respiratory system. Even as darkness welled up around his mind, threatening to swallow up all that remained, he could will every last fiber of himself toward a singular goal: breathe.

And breathe he did, slowly pumping the bruised bellows of his lungs until the fire of mind grew hot enough to tell him where he was. Thanalan. Ul’dah. Near the Gate of the Sultana. An alley. The floor of said alley. As memory came crawling back, nursed to life by the cooling cobbles beneath his tortured muzzle and swaddled in the chilly evening air, something molten and furious welled up the Hrothgar’s belly.

Anger is good kindling. It starts a flame, can even sustain it for a short while, but fury burns hot and burns out and you’re left with ash and ash alone. Fury got the Hrothgar halfway to his feet before the blanket of pain, all tangled with the spurs agony, fell across his shoulders and he sagged to one knee. Consciousness flagged and might’ve, were he not so used to the liminal place between awareness and darkness, brought him back down to the cobbles. Instead, he wavered and waited, hand braced against something hard and splintered, either post or box, he was without the faculties to know which.

Eventually, his eyes acknowledged the low light of nearby street lamps. Dizziness and lethargy made his blurry vision swim and his aching head throb, adding to the list of maladies he was trying desperately to inventory. When these spells ended, he drew himself up and took a few moments where the most pressing matter was simply remaining upright. Then, after a brief inspection of the worst of his injuries and the conclusion there wasn’t anything so broken it wouldn’t heal on its own, he limped his way to the greater thoroughfare.

It wasn’t late enough that streets of Ul’dah were quiet. This far from the Exchange and the Adventurer’s Guild limited the number of merchants and their wily marks, bawds and their eager johns, but not the number of people on their way to become this or exactly that. Hakon knew he looked awful because even the busy evening folk were gawking at his mangled state. He made the decision to move toward the Steps of Thal and the Gladiator’s Guild, where such rough and tumble sights were not so uncommon.

Passing a young woman clad in something Thavnairian -- and inappropriately breezy for the chilly evening -- the Hrothgar briefly lamented the slim chances of unpaid companionship in his disarray. When his business was done, perhaps he’d have time and gil for the sort of massage that would slake the many needs of his battered form. Something healing, with steamed towels and hot mouths more inspired by his gil than squeamish about his sorry appearance. The thought made him frown.

Between the daydream and his nearness to the Coliseum, he couldn’t help but remember a time when his fights, win or lose, ended with a talented chirurgeon and a throng of fans curious to see a Hrothgar up close. At the time, the “fans” of his losing matches were of a notably lesser quality than those of his triumphs, but still satisfying, and his healers less proficient, but still skilled, and never were the losses as sorry as waking alone in a cold alley, on the brink of nothingness. How brazen and proud he was back then, reluctant to partake of beautiful luxuries if they were anything less than perfect. Memories slid to the foreground of these thoughts: a miqo’te with lashes so long they tickled his stomach; a hyur with dark and oiled skin and hair like queen’s mane; a roegadyn -- a Sea Wolf, she called herself -- with dimples as deep as the scars on her knuckles and an all-too-fascinating accent.

Now, in addition to his ever increasing list of maladies, he was hard enough to make the subligar creak when he walked. He entertained thoughts of abandoning his current plan and scraping together the coin for a quick romp behind the Quicksand. It would clear his head and his pipes, but it would certainly sap him of what remained of the evening’s conviction. A day of rest might give his assailant time to relocate. That wouldn’t do. Hakon kept on his path until the Gladiator’s Guild and the Coliseum were behind him, forgotten as slowly as his memories of fame.

Half an hour later, Hakon stood in the saloon-style doorway of the mostly-empty dive, scanning the few faces who’d chose a place like Dry Sagolii over a more respectable tavern. It didn’t take long to find his prey, who sat among his Hellsguard peers with his back to the door. Their raucous laughter brought a spike of intensity to Hakon’s slowly fading headache, which was the perfect onus to get this started.

The Dry Sagolii was a small place and it took barely three strides to cross from the door to the table where the Hellsguard sat. The two seated in front of his prey were just taking notice of Hakon when he planted a hand hard on Bold Caldera’s shoulder. Caldera was broad and heavy set with little hair on his head and a lot of hair on his face. Despite being as pink as the sky over a setting sun, the color immediately drained from the roegadyn.

“Cald,” rumbled Hakon, his voice as dry as the desert where the bar took its name, “Tell your friends to fly, we need to have words. Business.”

At this, the first of the pair, a tall woman -- taller than Hakon -- with a scar that reached across her nose, stood from her seat with every intention of finishing whatever job had started turning Hakon inside-out. The second roegadyn wasn’t long to follow, and both Hellsguard had enough watery ale in their systems to ignore the pointed look from the Sagolii’s hyur barback. But Bold Caldera quickly raised his hands in an effort to calm his fiery companions.

“Mouse, Nest…” said Caldera, voice clipped and sloshed with ale, “...it’s fine. Just leftover biz. Go, uh, I dunno... get some air.” And after a moment, when the two still hesitated, “Get whatever, but get it now.”

And then it was just Bold Caldera and Hakon Katlasch at the small table, with one weary barback looking on from a distance. By that point, Hakon’s hand had tightened to the point of nails digging pointedly into the bald roegadyn’s leather jerkin. It took a moment to pluck his claws from the hide, and another to seat himself in Honest Mouse’s chair. It gave Caldera a chance to regain some composure, but the worry never quite left his eyes and Hakon’s eyes never quite left Caldera. Two seconds of lingering silence passed between them and Caldera broke it first.

“Katlasch,” Caldera said, hands splayed palm-up on the table top, “I guess took it too far, huh?”

Caldera tried to be disarming but his grin had the charm of something wet and fetid. Hakon Katlasch continued to survey the Roegadyn with unsettlingly swollen eyes, their lids bulging around the meat of the iris in a way that made the Hrothgar look like he were perpetually squinting. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing a line of splittle and blood across a muzzle of white fur, but didn’t speak.

“Business, right? Just business. Gil in your hand and you make me look good. You did your part, obviously, and I--” Bold Caldera paused to fish a small, jingling bag of coin from a shirt one size too big for even his large torso. Bound with a wagoneer’s knot, the kind you had to cut instead of untie, it had clearly been set aside for something. “--did mine.”

For this, thought Hakon, feeling a loose tooth with his tongue.

The bag slid across the table, ending its path just in front of the seated Hrothgar. Hakon hoisted it, tested its heft, and quickly deposited it somewhere on his person. He still didn’t speak, letting the Hellsguard continue the conversation he and Hakon shouldn’t be having.

“I know I fucked up, I know it, but I’d never won a fight like that, I’d never been such a godsdamned hero in front of the other Valiants. I was high on it, Katlasch,” sweat and spittle made Caldera’s excitement all the more palpable, “I spent the rest of the afternoon with my hand up Mouse’s shirt.”

“You stole from us,” Hakon finally spoke, cutting him off before Bold Caldera’s story went somewhere he couldn’t easily forget, “If you wanted to break me you should have paid to break me. You should have stopped when you got the show you paid for. You should have stopped, but you didn’t. You are a debtor.”

“And I’ll pay you back, I’m good for it,” tried Bold Caldera, but the Hrothgar interrupted.

“No, not indebted to me, Caldera,” said Hakon, a broken smile broad on his face, “Indebted to them.”

“But I will gladly handle tipping the scales back into place.”

Breathe, thought Hakon, though he didn’t really expect Bold Caldera would do so. He wasn’t much of a fighter, despite what the Valiants now believed. Caldera wouldn’t know how to tell his lungs to work, his heart to beat, his mind to stir. He would let go like too many wounded men let go.

The Valiants would honor Bold Caldera above his station if they honored him at all, and that meant Hakon’s part in the transaction remained complete. He would sleep well tonight, beneath the Traders’ merciless eye, but not yet. Tonight was a triumph. And triumph meant he would be picky about his healers and his whores.

#ffxiv mateus #hakon #hrothgar #ffxiv roleplay #just exploring a new character voice

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clouds-of-yunmeng · 5 years

Text

So... accidentally a One Shot happened...

Last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I had a thought...

Imagine a malevolent cultivator, who wants to bring back the spirit of somebody, but can’t sacrifice his own body - because what point is there in bringing this spirit back, if he isn’t there to see the carnage?

So he kidnaps a young, pure person to be the vessel for the spirit he is trying to summon...

That person happens to be Lan Sizhui...

Lan Jingyi came back running this time, ignoring all the rules of his sect, not even afraid of any punishment, panic driving him to run faster.

“Hanguang-Jun! Senior Wei!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, rushing past the others who threw him both annoyed and worried glances, but he saw none of them.

As the Cloud Recesses were generally a place of quiet and tranquility, Jingyi’s voice was clearly audible even from a great distance, and it was no surprise that Lan Wangji stood before Jingyi moments later, Wei Wuxian close behind him.

“What is the matter, Jingyi?” Lan Wangji asked calmly, not even blinking as the junior disciple clutched his outer robe, tugging him forward.

“It’s Sizhui! He took Sizhui!” Jingyi sobbed, “We fought him, but he was too strong, I wasn’t fast enough! Forgive me...!” he wept, crumbling to the ground, only held up by Wei Wuxian who pulled him close and looked him in the eyes with panicked urgency in his eyes.

“Where, Jingyi? Where were you? Where did he take Sizhui?!” he asked, his voice so commanding that Jingyi forgot to sob; compelled to answer immediately.

As soon as the boy had spoken, and both senior cultivators recognized the name of the village, they shared a look and without another word Lan Wangji unsheathed Bichen, stepping onto the blade. With one arm he held Wei Wuxian’s waist and with the other he held Jingyi, who still clung to Wei Wuxian.

Before long the trio arrived by the village and Jingyi - who had pulled himself together at last - directed them to the exact spot where he had last seen Sizhui.

Droplets of blood littered the ground along with traces of ash from burnt out talismans. It was clear that a fight had occurred here.

Wei Wuxian crouched down and picked up some of the ash, reaching out with his senses to pick up the slightest trace of spiritual energy residue.

“It’s... demonic cultivation!” he gasped moments later, standing up and looking around for more hints.

“I thought it might be... It all went so fast... and nothing Sizhui did was effective at all!” Lan Jingyi murmured uncertainly.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said softly to get his attention and asked: “What purpose could someone who uses demonic cultivation have with our Sizhui?”

Wei Wuxian looked at his husband and shook his head.

“Many things... Make into a fierce corpse, make into a living corpse, make into a sacrifice...”

Lan Jingyi pulled at his hair, “Nooo!”

He shuddered to imagine what horrible things could be happening right now to his best friend, and all because he hadn’t fought well enough to protect him...

Wei Wuxian turned to the junior disciple and grabbed his shoulders.

“Jingyi-er, you must try to remember as much as you can! Who was the person who took Sizhui? What direction did they go?” he asked urgently.

Jingyi held his head in his hands and tried his best to remember anything.

“It was... a grown man... much taller than me or Sizhui... He looked like he came from an unknown sect, I couldn’t make out an emblem or anything... He had a crazed look in his eyes...”

Wei Wuxian nodded, “I see. In which direction did he take Sizhui?”

Jingyi, “This way. He went up the mountain, I think!”

“You were here to investigate an attack from a bunch of low level corpses, isn’t that right?” Lan Wangji said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Jingyi nodded.

Lan Wangji, “Did you find those corpses?”

“Yes, and we fought them off successfully, but when we were almost finished one of the corpses was revealed to have been that person who took Sizhui away!” Jingyi whimpered, remembering painfully just how frightened his friend had been.

Wei Wuxian gasped, “So it was a trap! It struck me that the timing was so well planned too... considering that Wen Ning is currently at the Burial Mounds, commemorating the loss of his family...”

Lan Wangji nodded, “Indeed. The culprit seemed to be familiar with the Lan sect’s fighting style, and was also aware of the timing that would leave his target most vulnerable,” he summarized, and Wei Wuxian added, “and seeing as he knew that our Sizhui wasn’t as well protected, he also knew that he wouldn’t be sent out to investigate anything more dangerous than just some low level corpses...”

Finding little move evidence the trio rushed up the mountain in hopes of finding more clues there.

As they searched the woods at the base of the mountain, they found the strings of a guqin, scattered along a path where someone had walked through. They were the strings from Sizhui’s guqin, which he had secretly taken off of the instrument and dropped as he was carried away to leave a trail, hoping to be found.

What’s more, he didn’t drop them randomly. Lan Wangji noticed that he had dropped the strings in a specific order, rather than from first to last on the instrument.

He understood that Sizhui was referencing the Qin language used in techniques such as Inquiry or Evocation, and he spelled out something.

The further they went, the clearer it got.

Moling Su.

As soon as it was clear the trio rushed off to the territory of the former Moling Su sect.

What they found were the pitiful remnants of a pitiful sect. With their reputation destroyed, only few sect members stayed loyal to the Moling Su sect, vainly attempting to clear the name of the sect which Su She had tarnished so completely.

The three of them were greeted by hostility and Lan Wangji didn’t hesitate to subdue them.

The few people opposing him were fighting in a desperate manner, reminiscent of how a cornered animal lashes out in it’s panic.

They were no match for him, and so while he was fighting Wei Wuxian and Lan Jingyi went ahead to find Lan Sizhui.

Locked up in a dark cellar that was only lit by a few torches, Lan Sizhui had no idea that rescue was on the way. He looked awful; his pristine Lan sect robes were torn up, burnt and stained in places, his hair falling loosely all over his face and shoulders, and worst of all... his forehead band had been taken from him.

His kidnapper and their accomplice had dangled it in front of his face before stepping on it, tearing it and lastly burning it.

Lan Sizhui felt like he had failed so bad, like he was such a disappointment to his... to Hanguang-Jun and Senior Wei. He hadn’t been able to fight his way out, his sword out of his reach, his arms and legs bound by chains and his spiritual energy blocked.

As his kidnappers taunted him he thought he finally understood just how Wei Wuxian had once been pushed so far, back in the past, because even though he shuddered to imagine the consequences, he longed for power.

He wished he could call upon something, anything... even if it was resentful energy to free himself and fight his way out of there!

Alas, he had no way of doing so.

“It’s all because of those cutsleeves that you are here now. If you want to blame anyone, resent anyone... blame and resent them!” a woman said to him, tugging on his hair as she spat in his face.

“If not for them, my husband would still be here!” she shrieked, when suddenly the fires flickered as a breeze swept through the dungeon. She looked around and let go of Lan Sizhui’s hair, walking over to the man who had taken him away.

“What are you doing over there!? Is the array still not ready?!” she asked, and he muttered something in response, when the fires flickered again.

“Stop doing that!” the woman spat, but the man shook his head and said that it wasn’t his doing.

She was about to berate him when the crimson glow of the fire turned into a sickly shade of green.

The cellar door was kicked open and the gust of wind that came from it blew out all but one torch.

“So, so,” a quiet voice said, and a shadowy figure walked into the dingy cellar, “who would have thought that people still do this kind of stupid stuff...”

Lan Sizhui’s sight was blurred by tears, but he still recognized the silhouette, and even though his blood was rushing in his ears he knew this voice by heart.

“Senior Wei!” he gasped in utter relief, but the man in question didn’t respond.

He was too angry, too filled with hatred to dare look at his son right now. He stepped up closer to the two kidnappers and raised his hand.

“Sizhui-er, you better close your eyes,” he said calmly, waiting a brief moment before curling his fingers into a fist.

As though an invisible force had grabbed the man’s neck he writhed and gasped for air, but couldn’t get any.

Finally the woman had overcome her shock and she rushed towards Sizhui with a dagger, shrieking.

“LET MY BROTHER GO! You have taken away more than enough from me, you monster!” she screamed as she pressed the dagger to Sizhui’s neck with a trembling hand.

Sizhui held his breath. He neither dared to make a sound, nor open his eyes, so he sat still where he was held.

“Oh?” Wei Wuxian said lowly, without releasing his hand at all. “What have I taken from you, hm? I have never seen you in my life.”

“My husband! My dearest Su She!” the woman wept, “It is only fair that I take something from you in return!”

Wei Wuxian, “Su She?” He chuckled joylessly, “Do you realize what your husband has taken from me? From so many people in fact?”

Su She’s wife screamed so loudly, it hurt Sizhui’s ears, “I DON’T CARE!”

Wei Wuxian tightened his hand a bit, causing her brother to gargle desperately as his face turned purple.

“Take the dagger away from his neck and I will spare your brother’s life, even though I really shouldn’t,” Wei Wuxian demanded, and the sight of her brother caused Su She’s wife to drop the dagger and throw herself at Wei Wuxian’s feet instead.

“Please!” she wept, “Yiling Patriarch, let my brother go! I told him to seek out this disciple, I told him to find my husband’s old notes... I told him to do all these things!”

Wei Wuxian finally opened his hand and as though a noose had been cut loose the man fell to his knees gasping for air, choking and coughing.

“Why?” Wei Wuxian asked the woman, who wept beneath him. “Certainly you knew of your husband’s actions... yet you still seek to avenge his death. Not just that, you seek to use the same methods that ultimately caused his death.”

She looked up at him with something akin to genuine torment in her eyes and answered, “Because he was a kind husband nonetheless. He never forced himself on me, he never held me against my will...” She trembled and hugged herself as she remembered him, “Others called him cowardly... I found him to be kind... others called him cunning... I found him to be witty...” she explained.

Wei Wuxian found it hard to believe that she and him were referring to the same Su She, but then he had to admit that likely she wasn’t wrong in her belief.

He stepped away from her.

“You may not want to hear it from me, but let me tell you that no amount of hatred will ever quench the pain in your heart. I once sought solace in destruction and I lost everything because of it. Don’t go down the path that took my life, because unlike me, there likely won’t be anyone to bring you back once you are gone,” he said quietly.

Lan Sizhui shuddered, hearing those words even though they weren’t meant for him.

He had long known that Senior Wei held a dangerous darkness within himself, but somehow he had never feared that darkness. Even as a child, he hadn’t feared the man who struck terror into the hearts of so many.

Maybe it was childish naivete, maybe it was wishful thinking that this person would never hurt him... whatever it was, it felt strange now.

“Leave.” Wei Wuxian commanded and the siblings scrambled out the door, weeping and screaming in horror and relief to have been granted another chance after all.

Finally Wei Wuxian turned to face Sizhui and the green flames turned back to their usual warmth, making Wei Wuxian’s pale face look soft and gentle, rather than creepy and menacing.

“Sizhui-er,” Wei Wuxian said softly, moving to take off the chains that bound the young disciple. Sizhui looked at him with quivering eyes, but couldn’t bear it and lowered his gaze after a few moments. He hadn’t been able to save himself, needing to be rescued by Wei Wuxian once again...

Wei Wuxian undid all the chains at last and reached up to stroke Sizhui’s hair back, noticing the lack of his forehead band. He looked around and saw the greyish pile of ash that only vaguely resembled a ribbon at this point and sighed softly.

He undid his own hairband and tied it around Sizhui’s forehead as though it was a forehead ribbon before cradling the youth’s cheek in his hand.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, before shaking his head and sweeping Sizhui up in his arms regardless of his answer.

Sizhui sputtered and flailed in shock until Wei Wuxian shushed him.

“Let a parent take care of his son, will you?” he said and adjusted his grip on Sizhui’s thighs and shoulders. “Hanguang-Jun is still upstairs, so you have a few moments to let it all out where he can’t see or hear you,” he added after a few steps and looked into Sizhui’s eyes.

At first the boy tried to stay strong and keep his facade up as much as he could, but soon he crumbled and hid his face in the crook of Wei Wuxian’s neck.

He cried without making a sound. His shoulders trembled and his breath hitched every now and then, but if Wei Wuxian hadn’t felt the tears against his skin he wouldn’t have been sure if he truly was crying.

He sighed as he ascended the stairs with the crying youth in his arms.

“I remember you cried so loudly as a child... sometimes you woke up at night and cried until someone came to comfort you... sometimes I played a song on Chenqing for you...” he said fondly. “Maybe I should play something for you again, hm? A-Yuan?”

Sizhui laughed despite himself and clung even tighter to Wei Wuxian’s neck.

Wei Wuxian let out a quiet sigh of relief. The boy hadn’t lost his laughter, so there was hope that this ordeal would one day be little more than a memory.

He carried him all the way up the stairs, and by now Sizhui’s tears had fully dried up, and he almost looked like himself again - well, except for the crimson ribbon around his forehead, untied hair and dirtied robes.

At the top of the stairs was Lan Jingyi who called out Sizhui’s name with pure euphoria as soon as he saw him.

Wei Wuxian had told him to wait there and look out for dangers, but deep down Lan Jingyi knew, that Wei Wuxian didn’t want him to see whatever he would have done to the culprits if Sizhui hadn’t been okay.

Outside the building Lan Wangji was interrogating the two kidnappers who had hoped to escape after Wei Wuxian had shown them mercy, but obviously Wei Wuxian had known that Lan Wangji would prevent them from getting away unpunished.

Sizhui was afraid to face Lan Wangji, still beating himself up over his failure, no matter how many times Wei Wuxian had assured him.

Lan Wangji on the other hand wasn’t sure how to express his utter relief and joy at seeing his son alive and well, so he just reached over to straighten the crimson ribbon over his forehead, acting as though it was no less precious than the original forehead band.

That night, when they all came back to the Cloud Recesses, Wei Wuxian guided Sizhui to the Jingshi.

The boy wanted to argue and protest, afraid that Lan Wangji would disapprove, but calmed down when the latter joined them.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji tended to Lan Yuan’s injuries, helped him clean away all the filth and lastly clothed him in clean robes. Now that he didn’t need Wei Wuxian’s ribbon anymore, replacing it with a proper headband, Sizhui handed back the ribbon.

“Thank you, Senior Wei,” he said quietly, placing the ribbon in Wei Wuxian’s hands.

He then turned to look at Lan Wangji and bowed his head, “Thank you, Hanguang-Jun,” he said to him too.

At this point Wei Wuxian couldn’t endure the stiffness and formality any more, and he pulled both men into his arms; and even though both were surprised, neither one tried to pull away from the embrace, instead reaching out to hold on tightly.

They stayed together through the night, and deep in his heart, as he was held by both Wei Wuxian and Hanguang-Jun in their sleep, Lan Yuan felt loved.

#mo dao zu shi #grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #lan wangji #wei wuxian #random bad guy nr IDGAF #questionable plot #this just happened ok?#I need to satisfy my wangxian parenting fluff desires somehow!#does this count as hurt/comfort?#I'll never stop squealing about mama xian #should I illustrate this?

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tarisilmarwen · 5 years

Text

Splinters: Debriefing

(I missed writing Kallus so much kjhkjafshkj.

Takes place right after the previous chapter.)

---

"And no matter how many times I tell him not to, Ensign Jin continues to pilfer ration bars from the food stores every time we resupply them!" Kallus complained. "I'm about ready to find a switch to smack his hands with."

Ezra chuckled, shadowing Kallus's shoulder as they crossed the hanger. Technicians and pilots bustled about, filling the underground space with a chaotic mishmash of noise.

"Yeah, Jonner's a bit of a hoarder when it comes to food," he told Kallus. "Don't be too hard on him; I think he's still not used to having regular meals. I used to be the same way. Hera's probably still finding hidden stashes in the nooks and crannies of the Ghost," he quipped.

"He hardly looks the starving type," Kallus grumbled.

"Hey, you can't judge that just based on looks," Ezra defended. At Kallus's skeptical look he amended, "Okay so it was obvious with me, but there's no reason to think Jonner isn't a little food anxious too."

Kallus gave up with a sigh. "I suppose you would be more qualified to make that diagnosis."

"How did you even wind up in charge of those three anyway?" Ezra asked. "I mean I know I've been out of the action for a while but—"

The former ISB agent was rubbing his face tiredly. "Don't ask me, I don't—I don't even know. Senator Mothma just mentioned something about Ensign Terez saying I had good advice and the next thing I knew I'm assigned to a band of wild unruly teenagers and expected to whip them into trained and disciplined Rebels." His face soured. "I think she thinks it's funny."

Ezra grinned. "She's not wrong about that."

"It's also a gross misuse of my skills and talents."

The boy shrugged. "Well you know, if for some reason it turns out you've been a double-agent all this time—not saying you are—" he put in quickly, seeing the stung expression on Kallus's face, "—you'll do a lot less damage if you're running around after a bunch of kids. Or, you know," he added, more optimistically, "it could mean she trusts you a lot." Something in his expression sobered. "Speaking of, though, how's Mart? I mean... is he holding up okay?"

"I honestly haven't seen much of the boy. I think he's—"

A loud bang sounded across the hanger as something heavy dropped.

Ezra jumped out of his skin, startling with a violent flinch. Kallus glanced his way to find that the boy was tight with tension, his eyes wide and fixated in the direction the sound had come from. He didn't seem to be breathing.

Kallus's eyes furrowed in concern. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Stirring from his spell, Ezra gave an exhale. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just—" He shook his head, waving a hand dismissively. "It's nothing."

The frown on Kallus's face deepened. "If you're not feeling well—"

"I'm fine, Kallus," Ezra insisted, irritably.

He clearly wasn't, but Kallus knew better than to press the issue. Bridger would talk to him if he felt comfortable doing so.

...He might mention something to Captain Syndulla though.

"Ezra?"

Speaking of...

Both of them turned to see Hera crossing the hanger towards them. Relief and delight shone from her as she immediately came up to Ezra, hands reaching to cup his face.

"Oh my goodness! I didn't know you'd been released!" She touched his cheeks and shoulders, looking him over, amazed at how much better he seemed from the last time she'd been able to visit the medbay. "It feels like forever since I've seen you!" She smiled warmly. "How are you feeling?"

"Hey Hera," Ezra said, easing up at the sight of her. "I'm good, I'm good." The grin he gave her was more relaxed and genuine than Kallus had seen in a while. "Eager to get back into the saddle," he told her.

Hera thumped his back affectionately, standing back. "Well, you might get your chance." She tilted her head, her lekku swinging gently. "Senator Mothma wants to see you."

His smile dimmed. "O-Oh... Okay."

"I can't stay long; they've got me burning the hyperfuel at both ends." Before she left them she reached in, pressing a motherly kiss to Ezra's temple, to which he stiffened and made a face.

"Heraaaa..." he complained.

"It's good to see you," she told him softly as she pulled back.

And with that, she was off again, lekku trailing behind her.

Kallus watched her go, seeing her disappear past a pair of docked Y-wings, then turned a concerned look on Ezra. The boy was hesitating, standing in place and making no move to go, expression uncertain. His hands were twitching as if he wanted to clench them.

"Would you like someone to accompany you?" he offered.

Ezra released a breath. "That... would be appreciated," he said, uncurling with relief. "Especially since I don't actually know where I'm going," he added with chagrin, embarrassed.

Kallus chuckled shortly. "It's this way," he indicated, taking the lead.

***

Ezra wasn't quite sure what to expect when he stepped through the doorway into the briefing room. Kallus steered him to a central holodisplay, where several important-looking members of the Rebellion were gathered, leaned in looking over the readouts and conferring in urgent voices.

He recognized Bail Organa, the senator from Alderaan. An older, gray-bearded man must have been General Dodonna. There was a woman in-between them, red-haired and clad in white, intense eyes focused on her conference. Those eyes glanced up when she noticed his approach, and she uttered a short, "Excuse me a moment." before turning from the holodisplay to face him.

Ezra came to a stop, slightly awed. He didn't quite know what to do with his hands, which fidgeted softly by his sides.

Mon Mothma clasped hers behind her and addressed him with an air of formal grace.

"Lieutenant Commander Bridger." She nodded to acknowledge him, a smile playing at her lips. "It's nice to finally meet you. Captain Syndulla speaks very highly of you."

Ezra reached up a hand to touch the back of his neck with a small, quite improper giggle. "She uh... she does huh?" he said, his eyes down bashfully.

"Focus," Kallus grouched from behind him.

He snapped up straight, eyes widening and jerking his hand back down to his side. "Right!" Hands fisting he bent forward in a short, stiff bow. "Senator." As he straightened the stiffness eased out of him. "I uh, saw a recording of your speech to the Senate. Pretty bold words."

The woman's smile turned rueful. "I only wish I'd said them sooner," she said. "The loss of Atollon was a hard blow to morale." She waved a hand to indicate the gathered Rebel company. "I made a call for the disparate Rebel cells to stand together above Dantooine." Her hand lowered again solemnly. "Less than half of who I'd hoped for answered."

Ezra swallowed down a swell of bile and guilt. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his chin dropping.

"Don't be." The soft admonition made him look back up. Mon Mothma's expression reminded him of Hera—tired, but warm and optimistic. Her eyes shone with it, and the upturned corners of her mouth. "It just means a little more work to persuade people to our cause," she said. Her hands returned to being clasped behind her. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I'm... not sure I follow," Ezra confessed, his eyes wrinkling.

"I'm told you withstood several rounds of the Brisney-Favvin Method," Mon Mothma said, paying a brief glance at Kallus.

Ezra shrugged. "I guess. I didn't exactly ask."

"I've already read Captain Kallus's report, but I wanted to confirm it from you." Her face softened before she made her request. "Can you describe the procedure they used? If you're comfortable, that is," she added quickly.

A nervous flutter passed through Ezra's stomach. He became hypersensitively aware of several pairs of eyes on him. Kallus's gaze in particular was heavy with concern. Ezra's fingers wrung together by his sides. The static that hovered constantly at the back of his head seemed to grow a fraction louder. He didn't really want to reach back and touch it. But Senator Mothma was waiting patiently, so he forced his discomfort down.

I don't have to go into detail, he thought. A surface description would be enough.

Steeling himself, he began to speak.

"They drugged me," he said. "A lot of truth serum, sedatives, and some other things later." He shook his head. "I'm not sure what. One of them burned," he remembered. "They kept me under pretty much the whole time. And in-between asking questions they shocked me."

Mon Mothma listened with a pensive expression. "At random or in a repeating cycle?" she asked.

"Repeating cycle."

She nodded sagely, giving a sigh. "That's all the classic trappings of the Brisney-Favvin, then. The Senate banned the use of the procedure years ago." Her head straightened, a trace of anger in her voice. "I'm disappointed, but not surprised, that the sanctions are being ignored."

Something had occurred to him. Ezra's eyes squinted, then widened a bit. "Wait, are... are you gonna reveal that the Empire's still using it?" he asked. "In the Senate, like you did when you called out the Ghorman massacre?"

A look passed between Mon Mothma and Sentator Organa. "Unfortunately we can't do so publicly without compromising our operatives in the Senate, due to the nature of how we obtained the information." She returned her attention to Ezra. "But behind closed doors, it could be enough to sway a few dignitaries. Again," she emphasized gently, "only if you're comfortable."

Ezra hesitated, thinking.

"We won't reveal it was you specifically," Mon Mothma promised.

He stirred from his thoughts, giving a shy half-shrug. "Sure, yeah," he said. "Whatever helps the Rebellion, right?" He could feel a quiet displeasure rolling off of Kallus but he ignored it.

Senator Mothma smiled and gave a nod. "I'm sure there are many other ways you can help the Rebellion, Lieutenant Commander. Have you been cleared for active duty yet?"

"Not yet," he told her, shaking his head. He tried not to sound too disappointed about the fact. "But I see Dr. Leslynn again in two days so, you know, maybe."

"I'm certainly looking forward to it." She stepped back, posture formal again though the warm, Hera-like expression was still in place. "Your fortitude and resilience in the face of Imperial torture is admirable," she told him. "We're lucky to have you."

A confusing flip rolled through Ezra's heart. He felt choked up and flushed and short of breath all at once. For a long while his throat was too tight for him to speak. He cleared it with a soft cough, and then managed a small, "Thanks."

Senator Mothma nodded once to dismiss him, then turned back to her conference with the others.

Ezra stood in place awkwardly, unsure now where to go next. The room resumed operations around him, paying him no more heed.

Except for Kallus of course, who turned his severely disquieted expression upon him.

"Are you sure you're comfortable with this?" he probed.

The boy shrugged. "She said they're not gonna say who it was, so it's not like anyone's going to know."

"That's not the point," Kallus said, an undercurrent of frustration in his voice. "Are you okay with the details of your personal trauma being discussed between other people?"

Ezra stifled a groan. "Kallus, it's fine. I don't—I'm not—" His words stumbled over each other. He stopped, closing his eyes a moment and taking a deep breath to clear the jumble of thoughts in his head.

He opened them again.

"I want to do it," he said quietly. "I need to feel like... like it was worth something. Like we didn't lose everything at Atollon," he continued, his mind drifting to Sato. A sinking heaviness felt like it was weighing him down. If the mission hadn't gone so belly-up... if he hadn't... then Mart wouldn't be alone right now and the Rebellion wouldn't be struggling.

Kallus made a face like he could hear Ezra's thoughts, chagrin twisting his mouth.

"That... doesn't sound entirely healthy," he said.

Ezra cracked a smile. "Yeah, well, fortunately you aren't my therapist," he said lightly, turning to find the nearest door. "So you don't have to make that call." He thumbed over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go see if Hera has anything for me to do on the Ghost. I'll see you later, Al."

Kallus had been looking as though he wanted to say something further, but upon hearing that he sputtered. "I beg your pardon, Al?"

"What?" Ezra asked innocently. "You said I could call you by your first name."

"I never meant for you to be that comfortable with it," the ex-ISB agent muttered.

"Don't be so embarrassed, Alexsandr," Ezra teased, "It ruins your image." and then he ducked out of the room before the sight of Kallus's darkening face could send him into hysterical giggles.

***

Kallus fumed, watching Ezra dart off. Despite the boy's cheerful tone, Kallus couldn't help but notice the skittish way he veered around a pair of techs working on an open circuit panel, their electro-welder making little yellow sparks as they pinched it.

Like he didn't want to be anywhere within earshot of it.

He sighed.

That talk with Captain Syndulla was definitely happening now.

---

As always, chapter notes!

1. Continuing off a bit of a thread I started in "Cracks In The Mirror", Kallus has now found himself mentor to the Iron Squadron kids. I did it because it was it funny. :)

2. And because it's still a hideous narrative injustice we never got to see Mart's reaction to his uncle's sacrifice. There will be more to come on that end.

3. I played off Ezra's interactions with Mon Mothma as though he had just an eensy little bit of a crush on her. We all know the boy has a type, come on.

4. Ezra's startle reaction is growing more pronounced. Kallus can't help but notice.

5. Space Mom Hera finally appears! As mentioned prior in "Cracks In The Mirror", Ezra's ordeal has made her into even more of a workaholic than usual, hence why she hasn't seen Ezra until now—too busy making the Empire pay.

I am so looking forward to next week's chapter you guys. Drop me a review and tell me how I'm doing.

#star wars #star wars rebels #ezra bridger #agent kallus #prompt fics #fanfiction

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a-memory-of · 5 years

Text

When Kazha'a Anhsari next woke, he seemed more willing to embrace Laurens' original idea of allowing more time for recovery. He seemed a bit at a loss on what to do with himself, offering to help Laurens with what he could around the home. He took moments to spend time outside when he grew too restless, as he had before, though instead of the grass, the Miqo'te seemed to take a liking to the porch swing as well.

Yet, not one to idle very long, two suns later, Kazha'a took the bottle and gave Laurens a quiet signal with just his eyes before retreating back to the bedroom. At the least, he knew what to expect this time. And he had made an effort to begin the task in the morning, not the middle of the night as he had before which seemed a fairer compromise to his companion's own sleep schedule.

He pulled himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed, gaze locked on that small bottle in his hands. Knowing what to expect was both a blessing and a curse. Kazha'a had little hesitation before in downing the dose, but now, he hesitated.

At first it had taken some getting used to, having someone else around the house to do various tasks, but overall it was a welcome change. Every time he thought about what was to come, he had to throttle down a trill of anxiety and ignore those thoughts.

And then the decision was made. Laurens Lalier knew he had to accept it, remembering that they'd already discussed this and it wasn't something that would simply be forgotten and go away. It couldn't be. But his breath caught and his heart pounded as he followed after Kazha'a and sat beside him. He could understand the hesitation even if he hadn't experienced the poison's effects personally. "I'll be here," he offered with a small nod.

Kazha'a looked up as Laurens sat beside him. He gave a quiet nod, letting him know his assurance was heard. With a grimace, Kazha'a brought the bottle once more to his lips, leaving just enough for a third and final dose of this particular poison. The wait was more than terrible. His heart already had started a frantic pace as he remembered what would come next.

When it hit, he was ready, at the least. His body seized up in a painful tremor but at least he'd been on the bed. Kazha'a doubled over with a wheeze, bracing himself with one arm against the blankets.

There was part of Laurens that wanted to knock the bottle away, to stop Kazha'a from going through with this and subjecting himself to more pain. Laurens wanted to protect him. Logically, he knew he couldn't; this wasn't his decision, and Kazha'a had already made it. They waited together for the poison to kick in, Laurens chewing his lower lip and already readying his spell from the last time.

As Kazha'a curled in on himself, Laurens touched a hand to his back and let the aether flow into him. It couldn't do anything to lessen the poison, but again it might help to lessen some of the pain. Laurens had also taken care to make better preparations, just like Kazha'a had. Water already waited on the bedside table, along with something he'd thought to try once the initial spasms died down. A book. Something for him to read aloud during the down times - a way of giving Kazha'a his voice to hold on to. Perhaps a distraction.

The spell was not lost on Kazha'a, recognizing the cooling comfort amidst the fiery agony. He'd been so adverse to magic most of his life. He had his reasons. But he honestly could not be anything else but grateful for the relief it gave him now. His arm soon gave out, and the Keeper curled into a near fetal position beside Laurens.

Kazha'a had hoped it would be easier. His body was supposed to have gotten stronger; that was the entire point. But it did not seem it yet. His muscles still spasmed, and his stomach burned. He tried to swallow down that familiar metallic taste of dark blood in his mouth. And just as before it was near a quarter bell before he finally found a moment of quiet.

There was little comfort Laurens could give. He did what he could, however, his heart clenching as he watched Kazha'a writhe in agony. As things finally began to quiet down again, he gently stroked Kazha'a's hair out of his face and gave one more nudge to the healing magics to keep them cycling through his system. The magic would be there when the pain began again, hopefully easing some of it.

Laurens retrieved the book from the side table. It wasn't one of his own; he didn't want to build any sort of association with the current situation and his books. It was poetry. The way he thought of it, the different cadences might give Kazha'a something to focus on. His voice low, Laurens began to read. He refreshed the magic whenever it began to flag, taking the pauses as opportunity to do so.

Kazha'a was lingering in that muddy place between pain and awareness, just focusing on breathing as it was something he needed to remind himself to do. Throughout it all he was acutely aware of Laurens' presence and his magic. Then the voice came through as well.

At the start, he could not really make out words, only that there was a deep, calm voice. It was strangely soothing, they way it flowed from word to word. It didn't sound like regular conversation, but Kazha'a couldn't place why. His body relaxed, as much as it could, and he pressed himself closer to the sound, bumping his head under that hand in his hair.

Laurens continued to stroke Kazha'a's hair, offering the physical comfort for as long as the Keeper reacted favorably to it. The sound and cadence of his voice was a spell in and of itself, drawing Laurens into a pattern of words not unlike the aether he wove at the same time.

He kept up his self-imposed tasks even when he wasn't certain if Kazha'a's silence meant his body had allowed him the respite of unconsciousness. The only breaks Laurens allowed himself were in order to sip at the water kept beside the bed and to simply pause to watch Kazha'a breathe. It was silly, but he had to just reassure himself every once in a while that it was truth and not just his imagination. While the fits were far, far worse, the quiet moments brought their own unique concerns.

With both the sound of Laurens' voice and the aching exhausting set upon his body in between the pain, Kazha'a found rest in the quiet moments. Unlike the first time, where despite the sheer exhaustion he could not find those moments of sleep, the Miqo'te seemed far more eased this time. It was a combination of the constant spell, words, and perhaps a body that had indeed learned something.

With @ffxivaltstars

But the fits still came, waking him with violent painful tremors in which he clung to the closest part of Laurens in reach each time. As the day progressed, the span between each fit grew until they finally stopped near the evening bells. And then Kazha'a drifted off for the last time into well-needed sleep. Later still, though he likely needed far more of it, Kazha'a awoke from slumber with a quiet moan. His body felt like it had been tossed about. But his eyes were far more clear, and aware.

Even when Kazha'a was clearly asleep between phases of pain, Laurens kept reading. He didn't know if Kazha'a could hear him at all during those times, but he made the decision that it was better to continue that constant touchpoint. So he petted Kazha'a's hair and upper back, as he could reach, and read.

A break was taken about a bell into the Keeper's true sleep, Laurens giving his voice a rest. It gave him time to think, to sort through a few things that could make interesting novel plots at a later date. He picked up the next poem in the book as the sun's rays lengthened. Halfway through it, Kazha'a's voice gave him pause.

"How are you feeling?" Laurens asked gently, his own voice a little rough from overuse. Thinking of the time before, he poured a small amount of water and held the cup where Kazha'a could indicate he wanted it and have it quickly.

Kazha’a processed the question for a moment, drawing in a deep breath that was no longer as strained as before. He focused on the sound of Laurens’ voice, tired, and worn. He remembered it. Had he been speaking to him the entire time? Something in his chest warmed, oddly. The Keeper reached up, rubbing at his eyes. The pain it caused to move was more like a dull ache now, nothing like the first time he had woken on the previous dose and could barely move.

“It’s… better,” Kazha’a finally answered, voice cracking slightly, low and quiet. “Than before.” He did not like to be overly optimistic. Optimism was never a strong suit of his. But perhaps all this was working, he thought. Perhaps this was all worth it.

The Miqo’te slowly pushed himself up to sit beside him, the overly large borrowed tunic he had been given hanging off one shoulder. The action took a bit out of him, so he paused before he dared to tilt his head up and look to Laurens. “Maybe… it’s working.”

Laurens was slow and gentle with him, not trying to rush an answer or make him shift position quickly. Whether Kazha'a's less deathlike pallor was due to the first dose having done its job or another reason, Laurens was still heartened to see him moving and speaking easier.

"Better is everything we can hope for right now," he said softly, moving his arm when Kazha'a pulled himself up to sit beside him. The arm was instead curled around the Keeper, giving the ability to catch him should he fall. After a brief hesitation, Laurens decided against touching Kazha'a and rested his hand on the pillow. "It seems like it's working. I don't think anyone could do this without your strength of will."

He offered the cup of water with his other hand. "Thirsty?"

Looking up, Kazha'a's eyes flickered with something at the other's words. It was unconventional praise, only considering the circumstance. He was not sure what to say to it. So he was grateful when the water was handed to him, so he could give a quiet 'thanks' instead of a reply.

For the moment, he marveled how he could hold the glass himself this time. His hands still felt weak, and his joints ached. But he could bring the water to his own lips. He took it slow, knowing well enough it would likely come back up should he be too greedy.

Kazha'a finally looked back up, furrowing his brow slightly and asking in a quiet voice, "...you never left?"

#ff14 #ffxiv #rp #roleplay #rp logs #Kazha'a Anhsari #Laurens Lalier #Motherhood & Venom #Memories of the Lonely Blade

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