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tadpolesonalgae · 6 months

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Mer!Azriel x human!reader: The Dregs of Tragedy

A/N: Something about writing Az as a creature other than Illyrian just makes him end up being so cold and cruel and I have literally no idea where that comes from?

Warnings: Bitta’ blod, Az saves reader in a way, you have an awful husband in this

Word Count: 4,970

-Part 2-

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“If your husband hears you talking like that, he’ll string you up with the rest of them.”

You flinch at the imagery, but stay firm—were you even a fisherman’s wife without nerves of steel and a stomach made of iron? “I don’t care what you say. It’s barbaric either way.” Joanne shakes her head, hair pulled back from her face as the carving knife splits the fish’s head from its body. “It’s barbaric what they do to us, sweet lass. A sailor’s death will never be kind, but to be dragged below the waters by those clammy hands is not a fate I would wish on many.”

Quirk a brow, lips tugging up at the edges. “Would Hildebald be among those few many?” You ask, making the fishmonger’s wife shoot you a sharp glare.

“Do not ask me to speak poorly of him. The gods listen between breaths.”

“The gods lay back while we are beaten and bloody,” you say, carefully lowering your voice. “I fear them as much as you do, but I will not succumb to terror. Virtues protect me, I carry honour close and pray to valour for my husband’s safe return, but that does not mean I would be unhappy should he be snatched from my side.”

Joanne runs her eyes over you appraisingly, face carved deep with age lines, hair wispy and grey. “Listen closely, lass,” she instructs, “we have little power in what happens to us, don’t squander the hand you’ve been dealt, for many others would gladly take your place. Your husband works hard at sea, and has been parted from his gold to pay for you—and we all know your father put an unreasonable dowry on your head.” Her misty sea-foam eyes flicker about, on constant edge should the wrong ears catch the conversation. “Just be grateful for what you have, lass. Look to the skies and you’ll go falling over your own feet,” she hisses, a clear end to the conversation.

You open your mouth to speak back—just because he’s paid for you doesn’t mean he can bruise you bloody—but her watery blue eyes skip over your shoulder, just as a hard, heavy palm settles atop the skin, pulling you in close to a tall, strong body, trained and battered from the seas. “Fish for supper?” He asks jovially—it must have been a good sail. Turn into him, like a creature seeking protection from a vastly superior beast, tilting your head to peer up at your husband. “I got a fresh loaf from the bakers so I was thinking of a soup,” you say, pushing up onto your tiptoes to deliver a chaste kiss to his rough skin, coarse hairs scratching your cheek. “They even added in a fresh lemon to go with it all.”

Light, sharp blue eyes cut to you, something passing behind them that has your stomach sinking. “Of course they did,” he mutters, “it’s in their nature to covet another man’s catch.” He shakes his head, arm tightening around your ribcage almost painfully. “Joanne, you can accompany my wife to the bakers from here onwards,” he drawls out the order like he’s stood behind his ship’s wheel. He turns back to you, fingers stroking along the underside of your breast, eyes glinting. “A hag ought to even out the balance of your beauty,” he murmurs, and you attempt not to cringe as his hot, fishy breath fans across your face.

Instead you dip your head in a demure show of embarrassment, ducking away from the smell. “You find me beautiful because you spend your days at sea with only fish to admire,” you dodge the compliment like you’re expected to, the picture of humble grace. “I assure you, I am nothing much at all.” That seems to please him, squeezing you a little too tightly. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the town,” he says, greasy hand stroking your side. “That is why you are mine. I would not have picked you out if there was a better catch.”

You paste a shy smile onto your lips, tucking away a stray hair over your ear, gripping the wicker basket tighter.

The night will be unpleasant but blessedly short.

————

The surf is calmer today, fog rolling across the grey-blue landscape.

You shouldn’t be down at the cove so early in the morning, but you hadn’t wanted to sleep beside him for a moment longer. Desiccated, scratchy skin pressing to your back, a meaty arm pressed around your waist. So you’d come down to the alcove to clear your head, allowing the crips, salty air to clear your mind before the day ahead. Though sailors will soon be passing by, so you can’t afford to wait too long.

Release a heavy breath, staring out at the deep blue of the ocean, long since desensitised to the scent of brine and seaweed that makes inlanders cringe. The waves are slight, appearing almost still as you survey the view. Had it not been for the steady babble and crush of water, you might have believed the world to be frozen.

Your mind drifts to tales of the mer, stories told to every child to encourage fear and awe into their hearts. Of their cold and clammy hands, capable of pulling fully grown sailors from the docks should they stand too close to the edge. Of their damp, bluish skin, like an eel’s on their chest and arms, but scaled and sharp on their long, thrashing tails. Of their razor-sharp teeth, used to shred and tear at their prey before finally doing away with the catch.

But more than any other feature, folk melodies revolve around their deadly song. Said to be sung so sweetly it could lure any sailor to wish for his end to be at their cold, wet hands. To be dragged below the water’s still surface into their dark and murky layer, fed enough air to be kept alive and aware but never enough to resist as the flesh is torn from their bones.

You move forward, walking along the rickety platform, wanting to look down into the water at the end of the pier, despite the danger you’ve been warned about. The water is still high, but has already begun draining away, the tides lowering. You hum absently as you approach, an old tune that’s often strummed around celebratory bonfires, logs crackling and embers burning bright against the wet blues and greys of the sea-town.

Something catches your eye, ripples coming out from beneath the pier you’re stood on.

Brows furrow, and you walk forward quietly. Maybe a sea creature is hiding beneath the platform. A smile tugs at your lips at the idea—you’d like to see more of the animals when they’re alive instead of with their head severed into a slimy, bloody basket.

You lower to your knees as you come to the edge, muffling your steps so as not to scare it away, if there really is something there.

Peer over the ledge, gaze going to one of the two beams supporting the platform.

Eyes latch with coal black, ringlets of damp, silky hair curling over blue-tinted skin.

Lips part in a scream as you jerk back from the edge, scrambling away before it’s spindly hands come groping for your legs. Heart pounding, you thumb free the small dagger from a dress pocket, gripping it between trembling hands as you frenetically eye the waters below. Waiting for it to attack one side of the pier…to try and drag you under so it can feed on your flesh.

Breath clouds, tendrils curling from your lips as you tremble, replaying the depth of blackness in your mind, the deathly tint of its skin, the unnatural beauty of the lethal creature.

Nothing.

Utter silence.

Shakily, you get to your feet. Had you imagined it? There’s no way.

Heart pounding, you again make your way to the ledge, prepared to toss yourself back should its hands suddenly rise from the water. Swallow, gripping the dagger tight as you shift closer, enough to see a head of dark, slightly curled hair. No doubt the drying sea salt bringing out the waves.

Ease a shuddering breath as you again meet its eyes—charcoal black and utterly depthless. Designed to see in the deepest parts of the mighty ocean. That’s when you notice the tinge in the waters surrounding— him. It’s a male face. Dark lashes, smooth skin, cropped hair.

Eyes dart back to the sea, bleeding red around him.

You note the fishing wire that’s gotten him tangled to one of the beams upholding the platform.

He’s been caught.

Lips part in relief—he can’t hurt you. And yet— “You’re not singing…” you murmur to yourself, eyeing the soft-looking mouth of the creature.

Features coil, twisting themselves into something frighteningly fitting as lips pull back from teeth—dozens of tiny, shredding teeth, set in two neat rows with noticeably protruding incisors. You flinch back on instinct, but remaster your fear, reminding yourself he can’t move. Swallowing, you thank the gods for your iron stomach as you return to the edge. Dagger still gripped tight.

The wire has wrapped itself around his torso from what you can see—probably having gotten tangled first with the creature’s tail, then only constricted tighter as he tried to escape. Much like seaweed.

Brow tightens as the waves continue washing at the shore—the ocean’s draining. What will happen to him, if he doesn’t break free? His lips look dry now you’re peering closer, lines running beneath the stunning black of his vicious eyes. They can survive without being submerged in water for days, but the wire… How long has he been here for?

His mouth opens, and you freeze, tales of their deadly song returning, but instead of the painful melody you were expecting, what comes out is a rasping screech. Garbled and furious—a wet hissing noise, as if he’s seething his warnings.

There’s wire against his neck. Already slicing deep against the powerful column of his throat, stopping much of the noise escaping. You stare down at the creature, tangled and caught. A mighty beast that’s been stripped of any way to protect itself. You wonder if it fears or loathes the helplessness. Perhaps a little of both.

You peer into its eyes, the vicious fury contained within, like he’s already promising to repay the pain you’ll inflict on him tenfold.

Your throat rolls as you stare at him. He’ll die if you leave him—it’s a miracle of some kind he’s managed to remain undetected for so long, though you suppose not many people come down here. But what if someone else finds him?

A queasy feeling tightens around your throat as you imagine the tide sweeping out, gravity pulling the weight of his body down into those slicing wires, forcing him to rest in the tangle until the water returns to yield him to near weightlessness. But what if one of the sailors finds him?

You know what they’ll do. What they already do to the mer they catch. How they’re mutilated, then strung up in the air for the salty winds to whip at, for birds to peck at, slathered in fish blood and other small carcasses to draw creatures in. Sometimes fires are lit beneath their long, powerful tails. Slowly cooking them alive.

Hadn’t you been protesting against the brutality just the other day?

The mer struggles again, water rippling as he writhes, so certain he can break the man-made wire holding him. So desperate to do so.

You look around once…twice. Check no sailors have yet begun to pass over the paths that lead beside the shore. Slowly lower to your knees, gripping the dagger. Black eyes pick out the steel, and he thrashes more, hissing violently as his features are again carved into that picture of grizzly vehemence. Exactly how the stories have told them to be.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say clearly, slowly. If he’s smart enough to capture and kill fully grown sailors, he should have something to pick up on tone. Some kind of sense that will tell him it’s better to let you near than to go through with the fate he’s seemingly been dealt.

He hisses again, still baring those teeth at you, but he’s no longer struggling. No longer bringing the wire deeper into his body. It’s a good start. You just need to make sure he doesn’t grab you once cut loose. What a foolish way to go.

You breathe deeply as you move closer, reaching forward.

His muscles tense, tension tightening his shoulders as the blade nears him—it would be easy for your hand to drag the steel across his throat, but the very idea makes you uncomfortable. Watching murder happen and doing it yourself are still very different. You don’t think you could quite stomach that.

“I need you to keep still,” you say gently, clearly. If he makes a sudden movement with the blade so close… You slide it beneath the wire, placing the sharp edge to the restraints, pulling in attempts to get it to break. He hisses suddenly, and you realise it’ll be cutting into his throat so you change tactics, gently sawing until it snaps free.

The mer coughs, wet gasps being hauled down into no-doubt powerful lungs, spluttering as his gills spasm violently.

You can only allow him a little time before setting to work on the next one, further below the water, binding his shoulders tight to the post. Settle closer to the platform, aware of how his eyes silently track every angle of your movements. Whether to make sure you don’t attack, or to plan his own, you don’t contemplate. Just reach deeper, aiming for the next wire. Repeat the gentle sawing motions until that too snaps off.

A gush of relief washes over you as his upper body moves free from the bloody mess, but then he hisses and jerks back, pressing to the beam. His noise sounds strained instead of violent. A noise the product of lacerating pain. There’s most likely more wire tangling his tail, but— you can’t reach that.

The unearthly face tilts, dark eyes boring into you with urgency and— Great Gods. Hunger.

“What are you doing down here?”

You flinch at the rumble of your husband’s voice and the creature goes preternaturally still. As if he also recognises the sound. You could swear his skin leeches of the bluish tint, becoming colder and more translucent. The dagger drops from your hands, bouncing loudly on the wood of the pier. Settles at the edge, and you jerk away, turning to face the towering man approaching you.

Panic grips you as you spy a broad, pale blue hand rising silently from the water. Reaching for the blade.

You shift, angling your body to block him from your husband.

“I wanted to see if I could see the sea bed,” you explain hurriedly, managing what you hope is an appropriately embarrassed smile. “Sadly the tide’s in, so I think it’s too deep. Do you know when it’ll be out again?” You ask, trying to distract from the position he’d found you in. His brow narrows, heavy boots clunking over the rickety pier. “You shouldn’t be so near to the waters,” he mutters, moving forward and you hastily get to your feet, the dagger gone from the platform.

Bruising, meaty hands roughly grip your upper arms, forcefully turning you to face him. The smell of grease and hot fish washes over you and you fight your cringe. “Yesterday it was the bakers, today it’s the seas,” he mutters, “it’s not right for you to be this close to—” Follow the direction of his gaze, down to the edge of the pier.

He pushes you to the side, allowing him to galumph past, staring down to the post the mer had been tied to.

Watch his bulky silhouette as hands pull into flesh-beating fists, your bones already aching. “Is everything okay?” You ask softly, shaking your head to yourself. “I’m sorry for taking so long to make breakfast—I got sidetracked on my usual pathway. Let’s return home.”

He doesn’t move, the world silent save for the steady wash of waves at the shore. Your husband turns then, brows pulled into a hateful bunch atop sea-roughened skin. “Why were you peering into the waters?” His voice is low and blunt, eyes sharpening to glacial blue, regarding you with a hint of suspicion. You smile, “I told you, I was looking to see the bottom but the tide’s not yet out.”

Heart is pounding—could he have already known the mer was there? The bluish skin had almost drained, as if paling with fury.

Then he’s walking to you with intent, hands brutally gripping your upper arms, tight enough the bones trembling beneath his sailor’s grip. “Why were you peering into—”

Something gleams over his shoulder, grazing the muscle of his bicep as your dagger flies past, blood spitting onto the deck as the blade lodges into the wood. Cold blue eyes freeze, snapping from the weapon dug into the pier back to you. “That’s yours,” he accuses, lowly. “You set it free, didn’t you?”

“I don’t—”

His hand smacks across your cheek before you have time to prepare, the corner of your mouth stinging as something hot trickles down your chin. Lips part, raising your fingers to the drip-drop of blood.

“You set the damned thing free,” he rages, practically snarling with fury. Before you can do anything against it, he’s turning, gripping you so tight you’re afraid your arm will splinter. “Björn! Bertram!” He bellows, calling to the sailors that are no doubt beginning their morning routines. He’s muttering to himself, about capturing it again before it can get too far out to sea, dragging you along behind him.

You stumble, tripping up as you go, almost bumping into him as you’re roughly pulled back along the pier. He whirls on you then, backhanding you hard enough you almost careen backward. But his meaty hand is encompassing your throat, strangling tight as he pulls you close enough for his greasy, fishy beard to coarsely scratch your skin. “Stupid, foolish hag,” he snarls out, “you’ll be strung you and up cooked alive for that.”

Your stomach churns as you struggle, nails clawing at his knuckles, scratching deep enough to draw blood, more of it drip-dropping onto the rickety pier. You gasp for breath, rasping and clawing at his hand until he snarls, shoving you back. Tripping over your skirts, the back of your head smacks against the wood hard enough to have your vision blurring, white spots dancing through your view. Billowing grey clouds wash overhead, looking about to rain down.

Weakly, you push up from the damp platform, in time to see your husband pluck the dagger from the ground—what had tripped you up. Eyes flash with fury, flipping the hilt menacingly as he advances, drawing out the fear. You whimper, scrambling back until your hand slips over the edge, almost sending you tumbling into the murky depths. “I should have known,” he spits out, “there were whispers about your thoughts. I should have paid them more mind.” The dagger glints in his hand, so quickly turned to your own throat.

“I’ll take my time with you,” he mutters, “take the fingers that cut the fish free.” Flips the blade in his hand as he towers over you. Muscles coil taut, unable to move, unable to fight as the steel glitters beneath the overcast light. He moves to grab you—to take your fingers, to cut you up.

A deafening screech sounds, rasping and raw, then a pale blue shape leaps from the water. Jaws are unlocked to a monstrous angle, neat rows of sharp, flesh-shredding teeth bared as that giant tail thrashes with the force to propel him clean from the water. The muscled weight of the mer crashes into your husband, knocking him from his feet as he’s stolen beneath the water’s surface faster than you can blink.

The sea ripples in his wake, then calms to nothing, continuing to lap at the shore, hiding all traces of the deadly attack.

“Mer!” A bellowing voice roars, and your eyes are dragged to the beginning of the pier, two hulking sailors—Björn and Bertram—stood among the heavy, rolling fogs that have seemingly thickened out of nowhere. Their weighty boots thud on the deck as they begin storming forward, weapons gripped tight in case of another unseen attack.

Your heart beats in your mouth, fear and panic sweeping you under as you freeze with terror. You shift to move back, but have forgotten you’re already at the edge, hand slipping back over the ledge of the pier.

Eyes go wide, unable to scream as powerful, cold-blooded hands wrap beneath your arms, hooking over your shoulders and you’re dragged down beneath the sea’s surface. Water swallowing any trace of struggle as it seals overhead.

You thrash and writhe, hands shoving out as you try to free yourself from the iron grip of the mer that’s dragging you down to his sea bed. He turns you around, then cold, soft lips are settling over your own, breathing fresh air into your lungs. Tasting slightly coppery. You don’t question how it’s possible—they’re creatures of magic—just greedily gulp the extra seconds of life down as you feel his powerful body ripple with motion, muscle working as the large tail propels you deeper into the ocean, stolen away from the sea-town you’d grown up in.

Fear seeps into your blood as images of his tiny, shredding teeth flash through your head, the charcoal of his large, onyx eyes.

You should never have risked freeing him. He’s as cruel as the songs warn.

————

Spluttering as you break the surface of the underwater cave, your eyes ache from being squeezed shut for gods know how long.

Gulp down air to fuel your panic driven heartbeat, briny salt water stinging as tears drip down your cheeks. You quickly blink them away, unable to dry your eyes thanks to the cold water having soaked your clothes, down to the bone. His tail moves in strong motions, keeping the both of you afloat, yet he hasn’t bitten down. Mouth remains shut, as if waiting for you to ready.

Peel open your gaze, instantly latching onto his dark eyes, glittering black as he watches you silently. The oddly shaped ears either side his head twitch, looking like the webbed feet of some of the marine birds you’ve seen. Birds that have feasted upon mer flesh when it’s been strung up to be picked at.

As soon as you can manage, you’re trying to writhe away from the creature, but the stories haven’t done their strength justice. It’s like being held by stone, muscle as unforgiving as the cold, jagged rocks the surf crashes upon. Dread sets in, spiralling your mind as you thrash against his grip, desperate to spare yourself from the horrible fate of his gently prying teeth.

“Let go of me,” you plead, trying to squirm out of his hold, eyeing the hewn rock that makes up the underwater cave, seemingly being kept in an air bubble. Gaze returns to gleaming black in time to see as a transparent film blinks across his eyes, making you startle, yipping as you flinch away in horror. Teeth catch on the edge of your mouth with the recoil, reopening the small wound, courtesy of your husband, vision again blurring with the sting.

You struggle as he starts moving, but he’s pushing you toward the ledge of the rocky cave, not dragging you below—deeper into his layer. Breathing stutters as your back presses into the jagged rock, his blue-tinted hands spanning your hips, turning you around and pushing up from the cold sea. You scramble away so quickly you graze your knee on the sharp rock, splitting skin as blood begins seeping into your skirts.

Wince at the pain, but push as far back as you can, finding the stone now to be surprisingly smooth, as if carved away. Breathe heavily, shivering against the icy temperature of the submarine cave, hugging your limbs close by as the mer watches silently. Tears helplessly drip down your cheeks, teeth chattering as you try to put a stop to your crying. You’re a fisherman’s wife, for goodness sake. Were a fisherman’s wife?

Throat rolls as you push back into the smooth wall of the cave. “What did you do with my…with Alaric?” You manage through trembling jaws, lungs spasming with the cold.

The question appears to aggravate the mer, lip curling at the name alone. “He’s alive,” the male rasps, throat straining to create the syllables of speech. You stifle your surprise—yes, you’d known they could sing, but you’d assumed it was in some ancient tongue, fitting for their ancient species. Swallow down your fear, curling tighter in on yourself. “Why have you brought me here?” You manage, voice thick and scared even to your own ears.

He swims closer, resting powerfully muscled arms upon the rocky ledge, tail swaying idly behind him in the lagoon. It’s then you truly take in the cave he’s brought you to, kept alight by luminescent greens and blues, crystals lining the ceiling, the sea lighting up with every small movement, as if mixed with melted moon wax. Tendrils of breath curl before you in misty swirls, teeth chattering more as shivers wrack your body, not all of them solely from the frigid air.

“You saved my life,” he rasps, jaw resting atop his forearms as he watches you.

“So you trap me in a cave?” You manage, trying to fight off the feeling of your fingertips beginning to frost over. He merely blinks at your question, that translucent film sliding back and forth just beneath his lids. “So I saved yours,” he correctly neutrally, a hint of arrogance in his dark eyes.

Brows knot together in confusion as you stare at the male. “You—… You’ve trapped me.”

“Your husband would have killed you,” he rasps, cold eyes sharpening with what you can only assume is hatred. “I saved you.” You shake your head, unaware of your lower body. “You took him because you were hungry. It served your own purposes.”

Incisors glitter beneath the icy blues of the cave, gleaming as his lip curls. Extends his arm, cold-blooded fingers stretching out as if to grab you. “Shall I return you?”” You huddle close to the wall, curling away from his deathly touch. “I’ll freeze to death if you take me through those waters again,” you hedge. “Besides, you might change your mind along the way, and—” You cut yourself off, noticing the red of his tongue. Swallow, hoping it’s not left-over blood.

His ears flutter, noting your gaze, lips pulling back as he swipes the flesh-roughing muscle over gleaming teeth. “And?” He asks, quietly taunting as the edge of his mouth quirks. As if daring you to voice the dreadful tales of his kind. Your lips purse, instead turning your attention to trying to contain your warmth. The mer shifts, as if about to slide back into the water.

“Wait!” You call out, having him pause, glittering onyx eyes turning once again to your figure. “Where are you going?” You ask, unable to entirely keep the fear from your voice. “Away,” he answers in that still raspy, raw voice of his. “I’ll be back,” he adds with a croon, tail swishing beneath him, arms running through the water as if revelling in being reunited on friendly terms. Panic sets in—if he leaves, he might never return. Might very well forget about you entirely. Leaving you to freeze in a subterranean sea cave, rotting away with the grime and stale water, all alone.

“Why did you bring me here?” You ask frantically, not wanting to be around him, but not wanting him to leave either. You don’t want to die here.

Ears twitch again, watching you silently, observing like he’s waiting for a sign to show. He returns to the ledge of rock leading down into the freezing waters, again settling himself atop the hewn stone. “You know what he does to us. What you all do to us,” he rasps, close enough for you to pick out the still-healing slices on his throat. “You know how you hate us, and you know how they hate anything that does not hate with them. You knew how they’d hate you too. So why meddle?”

Skin prickles at the intense look he’s giving you, feeling as though judgement is being passed.

“I didn’t want your death on my conscience,” you mange, lips long numb from the biting temperature. He blinks slowly, the only shift in expression he shows, the rest of his features blank as a still day at sea.

“Don’t try to escape. You’ll drown yourself,” he rasps bluntly, pushing away from the ledge, returning to deeper waters. “Just wait. I’ll return.”

The mer swims to the middle of the pool, dark eyes gleaming. “Eventually.”

Then he’s swallowed in a flash of silver, darting away to one of the submerged tunnel openings, navigating his way out to open ocean. Stomach tenses, listening to the laboured heave of your breaths and the quiet hush of waves. Curl tighter into yourself, praying he returns before the warmth entirely leaves you, already unable to feel your legs or hands.

Teeth chatter in the quiet of the cave, leaving you to wonder how far below land you are.

How deeply he’s already buried you.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

Az Taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x yn #mermaid au #mer!azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fic

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yaut-jaknowit · 3 months

Note

first of all I absolutely love your work honestly it is amazing!! And that last gawtin ask hurtttttt I was wondering if you could make a part two? If you want to of course maybe communication saves the day? I hope you have a good day!

Argument with Gawtin Part 2

Pairing: Gawtin (Female Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2276

Summary: For hours, you stay in your art room, sobbing away the time until the tears run dry. Now, it's the time to figure out what to do. You don't want to leave, you never want to leave Gawtin or Qui'oky. They're your family. You'll find a way to fix this or die trying.

Author Note: Communication in relationships are incredibly important! Here, it does save the day. Thank you so much! It hurt me too to write it because I hate conflict and to have my favorite pair fight...

Masterlist

Ao3

Part 1

Once the tear ran dry and left stick, crusty lines down the lengths of your cheeks, you picked your head up enough and looked around. The space was the same, empty and void of Gawtin. Old paintings and drawings covered the walls from floor to ceiling, making this place yours. A room that the green Yautja had given to you. She done so much for you.

An ache started behind your sternum as you hung your head in shame again, unable to cry again. In an instant, you shoved it back into her face while flipping the middle finger at her. You sat up in your desk chair, chin level. You had to fix this. You wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t let this go. Not her love, the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted before. The two of you were meant to be together, no matter who or what said otherwise.

How would you show how sorry you are though? You glance around the room. It’s not like you’re a hunter like her. You couldn’t bring how creature five times your size. No, you were her artist. You wield pencils, not knives.

What could you make? Something she could understand in her own culture, something that would be of great value. Then, you shook your head. No, if it came from you, it’ll be enough. You dipped your head.

A newfound determination filled your veins. You stood up abruptly and walked towards the only exit. Once you’ve reached the door though, you paused before hitting the button to open it. What if she was out there? You couldn’t just ignore her and walk out. That would be incredibly rude and inconsiderate of Gawtin. Well, you’ll cross that bridge if you reached it.

All was quiet and dark in the main room of her hut. Your shoulders sagged both in relief and disappointment. Where had she gone? Qui’oky wasn’t here, meaning he had to be with his mother. She wouldn’t leave him to his lonesome.

You left the safety of your art room. The door sliding close behind you. The floorboards barely made complaints as you walked over to the front door. A satchel hung off your shoulders, a knife sitting in one of the pockets. Not much more than for cutting stems rather than the throats of animals that could consume you whole. In another pocket sat a device similar to a GPS and could lead you back home.

So be it. You wanted to show you cared about her, that you truly did. An argument would not ruin everything you’ve built with her. You wouldn’t let it, no matter how much you wanted to take the next flight off this planet. This was your home.

Out the door you went. Cool, humid air smack you straight in the face. It was far better than the burning binary suns that would bore down on your skin during the day. You braved your way through the humidity and started a path in a random direction. You let your heart led the way.

For a few miles, you traversed with little thoughts of where to go. Only thing that filled your mind was the flashbacks of the argument. The skin of your bottom lip had been worn down till the taste of blood, an action you couldn’t help. Not when Gawtin’s voice echoed in your head to go home. You wished you had said this was your home.

And it was. You belonged at her side, holding her hand with Qui’oky perched on your hip. This was your family, you were going to fight tooth and nail for it.

A gut feeling told you to stop. For a moment, you prayed it wasn’t an instinct you were being hunted. The hairs along your neck never raised. You relaxed and scanned the surrounding area until a feeling drew you towards your right. A feeling you followed until you found a shiny rock. The colors that matched the same hue as Gawtin’s dark, forest green. It was slipped into the main pocket and sealed off from the world it once sat in.

For what was probably hours, you continued to do this even after the yawn broke across you face. When your satchel began to dig into your shoulder uncomfortably, you called it a night.

Flowers, tied together with a thin string were held in one of your hands. The other held onto the GPS tracker, helping you to trek in the right direction home. You couldn’t believe you had found yourself five miles away from the hut. The walk back would take you forever especially with how the terrain was. This is a jungle that ranged from steep mountains to gushing rivers. A few rocks had been picked up from the riverbeds and snuck their way into your satchel as well.

Though it took at least another three hours to return home, the two suns beginning to peek through the trees, you made it. Your clothes were soaked through with sticky sweat. Hunger twisted your gut with each desperate call for food. You were smart enough to have a waterskin attached to your satchel so you didn’t perish from dehydration that far from home.

The familiar forest green roof/walls met your vision as you pushed through the thickest part of the foliage that surrounded the cottage. Home. You smiled in relief and trudged up to the door. Without even thinking, too exhausted to even think up thoughts, you pushed your way into the home. Gawtin still wasn’t home. You huffed and entered your art room.

Your satchel’s contents was dumped onto tabletop. The flowers were untied ands laid out as well. It may all look like junk you’ve picked up from the jungle’s floor, but to you, it was unmade art. All it was needing was to be pieced together, like a puzzle. You had the hands to do it.

Like the artist the whole town knew you as, you began to piece what items could go together. Even with the need to collapse and sleep for ten hours straight pulled at your mind, you pushed through.

When you grew irritated when some pieces didn’t want to fit with one another, you set it off to the side and looked at the flowers. All of them had long stems, perfect for what you wanted to do. You had also grabbed a lot, possibly too many but you didn’t want to trek all the way back out there and get more.

Covered in dirt, your hands began to weave the stems carefully with one another. A pattern you had pulled up on a tablet Gawtin had given you long ago. On the screen, it looked ease to follow but grew harder with each newly added stem. At times, you were ready to rip it apart and set it on fire. Somehow, you soldiered through and finally finished the piece.

It was far too large to sit upon your head, which was exactly what you were aiming for. You didn’t have any measurements for Gawtin’s head and only estimated on her size. Not like she was home for you to measure without her growing suspicious in the first place.

Now feeling better at the fact you finished one of the projects, you moved back towards the mess of rocks and wires on the other side of your desk.

Almost a year ago, you had given Gawtin a necklace you had specifically went out to the market for. That led you into a mess of going from one vendor to another before getting captured in the end. Gawtin had to save you from the trouble but she was never mad. She expressed that after she got you to the safety of the hut.

Everyday, she wears that necklace. A sign of either pride or love, maybe even both. But you loved it and it seemed like Gawtin did too. Now, you were designing two bracelets. Either for both arms or one. Whatever she choose to do with them was up to her.

Back in the seat of your desk chair, you sat crisscross and stared upon the rocks once more. Ideas flowed freely inside of your mind, anything for this to work.

With these being on her wrist, they had to be incredibly durable. Once a hunter, always hunter. They would be put under great distress due to her everyday routine.

The wire used to keep the rocks secure was the strongest one you could find within a reasonable price and at the nearest market. Though, you used one of the young bloods to retrieve it for you for a small price. But, you had to use what you get your hands on without Gawtin knowing. You could be resourceful yourself.

You set to grueling work of designing a bracelet that could hopefully hold up to any added stress. A thick, durable band was used to tie the rocks to. The wire themselves were difficult to for around the rocks with no heat source to soften the metal. You did your best in the moment.

Before you on the wooden desk table, sat two bracelets, large in diameter but could also be tightened or loosen if need be. Again, you didn’t have her measurements on hand.

As a breath of relief left your lips, you heard the front door open then close. Even in the near dead silent house, you couldn’t pick up on the footsteps of the lumbering giant. Just one slab of metal kept the two of you away from each other.

Both of your hands began to shake. This was your one and only chance to fix this. You took in a lung filling inhale, leveled your chin, and grabbed your three items off of the desk. Your feet marched their way over to the door. It opened a second after you pressed the need button.

In the small kitchenette stood the goddess of your life. Qui’oky was at her feet and holding onto his mother’s leg. But when he saw you exit the art room, he made a noise of excitement and waddled over to you. You bend down and scooped him off of the ground. He would’ve climbed you to get into your arms if you hadn’t. You couldn’t wait for him to get older…

Timidly, you stepped over into the edge of the kitchen, eyes pointing downwards at the ground. A submissive position you hoped would be please her.

“Gawtin,” you called out softly then picked up your gaze to find her purple eyes already on you. She was lax but not letting a single ounce of emotion fall through any cracks of features. “I’m-I’m sorry. I want to start off by apologizing.”

Qui’oky grew too heavy for you to hold and got in the way. You put him back down, hoping he would loss interest in you for the moment. The prayer was answered.

The items in your hands were offered to Gawtin. The flower crown held out first. “I don’t know what way you guys apologize so I did my best. I was out all night and searched for the best because that’s all you deserve. I should’ve never said those things to you. This is my home. I want to be here. You never took me, I wanted to come with you.”

The bracelets were shown to Gawtin next. “And… and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else besides here, with you. I love you so damn much. More than I could ever speak or gift to you. You are my family and so is he.” You fall to your knees and clutched the gifts in your hands as if you where praying. “Forgive me, please. I don’t want to leave. Please, let me stay. With you.”

It was only a small crack at first. The twitch of her gem studded brow before her walls came crashing down. Gawtin knelt down in front of you and wrapped her arms around you.

“I must apologize as well. I apologize for mocking you, for telling you to leave. This is your home. You belong with me, with us,” Gawtin whispered, voice rumbling deep in her throat as she held you close to her warm body. “I do not have excuses. I should have not taken my pent up anger out on you. That is my fault. A mistake I will not make again.”

Being in her arms was the best thing you could ever ask for. You sagged against her and sobbed into her chest. New, fresh, hot tears ran new rivets down the length of your cheeks. You did your best to encase her torso with your arms but came up short. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you cried and held onto her as your lifeline. Because she is. She’s your lifeline.

Her massive hand ran up and down the length of your spine. “It is okay. Everything will be okay.”

An eternity passed until the muscles along Gawtin’s arms loosened up enough for you to pull back and look her in those beautiful purple eyes. She still kept you in her grasp, as if afraid you’ll disappeared. “Now, let me see what you have made for me, my little artist.”

In that moment, you knew everything was going to be fine. She was right. This was only a bump in the road you’ve gotten over. This is life. There will be more but as a power couple with your sweet child, you’ll make through it all. You smiled up at Gawtin through the blurry tears blocking your vision. Alien or not, you love her.

#yautja #predator #yautja x reader #alien vs predator #yautja x you #predator x reader #yautja x human #predator x you #predator x human #x reader #Gawtin #gawtin loves her human

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nicksalchemy1 · 29 days

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Mientras Respiro, Espero - Part 1

Pairing: Firefighter AU Dean Winchester x Nurse!Plus-Size!Mexican!Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, a firefighter with a reputation for casual flings, finds himself longing for something more meaningful in his life. Meanwhile, you, a stubborn surgical intern, are trying to escape your past in California. When Dean loses a bet and is tasked with cleaning the trucks, your paths cross unexpectedly. Little do both of you know meeting each other would cause some problems.

A/N: “Mientras Respiro, Espero”: Spanish for “while I breathe, I wait.”

Here’s the first part of my little story. I really like writing in this universe and if part goes well, then I’ll continue posting. (I’m gonna post it anyways 🧐) Credits for inspiration again go to @zepskies !!

🚒 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,167

Warnings: Toxic parental situation, mentions of fat-shaming, childhood trauma, and a quick old-fashioned meet cute.

Part 1 - Who’s Afraid Of Little Old Me?

Avalon, California, was a gilded cage with ocean views, where the houses were as polished as the facades people wore. It was in one such manicured home where your story paused.

“Mija, you’re wasting your life with these... these dreams of yours! ¡No seas tan estúpida!” Your mother’s voice was a razor wrapped in velvet, cutting into you as you packed the last of your belongings into an old, battered suitcase.

The room was a mausoleum of your former life, with its pristine walls adorned with academic accolades and a full-length mirror that once reflected a girl desperate to please. Now, it only mirrored your resolve.

“I’m saving it, not wasting it,” you shot back, the words tumbling from your lips like brave soldiers in battle. You tucked a framed photo of your childhood self – the one with the broadest, most hopeful eyes – into the suitcase's side.

Your mother’s silhouette filled the doorway, her arms crossed in the silent indictment. “And what about the family reputation? Our standing in the community?”

You zipped up the suitcase, and the sound of a definitive line drawn. “What about my happiness, Mamí? What about living a life that’s actually mine? With someone who won’t pick on me like I’m still a child?”

She scoffed dismissively, a sound that stung like salt in an open wound. “Esos gringos no saben nada. Happiness is a luxury for those who can afford to be foolish.”

You locked eyes with her in the mirror, your own gaze hardened like forged steel. “Then consider me a fool.”

The house seemed to hold its breath as you shouldered past her, suitcase in hand. Your father stood in the hallway, a silent sentinel. His eyes, a mirror of your own, flickered with something that might have been pride or sorrow – or both.

“Daddy,” you whispered, pausing for a moment.

He cleared his throat, a rumble from deep within. “You always were the stubborn one,” he murmured, his voice barely above a soft-spoken whisper. “Be careful. Call me anytime you need me.”

A nod was all you could muster before you descended the staircase, each step a drumbeat to your newfound freedom. The door closed behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones. The California sun dipped low, as if bowing to your courage.

The suitcase wheels rumbled against the cobblestone path, a small but sure declaration of your departure. Behind you, the house – a beautiful prison of expectation and familial duty – faded into just another part of the landscape.

You didn't look back.

Considering it was your first time flying in an airplane, first class at that, you were anxious. Not about actually being in the plane around people or the way the lady in the seat across from your aisle coffee smelled like someone took a fancy shit, but because you were moving in with a couple that you trusted yet, hardly knew.

Mary and John Winchester were rough around the edges, but they meant well. They knew what happened in your household, how toxic it was, and invited you to stay with them in Lawerence. Plus, you would be able to keep your job. Mary was head of Neurosurgery and earned you a spot as a surgical intern. Working hard or hardly working, am I right? You thought to yourself, smiling to yourself.

And boy, were these ‘gringos’ rich. Not only did they offer you that extra guest room in their house, but they also bought you your first-class seat, in which your butt was in right now.

You knew John was a respected detective, and with his income mixed with Mary’s, they made bank.

You also knew they had two sons. John and Mary mentioned their names, but you knew the youngest worked for the ADA, and the oldest worked as a firefighter.

Cool. Wonder what that's like, you tilt your head in thought.

A stable work life, home life, and family. But not all ‘picture-perfect’ families meant they were truly picture perfect.

And that was for you to figure out.

The airplane descended through the cotton candy clouds, and the world below began to take shape—a patchwork of fields and roads that would soon become your new reality. Your heart danced a nervous tango with the seatbelt across your lap, anticipation tightening with every drop in altitude.

The captain's voice crackled through the cabin, announcing the imminent landing in Lawrence. You straightened up, smoothing the fabric of your jeans as if to iron out the last creases of your past life.

When the wheels kissed the tarmac, you felt a jolt, not unlike the one that had propelled you out of your family’s house. You collected your single suitcase from the overhead bin—a symbol of your fresh start—and made your way through the aisle with a resolve that echoed the click-clack of your boots on the aircraft's floor.

The airport was small but buzzing with life, a hive of reunions and farewells. You stood for a moment at the arrival gate, scanning the crowd until you saw them.

Mary's presence was undeniable. She stood with a grace that spoke of her surgical precision, her eyes warm and welcoming. John, equally imposing in his own right, had the stance of a man who had weathered storms and could chart a course through any adversity.

They spotted you almost immediately, and Mary’s smile widened as she opened her arms. “There she is! Welcome to Kansas!”

You stepped into her embrace, the scent of antiseptic mingling with a soft perfume—a stark contrast to the oppressive aroma of your mother's overwhelming floral scents. “Thank you, Mary,” you smiled, grateful for the genuine warmth.

John extended his hand, which you shook firmly, finding in his grip the silent support of a seasoned detective. “Good to have you here. We’ve got the guest room all set up for you,” he said, his voice a deep timbre of reassurance.

You nodded, your eyes meeting his. “I can’t thank you both enough for this opportunity.”

As you walked through the airport, with Mary’s hand lightly on your back and John carrying your suitcase, you felt the weight of your old life lifting. The conversation was light, peppered with Mary’s questions about your flight and John’s quips about Kansas being the true heart of America.

Once in the car, the grilling starts. “So, how are you doing, hun?” Mary asks curiously, mainly because she’s concerned and trying to make sure you’re comfortable.

“Oh, you know, as good as you can be while moving state from state.” You remark as politely as possible, trying not to seep tension into the car ride.

“I hope you feel better. When we get to the house, you’re welcome to rest. I don’t cook very well,” She clears her throat, shrugging, “But I can give you some money to order something in?”

“I couldn’t do that, but thank you. It’s late, anyways. I’ll wait till tommorow morning.”

“Okay. Just as along as you’re comfortable.” Mary winks, a soft, motherly smile on her face.

You nod, meeting her smile with the same.

John pulls the Volkswagen van into the driveway and puts it in park, shutting the engine off. “Home sweet home.”

You sigh and step out of the car, staring at the home. The house is a two-story structure with a prominent green exterior. It features white trim around the windows and roof edges, contrasting nicely with the green. The front door is wooden with a rich, warm tone. There are two windows on the upper floor and one window on either side of the front door on the ground floor. A chimney extends from the left side of the roof, indicating a fireplace inside.

A well-maintained lawn adorned with various small plants and flowers. A concrete pathway leads to three steps up to a small porch area before reaching the wooden front door.

Mary leads you up to where your room is at and it seemed to be one of her boy’s old nurseries, but now the wall was decorated with two old band posters, The Beatles and a Zeppelin poster. Huh. The bed had a floral blanket and a navy sheet under it. There were two pillows in a white silk covers and a lamp on the beside table.

“John and I are gonna hit the hay, so, goodnight, love.” Mary waves from the doorframe, giving you one last glance before heading off.

“Goodnight,” You reply, setting your suitcase down beside your bed and lay back on your bed.

In the locker room, you changed into your scrubs, the fabric feeling foreign yet exciting against your skin. You tucked your hair under a surgical cap and checked yourself in the mirror. Ready.

The hospital corridors were a maze of activity, doctors and nurses moving with a sense of urgency that was almost palpable. You found your way to the intern's lounge, where a group of young doctors was gathered, pouring over patient charts and sipping on coffee as if it were a lifeline.

That's when you met her — Charlie Bradbury. With her vibrant red hair and a stack of comic books under her arm, she was a splash of color in the sterile environment. She noticed you immediately, her green eyes lighting up with an impish sparkle.

"Hey, you must be the new kid! I'm Charlie, your friendly neighborhood genius slash intern. Welcome to the chaos!" she greeted you with an outstretched hand, adorned with quirky rings.

"Thanks, I'm..." you began.

"Don't tell me," she interrupted playfully, "You're the one who just flew in from Cali, right? Mary's been raving about you."

You chuckled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "Guilty as charged."

Charlie showed you around, her chatter filling the spaces between the bustle of the hospital. She introduced you to the other interns, the nurses, and even the grumpy guy who ran the coffee cart. Throughout the day, you shadowed her as she confidently navigated patient care, inserting IV lines with precision and calming anxious patients with her quirky humor.

Despite the exhaustion that came with the endless rounds and the mountain of new information, you felt a sense of accomplishment. You were doing this, really doing it — and you were not alone.

In the afternoon, Mary tasked you with delivering first aid kits to the local fire department as part of a community outreach program. You welcomed the break from the hospital walls and made your way to the fire station with a box of supplies in tow.

As you approached, you noticed a firefighter washing a large, red truck — his sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms, and his focus never wavering from the task at hand. You hesitated for a moment before approaching.

"Excuse me," you called out, "I have a delivery from Lawrence General?"

He turned around, and you were met with striking green eyes and a smudge of soap on his cheek. He was ruggedly handsome, with a stubble that spoke of long hours and a jaw set with determination.

"Oh, hey," he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for the-"

Before he could finish, another firefighter called out to him, "Dean, we need you!"

"Sorry, duty calls," he said with a charming, apologetic grin. "Just leave the kits by the door, and thanks again."

"No problem," you replied, feeling a pang of disappointment as the moment ended too quickly. You placed the box down and watched as he jogged back to his colleagues, ready to respond to the next emergency.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur, and before you knew it, Mary was driving you back to the Winchester home. As the car hummed along the road, she glanced at you with a knowing smile.

"I hope your first day wasn't too overwhelming. You did great," she said encouragingly.

"It was definitely a day to remember," you admitted with a tired smile.

Mary's expression turned warm and excited as she announced, "Well, get ready for a family dinner tonight. John and I want you to meet our sons properly. They're excited to have you."

The thought of the evening ahead sparked a mix of nerves and curiosity within you.

"Oh, uh, okay." you replied slightly indifferent by the unexpected dinner, but the prospect of a meal with a family that wouldn’t make measure how many calories your plate has won’t be bad just because you had to meet your “landlord’s” sons. “Sounds nice.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And there’s that! Next time. 😉

Character Introduction For This Series

Dean Winchester Masterlist

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #latina!reader #plus size!reader #firefighter!Dean Winchester x reader #spn #firefighter au #supernatural #fanfic #reader insert #mexican!reader #spotify

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hotluncheddie · 1 year

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stop being a goblin and let me kiss you

part 5

˚✧₊⁎ ⁎⁺˳✧༚ ⁎⁺˳✧༚

‘fucking steveeeee harrington. fucking i just like hearing you talk about it eddie. i like listening to you eddie. i’m actually amazing and perfect in every way eddie. no no don’t mind me i’ll just make your heart melt out of your ass with how sweet i am and then give you a boner like it’s nothing and then act like these are all none issues for you and you’ll live to see another day!’ eddie grumbles, kicking a rock into the dark recesses of the trailers underbelly.

he shoves his toe into the hole the rock left and glances back at steve’s idling car.

steve is looking somewhere distinctly below eddies eye-line, mouth a little slack. but when he notices eddie looking he perks up, waves like they haven't just spent the last four hours together, like eddie didn't just get out of his car.

fucking dork. you’ve fallen for a dork munson what is this? who are you?.. a fucking ex jock dork.. who listens… and is kind and hot.. and was just looking at your ass.

ugh. ugh!!

eddie stomps closer to the trailer.

the little angel version of himself appears on his shoulder. christ not this guy, always bad advice with this one. 'he likes you, you like him, what's the problem?' little angel eddies little white wings flutter, his little halo glints. eddie growls to himself, yeah what is the problem? maybe the problem is that it’s steve. it’s steve and we’re eddie and that just isn’t gonna fly!

thankfully the little devil version is on the other shoulder. now this is the guy he normally gets good advice from, stuff he can follow.

'the problem is that this is steve harrington'

exactly little devil eddie! 'exactly!'

'and he probably has a big dick and you do not know how to handle that.'

oh my god.

'oh my god' eddie mumbles, scrubbing and hand over his face, tugs at his hair. little devil eddie leans on his little pitchfork, making a very obscene hand and cheek gesture.

'better to big dick than not dick at all right?' angel eddie is not helping. not helping!! ‘plus it’s steve! we know steve! he’s nice!’

and eddie softens, arms slack at his side because yeah, steve is nice.

he thinks about how steve would come see him at the trailer all the time because he was always over at max’s helping. about how he really did mean it when eddie could rent on his employee account so they could watch together and save eddie the money. or how when eddie was in the hospital, all tubed up feeling like day old baloney, steve managed to pull a little smile out of wayne, asking him about eddie as a kid and who he’s rooting for in the series.

god, fucking, damn it!!

eddie takes a deep breath. rubs at his eyes so he sees the red goo of his brain.

…come on munson. we promised ourself. no more running.

whirling around eddie bounces on his toes, fist gripping the front of his tee. says a little too loud and a little strangled. ‘you don’t, uh, you don’t wanna come in for a bit do you?’

steve jumps, getting out the car and locking it quick, dipping to smooth his hair down in the side mirror before strolling over to eddie. he spins his keys around on one finger and follows eddie up the little stairs to the trailer door.

lifting one arm up to lean on the doorframe steve looks at eddie who is very interested in his shoes actually, could do with a clean soon.

‘this where the magic happens ed’s?’

that makes eddie look at him.

dumb, pretty boy.

eddie lifts his hand, flourishing it so it looks like he produced the door key from behind steve’s ear. ‘you were here two days ago steve.’

steve stands up straight, looking at the key in eddies hand. ‘how did u do that?’ he looks so serious eddie can’t help but snort.

‘cute.’ poking steve in the chest eddie opens the door, holding it open and sweeping his arm to let steve through first.

little angel eddie and devil eddie fly in front of his nose and high five. disappearing with a cartoon 'poof'.

eddie sighs. follows steve fucking Harrington inside.

˚✧₊⁎ ⁎⁺˳✧༚ ⁎⁺˳✧༚

part 1 (eddie) part 2 (steve) part 3 (eddie) part 4 (steve) part 6 (steve) part 7 (eddie)

(ty everyone who read this!! sorry that they won't be coming out consistently i am very much treating this as a fun thing to write when it comes to me so yeah. luv u mwah!)

#this was supposed to be the last one #but they only just made it inside lmao #whoops #they gotta keep flirting i think!!!#my silly goblins #<3 #steddie #steve x eddie #cocky steve harrington #virgin eddie munson #hotlunch #my fic #also might go crazy just keep writing eddie #who knows #i make the rules tho hehe #stop being a goblin and let me kiss you

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rubydubydoo122 · 17 days

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In every universe Jason Peter Todd dies young. It’s a fate sealed across the multiverse. Maybe he could hope that there’s one universe where he doesn’t. aka, Jason, Dick, and Bruce go multiverse hopping, and are not having a fun time. (Ps, when I started writing this fic I hced Jason as Latino, but I don't really believe in that hc anymore, so just a heads up if you don't like that hc)

TRIGGER WARNING -> Child Death (it's Jason), and lowkey cannibalistic gore?

Jason found himself kneeling in grass, rain pelting down, soaking his hair, and knees. He leaded his head forwards and closed his eyes, murmuring a soft, “May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life.” to the Robin that had just died.

In the background, he could hear Dick yelling, “Let me at him! He just– let me go !”

“Dick, Chum, we’re not–we’re not in the Manor anymore.”

No. They were in a cemetery. Specifically, Jason was kneeling in front of his grave. He knew what was going to happen. He wasn’t going to try to stop this one.

Jason turned around, to sit on the slight ledge of his grave and leaned his head back, until it was touching stone.

“Why are we…?” Dick trailed off. He wasn’t exactly looking to where Jason was sitting, but he was looking at a tombstone.

Bruce was staring down Jason again, and Jason buried his face in his hands to break eye contact, “I think we need to take a break. Figure out everything we know. Maybe get some rest. I think we have about two-five hours here.” probably closer to two. He remembers panicking.

Dick turned to Jason with a question on his face, but then saw where Jason was sitting. His eyes narrowed, “You’re already dead here? So maybe the pattern was wrong. All we have to do is wait for Talia to show up, follow her, and rescue you after you’ve taken a dip in the pit.”

“Talia didn’t go grave robbing. She’s not crazy, and Bruce has sensors for that. He would’ve known.”

Dick moved closer to Jason, “Then how…?”

He stared hard at the patch of dirt. The feeling of his nails cracking and dirt in his mouth, suddenly overtaking him. Except, that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was before that. It was the true serenity, followed by the sudden hit of life. The feeling of being woken up from a good dream that you never wanted to leave.

He was at rest. Let him stay asleep. “I woke up.”

Bruce crossed his arms, “You…woke up? As in…” He looked from the tombstone to the ground.

Jason showed him his hands in response. The jagged lines where the wood tore off his nails and skin. The crooked finger that broke while clawing through mud that never quite set properly.

All of Jason’s injuries were healed by the time he got to the pit. It was just his mind that was broken. So he was still left with all the scars from before he died, and after.

He felt the hairs on his neck stand up as the mystical forces picked up around them. He’d just woken up.

Dick looked pale, but he immediately knelt to the ground and started clawing at the mud, “We’ve gotta get you out– is the a shovel somewhere or–”

“Dick, stop.”

“Jason, This is the only you we know we can save.”

“No. We don’t . When I crawled out of my grave, I was completely catatonic. I was a husk of a human being. Blood might’ve been pumping through my veins and air might’ve been flowing through my lungs, but I was not alive .” Jason pointed to his temple, “Not in here. I aimlessly wandered the streets, and got hit by a car , Dick.”

“Then we help get him to this world’s Bruce.”

“You think Talia didn’t want to do just that ? I know you guys think she kept me from you for her own selfish reasons, but she didn’t . After she found me she wasn’t sure that I’d survive to the next day . That’s how impaired I was. She didn’t give me back to Bruce because she didn’t want him to lose me again , because she thought it would absolutely break him.”

“We could–”

“If he lives he lives, if he dies he dies . Your grief is clouding your judgment.”

“How could you say that? If it was a civilian who was buried alive , we would do anything in our power to get them out .”

“Because it’s different! I wasn’t buried alive , I was buried dead . I’m a cosmic mistake– higher entities have told me that. I’m supposed to be dead. He’s ,” Jason pointed to the ground, “Supposed to be dead. Bruce always says we can’t play Judge, Juror or Executioner. We can’t play God either. Let him rest . Just let him rest.”

For a beat, they were all frozen. Until Dick moved to sit next to him. Legs pressed up against each other. Making sure Jason was really in front of him, and not some cruel hallucination.

Suddenly, the rain stopped pelting on top of them, and the night sky was a lot darker than before.

Bruce was holding his cape up to shield them from the rain. Like he used to do when they were both much smaller. Yet, it still felt oddly the same. “Dick and I need new civilian clothes. After that, we should get food.”

They started towards Gotham city. There were carved pumpkins and skeletons everywhere, so it was near Halloween. The bat signal was lit, and the people of Gotham were wearing gas masks. So Scarecrow was out. It probably was Halloween.

That’s crazy. Did Jason really crawl out of his grave on Halloween? Though, it was an alternate reality, so maybe this Jay did, for shits and giggles, but Jason might not have.

“Is… was today Tim’s first day on the job?” Dick was currently drowning his pancakes in maple syrup. They were all in civies, and sitting in a booth at a 24 hour diner. It had shut down, but had always been a quick stop for food after a rough patrol.

Jason pushed the thought of the young Tim sobbing against his chest. He’s never going to be as big as you . None of the four Jason's will.

“Yes.” Bruce forked a piece of his eggs, and caught Jason’s look. though, he probably read it wrong because, “He showed up to fight Scarecrow with a red ski mask.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, “I’m sure you came back out of pure spite.”

Jason blinked. That was a joke… from Bruce. Did he get a concussion? Was he in shock?

He looked to Dick who seemed more exasperated than phased.

Bruce cleared his throat when he realized the joke didn’t seem to land, “We need to figure out if there’s more to this than just Jay dying. We have two caused by the Joker, one that was an accident, and the other was natural causes. I don’t think the cause of death will be the same.”

Jason pushed around some berries on his plate, “Bruce, do you think that the Joker's confrontation was… a bit too intimate for a Joker that wasn’t ours?” It was his confrontation with Bruce pretty much word for word. It made him want to throw up.

Dick gripped his fork harder as both him and Bruce said, “Yes.”

Jason looked at Dick in confusion. As far as he knew, Bruce did not talk about that night with anyone. Except Dick didn’t feel the need to explain. Which is fine, he’s allowed to have his secrets, but now he’s wondering what part of that confrontation was directed to get under Dick’s skin. “But we’re not in that reality anymore. Our priority should be making sure each Jason we come across is safe.”

“Though I don’t disagree, our priority should be finding a way home.” Bruce countered, and looked to Jason pointedly, “We can’t play God. We’re being sent to universes where Jason is fated to…die. There might not be much we can do.”

“The Tragedy of Jason Todd: The Boy Fated to Die.” Jason paused, “Hm, that’d be a great title for my autobiography.”

Dick sighed defeatedly, “Hush, Jason, the adults are speaking.”

(Hi! Author here! I wanna have Jason go, “Well I’m taller,” in Tiny Tim fashion and Dick go, “Well, currently, you’re six feet under. So shut the fuck up.” But it’s terribly ooc, so I’m not. Just know that I really wanted to write it though)

“Dick, I’m 23.”

Dick, like the dick he was, ignored that, “What if we talked to Wally.”

Bruce made his, I don’t need help, I’m Batman face. Dick rolled his eyes, “He might not be able to bring us back home, but maybe he can get a message to the family or something. They can work on a device from home. It’s the same plan from before, just… more communication.”

Jason nodded, “I mean… It was both of your lack of communication that got us into this mess. Maybe that’s the lesson you need to learn. To talk and share.”

“Says Mr. I’ve been alive for seven years and I’m only just now telling my family my mother betrayed me and I crawled out of my own grave. ”

“That’s different. That’s trauma. I should be allowed the grace to tell you guys when I’m comfortable with telling you guys.” Though, maybe he should tell them about the magic swords he has.

Nah, it’s not that important.

“Well, you didn’t tell us about your previous cosmic adventure.”

“That’s honestly because Bruce is a super stalker and I thought he already knew.”

To that, Dick had nothing to say.

“I want a mission report on this.”

“Bruce, it was literally five years ago. The only thing I remember is Rayner and I fighting every five minutes. God that guy was… embittered. He thought I was trying to get with Donna.” Like ew, no, that was Jason’s big sister… Even though he shot her. But it worked out in the long run. And what’s a little bloodshed between siblings. He, Damian, and Tim were relatively ok.

Dick frowned, “Huh, usually Kyle’s really nice to everyone.”

“Well, apparently he has a thing against ‘Angst Ridden Bad Boys’, his words, not mine.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, “Oh that totally sums you up. Did he also have a thing against you quoting Hamlet? Did he absolutely loathe you geeking out over 19th century fashion.”

“Oh! We actually did go to a Victorian Era Gotham. That was honestly probably the best part of our multiversal adventure. Wait. We’re getting off track. I think we should vote. All in favor of talking to Wally…” He and Dick both raised their hands. “Two against one. Sorry Bruce.”

Bruce stabbed his eggs, “We’re not calling Wally, because we’re currently in Gotham and my no-metas allowed rule was like an iron fist during this time period. Maybe if we go to a universe where we can actually talk to our counterparts, then we can call whatever runner is available. For now, we’re getting our bearings. Anything other commonality we might’ve missed”

Dick mashed a banana that was on his plate, “I would say they were all… birds. Except the second one.”

Jason pushed his plate towards the center, and unfolded a napkin, “Bruce, can I have a pen– or a marker would be better so I don’t rip the page, but anything.”

Bruce handed him a copic red marker, that was probably Damian’s. During stakeouts he usually starts sketching.

Jason made a T-chart, going down were traits, and across was each Jason. Mama’s boy Jay, Jay #2, Regina George Jay, Jay+Egg, and Zombie.

“Those are horrible headings.”

“Should I have done Jay 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5?”

“Yes.”

Jason shrugged, “Oh well, too late now.”

The first trait was Robin? “What are we qualifying for… the mantle? Cus, technically, Mama’s Boy was supposed to be taking a break from it, Regina George wasn’t in the suit, and Zombie… hasn’t been to work in a while.”

Bruce grunted, “Yes, no, yes, yes, no.”

“I know there isn’t any correlation between them, but the places.”

Jason jotted that down– Ethiopia :(, Crime Alley, Corner of Diamond and Old, Wayne Manor, Six Feet Under Gotham Cemetery.

“Cause of…ya know.”

Smoke Inhalation, Hypothermia, probable collapsed lung/concussion, Gunshot wound– Carotid Artery, Co2 poisoning Suffocation, Just in case it’s the dirt, not the air. They’ll know if they disappear before the five hour mark. Jason furrowed his eyebrows, and jotted down the ages, 15, 10, 13, 14, 16? 15,

Dick glanced at the page, “Hopefully, that changes. Maybe we’ll get an age range of Jays. And hopefully 10 year old Jay was an outlier.”

The chances of that were low, but Jason wasn’t going to tell Dick that. There were hundreds of opportunities for him to die on the streets. 10 was probably the lowest value, but the mode was probably… 11. He was fighting for his life on the streets trying not to get pimped again by the time the next winter came around. Making a plot chart might not be a bad idea. Though that would have to be later. With real paper.

He folded up the napkin, handed both the marker and their info sheet to Bruce, and brought back his plate of strawberry french toast. He wanted to say, “You’re optimistic if you really think I had a higher chance at life while I was living on the streets.” but he didn’t. Because his mouth was full, and Alfred had taught him manners.

They continued to eat in silence, until a chill ran down Jason’s spine. “I think we’re gonna leave soon.” When both Bruce and Dick gave him a confused look, he groaned, “if we were in a universe where your counterpart was dying, you would know too.”

Bruce got out his wallet and placed a 100 dollar bill on the table, as Dick grabbed The T duffle bag with their stuff, and the room turned white.

(The Lamb, By William Blake)

As soon as they landed in this new universe, Jason could immediately tell the magic was much stronger in this universe.

The next thing he could immediately tell was that he was in a warehouse. Again. Yey.

“Mea!” Was that… a lamb? Jason peaked over the crate they were hiding behind, and yup, that was a Lamb. A really really bloody Lamb. It was a surprise it was still alive. And a scraggly looking dog was eating–

No. Not a dog.

He slowly squatted back down, “There's a Hyena…”

Dicks eyes grew comically wide, as a giggle pierced through the warehouse. The giggle evolved into a laugh and abruptly cut off as the Lamb cried out.

Then the laughter started up again. Somehow, it was worse than– The Hyena was– the Joker was– the Hyena was laughing.

Jason gripped his kris, “Let me kill it.”

“Jason you need to brea–”

“It’s just a stupid dog. It’s just a stupid dog. Let me kill it!”The Joker – The Hyena– was laughing, and laughing, and laughing . The Joker’s – The Hyena’s – Lips were stained red, red, red . Jason– The Lamb – was crying. Jason was crying, the Lamb was crying . The laughter got louder, and louder and louder , and–

No.

This wasn’t worth Jason’s time and nervous system.

He sat up and threw his kris right in between the Hyena’s eyes, and it stopped laughing. The Joker– no, the Hyena stopped Laughing.

Except the Hyena was slowly turning more humanoid. Its deep brown coat was being leeched of its color. It’s paws turning into hands that were white. Feet that were white. It’s snout staying stained red while it morphed into a crimson red smile that always seemed to haunt Jason.

Jason looked away from the body. He’s killed plenty of people before, he doesn’t mind killing the people who deserve it. Except that laugh. That fucking laugh. It never annoyed him before, but… it sounded so… uncanny .

The Lamb… wasn’t looking good at all. Its wool was stained red, chunks of its flesh were missing from where the Joker had eaten it alive. Its intestines were spilling out of its stomach. Lining the floor with half mangled internal organs–

The Lambs' features began to change.

Into–

Into a young Jason.

Who- who couldn’t have been older than 12. Who was curled up on himself trying to keep his insides that were already out, in, even though it was a losing battle

Jason squatted down to brush Jay’s hair back, “Little Lamb who made thee; Dost thou know who made thee; Gave thee life & bid thee feed; By the stream & o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight; Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice; Making all the vales rejoice! Little Lamb who made thee; Dost thou know who made thee;

“Little Lamb I'll tell thee, Little Lamb I'll tell thee! He is called by thy name; For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild; He became a little child: thou a child & I a lamb; We are called by his name. Little Lamb God bless thee. Little Lamb God bless thee.” Jason closed his eyes, “ May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. And please , just let him rest.”

#jason todd #batman #batfam #dc comics #red hood #bruce wayne #dick grayson #tim drake #the joker #alternate universe #dimensional travel

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steddietogo · 1 year

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Made With Love

Part 3 of Steddie Tik Tok au: The Halloween Vlog

Read part 2 <<here

———

Robin is in a pinstriped three-piece suit, her short brown hair dyed black and slicked back, with a badly drawn moustache on her face. “Unhapphy, darphling?” She speaks around a rose stem she’s holding between her teeth.

“Oh yes,” The camera pans to Eddie lounging on an armchair. He’s ditched his usual band tee and ripped jeans combo for a tight black dress with the deepest neckline known to man, the long black fabric pooling around his feet. He raises his arm, bell sleeve flaring, and flips his straightened hair behind his shoulders with red painted nails. “Yes completely,” deep red lips curve into smile and he bats his eyes, heavily lined and dusted in smokey grey eyeshadow.

———

“Originally, we were supposed to be the Sanderson sisters for Halloween but someone—” Robin looks at something pointedly off camera, “—decided to go off and commit to a group costume with his long-distance babysitting wards without consulting us,”

“This—” Eddie strikes a pose as Robin gestures to them, “—was supposed to be a revenge costume but now we feel kinda bad because—” the camera flips around to show a pile of blankets on the couch, “Dingus is now down with the flu,” A hand emerges from its depths and flips them off.

“I think he’s going as The Thing,” Eddie says and they both snicker.

———

Eddie is in the kitchen using Steve’s recording set up. “My darling Gomez has gone off to party, it’s just me and Steve at home now,” he sighs dramatically, “Alas, I knocked him out with cough syrup so he won’t be up for a couple hours,”

“And I found this recipe for chicken noodle soup and I, Eddie Munson who cannot cook to save my own life, am going to put it to test since Steve keeps saying ‘anyone can make it’. Were gonna find out today baby,”. Eddie’s reading off of a book as he lays out everything he would need on the counter, announcing each item as he takes them out. “I hope I’m using the right pot and Steve won’t kill me,”

———

Eddie is slow dancing to Lady Gaga with a plastic skeleton meant for decoration, his dress swishing around him as he twirls with his inanimate dance partner. During a particularly enthusiastic dip, the skeleton’s skull breaks off from the rest of the body and rolls away.

“Betty! Noooo!” Eddie cries, falling to his knees.

———

“No one told me how sweaty cooking can make you,” Eddie’s twisting his hair up in a bun, “But I’m committed to it now, I will not be bested by soup,”

“Look at this, my make up isn’t the only thing melting in the heat,” He holds up a bent looking plastic spatula to the camera. “Its totally not because I put it too close to the stove but we’re going to hide the evidence so Steve doesn’t find out,”

———

“I accidentally added too much salt, went to the Internet for help and a lot of people say that adding a potato will help fix it,” Eddie explains as he is chopping one. “There are no potatoes in this recipe, so if Steve asks, I’m gonna tell him I have no idea how they got in there,”

“Here goes nothing,” Eddie shoves both sleeves all the way up his arms before dropping all of the potato pieces in at once, making a little bit of the boiling soup splash out of the pot missing him by inches. “Oh shit, that was close. Don’t try this at home kids,”

———

“Moment of truth people,” He’s ladling soup into a bowl. “Personally, I’m just surprised this came out edible, but let’s see what the chef has to say about it,”

The clip cuts to Eddie shuffling away from the camera that’s now facing the sofa where Steve is taking a nap. Eddie kneels before him, a gentle hand on Steve’s face as he nudges him wake. Cut to a bleary-eyed Steve sitting up and waving at the camera.

“Just know that if you give me food poisoning on top of the flu, I’ll never forgive you,” he says as Eddie is handing him the bowl. “Why’re there potatoes in here?”

“No reason,” Eddie smiles back innocently at the look Steve gives him before he takes a bite, and then another. Eddie watches, nibbling in his fingernails.

“Oh shit,”

“What?”

“The potato actually makes it better,” he looks like he’s trying to sound annoyed but the smile on his face gives him away. “I’m gonna have to add potatoes to the recipe,”

“Wait. Does that mean my soup is better than yours?”

“It’s still my recipe, Munson,”

“You’re avoiding the question, Harrington,”

“…Maybe?”

Eddie throws his hands up whopping and his sleeve smacks Steve in the face.

———

“I was standing there, Morticia-less,” Robin is back and the three of them huddle in the sofa in the darkness of the living room, the only source of light is the movie no one is actually watching.

“—and she’s was wearing that Kate Bush bat dress and we were like ‘that’s close enough’ and then we completely winged a little dance and I only tripped on my own shoe once, you should be proud of me,” Robin is wearing a sash that says ‘Hideout King’ and is going a mile a minute about the party she came back from.

“And then she kissed me when they announced us as the winners, she kissed me Steve!” Robin shakes Steve and then high-fives Eddie so hard he almost falls off the couch.

———

Robin is filming Steve launching candy corn from the couch and Eddie, now in his jammies, is on the other side of the coffee table trying to catch them in his mouth. Steve’s laughter is getting increasingly hysterical and his aim is getting poorer while Eddie practically dives left and right trying catch the candy. Steve looks like he’s going to fall off the couch in stitches. The video ends as three are celebrating a complicated twist dive Eddie executed and successfully caught the candy with in mouth.

———

Caption says:

@_eddie_munson who do you think edits all the footage?

———

Comments:

user80085: who else questioning their sexuality rn?

Dustin H: RIP Betty, you will be missed 😔

Reefing Rick: Why tf don’t I have an Eddie Munson in a Morticia Addams costume cooking in my kitchen? God really has favorites huh

spring roll: So no ones going to talk about how Robin basically came out?

Gayby replying to spring roll: good for her

———

Part 4

———

A/n: it’s so funny to imagine Steve sitting in his room alone and reviewing an hour-long footage of Eddie messing around in the kitchen. And it cracks him up that every time Eddie messes something up he walks up to the camera and whispers ‘don’t tell Steve’

Steddie tag list: @deehellcat @eddiemunsonswife @missarte-beltane @grtwdsmwhr @kit-means-death

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things fanfiction #Steddie Tik Tok au #mine

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reconstructwriter · 6 months

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So I Finally Finished Attack of the Clones

...for the very first time. When did this movie come out again? I am late, is there still room on this bandwagon? Anyway more thought vomiting on this movie...

Sith Pattern: I do appreciate that Palpatine is old, rich, white male fascist. Dooku is old, rich, white male fascist. Anakin shakes things up a bit by starting out young and poor but he’ll get there and has the rest down. Meanwhile our heroes are Padme Amidala, Mace Windu, Yoda, Bail, etc. Would have loved for George Lucas’ original casting of Obi Wan to have gone through! This does make Mirror!verses and morality flip AU's very weird because the Galaxy is being saved from aliens by three white guys? Unfortunate implications aside I can suspend a lot of disbelief about laser-swords and magic IN SPACE but I gotta draw the line somewhere.

Anakin’s attachment: Is well-shown here with convenient comparison to Cleigg – her husband and her son, the two who should love Shmi the most. At her funeral Cleigg is all ‘you’re in a better place. Thank you for the time we had,’ vs Anakin’s ‘I wasn’t strong enough to save you, I won’t fail again’ and ‘I miss you’. Exact opposites. Cleigg was entirely focused on Shmi while Anakin was focused on himself.

Also Anakin’s focus kinda screwed up Obi Wan’s mission when he wasted precious moments FINDING Anakin to get his galactically-important message through.

Mace Windu Not Killing Dooku: Shatterpoint, along with some fanfics, has Mace beating himself up for not ending the war by killing Dooku but my man you’re too hard on yourself! You only killed Jango when he decided to fuck around and find out with you in the death arena. Dooku did not fuck around and find out so your only chance would’ve been to throw away all your Jedi morals and stab him in the back! Thus risking becoming Darth Tyrannus 2.0 and screwing the galaxy.

Jango why did you fuck around and find out? I get Mace held a laser sword to your throat and you had a working jetpack going into the arena…but that arena is No Man’s Land. Even if Galidraan was canon you could’ve stayed back and taken pot shots.

The scene with Boba giving one last keldabe kiss to his father’s helmet is heartbreaking! Ouch!!!

Padme: So I kinda get being willing to confess her terrible taste in men on Space Fantasy Death Row. She doesn’t want to live a lie and is straight up expecting to die so what does it matter if she confesses? And then she does live so consequence time! Still feels like she’s ignoring the genocide – or George Lucas is ignoring the obvious implications. Genocide does work for foreshadowing Jedi genocide and Nazi comparisons (boy howdy does it!!!). But murdering every single member of an entire tribe down to the babes in arms doesn’t work for ‘Anakin doesn’t Fall here, he just dips his toe in the Dark’.

Padme otherwise doesn’t seem too terribly out of character throughout. She stands her ground against Anakin and where she does give in – rescuing Shmi – or chooses to go after Obi Wan? Well both did do her immensely big favors it’d be weirder if she brushed them off. Plus, rescuing both comes with additional benefits – no assassin will look for her on Tattooine (it worked before) and Obi Wan’s rescue could offer the opportunity to discuss peace with the Separatists before war happened.

And it did – in the cut scene :P

Dual with Dooku: So Anakin did put his duty first when Padme fell in the (barren, sans enemies) sand with an ally but damn if his attachment to her wasn’t still affecting him. The hot-headed idiotic attack was the worst possible timing! Why does everyone beat Mace up (including the man himself) for not killing Dooku but give Anakin a pass when he had every chance of ending the war Right There if he’d been able to keep his head on straight for two minutes.

The End: As with the first movie, we end with Mace and Yoda clearly knowing what the Sith are doing, though they're split with Mace believing Dooku while Yoda thinks its a trick. And I think they’re both right because I read somewhere Dooku and Palpatine were hoping to sow doubt between the Jedi and the Senate but also was telling the truth – from a certain point of view. Anyway, they aren't oblivious. Yoda straight up says the Shroud of the Dark Side has Fallen.

The last scene really drives that home! How the beginning of the war is the beginning of the Empire. The war kills the Republic and this is repeatedly smacked into our brains with the imagery of Palpatine standing at the head of everyone else, the most powerful Supreme Chancellor ever as the army of white-clad troopers marches out into the galaxy below him. The Destroyers lift off. The Empire’s freaking theme music plays.

Overall the movie had its high points and stinkers but that was a damn fine end!

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aloneditee · 5 months

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Sephiran and Zelgius Timeline UPDATED

Instead of just having a jumbled idea of the timeline of sephiran and zelgius's relationship I decided I was going to spend my day off writing up my idea of how their timeline works based on cannon information with my own little headcannon flair because i can and you can't stop me.

*THANK YOU VERY MUCH TO @theia-eos FOR COMMENTING WITH THE RADIANT DAWN ARTBOOK TIMELINE I HAVE USED IT TO UPDATE THIS TIMELINE WITH MORE ACCURATE INFORMATION* I also had to remove some sentences because tumblr gave me a fuckin character limit while editing this for some reason

Key:

Bold = explicit canon

unbold = rough estimate canon/ guess

italics = headcanon

urple = sephzelg highlight reel (gay thoughts)

red = year

Complete timeline after the keep reading thing:

625: Misaha’s assassination and the serenes massacre → lehran villain arc. Lehran presents the medallion to ashnard and enters daeins service under the guise of a “wise man”

626: “daeins sudden change” → this is likely when the bloodpact began its effects and the deaths of the daein royal family. I THINK THIS IS WHEN SEPHIRAN AND ZELGIUS MET

Zelgius was serving in the Daein army under general Gawain for a few years. While sephiran is serving as a wise man under ashnard's father he meets zelgius and zelgius confides in him and they agree to be with each other when zelgius eventually leaves the daien army.

Later that year Gawain dips out of Daein with Elena. Zelgius despairs that his Master left him. Zelgius would then enter sephirans service.

627: Ashnard becomes the king of daein, (This was originally when I thought zelgius joins sephiran but I found out Gawain actually left BEFORE Ashnard became king according to the radiant dawn artbook).

I assume Sephiran leaves Ashnards service after Ashnard gets what he wants. Seph doesnt fuck with his bad vibes.

627~635: Sephiran and Zelgius do a bit of travelling and make plans for big evil or something. Sephiran still being a travelling sage and zelgius being a knight not connected to any army until he joins the Begnion military perhaps a decade later

During this time sephiran scaffolds information about himself and his past to zelgius. I do genuinely think that sephiran eventually opens up about everything to zelgius (and vice versa) including him being lehran and the origin of the branded.

634: assuming ike is around 7 when his mom died, this would be around the time point where Gawain touched the medallion and lehran and zelgius saw the aftermath.

The reason why I think ike is 7 years old here (*he's born in 628*) is because that is how old soren would have been too according to his own timeline (based on his support convos), and those two met the day before the gawain medallion shenanigan occurred

Idrk when seph and zel join begnion as dukes. Based off of the artbook zelgius was actually born into a begnion family before fleeing to daein so maybe he reclaimed the cador family name or something. Sephiran claimed to be from a long line of mages (Persis) and somehow become a noble through this so called mage lineage.

637: sephzelg 10 yr anniversary

635: Sanaki is born. Sephiran may or may not be a senator at this stage

Sephiran begins to rise up the senate ranks through rizz and zelgius rises up the army ranks

At some point between 635-640: sanakis parents are killed by the senate probably

640: sanaki (5 years old) becomes the empress of begnion and sephiran becomes the “senate leader” aka prime minister

the event lekain talks about when sanaki would stfu during formal proceedings and they discover sephiran has insane babysitting skills occurs right after sanaki becomes the empress i think

645: beginning of mad kings war. At this point in time sephiran and zelgius would have been together for around 18-19 years

Black knight shenanigans. Sephiran travels tellius and gathers intel

Sepiran gets captured in crimea by daein military, probably waited for zelgius to go save him hence why he wouldnt fucking move when ike rescued him lmao

Black knight scraps ranulf, sephiran steps in and tells black knight to stand down

Sephiran eventually returns to begnion, tells everyone to get their fucking shit together, sends zelgius to go help ike (black knight still be existing). Zelgius’ group stays in daein while ikes group goes to crimea. BK does multiple warcrimes in the meant

646: Nados castle falls on the black knight. Sephiran rescues him and uses is epic healing skills to get zelgius to recover before the battle between ikes team and ashnard in the final chapter

646: End mad kings war. Sephiran annoys the shit out of ike by laughing at him for no reason. The black knight is “defeated”. Sephzelg 20 year anniversary aww

646-648: new evil world ending plan just launched

648: war part 2 electric boogaloo

Summer 648: Black knight return arc, sephiran is set to go to daein and tell jarod to stop being a cunt or something but gets thrown in jail before he got the chance to????

Autumn 648: Sephiran captured by the senate while zelgius is at war doing war stuff

Zelgius saves sephiran from jail part 2 electric boogaloo and the two of them start a cheeky uprising in bengion.

Zelgius and sephiran made a pact to die together in the tower. I think they made this agreement way in advance and they knew that was the end goal no matter what happens.

Winter 648: zelgius vs ike gay on gay violence. Zelgius dies. Sephiran either also dies or lives. pain and suffering

~1848: Ashunera returns. Lehran may or may not be there to greet her. Hope he dies soon

#fire emblem #fe10 #sephiran #fire emblem radiant dawn #zelgius #tellius #fe9/10 #sephzelg #fire emblem path of radiance #fe9 #radiant dawn #path of radiance #tellius timeline #ditesrambles

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maxwell-grant · 5 months

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Thoughts on Lupin: Part 3

Covered my thoughts on seasons 1 and 2 already and I just finished season 3 so I'm gonna write about it here. Bottom line: HahahahaHA this show rules so much man.

Everything that was strong about the prior seasons is still there if not better, and they patched up several things I otherwise disliked about it. Also god I missed the mark big time by watching the prior seasons with the English dub for some reason, no wonder I didn't like most of the characters when they all sounded like they were sleepwalking. Just, watch with the French audio, don't be an idiot like me.

I actually like Assane's family now? Maybe that's because of the dub thing letting me see the actual performances, but there seemed to be a lot more effort this season to make us care about Claire and Raoul's own struggles and the really bad things they have to deal with because of Assane and how they deal with them. There's an extent to which these characters exist because otherwise Assane would suffer no consequences and no caveats to just doing whatever he wants, a.k.a the cool Lupin stuff we signed up for but can't be too over-indulged in, and that made them feel more like roadblocks than people, but to me this time they actually feel more like people, and people who can have their own things going on or even get involved in the good stuff without compromising their importance, and those consequences thus actually matter more.

God I can't believe how great the disguises were this season and how many there were. Again, definitely feels like they had to refine the process in the first two seasons so we can have this one with Assane actually going the nine yards with multiple overlapping fake personas and disguises per episode. Omar is masterful in all of them and the show seems so confident that it even lets Ben, Guedira and Claire dip their toes in the action a bit. I was actually really impressed by Coach Alex, even though he does look a bit uncanny and a little A.I-ish. I could still buy that as a real person.

It's doing this thing I really like that The Shadow does, where the character has a lot of different methods by which he achieves his disguises ranging from high-tech/borderline fantasy to very simple DIY tools, but the process featured is obscured enough that you can never fully tell which is being used, and so the character can have this borderline superpower still grounded enough to not look like one.

I actually didn't mind the villain this time around. There's a nice progression of putting Assane against an invisible and seemingly invincible shadowy gang forcing him to do their bidding (which lets them do the heist-of-the-week format without compromising the larger plot), that turns out to be just one horrible man from his past armed with henchmen and a grudge, which means he gets to be developed and taken out within the season without much delay and without Assane having to make stupid out-of-character blunders to let him escape to menace another day (which was a problem I had with Pelligrini). I like that Keller gets to be legitimately scary as a threat to Assane's loved ones, but is also undone by being a stupid piece of shit who only knows how to abuse and manipulate children until they all turn on him, and once he and Assane are on even ground he goes out like a chump.

Putting Pellegrini completely out of sight and saving him for the final twist where he's been pulling a Kingpin in prison with god knows what consequences even warmed me up to him as a villain, if nothing else because, okay, a Lupin worth his name needs a Cagliostro menace, and the ending twist isn't even about him so much as it's about the betrayal of someone Assane confided in.

And unfortunately that ending twist is good enough that it would be awful if any of those three turned out to be the backstabbers and there's equal arguments for being any of them (I don't think it's going to be Pellegrini's daughter precisely because she's the most predictable, I don't think they'd do the Countess of Cagliostro that 1-to-1)

(Art is from the cover of Lupin: Échec à la reine, which is a prequel novel focused on Benjamin. I don't think it's been translated to English but it got published in Brazil.)

Look, it's good drama, yes, we need stakes to keep this going, yes, but BEN NOOOOO, GODDAMNIT ASSANE

Unfortunately I can't fault Assane that much despite the fact that he barely knew his mom. There was no good option there, Ben would have fumbled it if he was even a little on the plan, and I'm not sure if he later realized why Assane did it or if he didn't realize at all, I mean the ending twist sets him up as one of the potential backstabbers and it's gonna be really fucking heartbreaking if so, but...man, I don't fault the way everyone reacted to that episode, but I can't get that mad at Assane for what he did.

The heist he did with his mom at the prime minister's mansion complete with jetski escape added another 10 years to our lifespan. Utterly delightful. I love this show so much.

I was a bit iffy on how the prior seasons approached the existence of Arsene Lupin books in-text and I'm still a little mixed on it. However, the sheer reverence and omnipresent popularity of Arsene Lupin the character actually isn't even that unrealistic to the character's real life popularity in France or elsewhere, or how much the show has done to refuel said popularity. I mean, hell, I and others got to see it firsthand Lupin being the talk of the town non-stop. It still takes me a little out of the show, but it's far from a dealbreaker.

Major major leg that this thing has above so many other contemporary reboots/adaptations is that this is FUN, Lupin in general should always get to be fun and more than a little stupid sometimes, and this gets it. This thing delights in carrying us through every step of the process by which the main character does his impressive things, laying out all the components in plain sight and putting them together and even letting you feel smart for realizing how it's coming together and still being surprised when it does.

This is the show that Sherlock wishes it was, because of course Lupin can't make a comeback without putting one over his good old rival Sholmes.

The show was always strong, I think, but every season so far's just been refining things and making all of it's strengths better. It's so so good and I hope it keeps going, this thing does crazy numbers every season, I just never see it talked about much in English circles. I'm glad it's been going strong the way it has. Assane has become one of my favorite protagonists in anything and I might even watch the show again soon.

Still unbelievably good and has only gotten better from what was already a very strong start.

#lupin #lupin netflix #assane diop #benjamin farel #lupin part 3 #arsene lupin #pulp heroes #tv shows

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samstree · 2 years

Text

A Master in Matchmaking

Jaskier plays the matchmaker. Geralt is not amused.

(4.3k ☆ also on AO3)

“Oh, come on! It’ll work, Geralt! I know it will,” Jaskier exclaims. “If the largest matchmaking festival on the continent cannot find you a partner, I don’t know what will!”

All it gets Jaskier is a non-committal grunt from Geralt. The witcher looks at the bustling market square and back at Jaskier, his face growing increasingly unimpressed.

“Just look at this!”

Jaskier stretches an arm towards the low-hanging washing lines that weave between statues and trees. Except there’s no laundry here, only small pieces of papers clipped onto those lines with personal information written on them—names, age, occupation, hobbies, and most importantly, what this person looks for in a match.

“Look at what?” Geralt crosses his arms, eyeing the hundreds of matchmaking notices flapping in the wind.

“All these people are looking for someone,” Jaskier says, excitedly, his fingers brushing a particular sheet. “One of them has to be the right person for you if you would just stop brooding and look!”

The scowl on Geralt’s face resembles the one he often wears when Jaskier says something stupid, which is completely uncalled for because Jaskier is having the best idea ever.

“Jaskier,” he sighs. “These are desperate people trying to marry themselves off. Or worse, desperate parents trying to marry off their poor children.”

The crowd is full of people of all ages, throwing furtive looks at one another and trying to draw attention to their note. A few washing lines down, two women start chatting right on the spot—they both put needlework on the hobbies section.

Jaskier watches them for a second, their smiles shy but happy.

It’s the reason why he came to Toussaint just in time for the festival, to find Geralt a partner so he won’t be lonely in retirement. Now that Geralt has settled into his vineyard by himself, Jaskier worries.

“But it’s Beauclair tradition. You can’t possibly refuse,” Jaskier whines. “Besides, my dear, darling friend, I know you must want someone in your life.”

“Do you now?”

“Mm-hmm, or have you forgotten how I can read you like an open book?”

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and leads him to one of the makeshift stalls where fresh parchments and quills are provided for late-comers. He drags Geralt to sit beside him despite all the eye rolls, and dips the quill in an inkpot, the tip hovering above the blank paper.

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t Jaskier me. I know you want to deny it and repeat all that stale nonsense about witchers not needing anyone, but I’m me, so it’ll be useless anyway.” Jaskier pokes at Geralt’s shoulder. “You went round and round for all these years protecting your family, and now they are okay. Yen and Ciri are traveling the continent, safe but away, leaving you here alone. I know that, deep down, you must want someone by your side again.”

“I do?” Geralt’s deadpans, still not amused. “If you know me as well as you claim, what kind of person would I be wanting at the moment?”

Jaskier straightens his back. Now here’s something he’s very good at—helping Geralt with his words.

“That’s getting ahead of ourselves,” Jaskier begins to write. “Let’s start with your name—Geralt, of course. We don’t need monikers for a matchmaking notice, no matter how dashing and genius it is. White Wolf would sound quite silly to a potential suitor, don’t you agree? And now, age?”

Geralt narrows his eyes.

Jaskier clears his throat. “Okay, not that. It’s hard to explain on one piece of paper anyway. I suppose it should be saved for the first date.”

He continues with the hobbies section, but after gwent, horse riding, brushing down horses, and taking care of horses, Jaskier begins to scratch his head. Geralt lives such a simple life that Jaskier isn’t sure how to expand on. He knows intimately how Geralt enjoys a good bath, but somehow he feels protective of that information. When they are on the path, it’s one of the ways Jaskier could help him unwind, and he’s reluctant to reveal it to the world.

“Thought you knew me well,” Geralt says cockily.

“I do! I just…” Jaskier chews his lips. “I haven’t seen you much in retirement.”

A pang of regret hits Jaskier when Geralt’s eyes dim.

It’s not like Jaskier doesn’t want to visit, but there is no reason for Geralt to want him here too often, being a retired witcher and all. There are no more monsters, and of course, no need for songs either. Jaskier will just be a nuisance by his side, and he’d rather not overstay his welcome.

A short visit is all he needs to make sure Geralt is happy. If by any luck, he does find a suitable partner for Geralt, Jaskier will just be an awkward third wheel.

And he’s fine with that, really. It doesn’t make him sad at all to think about leaving.

Jaskier looks away from Geralt’s face, forgetting what he was writing.

“Poetry.” Geralt draws his attention.

“Hmm?” Jaskier blinks.

“I like poetry,” Geralt repeats, his voice soft, “in retirement. There’s too much time with the days dragging on, and I’ve been…reading. They have a large selection of poetries in the city, all from the north.”

Jaskier nods, recording as Geralt speaks. “Any favorites?”

Geralt hums. “One, perhaps. A collection published in the form of travel journals, but it’s really about friendship and love.” He pauses. “And how they are the same thing.”

The quill falters, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “You read my new book?”

Fondness fills Geralt’s eyes, his smile stretching subtly in a way that makes Jaskier’s heart flutter. “Why, yes, of course. Do I know another poet so popular I can’t even escape in the south?”

Jaskier’s chest is full of warmth he can’t help the grin when he writes down the title of his work on the paper. He looks at it, and then up at Geralt, before putting down the quill and pulling his sweet witcher into a hug.

“Thank you, my friend.” He kisses Geralt’s cheek in appreciation.

“Hmm. It fills the days. I don’t know how you still manage to be rambling with so few words in poetry.”

Jaskier smacks Geralt playfully on the shoulder and threatens to write an ode dedicated to him just for annoyance’s sake. Geralt laughs with crinkling eyes, and suddenly, it’s just like the old days.

“I have missed you,” Jaskier says in all honesty. “Us, like this.”

Geralt quiets, his body shifting away from Jaskier, leaving a respectful distance between them. “Then why don’t you visit?”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. “I do.”

“But you don’t. Not really.”

There’s something Jaskier can’t discern in Geralt’s expression, so he averts his eyes.

“Well, I am now, and I intend to make good use of my time here.” He taps the half-finished paper. “Now, chop-chop. We still need to describe your perfect match, and I meant that you’re an open book to me. Or do you want to bet?”

The inexplicable sorrow disappears from Geralt’s face, and he relaxes gradually. “Do it then. Let’s see if you can describe my perfect match.”

Geralt puts mockery in the last two words, and Jaskier scoffs. “I will!”

“Good.”

“Alright!” Jaskier counters, feeling the childish need to prove himself. “Looking for,” he recites while writing, “a brave warrior, who lives to protect.”

“No,” Geralt says curtly.

“What do you mean no? You must prefer someone noble and brave, be it a man or a woman. They must be good with swords and fight for a living.” Jaskier spreads his hands. “Look at you!”

“Exactly.” Great cocks an eyebrow. “Why would I want another me?”

“Huh.” Jaskier realizes he may have a habit of projecting his own standards onto others, but oh well. “What occupation are we thinking, then?”

Geralt hums contemplatively before saying.

“Not a fighter. Someone who creates, who sees beauty in ugly things despite appearances. Someone who finds a way to love everything and everyone. An artist,” he adds. “Yes, an artist, perhaps.”

Golden eyes fix on Jaskier, deep in thoughts, the genuine appreciation in his tone a surprise. Who would have thought Geralt is attracted to the opposite of himself?

“Okay.” Jaskier crosses out the last line. “Artist, not warriors. Is that a hard no or…?”

“Hard no.” Geralt throws a challenging look. “Want to guess again?”

Jaskier takes more time this time. He reflects on decades of their companionship and recounts every little habit of his that Geralt has commented on, and makes another guess.

“You prefer being quiet, so someone who doesn’t talk too much. Someone who can just sit with you in silence and not grate on your nerves.”

“Wrong again,” Geralt barely lets Jaskier finish before saying. “I don’t like the quiet. Not anymore, at least.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow in confusion. “But you used to tell me to shut up all the time, saying all my talking gives you headaches or something.”

Geralt simply shrugs. “And when did that last happen?”

Jaskier opens his mouth and realizes he cannot recall the last incident of Geralt having problems with his talking. He closes his mouth after a moment.

“Thought so.”

“But…”

“Hmm,” Geralt eyes at the paper. “I’d prefer a partner who loves to speak their mind. I may have wanted it years ago, but the house is…too quiet these days. I’d want them loud and verbose, someone who can fill the silence. It can be nice, just to listen.”

Once upon a time, they’d just sit beside a bonfire with Jaskier going on and on about his day, his music, and Geralt listened quietly with a contented look on his face.

It makes sense, Jaskier figures, so he writes it down too. He’s got two wrong guesses now, and there’s still work to be done. Jaskier aims for an easy one next.

“You want someone who knows a lot about monsters, I reckon. Herbology, too. Your partner must understand your job and provide help when needed.” Jaskier’s nose wrinkles, remembering women with beautiful necklines who were too self-important to stay with Geralt for long. “Like all your old sorceress friends. They were all exceedingly good with herbs and spells, which helped your witchering tremendously over the years—see? I can say nice things about them.”

Before Jaskier can let a smug look fully settle on his face, a laugh rumbles out of Geralt’s chest.

“I would never doubt you, but also no.” Geralt shrugs at Jaskier’s scribbles. “I don’t care how much they understand monsters. We are not hiring for help.”

“But that could keep you safe!” Jaskier argues.

Geralt takes Jaskier’s free hand and squeezes. “You know I don’t look for usefulness in a companion. I can make potions and slay monsters fine on my own. Besides, those are rare in Toussaint. I just want someone to…”

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand in return, understanding the ever-present loneliness in his friend’s life. “To be with you.”

Geralt tilts his head, musing. “I want someone who, for some reason, wants to be with me. So it has to be someone kind.”

“It won’t be a kindness to want you, Geralt.” It’s a force of habit to correct these subtle self-deprecating comments from Geralt, and Jaskier does it as gently as possible. “If your partner thinks being with you is an act of grace, I won’t even allow such a person near you. You deserve someone who chooses you, someone who is just as kind as you.”

The fierce protectiveness in Jaskier’s chest must translate well, because Geralt is quiet for a long time. He gets quiet when he’s feeling things, and it must be good things right now.

“Well then,” in the end, Geralt says softly. “If you say so.”

They resume the game, but Jaskier has no more luck as he goes on. If he guesses Geralt’s ideal match to be mature and serious, Geralt will describe them as humorous and flighty. If Jaskier believes them to be a well-respected figure in society, Geralt will scoff and declare he doesn’t mind some silliness in life.

The only thing Jaskier gets right is loyalty. Geralt puts such high values on loyalty, but it’s not a surprise—he shouldn’t expect anything less from a partner. Also horses, of course. Whoever has Geralt’s heart must be good with Roach. It should be at the top of the list in hindsight.

Frustrated grows despite Jaskier’s effort in keeping the game light-hearted. The parchment is full of crossed-out scribbles, and he’s given up on writing altogether.

There’s a nagging voice at the back of his mind, whispering how he no longer understands Geralt anymore.

Jaskier scowls, grasping at low-reaching fruits. “What about fashion? You must love someone who dresses in muted colors so as to not draw attention to the two of you! Only the gods know how much you hate that.”

He watches Geralt pleadingly, a second of pause stretching into forever. Just one win, Jaskier thinks. Just give him this one so he can still prove himself to know Geralt’s mind.

“Nice try,” Geralt answers. “I don’t mind colors. They are even fashionable here. You should visit the tailors tomorrow. I’ve kept notes on shops that make decent doublets, maybe even to your taste. They’ve got matching hats too.”

Even talk of good doublets and hats cannot stop Jaskier from planting his face onto the desk. He lets out a distressed groan and lets his confidence crumble.

“I’m a terrible friend, Geralt. Say it, I won’t blame you.”

A chuckle escapes Geralt’s lips, and he nudges Jaskier with an elbow. “Just terrible at judging my taste, is all. You’re fine.”

Jaskier peels himself from the desk and balls up the sheet of paper. They’d need to start from the top at this point.

“Alright, at least we’ve gathered some ideas now. I’ll know how to look for your beloved,” Jaskier says with a sigh. “How do you imagine life is like with them? Paint the picture for me.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Please?” Jaskier can’t help but feel inadequate, and he’s determined to get it right.

“Alright. For you, but only for you,” Geralt says in all seriousness, studying Jaskier’s face, concentrating on his next words. “I imagine life with them would be…easy.”

“Easy?” Jaskier echoes, entranced by the way Geralt’s eyes crinkle. He looks deep in thought as if reminiscing about good memories.

“Yes, easy. They’d be kind and gentle, as we’ve established. Good with Roach, so we can go on journeys to our hearts’ pleasure. The destination won’t matter, as long as they’re with me. They’d make me laugh with the worst jokes when the day gets too long, and in return, I’d take care of them.”

“You would?” Jaskier encourages. “Go on.”

Geralt leans towards Jaskier, so he can keep his voice low like they are exchanging secrets.

“I’d make sure they are warm on the road when the seasons change, and fed when food is scarce. I’d make sure everything I have here is their home, a safe place to return to. We’d run the vineyard together, read together, go to bed together at night, and they’d make fun of my reading glasses and aching joints in the process. When Ciri visits, we’d cook up a big meal for her, even though you—um, their only skill in the kitchen might be to burn it down. It’s okay though. It would be a nice day spent together.”

The way Geralt finishes the last part is gentle and full of wonder. Jaskier forgets to breathe.

“But mostly,” Geralt continues. “They see me. Against all odds, they see me for who I am, understand me like no one else. Even if I am just a witcher with nothing to offer, they will gladly cross the continent for me, again and again.”

The crowd bustles loudly but it’s only in the distance. All noise is drowned out by the intimate bubble created by Geralt’s soft musing.

“They sound wonderful,” Jaskier says, meeting the sparkling joy in Geralt’s eyes.

“They are,” he answers with equal parts pride and longing.

And then, it hits Jaskier.

All the odd descriptions Geralt has given him, all these little details, they are not casual thoughts on a hypothetical partner he might find here today. The life Geralt is telling Jaskier of, this amazing person who he speaks of with immense fondness—they are not fictional.

Oh.

Geralt has been describing someone real, someone who is already in his life.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, pulling back from the reverent expression on Geralt’s face. “I see.”

“You do?” Geralt’s eyes light up expectantly.

“Yes, I do now.” Jaskier looks at the crinkled parchment in his hand and then at the washing lines swaying in the wind. “You’ve found your beloved while I was gone.”

The painful twist in Jaskier’s heart leaves him wrong-footed, unsure how to proceed next. He laughs without humor, trying to put on a brave face, but it feels more like a grimace.

This someone, who is nothing but contradictions to everything Jaskier knows about Geralt, has somehow captured his witcher’s heart. They likely have his heart in a death grip, judging from the enamored way Geralt speaks of them.

While Jaskier wasn’t here, Geralt has fallen in love with this…this paradox of a person.

“Jaskier, let me explain—”

“No, no,” he interrupts. “It’s good news! I’m so glad, my friend. All this time, you’ve been talking about this person already. That explains so much. Of course I was wrong about everything—love doesn’t make sense! I’m the poet, I should know!” Jaskier almost chokes on the unfairness of it all. “We’ve been wasting our time here. Well, I am, coming all the way to Toussaint and playing the matchmaker. Silly me! But I am happy, Geralt. I’m so happy for you.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand with a worried frown, but his touch feels like a burn.

Jaskier stands, his eyes darting everywhere to avoid the dismay he’s caused Geralt with his rambling.

“I’m happy,” he repeats stubbornly, like that’ll make it more believable. “Now my work is done, I’ll go and check the…um, the sun. The sun is good today.”

“Jaskier, wait.”

Without letting Geralt stop him, Jaskier turns to leave, his face crumbling like a dam broken. He doesn’t look at where he goes, only weaving through the crowd. Suddenly everyone is in his way, looking for their romantic happy ending, and it feels like they are all rubbing it in his face.

Jaskier has no need to come back to Geralt again. His best friend will live happily ever after with his beloved, who is noble, selfless, witty, funny, wise, and on top of it all, incredibly good-looking. Geralt never mentioned the last part, but Jaskier can only imagine.

He’s only a bard. He will never live up to Geralt’s wonderful, perfect soulmate.

“Jaskier!” Geralt grabs his wrist from behind, pulling Jaskier to a stop. “Will you listen to me?”

A washing line hangs between them, one particularly large paper flying into Jaskier’s face as he turns around. Geralt lifts the line and crosses under it, stepping into Jaskier’s space.

“What is there to say?” Jaskier says, failing to hide the trembling of his chin. “Are you here to tell me more about your beloved?”

“What if I am?”

Jaskier’s heart shatters into a million pieces, but he fights the blur in his vision. The sun is golden, shining down on Geralt’s smile, making it dreamy and wistful.

“Go on then.” Jaskier’s voice breaks.

“Where do I even start? You already know so much about him.” Geralt keeps his hold on Jaskier’s hand, his thumb running small circles on Jaskier’s wrist. “All I need you to know is that he makes me happy.”

“It’s good that you’re happy. It’s all I ever want for you.”

“I am. Incredibly.” Geralt’s smile is tainted with a hint of sadness. “He isn’t with me often, being too busy and all, but when he does stay, I…I just want every second to last longer.”

Jaskier keeps his smile big and genuine despite the lump in his throat. “You love him so?”

“I do,” Geralt says solemnly.

“And he loves you?”

Geralt looks down at their joint hands before answering, “I’m not sure yet. He’s quite dense for a smart man, so he may not realize he could.”

“Sounds like a fool to me. You’re sure he deserves you?”

“Well, I can only hope to deserve him first, if he’s willing to have me.” Hope flutters in Geralt’s voice. “I’ve been wanting to ask him all day long.”

Jaskier lets out a high-pitched sound, his tears blinked away with surprise. “Is he in Beauclair today?” He looks at the festival around them, horrified. “Then why are you here with me and doing this…nonsense?”

Geralt almost looks offended. “I happen to quite enjoy spending time with you, or do you still doubt that?”

“No, but…” Jaskier bites down on his lips. “You must have been missing him terribly while I was pestering you. Do you want to go and find him instead?”

“Hmm, It’s true I’ve been thinking about kissing him for the past hour.” Geralt’s eyes glisten with patience. “Can I?”

It’s sweet that Geralt is asking permission to leave Jaskier here to seek out his beloved. It’s not like Jaskier can deny him anything, let alone his happiness. The shattered pieces of his heart bleed anew, but with a deep, shuddering breath, Jaskier removes Geralt’s hand from his.

“You can, of course. I’ll leave you to it. I only wish for the best—oh, Geralt, what are you—mmph!”

The sun is in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt moves in a mist of golden light and takes hold of his waist, dipping him backward and pressing their lips together.

Jaskier’s eyes remain open, his body rigid as a statue. Geralt’s lips are slightly chapped but achingly gentle, teasing him just the right way to erase every last thought in his brain.

It ends quickly. Too quickly for Jaskier to catch up with reality.

Geralt opens his eyes when he breaks the kiss, his pupils dilated with happiness. He has the most shit-eating grin on his face. “Alright?”

Jaskier’s jaw drops.

He places his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, his legs now as weak as jelly, his throat dry and his ears flushing hotly. The grin stays on Geralt’s face as Jaskier searches for something, anything.

Anything to explain the fact that Geralt just kissed him.

“Oh.” Jaskier puts up a finger in front of Geralt’s face and bends down, picking up the crinkled paper he’s dropped at some point during the kiss. He flattens it and reads through the words. “Oh!”

“Took you long enough,” Geralt comments infuriatingly.

“You!” Jaskier throws the paper at Geralt’s chest. “You’ve been talking about me this whole time!”

“And every bit I said was true. For a smart man, you are denser than I thought.

“That’s not—I…I was trying to—ugh, you bastard!” Jaskier splutters. They are attracting curious looks from bystanders, some of them pointing at them and muttering something, but neither of them seems to care. “I was heartbroken. Heartbroken, I say, and you were just waiting to laugh at me. Is that the way to treat the man of your dreams?”

“Were you saddened to find out I was with someone else?” Geralt asks. “You…wouldn’t like that?”

Once Jaskier’s heart slows from the shock and embarrassment, he feels the love surging in his chest, the same love that’s been filling the breath in his lungs for the better part of his life.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he answers. “I wouldn’t like that at all.”

Geralt guides Jaskier’s hands and places them behind his back, pulling him closer until Jaskier’s head is nested in the curve of his neck. A hum rumbles against Jaskier’s chest, and he melts into Geralt’s embrace.

“I only learned how much I—how much I loved you after you’ve gone. The days come to a stop in the absence of your songs, and only restart when you visit, but you never stay for long. I thought I was too late,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s hair. “Am I too late? If I’m reading this wrong, I need you to tell me now, Jaskier, so I may still have a chance to recover.”

Jaskier shakes his head, unable to bear the uncertainty in Geralt’s voice. If it’s anyone else making Geralt so unsure of himself, so doubtful of how lovable he is, he’d want to smack them up the head.

But there’s no one else. Geralt loves him.

“Your absence stops my world too,” Jaskier says, cupping Geralt’s cheeks and drinking in the sight of his witcher who is, by some miracle, in love with him. “I thought you were quite happy without me annoying you all the time. I thought my poems were all I had.”

“I thought they were all I had too.”

They both laugh quietly at the absurdity of it all before Jaskier continues.

“No, you are not too late, not if I have a say in it. Neither of us are. We can figure this out from here even though we’ve wasted so much time.”

Geralt smiles, tapping Jaskier on the forehead. “Not wasted.”

“At least today was.” Jaskier insists. “This whole matchmaking business is a complete bust.”

Geralt’s eyes lower to Jaskier’s unhappy pout, and he kisses them away with a quick peck, his nose nuzzling at Jaskier’s skin, lingering as their breaths mix. The sun paints the back of Jaskier’s eyelids bright, and he hums with contentment.

“I don’t know,” Geralt says. “For a matchmaker, I’d say you’ve been quite successful in bringing my beloved to me.”

Between the rows of washing lines and souls seeking their other halves, Jaskier holds Geralt close and lets himself be kissed thoroughly until his limbs go boneless.

Perhaps he can take the win here. He’s found Geralt a match after all.

And it’s the most perfect one, if Jaskier may add himself.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #bad matchmaking #dumb jaskier #love confessions #repost because tumblr weird

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nerdyvocals · 11 days

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@look-at-those-niceass-rocks and I finished our watch (their first, my... eighth???) of Julie and the Phantoms the other day (*cough* over a week ago *cough*), and like the previous two times, we had some unhinged things to say about it. This one's a bit shorter as we only had episodes 8 and 9 left, but if you enjoy our dumbassery, rest assured, we'll be watching the Descendants franchise next!

Honorable mention: us spending the first 20 minutes of our call trying to find the first two posts because the blog search engine simply Does Not Work.

Captions: [Whimsical music plays] Me: Whimsical music GAYS, OHHHHHHH

*Flashback of the Hotdog Incident (tm)* Bee: Street meat street meat street meat Me: Are you saying "straight meat"??? Bee: NO!

Ray Molina : *is very engaged with his son's ghost dip theory* Bee: The Bandit Heeler energy on this man

Julie: *outside the Patterson's house* Me: Do you have tissues?? Bee: Uhhh, yeah, next to me? Me: Good Bee: Oh boy

*cue lots of sniffling over Unsaid Emily*

Bee: You can tell their prefrontal lobes stopped developing at 17 Me: Yeah, I guess that happens when you die? Brain stops growing?? Bee: hehehe brain machine broke

Julie: What the heck??? Me: Let Julie say fuck! Bee: Of all the characters, Julie should get to say fuck

Me: Finale time! Any predictions? Bee: Oh god, I don't think I could outdo the pink ladies one, uhhh

Bee then spends the next minute and a half being a prophet (in a sense): 1. Alex is going to get a very dramatic on-screen kiss with Seth Clearwater because otherwise I will be Upset 2. In the same way they become Real-or like. Where people can see them-when they play, they will find a way to be corporeal where they can touch each other 3. I think there should be a dance fight with-oh, fuck, what's his name? Evil ghost man?? With his Ghost Cocaine???

Alex and Willie: *emotional hug* Me: WAIT PAUSE. *zooms in on Alex's hand* I think I have that ring. Bee: Riveting.

The boys: *trying to get the PATD opener gig* Promoter: *freaking out* Assistant: *unbothered* Me: A lesbian and an incel are trapped in an office together. Bee: The incel is going to get eaten. Me: And not in the way he wants!

Julie: *having a cry in the alley* Me: I wonder how much they had to pay to keep that Subway sign in the background.

Julie: *takes dahlia from the street vendor* Bee: Truffula tree lookin-ass flower.

Bee: Also I didn't want to ruin that beautiful moment, but all I could think of was "mom come pick me up I'm scared."

Me: this poor tech guy is Going Through It (tm)

Carrie: Been here before Trevor: *Bombastic side eye* Bee: HA that look said, "Damn, I really forgot to parent this girl"

Nick: *Jamming* Us: GO FEDORA KID!!!

Me @ Trevor: That man is going to pass out

Me, as the Boys are appearing: See, I've always wondered what was going on in the ghost club side of this scene, cause look, their costumes are missing pieces! Alex's shirt is open, Reggie's jacket is just gone! Bee: Oh yeah Me: Like it's probably just a storytelling choice to show they're where they want to be via clothes, 'cause this is more in line with how they dress normally, but it does make me wonder what we're missing. Like is there a fight? Luke: *appearing* Me: See his sleeves got ripped off! How and why? Bee: They did that for us. You, specifically Me: *cackling*

Julie and Luke: *crying, about to hug* Me, noticing that Luke's pants Fit Very Well: Not the most important thing happening here, but uh, dat ass tho

After rewinding the scene a bit because it didn't hit Bee in the moment that They Were Hugging Bee: I was so caught up in the euphoria of a good butt that for a moment, I lived in a world where they weren't ghosts

Julie + Phantoms: We played the Orpheum! Me: Saved by the power of friendship! Bee: And this man's ass!

Me: So yeah, that was Julie and the Phantoms, how ya feeling? Bee: Great! This definitely won't change my brain chemistry forever

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #jatp netflix #unhinged quotes #julie molina #alex mercer #luke patterson #reggie peters

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logancreatesworlds · 1 year

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Pillow Princess

Author’s Note: Yes, I know it’s been years but I’m getting through my first job and I’m going to grad school so cut me some slack. Here, you filthy animals! Special thanks to @black-is-beautiful18 @macfizzle @khoicesbyk and @misswonderfrojustice

Warnings: Cursing, sexual content - Don’t like, don’t read. 18+ only.

J’onn exhaled in annoyance as he flew the javelin back to the watchtower. You, the sugary root of his exasperation, had spent the last hour ranting about how he “was too overprotective” and “never let you defend yourself.” It wasn’t his fault he had to save you after Cheetah almost sliced you into ribbons.

You were gifted with strength and speed that almost matched that of Wonder Woman and you had the power to teleport on top of that. Too bad Cheetah nicked you on your side before you could ‘vanish’ out of her reach - a nasty wound which J’onn had to cauterize with his heat vision after dealing with her.

“Are you even listening?” You asked him angrily.

“How could I not? Your complaining shall be heard by everyone in the galaxy.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Yes,” J’onn snapped, “Excuse you for not listening to my instructions and reading Wonder Woman’s report on Cheetah. If you had, you would’ve known she is as fast as you if not faster.”

“You know damn well I hate reading!”

“Of course, unless it’s an erotica,” J’onn replies, not looking at you.

Your mouth flies open with an indignant gasp and J’onn smirks with brief satisfaction as you cross your arms and steam quietly.

The rest of the flight was silent.

“Hey guys,” Flash greets as he and Superman approached, “How was the miss-”

“Ask him,” you huffed angrily as you stormed past the two.

J’onn clenched his jaw at how disrespectful you were. He had told you about that.

“Rough mission?” The Man of Steel asked.

“Rough day in general,” The Martian replies, shaking his head.

“Vanish seems pretty pissed off,” Flash comments.

“Well that’s what happens when you aren’t careful during a mission,” J’onn says, brushing past them, “I’ll see you both later.”

You sat in silence as Batman gathered supplies to patch you up. You couldn’t let Cheetah get the drop on you again.

“You look constipated,” Batman comments.

You gave him an annoyed look, one which the Caped Crusader was unfazed by.

“It’s true,” he said, bringing bandages and alcohol over to where you were.

“...The mission was rough today,” you relented.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning J’onn won’t stop babying me,” you huffed.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“How come?”

“Because you’re rash and hot-tempered.”

“That is not true!” You argued as he finished bandaging your scratched arm.

Batman gave you a knowing look and you sighed. Okay, maybe you were.

Then, J’onn walked in.

But you weren’t about to let him know that.

“I can take it from here, Batman,” J’onn says.

Batman nods and leaves the two of you alone, being sure to give a look on the way out.

J’onn quickly gets to work without a word and you let him.

“You can drop the attitude,” the Martian says as he dabs alcohol on the already-healing wound on your stomach.

“I will drop it when I feel like it,” you hiss venomously.

“I’m gonna dismiss that as post-battle jitters,” J’onn says, smirking as he intentionally presses the alcohol-dipped cloth on the wound.

It wasn’t enough to hurt you. He knew that. It was enough to get on your nerves.

“Fuck you!” You shouted at him.

Black Canary and Green Arrow just so happened to be walking right past the Medbay during your outburst. The look in J’onn’s eyes when he saw them was enough to make them continue.

J’onn took another exasperated breath. Breathe, he told himself, Count to ten.

Calmly, the Martian laid the cloth down and leaned over you.

His two green arms guarded both sides of your body as his lips laid against your ear.

“You are so far out of line right now,” J’onn whispered in your ear, “You are already in enough trouble and if you don’t fix that attitude, I’m going to take off this belt, drag you in front of everybody in the mess hall and spank you until you cannot sit. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. Now be quiet and let me finishing cleaning the wound you earned.”

Once J’onn was done, the two of you headed home.

The route back to your apartment was more quiet than the one back to the Watchtower, only this time you were grateful for the silence. The two of you slipped indoors unnoticed and you dropped your bag and coat on the couch before wordlessly heading to the shower.

The memory of you removing your costume was swiftly replaced by the feel of warm water hitting your sore muscles. All of the day’s trials and tribulations were forgotten as you cleaned yourself.

A familiar set of hands settled on your hips as you let the hot water rinse your breasts. You tipped your head back further as J’onn made his way up your back with the soapy washcloth and the gently wrung it out, intentionally brushing his fingertips along your spine.

Whether his fingers were outside or inside of you, you could not deny that the Martian was gifted with his hands.

J’onn used his right hand to pull you to him, allowing his left to run up your stomach and to briefly clutch your breast. The way he would play with your nipples was your favorite.

Just when you were finally getting into it, J’onn stopped.

The Martian got out of the shower and grabbed his towel before heading off to your room.

Indignance washing over you like the hot water, you quickly turned the shower off and marched into the bedroom.

“What the fuck was that?” You snapped.

“What was what?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, you jackass,” you snapped, “You left me high and dry.”

J’onn finished drying his neck and smirked at you, “You don’t look dry to me. Perhaps you’re just upset because Veronica misses me. Does she miss me, (Y/N)?”

You glared silently as the cold air hit your skin, amplifying the iciness of the droplets cascading down your hips and stomach. Your lady parts pulsed at his arrogance.

You hated how he was right. J’onn hadn’t been inside of you for two weeks.

J’onn sat down on the bed and smiled. Of course he looked unusually large because of his size. But given the two years you had been together, that was normal to you.

“Come here,” he said.

You walked up to him. Not needing any more direction, you handed him your towel.

The energy between the two of you seemed to wash over the room as J’onn rubbed the towel over your skin.

His eyes never left yours as his fingers brushed over the scar on your right breast.

You took initiative and closed the distance between the two of you. J’onn’s lips wholeheartedly received yours and you pushed him back onto the bed. His hands grabbed your ass as you crawled on top of him.

Then, you stopped.

“What’s wrong?” J’onn asked.

You slowly crawled off him and sunk down in front of him.

“(Y/N)?”

“Take off your clothes,” you ordered.

“But-”

“You haven’t taken care of me in a whole ass week,” you snapped at him, “Looks like I’ll have to do it myself.”

J’onn smiled as he shifted out of his clothes. His muscles elongated as you stretched over him.

You always loved his true form. It was long, angular and he showed it only to a select few - one of which was you.

You wordlessly rubbed between his legs and J’onn took the cue. Using his shapeshifting, he unsheathed the most private piece of himself and you took him in your hands.

The pleasure leaked into his red eyes as you jacked him off and a sigh escaped his lips. You kept a steady pace until J’onn rolled you both over.

“What are you doing?” You asked him.

“You don’t get to put yourself in danger and then touch me how you please. Touching is for good girls.”

“But-”

The look J’onn gave you silence you immediately and your eyes stayed connected as he spread your legs apart.

He then feasted on your pussy, sucking it like crab legs.

Your moans filled the room as you felt the Martian’s tongue extend into you and lick out the arousal.

‘That’s it, pillow princess,’ he whispered in your head, ‘Feed your boyfriend.’

You cried as J’onn stopped eating you out just before you were about to cum.

J’onn smiled down as you and you glared at him.

‘Fuck you,’ you mumble to him, unable to keep the smile off your face.

He pulled your front to meet him, putting your legs over your shoulder.

‘As you wish, dear,’ the Martian purred.

You did not walk straight the next morning.

Yes, yes - I know. I’ll be writing more.

#j'onn j'onzz x reader #j'onn j'onzz imagine #j'onn j'onzz x black!reader #martian manhunter imagine #martian manhunter x poc!reader #martian manhunter x reader

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umbracirrus · 27 days

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WIP Wednesday 💛

Hehehe, Wednesday is here again and I am feeling very excited because after a few weeks of doing drawings instead of writing, I've started getting back into the swing of things with writing! Plus it was nice to just take a break from putting words on paper, it felt refreshing re-opening my documents the other day.

I come with not one, but two snippets! One from an upcoming chapter of The Perfect Storm featuring Fjora and Sorik, two of my beloved Whiterun Guards, the other from the first chapter of As a leaf would scatter to the wind, which as of yet hasn't been posted (though I'm nearly there in getting it done, I hope!) featuring my dragonborn Aevra 😊

Tagging @thequeenofthewinter, @throughtrialbyfire, and anyone who wants to post a WIP! No obligations, of course :)

-------

Snippet 1:

“Aren’t you going out into the festivities? It’s the first time it’s been held in years, and you’re cooped up in here...”

A quill, thankfully not one which had been dipped into ink yet, tapped against a piece of empty parchment. The quill’s owner hummed thoughtfully, then nodded. “I’ll be heading out soon, Sor. Just want to finish writing this letter to a friend, then I’ll meet you out there.”

From where they were stood in the doorway of the barracks, Sorik sighed and shook their head. “Writing to your mystery friend again, Fjora? Are they that important that you’re taking our first night off-duty since getting officially instated, on the night of your favourite festival, to write to them? Who even is it?!”

“Somebody who hates a late reply, that’s who. I’m sorry, I intended to write this earlier but with all the hubbub with the meadery and being stationed out there, I’ve barely had the chance to even think of replying until now. It’s going to ruin the fun if it’s on my mind when out in the festivities, y’know?”

Again, Sorik sighed, but went and turned around to head out. “Fine, fine... But I’m not telling you what happens if you miss out on the inevitable drunken chaos once Hulda cracks open the barrels of spiced mead. Or saving you any!”

Fjora’s lip turned up at the corner, singing out her response to the threat. “You will~”

“No I wooon’t,” Sorik mocked, attempting to match her tone. “Guard’s salary, remember? You’re getting your own drinks, and that’s if you even get out of here tonight... So hopefully, I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah... I’ll see you later. And don't worry, I’ll drag your drunken ass back here after.”

As soon as the door shut behind them, Fjora let out a sigh and ran her hands down her face, forgetting about the quill between her fingers until she felt a stinging line down her cheek from where the point had scraped against her skin. Trying to find the words she needed was... Hard. And she had no time – she had to get the document posted no later than the next morning. No courier would be able to take it that evening, so it would have to be then.

Taking a deep breath, she dipped the nib into her ink, and brought the quill to the paper.

Whiterun has mostly been quiet since I took on guard duties. Numbers are thin and wages crap meagre, but the Jarl has been finding funds to try and bolster numbers somehow? Probably raised taxes, but I won’t assume. Training was rather curious though – nothing like what I went through under you. The Dragonborn has been assisting in carrying it out, I was selected as part of the group put under her tutelage. She has a unique way with weapons, conjuring them as opposed to carrying them around. Prefers wielding two swords, though can wield both a battleaxe and a bow. She can look vulnerable and unarmed, then have her weapons drawn on you in an instant. She’s also rather intimidating when angry, the best way that I can put it is that you can feel the magic around her like pinpricks against your skin whilst the air that you breathe turns thick, as though you’re choking on it. But she’s otherwise calm and measured. Doesn't take much to get her to snap though. She lets the Jarl's eldest son watch the training she carries out too, I think she's got a soft spot for the boy or something. Otherwise, though I have been stationed in Dragonsreach on occasion since officially being named a guard, I have mostly been situated on the roads outside the city. There’s a cluster of farms out there which have recently been plagued by skeevers in what has turned out to be some sort of convoluted plot to take over the local meadery. It involved attempting to poison the residents of Dragonsreach, including the Jarl and Dragonborn, at some sort of planned mead tasting. Did I mention in a previous report that the Dragonborn has hidden behind the Jarl like a coward relocated to Dragonsreach as a security measure? I am going to put in the request to be stationed in Dragonsreach more frequently in the hopes that I can provide you with more information about the Jarl in future correspondence. As I have been able to establish something akin to a friendship? rapport with the Dragonborn, I may be able to use her to pull some strings. Sorik is also none the wiser. It is difficult concealing this from my friend, but I will not allow our friendship to jeopardise my mission. -F.

Fjora read and reread what she had written, almost certain that she would get a bollocking in her response over her level of formality and scribbles in what was meant to be an official report, but she didn’t really care. Something was better than nothing, and between her guard shifts and needing to sleep, time had not been on her side. Plus, the festival meant that this was the quietest the barracks had been in weeks.

Letting out a satisfied sigh, she folded the parchment, grabbed the envelope which had been set aside waiting, and inserted her message before sealing it. She then grabbed a book from under her bunk – knowing full well that nobody would dare touch a woman’s copy of Thief of Virtue, and slotted it between the pages. All she had to do in the morning was pull it back out, and get it in the hands of the first courier she could see on her way to her patrol route near the Battle-Born farm.

Snippet 2:

An Altmer slowly stumbled out of the foliage, and even in the looming darkness, he looked to have been worse for wear. Scrapes covered his skin, his robes were in tatters, and his eye looked swollen and bruised.

As Aevra approached the injured elf, the axe which was in her hand fell to the ground with a light thud. She was glad that she had let that happen, because mere moments later he keeled forward, a pained whine slipping from his lips as she caught him before he hit the ground.

Croaking quietly, the elf looked up at her, then forced a slight smile in her direction. "Y… You aren't one of them…"

"One of who, exactly?"

A painful sounding cough escaped his lips, followed by a weak groan. "Bandits. I was ambushed… The ruins nearby, Bthalft, had been taken over as I was… investigating. Barely escaped with my life."

Aevra frowned. Bandits in the vicinity of the camp was not good – she needed to inform the General and the Legate in charge of both that and the elf's presence… plus there was the chopped firewood which she needed to get moved.

"You don't look capable of moving right now. Are you okay to remain here for a few moments? I need to let my superiors-"

"No. I just… need a moment to catch my breath. Then I can heal myself and be on my way… Just needed somewhere safe to do so."

Once more, she felt her mouth being tugged downward at that statement, but she felt the sincerity in his words. As such, she helped him with sitting in the grass, before returning to her dropped axe and picking it up. There was a slight chime from behind her, in the direction from the elf, accompanied by a faint golden glow – distinctly that of a healing spell.

Deciding that there simply wasn't enough light to chop what remained of the wood in a reasonably safe manner, she picked up the small log she had been about to chop with her spare hand and tossed it back onto the pile needing to be cut, then meandered over to the pile of wood which had been chopped. It would take two or three trips to get it all to their appropriate destinations across camp… perhaps she could ask for assistance from one of the others when she brought in the first load.

"Ah… finally, much better."

She turned around, and noticed that the elf had indeed healed himself, had stood up, and was now dusting off his robes, tutting at the tears which were in the fabric.

Aevra pursed her lips together as she took a moment to look at the elf and take in his appearance in the dim light. The robes that he was wearing… they were awfully familiar. Unsettlingly so. When she realised what they were, she had to try to conceal the building anxiety which was forming in the pits of her stomach. Only one organisation came to mind at the sight of dark robes detailed in gold. She'd killed numerous wearing the same back in the Great War, and no doubt worked with just as many since. It was impossible not to recognise it. "You… You're a member of the Thalmor, aren't you?" And another, unspoken question lingered in her mind – just how did he get jumped by mere bandits? The Thalmor were very much prone to bragging of their capabilities…

A quiet snort came from the elf as he approached her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "That I am." Slowly, the corner of his lips turned up. "And you..."

#meg has done some writing #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim oc fjora #skyrim oc sorik #dragonborn oc aevra #fic - the perfect storm #fic - as a leaf would scatter to the wind #fun fact there is one thing which ties these snippets together in spite of being in two separate fics. but i won't spoil!! heheheh #i only realised when i put the two snippets into the post that they had something which tied them together

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