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undermine-the-instinct · 3 months

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Sweet Dreams are Made of These

Cyno x Bard!Reader x Kaveh

Previous part.... Bard!Reader Masterlist.....

Warnings: In game racism (?) of the Sages against the desert folk/eremites. Gaslighting, Job market polarization ('Bad jobs' the desert folk do to survive), MURDER, DISSOCIATION. These parts will be marked beginning and end by a RED BAR. if you want to skip look past those. Word count: 7.1K.

Oh Cyno. You’re such a fucking idiot.

He jolts awake at his desk, immediately alert. Who… Who called him? Was he dreaming? About what?

It's late. He fell asleep at his desk. How odd.

Do you want me to seduce you?

He shakes his head of the drowsiness, sighing hard. How annoying. He's just been sleeping over all this paperwork, work that he could've been working on? He thought he had an adequate amount of sleep, proportional to his workload. He needs to adjust it, if he's falling asleep like this.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and looks at the report his cheek was plastered to. The written interrogation of a scholar, suspected of being an accomplice to one of his wayward classmates.

Said wayward classmate has been stealing and selling Akademiya knowledge. Essentially contraband. He's been writing down all the information he could and selling it to the eremites, to do Archons knows what with. Smart, since the Akasha could be tracked easier than paperwork.

The exact contents of said contraband was in a different report though. The accomplice's interrogation, carried out by another matra, simply noted the strange times he would arrive at the dorms and leave, the frantic way he wrote everything down.

The case landed on his desk, now that a matra had caught him meeting with another known associate of the eremites. It would be up to Cyno to track and interrogate him. Should he do anything incriminating, Cyno will have to arrest him, as well as the suspected accomplice. He probably already would.

Cyno sighs hard, again; He needs to have all this paperwork done by tonight if he wants to be on track. He couldn’t believe he fell asleep.

There's a knock on his door, and he barks out a quick, “Who is it?" Sharper than he meant it, but anyways, a young secretary pokes his head in.

"Um, General? So sorry for interrupting you at the late hour. The…The Grand Sage calls for an audience." He doesn't show any signs, but his heart sinks at the familiar words.

He stands from the desk without another word, and walks out the room, shutting it and paying no heed to the floundering secretary, sending him scuttling with a look. He makes way.

He walks the halls, his footsteps hardly a sound. His hand trails along the cool walls, tapping, counting.

Azar is a distinguished man, with many years at the Akademiya under his belt. He's seen generations of scholars pass and fail, and has been the judging hand in many of these fates.

A man like that doesn't survive being Grand Sage with clean hands.

The room is darkened, with only a lamp on either side of the man's desk, lighting up the documents there.

"The paperwork never seems to end, does it?" Azar has even more documents and articles on his desk than Cyno’s doubled, and Cyno wonders when this man ever sleeps.

"It's part of the job sir."

"Ah, yes, unfortunately. If I trusted anyone else competent enough I would gladly offload it all. Alas, only certain people are suitable for certain jobs. Right, General?"

Cyno isn't sure if he should answer, so he doesn't. He stands there and waits for the conversation to go the way he knows it always goes. But Azar seems content with this nothing-talk.

“You’re not wearing your Akasha, Cyno.” His hand flies to his ear, where the device would emit that green symbol.

“...How did you know I wasn’t wearing it sir?” He hasn't even looked up yet.

“Because I am the Grand Sage, Cyno boy. Tell me, how long did you have it off? Did you have any pleasant dreams?” Only children dream in Sumeru, and Cyno is not a child. He doesn't miss the implication though. And it doesn't escape him how, nonetheless, he still dreams.

Peach fuzz. Eyes flutter like dove wings. A mouth that sears across his like fire; the curve of a knee and the bend of the spine.

Do you want me to seduce you?

He shakes his head free of the fog.

“No, sir. Too tired to dream. I’ll put my Akasha back on when I return to my office.”

Azar nods his approval. "Good. Now, with all this work, it's important to rest, as well as to go outside and get some exercise. Have you been doing that, General?"

"I keep my body in top condition sir."

"Of course you do. Do you take any time off for yourself? You need time to rest, boy. You work hard enough as is, you should ‘party’ hard’ too, like the youth these days.”

Cyno gives a noncommittal shrug, and Azar sighs. “Well, you can relax after this job I have for you. Put yourself to use and get some fresh air. Here." He holds out an indiscrete envelope, which he knows is his next job.

He opens it and looks it over as the Grand Sage speaks.

"We've been so focused on that Monstadt pest that it seems we've fallen behind in keeping order within the Akademiya. This one has been undermining us with this little ploy of his, you should have already read the reports. He annoys me. Take care of him, will you?"

Take care of him. He knows what that means. Normally, he doesn't speak, not anymore, and yet…

"This is the scholar suspected of selling information to the eremites."

"Yes, those brutes."

"...The report said that he's been selling general lesson plans, exams and answers for the past entrance exams. We change the tests every year, so that is general knowledge anyone with general permission can access.”

“Well, yes. We change the order of questions and topics and even the questions themselves lest a pattern be found, and the entrance exams lose their set purpose. Tell me. What is their set purpose?”

“To weed out the ones not knowledgeable nor capable enough to survive here.”

“Or worthy enough. Exactly.”

Cyno doesn't shuffle on his feet. “...Sir, the scholar can be charged with unlawful distribution of Akademiya knowledge, or even copyright infringement, if we push it perhaps. Akademiya knowledge such as official tests and dissertations are copyrighted. But his crimes don’t seem too…discriminatory. Severe." Azar doesn't speak.

“For lack of a better word, sir.”

Azar doesn't even look up from his paperwork.

“He's been selling it so that those desert folk could have a shot at passing the entrance exams,” he supplies, his voice going low.

“Like a sort of study plan. He's been working to create a sort of basic general education for the younger desert folk. Better than whatever education system they might have."

Cyno nods. "He should have proposed the idea to the Sages instead of selling off the information. But does this require my involvement, sir?"

"Oh? You would have one of your subordinates take the case? Giving one of them a chance to shine, hm?"

"No. Sir, I'm wondering why there is a case at all." Finally, Azar looks up. He looks at Cyno, puts down his pen and folds his hands.

"Cyno," he says his name. Says his name properly, the first syllable a long ‘EE’, rather than a hard ‘I’, like most others say it as. It's a common misconception. Cyno.

"From whom do the Corp of Thirty originate from?"

"They are a faction of the eremites."

"And what do they do?"

"Protect Sumeru."

"Yes. And tell me, who makes up the majority of the Corp of Thirty, and the eremites, and the merchants and store owners in Sumeru? Answer that and tell me why, as well."

"All of them are mainly…desert folk. Those trying to seek a better life."

Azar has his hands steepled over the desk, his eyes hard and level and flat.

“...I don't have to spell things out for you Cyno, you were an Akademiyian student. An exemplary one in fact. That's the only reason why I didn’t have you pressured out in fear of your…proclivity to violence, all those threats and fights—that, and respect for your adoptive father.”

“I was not a violent student. Those fights were usually instigated by the other party–”

"You did not grow up in the desert, but still, there is a savageness in you Cyno. It's in your blood. So imagine those who thrive there. Why there no shortage of eremites and mercenaries despite the high mortality rate. It's in the blood.”

Before he could even refute that (but wasn’t he right? He is violent), because he had to be wrong, if not misinformed, Azar went on.

“It’s why I have you take on the more…Unsavory jobs. You do what needs to be done. We just take the desert folk’s penchant for violence, and repurpose it to something more honorable, less harmful for everybody. Mostly Cyno, we need them as our soldiers, not our scholars. If we let them study and fill our halls, who will serve as our civil defenders? Our guards and protectors? Who would help us boost our economy?

“I will not let the Akademiya's great prestige and peace be marred. Especially not by someone so naively hopefully and with so little subtlety." He waves his hand, back to his papers.

"I want to make an example out of him. So I expect you to do a thorough job, sometime by the end of this week." That'll only give him a couple of days.

"Everything is in the folder. You should see where he's heading and ambush him there. Your other matra already did most of the tracking for you, so you just need to follow through." Cyno gives one last glance to the paper in his hand, before sliding it into the envelope.

“Cyno.” He looks up.

Azar levels him with a look, heavy and long, yet the apathy there is dull edged like a rusted knife. “This is for the better good of Sumeru, and her people. I enjoy this as much as you do. You understand that, right?”

"...Yes, sir." And he leaves.

There are still students in the library, briskly walking the halls back and forth. The bright stars in their eyes have been replaced by dark bags and desperation, and the gleam of spite for unfunded projects and encroaching deadlines.

He trails his hand along the walls as he walks back to his office, for some reason not in a hurry. People avoid his path so it is clear, and moonlight follows his footsteps as he trudged back.

The boy is not even in his mid-twenties yet. And Cyno has to kill him. He's not that much older. A year or so.

He's not putting on his akasha, he’s going to sleep tonight, damn the paperwork. Hopefully he won't remember his nightmares tonight.

Maybe he’ll dream of you again.

There's so much blood.

Of course, he knows why there is so much blood but it doesn't really lessen the shock of how much of it there is. It always surprises him. For some reason. Why does it surprise him? It was worse in the beginning. He's learned to compartmentalize so it's simpler now.

Raise the staff. Strike. Avoid blows. Attack. Cut down the enemy.

Make sure they don't get back up.

He cuts them all down, wheedling out the group. The hideout they've been meeting has red splattered on the walls, on the children's pictures plastered there; red like their scarves, red like his blades.

The scholar falls to one knee as he makes eye contact with the ruddy smear of his eyes. Like the blood he spills, as the last eremite rushes to engage him. He gets up and starts running though.

When the last falls Cyno stands for a moment, listening to the ringing in his ears. He wonders… why exactly he doesn't like to wear shoes…? His feet are soaked in blood. It'll make the sand stick.

He turns and chases down the scholar boy. The threshold is so red he doesn't leave any footprints.

The sand is hot. The sun is hot. It'll only get hotter.

He finds the Scholar not too far off, and immediately pounces on him, pinning him to the sands. He scrambles, but there's nowhere for him to go.

Strangely enough, he starts laughing. His hands fisting in the sands, voice high and hysterical, his eyes bulging. He doesn’t meet Cyno's eyes though, eyes scrambling for purchase anywhere else. Cyno finds he does not mind this, but he’s confused.

"Why are you laughing–"

"You're going to kill me, right, right? Oh fuck, what did I do? What did I even do?!" His voice rises, higher and higher, panicking.

"It's an order from the Sages. You have been found guilty of treason against the Akademiya–"

"What did I even do?!” He answers himself before cyno could. “I'm handing out lesson plans for the desert kids and that's treason? Why? Scared you won't have enough soldiers to lick your heels?" He spits, harsh vitriol. Cyno's eyes squint at the jab. The boy sees this, and laughs again.

"So, so that's why? And you're just going to kill me because they said so?" His voice breaks down suddenly, betraying his terror and desperation. Irrationally– it's so irrational, it makes Cyno angry.

If the boy is going to put on some bravado he could at least make sure the act doesn’t slip.

"I tried to stop it," the words pull at him, bringing reality slightly back into focus.

The boy scoffs, but it's more of a splutter of tears and snot. “Looks like you didn't try hard enough.”

"You were too outspoken, too bold. They were already on edge, now they want to make an example out of you." The boy blinks furiously, and his lips tremble in their half snarl.

"You're from the desert, aren't you? Shouldn't you want a better life for those kids? More than anyone?"

"I didn't grow up in the desert." He scoffs, and indignation drains the fear from his face.

"Those kids don't have anything. Either they join the Eremites or Corp of Thirty after failing the entrance exam, or if they get in, they’re stressed and pressured to drop out after a year or two. There's nothing else."

"I’m plenty sure that their economy would be in shambles if that were the case."

"But of course!" He laughs again.

"There's other professions. They could be merchants, but really that's a nice word for smugglers. Store owners, if they want to live while paying the exorbitant fees for a license. Assassins, sorry, Eremites, are always in high demand, especially with the high death rate. Cartels are all the rage. The brothel industry always needs more workers to satiate the demand. Oh, and there's always those who want an extra spouse or two, someone less privileged so that they can feel benevolent, beholden to. Like they’re doing some good thing. It's all sick. I'm fucking sick of it!” And, again, he starts to weep.

"Is it so bad I wanted something more for these kids? Shouldn't we give them a chance?"

Cyno can't think, and he feels half frozen, which is strange for being in a desert. He shouldn't even be thinking, he shouldn't be talking either. Cyno should have already slit his throat and left him to bleed while he starts to take care of the bodies.

The scholar smirks as he raises his weapon, but it trembles, barely put together.

"And to think these kids look up to you. The great General Mahamatra. The Sages dog, trained to bite–" his weapon slams into the sands by his head, throwing up a little sand cloud.

"....If I let you go, can you swear you'll stay undercover?"

His eyes fill with confusion, a little outrage. "....You killed all those men there, and you're going to let me go?"

“Who knows, maybe they’re still alive. I’m rather pressed for time, you know. I might have rushed the job.”

“I saw all that blood, those injuries— You couldn’t have–”

“Do you want me to slit your throat here? Leave you bleeding out in the sands, slowly, while I deal with this mess? The bodies? At least those already dead. While I cut them up and dispose of them, perhaps feed them to the desert foxes?" The boy's hair, its sweat-plastered to his forehead and his cheeks, crusted with sand and salt.

He trembles, hard, silent.

"I'll stage your death as they instructed me to do. You’ll be declared missing for a few weeks, or months, depending. Then we learn, you were conducting illegal, dangerous business with the eremites, finally they decided you weren't worth your keep, and decided to get rid of you. How horrible. How terrible. A tragedy. He was so young, so full of promise." A sort of whimper-shriek-sob leaves his clenched teeth when Cyno sets his palm flat against his belly, pressing down hard against the flinch.

"I admit, the Sages have been on edge lately, which is why they hard pressed me into this situation. They're upset with me too, but if I do this job, that'll ease their minds some.

"So why shouldn't I kill you? You're right, why should I leave you alive when the others aren't? What makes you so special? I don't even remember your name."

He doesn't. Or maybe he just never learned it. It slipped from his mind from the reports, and Cyno doesn't know if it's his guilt or his consciousness that's keeping it from the forefront of his mind.

His eye sight is looking a little blurry at the edges now, like a mirage, wavering and blurry.

"...Please don't kill me."

"Hm.” He nods. “I can't ensure that you won't try anything."

"I'll stay with the desert folk, I won't leave! I won't deal with the Eremites again, ever again, never, okay?!"

"And what would you even do?"

"What I've been doing. I'll…work as a teacher for the kids, I'll just stay low! Just…please don't kill me." Tears slip out his eyes and his hands fist themselves in the sands.

He's not even in his twenties. Cyno's not that much older.

He feels like it though.

It's a familiar feeling, and all too familiar motions; He's done this so many times he swears he could dream of it. But it always felt necessary, those times.

The way he pulls out a dagger and plunges the thing into the eye socket, past the soft squish of flesh and into the brain. Press down hard, dig it in deep. The body writhes, violent, half a groan slipping past the lips, a few spasms before it twitches still.

It's quick. Not painless, but quick. No time to despair. Perhaps one second of panic, and then stillness.

Just like that. There.

He piles the evidence, a bit too meticulously, makes sure he has the most important paperwork, a journal, (the rest will stay) and sets the base on fire. There are colored pencil drawings on the desk. Walls. Despite better judgment, he takes a couple, folds them and presses them into a pocket.

Is it done? A message pings through his akasha.

Yes. I'm burning the place down.

Have you collected the information from the Akasha?

Yes. I have the journal as well.

Good. Head back now. The fire will be dealt with and forensics will go to inspect the bodies. That is, if they find anything.

I did my job. You won't find anything.

…Meticulous as always, Cyno.

Will we go ahead with the plan and alert the boy's family?

No. They'll file a missing person's report eventually and it'll go cold in a couple months. You can head back now. You have the next three days off.

And like that Azar's line is cut off.

He stares at the flames, kicking up the sides of the base like a hungry beast. In his left hand he holds the journals. In his right, his weapon. The blood is dry, tight and sticky now, and is flaking off.

He starts the trek back.

There are soft hands on him, and he jolts awake from the sensation. He doesn't know where he is. What time is it? How did he get here? How long was he out?

Why are you kneeling there, at his feet?

You hold up your hands in a placating motion.

"You collapsed outside and I found you. I just brought you here before anyone else could see you. You're covered in blood and sand."

"Where are we?"

“At a nearby inn.” He swerves his head, and standing in the doorway is none other than the Grand Scribe, Alhaitham.

“And by nearby I mean In Sumeru city. You’re far from the desert, General.”

Immediately his brow furrows.

“And why would I be here?” In an inn?

“Because they found you slump in an alley, and insisted that we bring you inside before enough of a crowd came to witness your debacle,” he waves his hand dismissively, blase.

“Seeing me, they insisted I help them."

"I didn't take you for the good samaritan type," Cyno drawls.

"I'm not. I refused, until they threatened to make a scene. You know I don’t particularly like you enough to help you.” His eyes slid to the side, towards you, not a glare but still irritated.

"But I hate a scene even more."

“...How do the two of you know each other?” Cyno moves to step off the bed and your hands flounder, trying to encourage him to lay back. He ignores you and focuses his eyes on the scribe, who remains nonplussed.

"We just met, actually. In person at least." You offer.

"Oh yes, the one man you call to aid you just happens to be the Grand Scribe. The same man who helped direct you in your process of acquiring your vision license." You pout, trying to look cute, but it just makes you look petulant.

"It was the secretaries I met up with, who passed on his word. The work was carried up the chain through them up to him, so I never even met him. I just picked him out because he looked strong. I didn't want to carry you up all those stairs."

“Do not try and play me for a fool,” he scowls. "You two know each other. I can tell."

"You're swaying on your feet General, forgive me if I don't trust your judgment." The Scribe rolls his eyes, and tosses a case to you. You catch it, and he notices the red cross on its front.

"Answer me. How long have you known him, and what have the two of you discussed?"

"I told you I just met him, and based on his snarky ass attitude, I don't want to know him." Your eyes flash, sharp and gleaming.

“Such kind words.”

You roll your eyes at the Scribe. "I said what I said. So? Is there any way you can prove that I'm lying, beyond your intuition of course? Or are you just going to take the both of us into custody?"

"He can't do that unless he wants to break protocol," Alhaitham says. "He needs probable cause to arrest us, which he doesn't have beyond suspicion, that is."

Cyno clenches his jaw, feeling his teeth grind together.

"But I'm sure Azar would understand if you simply skipped that. Of course, to the General, protocol must be just a formality. Surely the Grand Sage trusts you?"

"Enough." He cuts a hand through the air like a knife. The Scribe is too keen, and knows him too well.

"If that's all I'm going to check in with the Matron-I'll make sure she stays silent. Deal with him, why don't you." The Scribe leaves, and shuts the door with a decisive click.

Cyno doesn't untense, he stares at where Alhaitham left with a slow simmering, crackling anger in his chest.

“So… Can I take care of your mess now?" You sigh, near forgotten. Near. Because when he turns his gaze back onto you you flinch.

“....”

“...What is it?” You shy away.

He scoffs. “You deny it so vehemently, but I know. You think you have that man wrapped around your finger, like how you had him to sign the form for you. But that man is too conniving. He'll use you until you're an empty husk, and then toss you aside."

"...Okay then. You done?"

His brow digs further down. "Do not make light–"

“I told you I'm unaffiliated with that man. He's snarky and condescending and talks like a textbook. Why would I want to know someone like that?"

That…gives him pause. "...You're right about that. He is particularly frustrating." Always sneaking off and rubbing people the wrong way.

"Exactly."

"...You truly called him over, by chance to help you?"

"Yes. I understand what a crazy coincidence it is...but have you seen his biceps? That’s why I called him over. He's strong, although I don't know what a Scribe would need to be so strong for."

"Because he's always planning something. I've warned you, stay away from that man."

"Aw, are you worried about me Cyno?" You grin up at him, and Cyno forgets to breathe for a moment.

"...?" You tilt your head at his silence, and with a hard sigh he turns away, and sits back on the bed.

"No. I just don't want to deal with what the both of you could get up to together."

"Oh, and here I was getting my hopes up." You pout again, and this time, you do succeed in looking the slightest bit cute.

He still feels like his mind is drifting away. He watches in some mute interest as you bring a small basin and cloth over, and start to wash the crust off his feet. He doesn't know why he lets you. He notices the first aid kit to his side, and watches you as you work.

“You’re playing with fire, bard.”

“I’ve lovingly been called an arsonist before,” You grin. But it slides away.

“...The Akademiya is hellbent on beating me down, and you’re constantly on my tail. I have to use all the cards I have at my disposal.” You hold his ankle gingerly, and he can feel the pads of your fingers, under the cloth at his heel.

“....So you try seducing government officials?”

"Yeah, are you in love with me yet?" Cheeky fool.

"What kind of fool flirts with danger like you do?"

"Only the most romantic fools."

“But a fool nonetheless.” You give a noncommittal shrug, slipping into deeper thought.

"Yes. Though I suppose it is better than the alternative." You stop, a thought striking you. He just watches as you gather yourself and start drying his feet, patting firmly.

"Which is?"

"Holding myself up in some corner, shivering in fear and trepidation."

"..."

Cyno sighs, relenting, and lets his elbow fall on his knee, resting his chin on his palm. It provides him a better angle to stare down at you. "You’re scared?"

"Yes, I am."

"Of me?"

"Of course I'm scared of you. You represent everything that can or has gone wrong so far. I can hardly find work because people are too scared of coming across you. There are establishments and restaurants that refuse to let me enter. You can only imagine the amount of people eager to sell me out for some mora. Some already tried.

“Did you know the Zubayr theater almost shut down during all the interrogations you held for its members?"

"Of course I know." He mumbles, rubbing at the sand crusted in his lashes. "They shouldn't have entertained the idea of keeping you."

"Ooh, you sound like a jealous lover–"

"Do not jest." You chuckle, shoulders shaking.

"Well, don't worry. They let me go."

"...I know.” Zubayr told him himself, during his interrogation. So much for his impassioned speech about talent and hard work.

The smile remains on your face, but there is a somberness that pulls at his edges, and your eyes are sad. You wear your expressions openly, and Cyno doesn't like the way his chest tugs down with your mood. It angers him. It confuses him.

“Why do you pursue me?" You start applying a salve to his feet, bitter smelling and thick. You grab bandages next.

"I could ruin everything for you. I'm trying to."

"...Well, just because!" Just like that your pep is back.

"Doesn't it sound lovelier if I best you in love rather than combat? I think it does."

"You don't care for me." Cyno lifts his head, lets his hand smack down to his open lap. He looks down with all the spiteful righteousness he can muster, and he wishes you would shy away or fidget, instead of meeting his eyes.

"You don't even care for me but you play around like this. Do you truly think me so young and unseasoned? Are you truly so flippant?”

“What?” Now it's your turn to be confused, because your face twists like you ate something sour.

"Of course I like you, Cyno. I wouldn't 'play around like this' if I didn't. But that doesn't change the fact that you're…you."

"Yes. And you are scared of me."

"I’m scared of what you can do, I’m not scared of you, Cyno.” Finally finished, you stand, brushing the sand off your thighs.

“I’m a very stringent man.”

“And a very handsome and awkward one too.”

“I’m stubborn, and told I’m often the wet blanket at social functions.”

You giggle. “So?”

“Not a good metaphor when my element is Electro.”

“No, I guess not. But I happen to like your dour attitude, so I don't mind.”

“...I’m a very violent man. It's in the blood. My blood.” Like how it's still crusted in his nails, the lines of his palms. He raises his hand up to the light to show you.

“Disease of the blood is hard to cure, especially if you were born with it.”

And you, strangely, don't react as you should. Though you both know the blood isn’t his. Maybe it would be more strange if you did react as you should’ve. You just take the cloth you put aside, and start cleaning his hands, using your nails to dig under the grime of his own.

“We exist in the world in two planes,” you say. “Mental and physical. Just as we are our mind and emotions and thoughts and morals, we are our actions too, or inactions. Nothing is predetermined, everything is just a result of consequence, a huge unfathomable cycle of cause and effect. The only way to predict it is to evaluate ourselves, and our effect on the world.”

You’re not getting much blood out, but still you try.

“So you could be all those things, that we both said, because we’re people, and people are large, we contain multitudes. Sometimes, being perceived by someone else lends ourselves to more authenticity. But, Cyno...Don’t let someone else's words dictate who you are; Just be whoever you want to be. Follow your head, but follow your heart too.”

“...” And what does he say to that? Could he say he’s felt split in half for as long as he could remember, like two puzzle pieces that only fit together sometimes? And not easily, even now he feels disconnected, like a socket pulled out of place.

But your words make sense, and land somewhere Cyno though he had long sealed away.

You have a habit of doing that.

"Who are you?" Cyno asks. "Tell me Bard, or criminal. Knight? Who are you, you confuse me." It comes out unbidden, but Cyno finds that he cares more about your answer. You hum a note under your breath, light and soft.

"I'm all those and more. I really hope I'm more. But I’m… just me. Just me. What about you?"

"Me?"

Your face takes on a commiserating look.

"Who are you? Sometimes I wonder if there's any of you beyond what the Akademiya needs. Cyno, the General Mahamatra. But what about Cyno the man?”

A rush of heat makes his skin prickle, and all of a sudden he’s acutely aware of how small the room is, how close you are.

He bristles. “Did I not tell you to stop this? Do not try to endear yourself to me–”

“I'm not. I sympathize with you. Pity you, a little. You remind me of myself in some odd way. The way you are, it's why I left home.” A bitter note, sour and unagreeable paints your face.

“We both give too much of ourselves to the things we devote ourselves to, huh?”

“You’re a civilian now, whoever you were before. You're not like me. You’re–”

“I’m what? A ‘good person’? Is that what you were going to say? I know you’ve done horrible things,” your eyes flick down to his hands, where he could still feel the leftover blood under his nails, sticky and grimy. Your mouth presses into a flat line, and you gesture halfheartedly towards him.

"And that...you will continue to. I…I already know that Cyno."

He looks at your hands, your arms; your sleeves are rolled up and you have tan lines. Your skin looks smooth, but tiny pock marks dot you, little scars and wispy hairs. Beads of sweat. It's hot here. In Sumeru. Your shoulders and your hair and your neck and your face.

Cyno knows that he dreams of this.

Never mind the fact that none but children ever do dream in Sumeru. He does, just knows it. He can feel it. This moment might be a dream too, this moment too still and heavy to be anything else.

You said people exist on two planes, mental and physical. So which plane does he exist on when he dreams of you, neither mind nor body, just pure longing?

For once, he doesn't shove down the thought, he doesn't stop to think. His mind is wandering anyways, he can't seem to hold on to his thoughts anymore than he could hold smoke. He reaches a hand and holds your chin. Your mouth is soft under his thumb.

"....You did something really bad today, didn't you." You don't say it like a question. The blood isn't his, you know this.

"Yes." But he doesn't want to think about that. Tonight he'll take off his akasha and let the nightmares rampage. He'll see the bloody Eremites, feel the suction of flesh as he pulls the knife out while the boy, he laughs and weeps and rages at him, and all the faces from before come back to haunt him.

"...You're actually a really bad person, aren't you?" You breathe.

"Didn't you say I remind you of yourself?”

“Yeah. That's how I know." And he kisses you.

It's your turn to be shocked now. You release a muffled squeak when he pulls you up to his mouth, a hand on his arm steadying yourself. He doesn't think about how he's never actually kissed anyone before, except that time you kissed him in the alleyway, something dark and heavy, just awakened.

He snakes his other hand to the small of your back, fists his hand in the cloth there, holds on, holds on. He's never done this before.

But he thinks this is the way it's supposed to be. He likes the way your mouths mold together, the taste, how close you are. You're warm, but in a good way. You can get closer. You can get a lot closer.

He dreams of this. The peach fuzz of your cheeks, the sweep of your eyes like dove wings, the arch of your eyebrow like bridges, tugging at his thoughts. Your mouth. Your damn mouth.

You break away with a gasp, breath stuttering. Your eyes wide.

"What was that for?"

"Do you want me to stop?" He waits, and the moment is heavy, you don't reply. So slowly, he draws you back, and kisses you again.

This time he tilts his head at an angle, and you're more responsive to this. He didn't really notice it before, but you're close; You stand between his knees, and the dying sunlight gilds you in blood and amber like a temptation he’s all too keen to take. You’re close enough he can almost feel your lashes flutter against his skin.

He'll carry this to sleep as well. He hopes he does.

Your hand is still on his arm and the other creeps to his cheek, fingers damp. You mumble against his mouth.

"You could've asked me."

"Asked…what?" He clicks his tongue when you retreat just out of reach.

"To kiss me. I want you to ask me." You pull your face away, but you're still smiling. If he presses forward, he could reclaim your lips easily. You'd probably let him. No, if he asked, you would say yes.

But does he deserve it? Does he deserve having his hands on you? Being able to touch you?

Do you?

Of course I’m scared of you.

It's in the blood.

"...What did you mean before?" You suddenly ask.

"Before…?"

"You asked if I really think of you as ‘young and unseasoned’. Are you…not?"

He is, in practise. In theory, he’s long grown used to longing. He’s had enough practice denying himself the things he yearns for.

So before he could loses his nerve, and sense he stands, brushing against and past you, and out the door.

You don't follow him, and he immediately steps down the stairs, not bothering to make his footsteps featherlight like he usually does.

His eyes lock with the Scribe as descends. He can't discern the look there, and the woman he's speaking to wrings her hands but doesn't even lift her gaze from the pouch in his hands, mora obviously. The inn suspiciously doesn't have many customers, who also avoid looking at him.

The air outside is only slightly cooler, cooling the sweat at his brow and the nape of his neck. He lets go of a breath, before walking away from the inn.

It's not long before he hears footsteps following him, and heads to an alley to wait there.

“I knew you were impertinent, Scribe, but not foolish. Do you want to be charged with aiding and abetting criminals?”

"What, am I not allowed to have acquaintances?" The Scribes form blocks out the open light of the street, and he approaches Cyno, looking no worse for wear.

"....I'm not fooled. Even if you two are acquaintances, you only want them for your own schemes."

"Then why do you want them?" The words falter in his throat, and the Scribe draws closer.

“Why didn’t you arrest the Bard at the Zubayr theater? Why not when you caught them behind the Architects Guild? Why do you waste your time chasing them through alleyways and markets, to put on a spectacle for the good people?

“We both know if you put effort in, you could put them down flat.”

Cyno…doesn’t have an answer, and he burns, angered and sullen.

And the Scribe, bastard, scoffs a laugh, wiping a hand over his mouth. His eyes don’t widen, but sharpen.

“Well, how ‘bout it… Looks like the bard has secured another admirer.”

He snaps. “And what about you? I know what you do with people–and I know how conniving you are. What I don't understand though is why you would potentially put yourself under the Sage's suspicion by leaving a papertrail. Paying for their bails, signing their license; Even staying until I woke–you normally would have left long before.”

“I have my reasons, and only I am privy to them. Nothing I do is careless, or without thought, General.” He leans against the cool wall and crosses his arms.

…You were right, he does have big biceps.

“Exactly that. Makes me wonder what you’re planning.” They face off, with the ambient sounds fading away in lieu of this standoff.

The Scribe backs down first. He looks back towards the open mouth of the street, fiddling with the wire to his headphones. Tactical retreat.

“I won't resist If you decide to take me in for questioning General, if you find my behavior suspicious.”

“You would wriggle your way out somehow even if I did. I know you also work under Azar.” Which is the only reason he’s not dragging this man towards the Akademiya.

As for you….

“If Azar found you disloyal he would have done you in ages ago.”

“Which is why you killed Bahar, huh?” Alhaitham scoffs.

Bahar?

So that’s his name.

Cyno almost sways, his head suddenly swimming, but he stays upright by sheer force of will and pride. “...I do as I'm told. It’s part of the job; For the better good of this nation.”

Alhaitham just sighs and readjusts the headphone over his ears.

“So you believe. Yet General, whether it be academics or knowledge, law or society, everything has its boundaries. Everything has a limit. A metaphorical line in the sand. If those lines are crossed, the rules and order that govern everything in the world will be destroyed. That's a simple fact of the world.”

“Your point being?”

“...What boundaries have you crossed, General? Beyond just your own.” And while the shock at his audacity is still fresh in his veins, he leaves.

He stands there for a moment, before stumbling his way back to the Akademiya, undignified. He follows the back alleys to avoid being seen. He has paperwork to do.

His head is too clouded for him to think straight. He shouldn't have spoken to the Scribe; Words are his forte after all, excelling in a subject that Cyno so often fumbles in.

He should have just taken the both of you under custody, damn the fogginess in his brain. If he couldn't trust his mind, he could trust the strength in his body–he’s sure he could take the both of you on. If the Scribe was stupid enough to try and protect you. It's what Azar would have told him to do.

Archons, why did he try kissing you? He shouldn’t have enjoyed it–You’re too…enticing. You’re like a seducer from his worst nightmares, come to life. And he’s too tired to resist you. It gets harder and harder every time he sees you.

Just follow orders, and the law. The law exists to exact justice and promote peace; that is a fact of life. The Sages are meant to embody the law, their word is law.

Unless they decided to push their personal agendas forth, forsaking their duties as government officials. Unless they purposely took his ideals, his morals–and exploited them. For power, prestige, mora, greed.

And Azar is an incredibly greedy man.

…He’s tired. He needs to rest.

TAGLSIT: @jjkclub , @jaguarthecat , @swivy123 , @seajellyx , @ash-in-lavender , @stopthinkingstopthinking . @uchihaeirin

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gale-dekarios · 3 months

Text

Bouncing Baby Bloodsucker

Astarion and Tav had no reason to suspect that the undead would be able to reproduce. Turns out they were wrong. They approach Shadowheart with one question on their minds: will a baby vampire kill a human parent?

Trans Male!Tav/Astarion whoopsy-daisy into becoming dads.

Rated: M

Read me on [AO3]

“Well yes,” Shadowheart snipped, “that’s usually what happens when you have unprotected sex.”

“Between the living, yes, but the undead shouldn’t be able to-- right?” Tav asked, pitching forward in his seat. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Astarion that his hands had been held loosely over his protruding stomach ever since he began to suspect that the morning sickness, skipped periods, and extra weight was more than a rough patch in his health.

Shadowheart folded her arms, raising a brow, “I’m hardly an expert. Why didn’t you go to a normal doctor?”

“What a good idea Shadowheart! I’m sure any local doctor will act completely reasonably when they find out that a foul creature of the night left a surprise vamplet inside him. Should we break out the good torches and pitchforks?”

Despite his shortness, Astarion’s knuckles were held tight against his sides, reaching a shade of white that was truly alarming given his natural paleness, and he was pretty sure he was shaking to boot. The guilt; -- at not knowing better, at not taking precautions, of putting a bloodsucking demon with an unknown depth of hunger into his beloved partner, endangering them from the inside in a way he couldn’t begin to help with, -- wracked through his body in fresh waves as his thoughts spiralled like a madman’s.

“Shadowheart,” Tav pleaded, grabbing one of her hands in his, “We need to know what we’re dealing with here.”

She sighed, face screwing in concentration. “Fine. Hold on.”

She rose from her chair, marching across the room to pull some writing paper and an ink pen out from an old drawer, the pen scratching against the page disturbing an otherwise silent room.

Tav gave Astarion a weak smile, who in turn couldn’t muster one of his own. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Astarion mouthed to him, but it only made Tav’s brow furrow. He reached over and grabbed his hand, pulling it out of its fist, rubbing his thumb across his aching knuckles as he held it gently in his palms. The kindness of the gesture had Astarion’s stomach in uncomfortable knots. He couldn’t have told you how many people he had had sex with over the centuries, but the idea that his biology had only chosen to kick in now felt like a cruel joke the world was playing on him. Or rather, he really, really hoped his biology had only chosen to kick in now. The alternative was too ghastly to imagine.

“Alright, hopefully we’ll hear back soon.” Shadowheart broke the silence. She held the paper in clasped hands and muttered a few arcane words over it, the letter bursting into blinding divine radiance before disappearing from sight. She sat back down, levelling Tav with a sympathetic stare. “Are you alright? You look sick.” (Astarion tensed.)

“I don’t know how I am, it’s just… all so much. I’ve barely slept since we realised that I might be-- I think I’m too exhausted for it to have truly sank in yet.”

“I should take you back home,” Astarion said, his voice cracking at the end.

“You’re also free to sleep here for a while, if you like.”

Tav nodded, pulling his hand away from Astarion’s, and with it the little reassurance he had. “Thank you Shadowheart, really. I know all of this really isn’t your thing.”

“No, it’s not, but your little interloping tadpole is hardly the first daunting task we’ve dealt with together. At least this one doesn’t make a meal of your brain.” The joke fell flat as the unspoken sentiment filled a glaring hole in the conversation. A meal of his brain, perhaps not, but a vampire foetus to a living father hardly spells good news. Shadowheart sighed to herself softly, “The bedsit is through there, make yourself at home.”

Tav nodded and stood, leaning down to kiss his partner's cheek gently, before leaving the room silently, their absence haunting the chair next to Astarion. He crossed his legs, hands buried deep into the crook of his elbows as he and Shadowheart began a staring competition.

Loathe as he was to, he broke first. “Well?” He said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Is he going to die?”

“We won’t know for certain until we hear back.” Shadowheart answered truthfully, “But it’s not looking good. He seems to have the markers of a regular pregnancy for now, but it’s likely because the thing doesn’t have teeth to bite yet.”

Astarion flinched. “We didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“But it did.” Shadowheart snapped, before tempering her rage, blowing a short breath out. “Listen, I don’t think you’d do anything to intentionally hurt him, not anymore. But the truth is that the living and the dead are incompatible. It just doesn’t work. The living are always going to end up dead, or the dead are destroyed so the living might continue.”

Astarion shook his head. “No, we’ve been through far too much now to just give up anytime there’s a bump in the road. We’ll figure this out and be more careful from now on.”

“Astarion.” Shadowheart warned. “Depending on what we hear back, there might not be a ‘from now on’, do you understand that? You spent so long luring people back for Cazador, why did it never occur to you that this could be possible?”

“Do you think I should have asked before or after torture sessions?” he snapped in return. “There was hardly a guidebook he handed out when he turned us, and the welcoming committee -- my darling siblings -- didn’t know any more than me either.”

Shadowheart straightened up, “Your siblings.”

“Yes, what about them?”

“You have six of them. And seven thousand more victims roaming the Underdark.”

“If they survived, yes.”

“Well surely you can’t be the first that this has happened to. If it’s true that Cazador never mentioned it was possible to you, they wouldn’t know either. Do you think you could find some of them? Ask around to see if anybody down there has had the same problem as you?”

Astarion’s brow creased in distaste. “Even if I could find some of them, for a lot of them I’m the last person they want to see, especially heralding a new breed of vampire.”

“This is hardly about you now is it?” Shadowheart shot back.

He grimaced. “Fine. I’ll travel to the Underdark at sundown tomorrow.”

“At this point it’s the least you could do.”

The room fell silent. Unable to retort, his wit replaced with worry, he stewed. Astarion knew he had done many terrible things in his life, and even more in his death, but he feared this might have been the worst.

A few hours passed of little note. Unmoving, his mind raced, and a cup of untouched water stood equally still on the table before him, the subject of his steady gaze. With his flawless skin and rigid posture, he could have passed for a statue. Shadowheart had left to do something earlier, Astarion wasn’t really listening, his ears roaring with stolen blood. And so he was alone. With the cup. Fuck.

It clatters against the wall violently and Astarion’s chest heaves with effort, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

A moment later, a sleep disturbed face peeks through the doorway.

“Astarion!” Tav gasped.

"I'm sorry, I woke you up. Gods. I just--" He struggled to find the words.

"Are you okay?"

“Am I okay? No, I'm not okay. I spent centuries being tortured by Cazador and the first good thing I have after getting out, of being free, I ruin it with this disgusting body of mine. I have countless victims, destroyed by this,” he spits, gesturing wildly at himself, “and yet I couldn’t be done, could I? I had to claim just one more. So no, Tav, I have to say, I am not fucking okay.”

Tav’s face paled as they swallowed visibly. “I’m not a prop."

“What?” Astarion asked incredulously.

“I said I’m not a prop, Astarion.” He put his hands on his hips, the way he did before he was about to make a point. “You didn’t do anything to me, we had sex together, and I’m not destroyed just because I have a piece of you inside of me. I don’t want you to think of me like that. I’m better than that. You’re better than that.” He gripped Astarion's forearms. “Do you understand? I don’t know what any of this means for me, for us, and I’m not going to lie to you, I am terrified. But I need you to be terrified with me, not terrified for me, and that requires us to be on the same page with this. We fucked up, we’re scared, and we’ll figure it out. Together. As equally responsible participants. Okay?”

“I just feel like I should have known.”

“As should I.”

His tears fell over. “I am scared.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“What now?”

“We wait for Shadowheart to get back to us with more information. We know nothing, we’re just guessing based on our worst fears. When we know, we’ll know.”

“That’s incredibly unhelpful.”

“... I know.”

“What if--”

The door creaked open and Shadowheart stood in the doorframe, surveying the scene with an icy stare, something rectangular in her hands.

“You washed my walls. How kind of you both.”

“Sorry, Shadowheart.” Tav said, letting his hands drop.

“Gale got back to us,” she waved the rectangle at them.

Astarion spluttered, “It was Gale you wrote to?!”

“Yes. If you want information, who better to ask than the former wizarding prodigy without a social life to speak of?”

“Oh Gods, everyone’s going to know,” Tav moaned, rubbing his brow.

“Gale doesn’t shut up when you get him going, but he does know I can hurt him very, very badly. Excellent motivator, don’t you think?”

“What did he say?” Astarion asked reluctantly.

“See for yourself.” She handed the rectangle to Tav, which he could now make out was a loose letter tied to a dusty mauve tome.

He took it, opening the letter with shaking hands. He felt Astarion immediately press against his back, reading over his shoulder.

This should do it Shadowheart, will write you properly soon.

Dearest Tav and Astarion --

I believe some congratulations are in order! It’s no easy task to prepare for a new member of the family, but even more so with the kind you have cooking away. Should you find yourselves in need of a break, please remember Uncle Gale in his Waterdeep tower.

The good news is that the children of vampires -- known as dhampirs -- can lead a perfectly normal life. They can sustain themselves both on blood and regular food, they possess strange talents such as walking across vertical surfaces, and their physical appearances are as varied as any humanoid race, although it is likely they’ll possess some vampiric qualities--, i.e, elongated canines, red, or glowing eyes, ashen skin, the like -- but hardly the monsters their vampire parents are portrayed to be -- no offence Astarion.

I’ve sent along a tome I possess on the matter, please do take good care of it. I’ve bookmarked the relevant pages. From what I’ve read, there is no cause for alarm, although the (fascinating!) gestation period may not be as expected dear friends, so please pay close attention to Chapter 18, section 3. The bad news is that there’s no training guide on how to look after these children. You have a big challenge ahead of you both! But I’m sure between the two of you, as wonderful as you are for each other, you will figure out, like any parents, how to move forward with your new little family unit.

Please visit sometime, it would be wonderful to see you both, and I am unfortunately currently unable to disrupt my teaching schedule to make the trip to Baldur’s Gate. Perhaps with a little one on the way, one of you will accept my offer to introduce you to that fine Waterhavdian jeweller that I’ve mentioned previously?

P.S. Gale makes a fine middle name, don’t you think?

Yours Faithfully,

Prof. Gale Dekarios

“Wait a moment,” Astarion said, “Does this mean--?”

Tav whipped around to face him, eyes wide, grasping the letter like a lifeline, “We’re okay?”

“We’re okay.”

“We’re okay!”

He launched at Astarion, arms curling around the back of his neck, and he caught his waist, hauling him up into a hug.

“I can’t believe it,” Tav gasped as Astarion let him down, still in a close embrace. “We--! Oh. We have a lot to talk about. Do we want a baby?”

Astarion spluttered. “I--”

“I mean, babies are big responsibilities. And we’re hardly the most stable people in the world.” He gripped his own head. “The amount of weapons we have at home. We’d need to babyproof the blades. Can you babyproof a mace?”

“We’d need to get jobs. Real jobs, I mean. We couldn’t be on the move all the time.”

“And the cost. Babies are expensive little creatures. And the time. They need so much attention.”

“Exactly. It’s a horrible idea.”

“Terrible. We wouldn’t be able to cope. We should definitely do the responsible thing here and get rid of them.”

“Right.”

“We’re in agreement. Take that for incompatible you horrible little cleric.” Astarion sneered.

“What?”

“I didn't have to help!”

The screams pierce the house, the walls shaking as two toddlers whirled around their legs like miniature steel watchers, destroying everything in their path.

“Aren’t they precious?” Petras cooed, looking after his blond-haired son who was currently smashing his tiny fists at the wall as he tried to remember how to walk up it.

“Our little darling, perhaps, but your little demon seems to have the brains of his father,” Astarion curled his lip.

As Astarion spoke, their daughter, a bright-eyed little girl, growing more beautiful with each passing day, shoved an ink pen up her nose. He shot her a withering glare, the toddler blissfully unaware of the social disaster she had just created for him. She was lucky he thought the world of her, or he might have pinned her to the ceiling, out of the way.

“Clearly,” Petras scoffed.

“Thanks again for your help Petras, we both appreciate it. We really have no idea what we’re doing here.” Tav spoke up.

Petras nodded, “It’s a bit macabre to put such a little one into a coffin, but it really is the best way to make sure they don’t start running across the ceilings at night, and our Eric had grown out of his months ago. Do you have that soothing salve recipe I gave you?”

“Yes! Thank you.”

“She’ll be getting her fangs in soon. They’ll push out the teeth that are already there and it’ll hurt, and not only that, but when they do grow in, they’re sharp, so you’ll need to get her some caps until you can teach her to keep them out of the way. It’s not pretty, but she’ll be okay.”

“Daddy!” a little voice yelled insistently, and three heads snapped round. Their little girl ran to Astarion, “Stuck.” She pointed to her nose, the black pen protruding from the nostril.

“Oh for the love of--” Astarion hooked under her arms to pull her up onto his hip. “Okay, let’s see. Tilt your head back. Okay. One, two, three.” He pulled the pen, grimacing at the disgusting thing -- and the pen was pretty gross too. “Don’t put anything up your nose. Please?”

“Down!” She demanded.

“Darling.”

“Dooooown!!!”

He let the wriggling toddler out of his arms, placing the pen gingerly off to the side as Petras suppressed a laugh.

“I must say, fatherhood suits you Astarion.”

“Shut up,” he growled.

“Anyway, I need to go, sunrise soon. We’re teaching Eric to be diurnal, but he still seems to prefer the night. I don’t mind it, means I can spend more time with him.”

“That we can agree on,” Astarion said. “I miss her during the day.”

Tav pulled his arm through his comfortingly. “I told you we’ll figure it out.”

“I know.”

“If you do find anything out about that cure thing, send word yeah? I know a couple hundred people that’d want to get their hands on that.”

“Naturally.”

“Right. Eric!” He called, and Eric’s small eyes went wide as he heard his dad speak the dreaded words, “Time to go.”

Blink. Blink. Havoc. Screaming. A sharp nip into the meat of Petras’s arm. (‘Where are your teething caps?!')

Finally, they were alone, standing in a loose embrace as they watched their daughter roam the living room with the rapt attention of a dedicated jungle explorer.

“Why did it have to be Petras?” Astarion moaned flatly.

“We should be grateful. He does all the hard work and we steal the results. Too bad he’s an idiot.”

Astarion snorts, pressing his cheek on top of Tav’s head.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fic #bg3 tav #astarion #astarion/tav #trans male tav #pregnancy #my fic

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rafent · 1 month

Note

Poe had noticed him the moment he entered—come rain or shine, his presence was never one that was easy to miss. She is unsurprised to see him here, frankly; unsurprised to see one as combative as him at the Battle of Eagle and Lion, and unsurprised to see one as cocky as him end up in the medical tents.

Her subsequent approach is efficient, not hurried.

"I'm quite curious," She begins to ask, lighthearted tone mixing with a sharpened tongue to produce something that could almost be mistaken for playfulness. "Are such nasty injuries on behalf of an another again, or was it on account of something you said this time?"

The girl, of course, hardly looks much better herself. The Garreg Mach uniform is modest enough, but what skin does show offers glimpses of bruising and bandages wrapped tight. Smooth as her movements attempt to be, keener eyes would pinpoint them as more labored than usual. This time luckily by something that will heal with rest.

"A shame I was not there for it."

With nary an offer nor request for permission, she reaches out a hand with a healing spell prepared. The act is wholly neutral; judge, jury, and executioner herself arrives prior to those who might act out of misplaced senses of pity and metes out only as much as is deserved.

(Ironically enough, today, he is as of yet the only one who has received it)

Upon reaching the medical tents, Rafal resolved to speak to no-one, which was all just as well. It had eaten enough pride for him to accept where he was bested, enough endurance to stagger all the way to this facility while adamantly refusing all assistance; encountering the much too freely spoken Poe, however, was a blow dealt to both these things, and to that preference. With dwindling reserves of patience pushed to their very limits, only a terrible, truly incensed dragon could be the result.

"Shut up. That is exactly none of your business. Furthermore, an insipid girl like yourself ought to know when to clamp her mouth shut." Now find someone else to bother, he nearly lambasted further, harsh and irate, but succumbed instead to restraint. The dagger he readied never fell; or rather, its edge was quick to revoke at the very last second.

The cause? Relief spread in the warm dispersal of healing magic, an uncomfortable and unrelated prickle consigned him thereafter to passivity, little reflected by the mind. Kindness? Friendship? A sinister ploy to bring Rafal into her debt? The girl's aim was inconclusive at the end of his deliberation and he emitted a nonverbal noise conveying thanks. After that - a long hush, awkward and ungainly.

With little else to do, and nothing to busy his hands by comparison, he took in the stock of her condition. Their occupancy in the illusion had not unveiled a capable combatant in Poe but a fangless healer, such knowledge left her ability to defend herself suspect. With that thought on hand, her damages stirred him disconcertingly with the nibbling teeth of unrest. ". . .You are worse for wear. I am surprised to find you in such a condition," he offered uncertainly after a beat, on the precipice of voicing either misshapen apology or more forward concern.

Ultimately, neither went spoken. For all the heartfelt sentiments humanity produced aloud, the Fell Dragons would entomb just as many to their vast crypts of silence, such was their way - if not at least that of Rafal himself. With a clearing throat, he returned to what was comfortable; the establishment of bickering patterns and to invisible boundaries not meant to be broken.

"Ahem. That is to say: had you employed your usual nagging, I am certain you would have found an ear or two willing to surrender without a fight. Next time perhaps you should try that." A medic arrived to his cotside. He took the bundled ice and pressed it to his purpling cheek, looking quite regular and self-confident in spite of. . .himself. Oblivious, even, to the slight release of a sullen mood that had not existed before.

#◜ ₊ — 𝓡 ˚ ₊ 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ╱ askbox.#toaboel2024 #loveevangelist #my little freaks. my little FREAKS #bantering every time they cross paths huh.. hehehehe #i also take this consistency to infer that rafal thinks vulnerability and kindness (ew!!! gross!!) is off brand for them #buuut it's also rafal we're talking about :)

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treemaidengeek · 5 months

Text

Have a teaser for my @lbfad-minibang piece...

"Did you see the Moon Supreme's wrist and neck?" Ronghao murmured to Lord Yunzhong, after the fires were extinguished. "There were marks there, and I suspect many more hidden by his robes." He paused, thoughtful. "They looked exactly like the marks your whip burned into Xiao Lanhua's skin."

🌸🌸🌸

Qingcang tasted blood.

His eyelids were crusted with cement. His limbs pulsed with banked fire. And his mouth was full of copper.

"Wooden Head, please, come back–"

That voice…

Did he even occupy a body anymore? He let his head tip to one side, experimenting. The flare of dizziness confirmed that yes, he did.

Open your eyes, he told himself. You are the powerful Moon Supreme and you will open your eyes right now because you need to see her.

When his mutinous muscles finally responded, he could only squint against the brilliance of twilight.

His precious Xiao Lanhua was right there holding him, brow drawn, skin pale from strain. The corners of his lips rose. He was - he was smiling. On his own. What a miracle this little flower was.

Her fingers lifted to brush his cheek. The smell of blood jolted through him. He grabbed her hand and stared at the slash across her wrist.

"It's fine," she reassured, trying to pull away. "You had to drink a little so I could revive you, that's all. I'm fine."

"It's not fine," he growled. "Don't wound yourself. Not for me, not for anyone."

Her gaze fell. "You were dying. My blood healed you."

He… hadn't known she could do that. As if he hadn't already received ample proof of her divine nature. But…

"Why?" he asked.

Her shoulders rose and fell. "I don't know. I always could."

"Not that. I mean–" He grimaced and shifted against the rough stone at his back. "Why did you save me? Why not go back to Shuiyuntian with your Lord Changheng?"

Her lips parted soundlessly, peach blossom eyes softening. Her slender wrist wilted in his grasp.

Suddenly it didn't matter. Despite everything, she had turned away from the perfect opportunity to return to her former home, pardoned and beloved.

She had chosen him instead.

He drew her into his arms. She'd chosen him. Something fluttered in his stomach. His ribs felt too tight for his pounding heart.

His lips met hers for the simple joy of touching her.

He felt the lightning charge on the nape of his neck a bare instant before the veils of aurora parted around the wrath of heaven.

It was only Lord Yunzhong, this time. But Lord Yunzhong was enough.

Qingcang tried to swing Xiao Lanhua around behind him. For a dizzy heartbeat he was weightless. Then rough gravel dug into his cheek. The river roared in his ears.

"You ungrateful wretch," an imperious voice snapped. "Step aside, or I'll finish what your master started and uproot you completely."

"No." His foolish little orchid's voice was devastatingly firm.

The air crackled. She cried out. His arm burned with her pain.

"Last chance," Lord Yunzhong warned. "I am willing to overlook this for my brother's sake. But his infatuation will only protect you so far."

Qingcang reached deep into himself, to his core carved empty and filled with azure flame. There was so much there now, so many feelings jumbling together. There was hardly space or fuel for his hellfire anymore. With a roar of effort he filled his palm and flung the fire forward.

Lord Yunzhong hissed. Good. Good that he could still count on this when it mattered most.

Lightning stilettoed across his shoulders and chest. He and Xiao Lanhua screamed together – who had Lord Yunzhong actually attacked? –

Voices clamored from the treeline. Shangque and Jieli. Yunzhong laughed. Qingcang felt abruptly queasy.

The laugh dissolved into curses as Shangque assumed his true form. Qingcang couldn't really see – his eyes had glued themselves shut again, somehow – but the reptile smell and rush of air displaced by a suddenly massive body were impossible to miss.

His lieutenant's roar shook the ground beneath him.

Another burst of lightning. Xiao Lanhua crying in protest. The subtler rush of air filling a space no longer occupied.

He needed to stay awake, to figure out what was happening and help his precious orchid. She had sounded indignant and frightened. But now Jieli was yelling something after Shangque, and two sets of hands were touching him but neither of them was Xiao Lanhua, and he was too fucking tired to fight anymore…

#lbfad #lbfad minibang #cang lan jue #dongfang qingcang #xiao lanhua #my stuff #more TBA!

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korebringerofded · 1 year

Text

Changes- Chapter 1 Reuploaded

Summary- Eddie becomes jealous when rumors around town suggest you and Steve Harrington are sleeping together. After fighting with Eddie events lead to you and Steve Harrington having a 'movie night' to cheer you up

NO CHILDREN ON MY PAGE

Masterlist here

Pairings-Friends to lovers! Steve Harrington X Reader, Established relationship! Eddie Munson X reader

Warnings-Smut, semi-cheating?, fighting, angst, violence, fingering, p in v smut, smoking, drinking

Tags- Mechanic Eddie, eventual Steddie X Reader, smut, eventual poly, somewhat cheating?

A/N-I am working on a new chapter but in the meantime enjoy new scenes and updated stuff to make everything fit together. Will be uploading all of what is written so far just reedited so enjoy! Still the same story as this series. Just some new scenes and better written!

Eddie would have never really considered himself the jealous type, but when it came to you, you were his everything, his sunshine, someone he could really hold and love. He had also never really had a problem with you working alongside Steve, ‘The King’ Harrington at the video store.

You and Steve had been friends in kindergarten and again after high school, and Eddie didn’t believe he had any right to say anything about who you were or weren't friends with.

Besides, he trusted you more than anything. It was like breathing.

Despite that he would still try to avoid Steve, maybe it was something about the way you smiled widely at him or maybe it was the way that Dustin looked up at him with stars shimmering in his eyes. It was at times like this Eddie would feel burrowing pangs of jealousy and remember the Steve he knew in high school, the one he loathed that called him a freak.

When Eddie entered the shop that day he could hardly be bothered by the whispers and glances from each and every person, guest and employee alike. It had been like this for his entire life so it was easy for Eddie to ignore them, the people of Hawkins always gawked at him, even now. He did his best to ignore the whispers and glares and quickly started setting up to work, putting his bulky headphones over his ears.

He was about halfway through the shift, under a car with grease spread on his face and his hair tied up messily. As much as he hated this fucking town when he was working on a car he was truly able to disappear into the problem. It was especially nice when he needed a distraction.

It was only when he pulled himself up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a semi-clean rag that he overheard some of the guys talking, apparently not realizing he was there.

He froze, listening closely as the two men spoke in muddled whispers.

“It just isn’t proper,”

“Someone should say something, he ought to know.”

“If someone were fucking my girl I would shoot them dead.”

“Let alone in the back of the video store!”

They all broke out into booming echoing laughs that made Eddie’s head spin. He had suspected for weeks that something was happening between you and Steve but now the entire situation was staring him down.

He couldn’t stay silent anymore and after a harsh interrogation of his coworkers he had heard all he needed to for his worst fear to be confirmed.

There were rumors around town that you and Steve had been fucking in the back of the video store. Your face flashed in his head, toothy grin, your pink cheeks and fluttering eyelashes looking up at Steve as they fell to brush your cheeks and then meet back with Steve’s caramel ones. He kissed you softly, intimately. Like it was only one of hundreds.

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before, that he had been so blind.

He imagined Steve would hold your chin, tongue swirling around your mouth, while he pressed you against the wall of the video store on a rainy day, your whimpers echoing in the empty store while Eddie was at home, pathetically waiting for your return.

Steve would grip your hips with his muscular thigh pressed between yours and your hot clothed cunt soaks through the thin material of your pants.

“Steve, Steve, Steve.” Your voice echoed in Eddie’s skull.

////////////////////////////////////

Eddie Munson was anything but a ‘safe’ driver on a good day but when he was angry or upset he was reckless. His knuckles were stark white as he gripped the wheel, hair flying wildly as he drove, trying to drown out the images that infiltrated his mind with booming music.

It hardly helped and the thought of Steve towering over you, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder while your nails scraped down Steve’s perfectly toned back. Your glossy eyes dazed and low as you stared at him, he swore you were right there, he could smell and feel you just inches away. Your broken moans filled his ears, it was all so wrong and intoxicating. He shouldn’t like this, he refused to.

He felt his face burn red when he noticed his dick had grown rock hard in his pants.

“Fuck.” He grumbled, leaning his sweat coated forehead against the steering wheel.

/////////////////////////////////////////

“Tell me the fucking truth, (Y/N)” Eddie growled, his voice rumbling from deep in his throat.

“That is the truth, Eddie.” Your voice was stern, tears welling in your eyes threatening to spill over and onto your flushed cheeks. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” You reached your hands out towards him, trembling like a leaf.

Eddie stood there for a moment, fighting back tears of his own as he shook his head, throwing his hands up to keep you at a distance. “No no no no, stop” He chewed at his bottom lip, “I just don’t fucking believe you.” He spat, eyebrows furrowed while he refused to look directly at you.

Your heart shattered in your chest as those sharp words slipped from his lips followed by the endless stream of tears that finally poured down your cheeks.

Eddie’s knuckles were white and his jaw clenched to be as sharp as a blade. His already pale skin was flushed and his pupils enveloped any color that was once there. His hair whipped wildly around him as he threw his arms up and raked his fingers through the thick curls, digging into his scalp as he rambled.

“I just want the truth, I think at the very least you owe me that.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Then tell me what the ‘truth’ is, Eddie! I don’t know what I’m supposed to say here!” You rambled, stomping your foot as tears stung your eyes, lip quivering.

It was childish, you knew that but you just couldn’t take it anymore, you hated this. You were genuinely confused and hurt.

“You...” Eddie took a few steps towards you, his finger pressing against your chest slightly as he pointed, cornering you against the table, his eyes puffy and tear-filled.

“You are fucking Steve Harrington, aren’t you?.” He crouched down slightly to be eye to eye with you.

You wanted to laugh, you almost did but the look on his face, the betrayal, the serious look he rarely had and the tears that slid down his cheeks. It tore you apart.

You reached up to him, wiping a tear across his face before he gripped your wrist, eyes meeting briefly. Fear and desperation was written on your face.

“Eddie, you are the only person I have ever loved like this, it’s only you.” You pleaded, voice trembling. “Steve is just a friend.”

Nothing had happened between you and Steve, honestly. You wouldn’t hurt Eddie like that.

“I see how he looks at you, and how you look at him. Anyone within a mile of either of you can see it.” His sharp tongue shot venom at you, eyes completely blown and any color left had been burned out like a piece of ash floating down from a roaring flame.

“Eds,” You sniffled. “I promise you, nothing has happened between me and Steve. He’s my friend, that's all.”

It was the truth, Eddie had always been the one for you.

“Bullshit, it's all bullshit,” Eddie laughed grimly, leaning his head back as he did, his whole body shaking violently before he stopped all at once, his body lurching forward and his fist crashing through the brittle drywall next to you, the white powder spreading over the room as you stood in shock.

You gasped audibly, frozen and trembling as your widened eyes looked back and forth between Eddie, with his now bleeding hand and the hole in your wall.

He had never done anything like this before. You had known him for a while and while he had never been afraid of fighting an asshole at school or telling someone to fuck off, he was normally an overall soft and kind person.

“You and me, we are finished.” He used his sleeve to wipe his face before the two of your eyes connected for just a moment, your heart sinking into a cool icy bath of shock.

His words were muffled over the gnawing static that now filled your ears. You didn’t move from that spot as sobs racked through your body, knocking you onto your knees as you pressed your hands to your face.

Eddie grabbed his keys off the table and with a slam of the door that left you trembling. The deafening sound of rubber against asphalt as he pulled away from the trailer left a gigantic rot in your chest.

//////////////////////////////////

Four-five weeks had passed in agonizing succession. Eddie had disappeared, he completely stopped showing up at work and he wasn’t hiding out at Wayne’s trailer.

In all honesty you were losing the last bit of strength and working at the Video Store had done little to help. While the distraction was much appreciated and being around Steve always made you feel better, there was still a burning sense of guilt that crawled its way up.

It shouldn’t have mattered, Eddie was gone and you were fairly certain he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Still, you wondered how he would feel about that, about you finding comfort in Steve.

“You gonna be okay?” Steve asked, pulling you from your thoughts and resting his hand beside you on the counter.

“I’ll be fine.” You sighed, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Maybe we could hang out after work, we can talk or watch movies, whatever you want.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

You couldn't help but tilt your head to the side to look up at him, his shimmering chocolate colored eyes freezing you to the spot. You couldn’t deny how absolutely beautiful Steve was, he made the butterflies in your stomach flutter desperately.

“Yeah-okay.” You nodded. “I’ll be at your place at 9.” You smiled weakly before going back to stocking the horror movies.

Steve watched you closely, mumbling something that sounded like ‘okay’ before attending to one of the customers that glared at him, obviously annoyed.

Steve Harrington had been in love with you since kindergarten, sure he had a short period in highschool where he forgot you existed but now, after fighting interdimensional monsters and escaping an underground russian prison together you two had been reunited as friends, best friends in fact. Steve had (badly) convinced himself he was fine with that, that just friends was plenty for him.

How horribly wrong he was.

He respected you being with Eddie, Steve had hurt you plenty in the past and felt he didn’t deserve you, nor did he think he ever stood a chance against Eddie. To Steve, you and Eddie were painfully and obviously in love.

Steve wasn’t sure if anyone would ever love him that much.

////////////////////////////////////////

The rest of the shift went by quickly and before you knew it you were back in your tiny trailer taking a scalding hot shower, head tilted far back and neck exposed to the unrelenting stream of water. Eddie’s words had been haunting you, burning right through your chest.

It was all becoming too much to handle and you had to find a distraction to ease the numbing ache.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, maybe Steve would be the solution, he was your best friend, it would be good for you to talk to him about everything.

When you arrived at Steve’s apartment you felt a deep sense of regret, that maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea. After all the rumors and the fight with Eddie, it couldn’t end well, right?

“Hey,” Steve opened the door with a big toothy grin on his face, his glowing tan skin knocking the air out of your lungs as he leaned against the doorframe. He was so beautiful, only being comparable to a Greek god, standing proud, muscles pronounced in his shirt.

This was definitely a very bad idea.

“Alright, darlin’.” Steve held up three movies like they were a deck of cards. “Take your pick.”

He, of course, had picked your top three favorite movies and as you looked them over you couldn’t help the spreading grin over your face. Steve was always very observant, especially when it came to you, he honestly couldn’t help but hold on to each thing you allowed him to know, to be a part of the things you care about. To him, it was the only way he could keep you close.

You decided on one of the movies, tapping your nail against the cover.

Steve put it in before he plopped right beside you, his leg brushing against yours as the movie started. You two sat close, a small bit of space between you as Steve got comfortable, stretching his long arms over the back of the couch, his hand dangling right on the other side of you. You hadn’t realized how long you had been sitting there, eyes wide as your heartbeat quickened. It got progressively more difficult to focus on the movie the closer you and Steve got, the couch was soft and plushy and it caused you two to be squished uncomfortably close.

The light from the tv illuminated the small room as the sun went down and all the sunlight was washed away with a tense darkness. You and Steve had movie nights all the time but this one felt…different. A tension was spread over you both, Steve’s jaw was tight as he avoided glancing at you, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to control himself once his eyes locked with your big glossy ones.

The movie was long forgotten, you and Steve were pressed together, his arm draped over your shoulder as you partially leaned into his chest. His warmth made you relax a bit, and you burrowed deeper into him, taking in the scent of him.

Steve’s heart was beating deafeningly in his chest, he could hardly stand the intoxicating scent of your shampoo. He couldn’t deny he had thought about you before but the past few weeks had been absolute torture, everywhere he looked he saw your shimmering eyes looking up at him.

It was all becoming far too much.

He was ashamed of how much you haunted his dreams, your doe eyes wide and glossy while he massaged your soft skin, bringing his lips down to your sweet, hot core while you mewled desperately, thighs trembling and wrapped around him.

He wanted to crash his lips into yours but the uncertainty ate him whole. He didn’t know what had happened between you and Eddie, he knew it left you very very sad seeing how you had been acting but he wouldn’t be the one to make the first move, he couldn’t lose you in case he was completely misreading the ever growing tension.

“Steve…” You were breathless, his name sounding oddly foreign and new on your tongue.

You had called to him hundreds of times before, but your unusually sultry voice sent electricity over Steve’s entire body, making the tiny hairs on his neck stand on edge like he had been shocked by a bolt of lightning.

“Yes?” Steve gulped, jaw tight and heart echoing in his chest.

You didn’t want to feel lonely anymore. You just wanted to feel something again.

You were painfully aware of Steve’s palm on your back, it sent bolts of lighting down your spine, maybe it was that you hadn’t been laid in a few weeks or the fact that Steve was smelling really, really good right now that made you feel a little woozy.

Before Steve could process what was happening you were straddling his lap, inches away from his face as you ran your fingers through his hair at the base of his neck. Your touch made Steve go almost love-drunk as he looked up at you, his hands trailing over your hips, his fingertips brushing under your shirt and against your flesh.

Steve leaned forward, connecting your lips with his in which you both melted in, falling into one another as your teeth and tongues brushed against one another.

Steve could hardly think as his hands felt over your body, cupping your ass to pull you against his chest, his hardening dick in his pants pressing against your hot clothed cunt.

Steve explored your mouth, his tongue tracing over yours and prodigy around in your tongue before trailing down your neck and chest, hands massaging your breasts and pinching your nipples between the thin material of your clothes.

You whimpered, squirming slightly as you grinded against Steve’s dick through his jeans, looking for any relief from the growing tension deep in your core. You threw your head back as Steve pressed soft kisses and nips at your neck, then collarbone. All the way across your chest as he tugged your shirt down further. He wanted to taste every part of you. He was sure this was all a dream and he decided he was fine with that, because it was a damn good one.

You tugged your shirt off and tossed it aside, fumbling with the back of your bra for a moment as Steve leaned back further into the couch, his glossy blown eyes watching your every move as drool formed in his throat. Something about the way you moved, the slight blush along your cheeks that just left Steve woozy. Your thighs wrapped around him, doughy skin like sweet fucking silk.

You weren’t thinking, you just wanted to feel good, you were desperate for it. You had spent so much time crying. You just wanted to forget about the heartache.

You pulled yourself up off of Steve’s lap and tugged off your bra, dropping it beside the couch.

“Holy shit…” Steve ran a hand through his hair, tugging his shirt off and tossing it next to your pile of clothes.

You smiled gently, though a look of pain would still linger on your face. Steve leaned forward and cupped your face in his hand.

“Are you okay? We can stop.” Steve spoke gently. “Look, I don’t know what happened with you and-.”

“I want you, Steve.” You cut him off, eyes locked with his own.

You didn’t want to think about him. It hurt too much.

You tugged your jeans and panties off, kicking them aside, leaving you standing completely nude only inches from Steve HArrington, his hair disheveled and a slight blush across his face.

He practically groaned at the sight of you, the moonlight pouring into the room as he leaned forward to press soft kisses to your hips and thighs and then across your stomach, his hands guiding your hips to sit back on his lap.

“So beautiful…” He mumbled, his hands tracing right above your cunt, your legs trembling slightly as the pads of his fingers ran along the puffy folds, the lewd wet sound echoing like music to Steve as he pressed just the tips of his fingers to your core, curling and pressing against you just enough to make you whimper.

He chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. He leaned forward to nip and bite at the spongey part of your neck before pushing his long finger deep into your cunt, the pads on his fingers curling and fucking in and out of you with slow and meticulous patience. Steve held you against him now, still on his lap with one arm supporting you as the other worked into you, pressing his thumb against your swollen clit.

“S-steve…” You whimpered, tears stinging the edges of your eyes as he inserted another finger into you, his thick long fingers filling you and making the heat pool in your stomach. You could hardly stand it.

“Yes, princess?”

“Fuck me…” You were practically begging, you could care less. “Please, Steve.”

His eyes went wide and he pulled his fingers from you and pressed them to his lips, running his tongue over his fingers to taste the sweet juices dripping down his wrist.

Your face went hot at the lewd act and all Steve could do was grin before tugging off his jeans as well, releasing his uncomfortably hard dick from them.

You gulped, eyes going wide for a moment. He was…so much bigger than any you had ever been with or seen before. Just the idea of how he would fit made you dizzy.

He ran his hand over his dick, running over his pink tip already leaking precum. He was beautiful, muscular and thick with a perfect stretching vein down the side.

“Think you can handle it, princess?” Steve tilted his head, almost mockingly.

You giggled, face red as crimson as he crashed his lips into yours, his hand cupping your chin as he stood up and swiftly scooped you up, carrying you down the hall. You couldn’t help but squirm and giggle as he pressed light kisses down your throat.

“You have to tell me if this is a dream,” Steve mumbled as he carried you into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him before he sat you down on the bed, standing between your legs as he cradled your face in your hands. “Because I can’t be let down by waking up again, I don’t know if this is real.” He rambled, pressing kisses all over your face as he took in your scent, trying to remember every last detail.

“It’s real, Stevie. I’m real.” You nodded, struggling to ignore the guilt bubbling up in your stomach.

Steve smiled at that, and he glowed like the sun.

You couldn’t help but smile back, throwing your arms around his neck as he laid you back gently, aligning his dick with your cunt as he rubbed the tip against your puffy folds, pressing just the head inside at first as your thighs trembled around him, your set cunt tightening around him as he groaned softly.

“Fuck…fuck…” You whimpered, back arching as Steve slowly fucked you with just the tip as you got used to how far he pushed against your walls.

Tears formed in the corner of your eyes as he fucked depper into you, your stomach twitching as he filled you up more and more until you were sobbing on his dick as he fucked you at a slow steady beat, his hips grinding against yours as the tip of his dick poked and prodded that hot spongey sweet spot deep in your cunt. It made your eyes roll into the back of your head as he used your hips to pull you down deeper onto him, his breathing getting faster and chest rising and falling.

“S-so…close.” You whimpered, twisting the sheets in your hands as Steve fucked into you, your stomach showing a slight bulge from where he fucked deep inside of you, his eyes glued to the sight as he pressed his thumb to your puffy clit which immediately sent you over the edge, toes curling as the bubbling heat boiled over you and you came with a start, legs trembling as you tightened and oozed around Steve’s throbbing cock as he came deep in you with a groan, his lips connecting with yours as he did before collapsing next to you on the bed.

You glance up at him, a big grin on his face as his fingers trailed over your arm. That was when you realized Eddie was right...you did love Steve. You had for a while.

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#eddie stranger things #Eddie munson #steve x eddie #Steddie X reader #Steddie #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x eddie munson #Stranger things x reader #imagines #x reader #fanfiction #stranger things #joe keery #joseph quinn #steve x reader

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jackoshadows · 1 year

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Q: What is your favorite line you’ve ever written?

A: “I certainly like ‘Stick ‘em with the pointy end.’ - GRRM

So here are all the times GRRM’s favorite line he has ever written shows up over 5 books:

“You’ll have to work at it every day.” He put the sword in her hands, showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. “How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”

“I think so,” Arya said.

“First lesson,” Jon said. “Stick them with the pointy end.” - Jon II, AGoT

-----

“She was,” Eddard Stark agreed, “beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time.” He lifted the sword, held it out between them. “Arya, what did you think to do with this … Needle? Who did you hope to skewer? Your sister? Septa Mordane? Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?”

All she could think of was the lesson Jon had given her. “Stick them with the pointy end,” she blurted out.

Her father snorted back laughter. “That is the essence of it, I suppose.” - Arya II, AGoT

-----

Everything Syrio Forel had ever taught her vanished in a heartbeat. In that instant of sudden terror, the only lesson Arya could remember was the one Jon Snow had given her, the very first.

She stuck him with the pointy end, driving the blade upward with a wild, hysterical strength. - Arya IV, AGoT

-----

She stood on the end of the dock, pale and goosefleshed and shivering in the fog. In her hand, Needle seemed to whisper to her. Stick them with the pointy end, it said, and, don’t tell Sansa! Mikken’s mark was on the blade. It’s just a sword. If she needed a sword, there were a hundred under the temple. Needle was too small to be a proper sword, it was hardly more than a toy. She’d been a stupid little girl when Jon had it made for her. “It’s just a sword,” she said, aloud this time . . . . . . but it wasn’t. - Arya II, AFfc

-----

Jon felt as stiff as a man of sixty years. Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt. His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard’s heart. He’d had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo’s blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life. -

“Snow,” muttered Lord Mormont’s raven. “Snow, snow.” - Jon VI, ADwD

-----

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would shelook like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he’d had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. - Jon XI, ADwD

-----

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold …- Jon XIII, ADwD

The phrase is first introduced in Jon’s POV chapter when he gifts Needle to Arya and gives her the first lesson. From there, it pops up in Arya POV chapters. It’s there, whispering in her mind when she hides Needle and stops being Arya Stark. Jon Snow picks back up on the phrase, when he worries for Arya married to Ramsay Bolton. It’s his last thought as he dies.

I suspect, with Jon now dead and most probably spending time in a wolf, and Needle making a subtle appearance in Arya’s TWoW sample chapter, the next time ‘Stick them with the pointy end’ shows up on the page will be in an Arya POV chapter, where she reclaims her identity and heads to Westeros.

Maybe after Arya hears what happened to the black bastard at the wall, stabbed to death by mutineers....

He is a man of the Night's Watch, she thought, as he sang about some stupid lady throwing herself off some stupid tower because her stupid prince was dead. The lady should go kill the ones who killed her prince. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

#Jon Snow #Arya Stark #Needleheartwinter #Needle #Stick them with the pointy end #GRRM

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saints-who-never-existed · 5 months

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Rereading The Terror

Chapter Forty-Two: Peglar

After a meal of fresh meat from the Esquimaux sledges (Btw, can we have a quick shout-out to Messrs Diggle and Wall please? For working so hard for so long with so so little, managing to eke it out enough to sustain the men even this far?) Peglar and Bridgens take another walk.

Peglar overhears as they go some men in the distance arguing over a card game which just gets me for some reason. Like, it's a sign that even in the face of all the horrors, humanity and some simple normality very much still exists among them.

They begin by discussing the different types of boats they've hauled with them, and which ones they'll take when they move south. Peglar is glad at the thought of moving on, especially after the scenes he's witnessed surrounding Irving's death.

He has, of course, told Bridgens everything despite being sworn to secrecy <3 but interestingly, he hasn't himself drawn the right conclusion yet from what he's seen and heard: "I think," John Bridgens said softly, "that Captain Crozier is not convinced that the Esquimaux killed Lieutenant Irving." "What? Who else could..." Peglar stopped...[]...He had never considered for an instant that anyone other than the savages could have done what he'd seen done to John Irving."

Naturally, discussion turns again to wrong'uns among the crew - Aylmore and Hickey are both mentioned. Once again, it appears that Bridgens is far more perceptive than Peglar on this subject: "Why don't I hear these things, John? I've heard none of this seditious whispering." Bridgens smiled. "They don't trust you not to tell, my dear Harry." "But they trust you?" "Of course not. But I hear everything sooner or later. Stewards are invisible, y'know, being neither fish nor fowl nor good red meat..." (A very interesting food-based metaphor to end on if ever there was one!)

They turn their attention once again to the boats and their future viability. It's interesting to see the ways they trade off against one another - there are many things that Bridgens knows more about but there are also certainly subjects on which Peglar is more knowledgeable and this is one of them. I suspect Bridgens switches back to the topic on purpose, perhaps to make Peglar feel a little better after feeling so out of the loop on the seditious whisperings of before. On the one hand, it's nice, but on the other, I think both of them wish they were still back in the old days, where Peglar could look to Bridgens for the answer and Bridgens could take comfort in being able to give it. There are no clear answers to anything now. "The older man's voice did not sound aggrieved or anxious or desperate, merely curious. Peglar had heard John pose a thousand questions, about astronomy, natural history, geology, botany, philosophy and a score of other subjects in precisely that same soft, mildly curious tone. With most of the other questions, it had been the teacher who knew the answer quizzing his student in a polite way. Here, Peglar was sure that John Bridgens did not know the answer to this question."

Finally, we come to The Scene. Bridgens suggests the possibility of returning to Terror and Peglar is appalled. He's spent the last few minutes outlining how inherently impossible their southward journey plans are, and yet now he's their greatest defender, insisting that some of them could make it and if some of them could make it, at least they could tell everyone back home what became of their loved ones. And then Bridgens says it: "You are my loved one, Harry." said Bridgens. "The only man or woman or child left in the world who cares whether I am alive or dead, much less what I may have thought before I fell or where my bones will lie." And before we can even recover from that, Peglar's reply comes: "You're going to outlive me, John." "Oh, at my age, and with my infirmities and proclivities toward illness, I hardly think..." "You're going to outlive me, John." grated Peglar. :(((((

I think I'm going to have to write a separate post just about this exchange alone. The way they're in different stages of grief - anger vs. acceptance - yet somehow both being in the denial stage in entirely different ways! The way this is another subject on which Peglar the student is more knowledgeable than Bridgens the teacher and again, just what an affront that is to the natural order of their relationship! The way I simply cannot cope with any of it!

#The Terror #The Terror AMC #Observations #Random Observations #Meta #Rereading The Terror #Henry Peglar #John Bridgens #Pain #Pure unadulterated pain #I have more thoughts on this

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crochetotterblog · 1 year

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🩸🔪Who’s a good boy?🔪🩸

WORD COUNT: 2,649💕

Summary: Breaking news: A serial killer has just been spotted in Hawkins as of last week, do not walk alone, stay indoors unless absolutely necessary, stay where you are, stay with family or friends, go in pairs, if you see anything or know anything call the local authorities, pray to whatever God you believe in. This guy has already killed two people, in broad daylight, keep your eye out for anyone suspicious in anyway. May God have mercy on our souls. . .

A/N: finally got some of my drafts out, give these stories some sugar will ya?

Warning(s): 18+, blood, gore, stalking, cursing, fighting, choking, (let me know if I missed any)

I shut off the TV, rolling my eyes. Seriously? They think a man is doing the killings? I'll give you something a man would do, stupid fuckers. The media gets on my nerves all the time, they never assume a woman could be doing what the assume is a mans' job, related to killing. But, whatever, fuck me right? I sighed tying my shoes. Another day in another town, another journal entry. No lover, no one to hold. The last person I fell in love with, found out what I had done to his "girlfriend" she didn't deserve him, he was mine and only mine, no matter how much I tried to bring him to me. He never came, he walked in on me tying a rope around her neck and trying to set an apparent suicide. I dropped her lifeless body and held my arms out, for a hug, I was so sure he would understand and come running into my arms. Then we could have made love right next to her stiff body...That didn't happen, he pushed passed me screaming her name, shaking her and crying. 'Baby?! Wake up—Baby!' He screamed. No response. 'I'm right here' I said in a hush tone, I wanted him to fucking notice me. He did notice me, moving his glossy eyes to look up at me, only to scream and call me a monster. I am not a fucking monster, I am a good person trying to get the one they love. That hurt, him calling me a monster hurt the most..I love hi— no, I loved him. Once that left his lips, something inside me flipped; like someone flipping the light switch in a dark room to bring in light. All I saw was red. Once I came to my sense and looked at what I had done, tears building up in my eyes, staring at my shaking hands only to be covered with blood. Tears began to stream down my face as I look at his lifeless body, a hammer covered in his blood. I silently sobbed as I cleaned up my stupid fucking mess. If only he hadn't of seen me, if only..I might as well keep a low profile as best as I can, otherwise I will have to move again.

No one suspects an innocent girl—Right?

I slipped into my alt themed clothes:

I had transferred myself to the Hawkins High School. I don't talk to my parents anymore, not since the incident. I never cared for them, I mean they never noticed me, I hardly felt loved by them. If I had felt love from them, would I be the person I am today? I sighed as I stepped outside my trailor and began to walk the 3 miles to school. Being a murderer, has it's perks I guess, the speed that I walk at always gets me there faster than my victim; basically like the movies. It's funny to know that small dumb things like walking will be to my advantage. I didn't have a bag, all I had was my purse, not like I really cared for school. Only subject I cared about was, english and science; I will always love science; always new ways to hide the bodies and to kill. Though English, I can always write a fake suicide note, which was what I was planning to do before he ruined it and tried to play the hero. I hate those kind of people. 10 minutes pass, I had arrived at the school. Looking around I found some woods near by, 'good start' I said to myself, looking around the parking lot I can see the jocks, cheerleaders, geeks, nerds, band kids, everyone. My eyes fell on a white van, something I haven't seen in awhile, at least since my last killing spree much far in the south of Indiana; I smiled, 'who is the idiot with a white van with no fucking windows' I asked myself. The driver side door flung open, smoke poured out of the van like water was rushing out to fill the parking lot, I took a deep breath, 'weed', I let a sigh that turned into a soft moan. I haven't smoked in awhile, but I did like the smell. A leg slammed on the concrete, then another, followed by a deep raspy grunt. This tall boy, long brown curly hair, somewhat saggy black skinny jeans, wearing a baseball shirt with the words 'Hellfire Club' written on it; with dice, a demon and what looks like a dagger. I stared at him, looking him up and down, 'omg—' I gulped, from my head to my toes I felt this tingling feeling that found its place at my core, my heartbeat wasn't beating in its normal speed. I bit the inside of my cheek as I squeezed my thighs together. Smiling I watched him stomp out his blunt, heat rose to my cheeks, I couldn't help how much I was smiling, my cheeks began to hurt. I walked up to his van slowly, right before I had reached his van he ran off into the school; I bent down and picked up his butt of a blunt. I pull out a wooden box, and carefully placed the end inside. I closed it with a kiss and out it back in my purse.

I giggled to myself, my cheeks still hot, 'I will make you mine, my love' I smiled. 'You will be mine always and forever'. I started my day off by getting my schedule, as much as I hated not seeing the love of my life, 24/7, I had to blend in. My first few classes were as boring as ever. I didn't talk to anyone, never said a word, I only nodded and shook my head in response. A straight resting bitch face all morning until lunch came around. I walked into the room and headed towards the line to grab anything. Everyone and their cliques found their respected tables and sat down, I walked to the corner of the room, to sit down at this small round table. It wasn't like the rest of the tables, looking at my sorry excuse of a lunch, I picked off the things that I could eat and that wouldn't mess up my stomach. Most of the sorry excuse wasn't all appealing to the eye, whoever made the food will die sometime this week or today. I pulled out a small notebook from my purse and a pencil, might as well start working on new methods. Still poking at my food, and doodling methods I could feel someone's eyes on me, I stopped my pencil in its tracks and looked up to see a blonde boy staring at me, only he wasn't at his table, he was standing infront of me, and my table. I looked him up and down, raising an eyebrow; he smirked and sat in front of me. "You're new right?" He asked, I nodded. He smiled again, "You're cute, want to come sit with me and my friends?" He asked nicely, I thought nothing of it but I had a bad feeling, I shrugged. He stood up holding his hand out to me, I took his hand and he lead me to his table full of guys in letterman jackets. I couldn't help but feel weak, like they were undressing me with their stares, I gulped a hunk of spit down as I sat, I didn't smile, I didn't say a word, I looked down at my notebook and continued to doodle. I looked around the room one more time, to see that almost everyone was staring at me at the jock table, I lowered my head slightly in shame, scanned the room one more time to find him, my love staring at me, with wide eyes. Heat rushed to my cheeks, I smiled at him, he didn't smile back but gave me a nod, acknowledging me. My heart sank to the floor, 'Is this true love?' I asked myself. I kept imagining everything with him, I have been saving my first time for the right guy, and he noticed me! On my first day of school. I drew and drew, throughout lunch, pictures of him and me; with as many kids as he wanted. A white picket fence, big lovely house, 4 dogs, anything and everything. I will be the perfect housewife for him, whatever he wants to do for work I support fully; I only ask for him to be mine and only mine.

I pulled my hand up to my face, holding my cheek softly as I smiled looking at my work. The bell rang and I quickly shoved my notebook into my purse and got up. I walked towards the door, but someone grabbed my wrist and pulled me back, I look up and it was the blonde boy, "I'm Jason Carter by the way, and I was wondering if you would like to hang out sometime" he smiled rubbing the back of his neck, I looked at him with big doe eyes then at my love. I shook my head, and walked away. I swear I heard him growl like a dog, he then pushed passed me with the words "Fucking tease", he huffed as he walked out of the room. I rubbed my shoulder, where he had pushed through me, pouting, frowning, 'Jason Carter, huh? Big mistake to tell me your name pal. I snickered to myself, god another beautiful episode was about to go down, I couldn't stop smiling, I was so happy and excited that another victim of mine decided to spill the beans on their name! I might take him up on his 'hangout' offer, the closer I am to my victim the less suspicious it is. I continued the rest of my day watching him from a far, the love of my life, he wasn't doing any school work. He just sat there drawing, tapping his pencil on his desk or was writing. I tilted my head slightly in confusion, I started making my way to my locker when I bumped into two people, I looked down in shame, not saying a word. "Hey you okay?" one asked, I nodded, still looking at my shoes. "You're new right? My name's Dustin" he said, I looked up at him to see a boy with curly light brown hair, in what looks like a Hawaiian shirt and 'thinking cap', "This is Mike" he pointed to his friend with long curly black hair, he waved slightly, he didn't seem too happy in meeting me. I nodded and pulled out some paper to write my name, 'I'm Y/N', I handed the note to Dustin, "Nice to meet you Y/N, um do you play DnD?" Dustin asked, I nodded and held up two fingers signifying I have played a little bit. "We are looking for a new recruit, to fill in for out friend Lucas" I smiled and nodded excitedly. Dustin gave a big toothy grin, "Awesome! We meet after school today, though Gareths' mom doesn't want us over again after the mess we made, would it be okay with your folks for us to play there?" I thought for a second, then nodded and wrote my address on the paper that had my name on it, handing it over to Dustin. I smiled clutching my books to my chest. "Amazing, we didn't think that someone of your class would play DnD, so glad you do!" I tilted my head confused, only for Mike to open his mouth, "Dustin, this is some kind of joke dude, I'm sure this is a prank so she can be on the cheer squad" he rolled his eyes looking at me, my bubbly demeanor faded as I stared at him, my arms fell slack still clutching my books. I took deep breaths, as many as I could, "See, what did I tell you, it is all an act" my eyes shot up at Mike, looking him into his big brown eyes. I stared into his fucking soul, I huffed at his comment. I shoved him into the lockers pinning him at the throat, pointing my finger at him. "Ooh so scary" he said sarcastically, I furrowed my eyebrows, 'Are you fucking kidding me?' I asked myself, I shoved my forearm up on his neck, pushing him up. He began to hit me trying to get me too stop. Dustin started to panic as he tried to pull me off of him. "Jesus, you're strong, come on man" he said. The bell rang and I dropped Mike to his knees, I slammed my foot on the lockers next to his head, and whispered, "I will fucking kill you, you say something like that again; they'll never find your body." Before he could ask anything I took my foot away from his head, smiling, and bowed to say 'sorry' and continued to my next class.

"D-dude, she's fucking c-crazy!" Mike choked. Dustin nodded his head, "Where's Edd-"

"Looking for me?" Eddie said walking up to the two boys. The rest of the group came a long when they saw Mike struggling to stand, "We found s-someone to fill in b-but she's f-fuck—" Mike cut himself off, he and Dustin looked over Eddie's shoulder to see me giving Mike a death stare, pointing two fingers at him and back to my eyes. He lowered his head, "Nevermind...". Eddie raised his eyebrow confused, "Okay then..?" he sighed. The day ended very quickly, I rushed home to clean, tossing all of my bloody weapons into my closet, picked up dirty clothes, I did everything I could to hide that I had a 'gross hobby', and I did a pretty damn good job of him. After the stunt I had pulled, I assumed they would come over in fear that I would kill them. To be honest I hope they come, I want to make friends, I smiled to myself, I don't talk much for a reason though, not speaking much means no one will suspect you know anything about anyone or thing for that matter. I'm glad I can hold myself back from going through the whole killing process, saves my skin and my neck. No one will ever know it's me, the only person who would or might is my love, my darling, puppy, my baby, my everything. But until then I must keep a low profile, keep it low like an ankle..because an ankle is 3 feet lower than a cunt, so might as well play dumb. I giggled to myself as I continued to clean. I heard a knock at the door, I checked my watch, 4:20 (aha blazzin') I walked over to the door a margarita in hand. I opened the door to see, 6 boy standing on my front porch, all of them looked somewhat the same, minus the hair styles and stuff. I smiled softly, already shy to finally see him, my lover. I moved out the way to let them in, I took a gulp on my drink to calm my nerves. Once they walked into my house they saw my dining room table, cleared off, the birch wood reflecting the artificial light into their eyes. I had a few of my old DnD binders at my spot, I had also set out a cooler full of drinks, for the children at least while I had a small red cooler next to my chair, it held mixes and all the hard stuff. I hummed to myself as I grabbed 6 glasses. They walked around the house, admiring the aesthetics. I set the drinks down and shoved some chips on the side table.

Tags🏷️

@harringtonfan4

#eddie my beloved #cute #eddie x fem!reader #smut #eddie munson #eddie #missbat #🦇miss bat🦇#🦇missbat🦇#🦇#yandere reader #stalking

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witchbydavidcain · 2 months

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Witch by David Cain Prologue part two

She frequently talks to animals and plants and clay and food. I think they listen to her. And I’ve never heard any voices but I suspect some of them respond. Stuff goes on that I really don’t get.

There is evidence in the first time we met; I think being a witch made my wife an incredible photography model. She is still the best I’ve ever worked with. From time to time, I get inquiries about some of the photos we took and we didn’t take that many. Search for “witch photo” and one of her pictures will be in the top two-hundred fifty hits, six years after we took them. And, believe me, there are lots of witch photos on the internet. Way lots.

Of course, our photography sessions were the weirdest sessions I have ever been through. Not just once, but twice. And then the pictures worked out in a way that I think I can fairly claim only a witch could have arranged. That’s my theory, anyway.

Being a witch certainly made her a superb business manager. Compared to me, no question. When we met, I was pretty much floundering, trying to get enough work to get enough cash to get my business started. I barely made rent, sometimes.

Back then, When I made contact with someone who hired photographers, I would bug them daily trying to get work. They’d usually tell me they’d find something for me but not now, later and later rarely came. Sadly, that’s how I got most of my work, annoying everyone I knew until someone gave me a job, taking pictures, doing design work, arrangements, junk like that.

Pushing so hard, my popularity, never my strongest suit, started really crumbling. People wouldn’t answer calls, stopped responding to emails, started crossing the street to avoid me because they knew I’d have to say what I had to say, that I’d ask them for work and they’d have to say no.

Even so, I did all right, most of the time, but I wasn’t getting ahead. I started having doubts about my career choice, and considered getting a desk job somewhere. I might have given up. I was getting desperate. That was when I met a witch.

When she was arranging work for me, she’d call some guy up and hand me three jobs. Then she’d call another guy and I’d have five more. In the first week, she arranged more work than I found in six months. There was hardly enough time to do all the work she found. She kept me on track. I started to get ahead.

After a while, the grind of production started wearing me thin, so I told her that I wanted to change our direction, take me out of the trenches and start letting me provide the visions. Two weeks later, I had a new office and a whole new game plan. It was like she snapped her fingers and made it all happen. I didn’t even struggle with the transition. She told me what I needed to know, where to be and what to do. I paid close attention, did as I was told and the inevitable victory was won.

With a witch, I’ve gathered, success is just business as usual. When obstacles arose, she took care of them. I can’t swear there was magic involved but the way our troubles vanished was clearly incredible. Our deliverables were on time and our competition invariably fell short. Her grasp of the details was nearly perfect. I don’t remember her ever missing a trick. Unbelievable, really. Fantastic. Supernatural.

As a wife, as a friend, as a partner, a witch is where it’s at. She knows me and knows my needs and desires. She knows what to say. She knows how close I want her to be. She guides me through life casually, sweetly, delightfully. Every day is a pleasure.

Am I spell-bound? Am I under her control, voodoo hexed and enslaved? Am I happy because she has cast a spell that makes me happy? Am I her minion, her human familiar? Do I have any free will at all?

I’m sure I’ll never know. But I don’t mind.

Having said all of that, I feel a bit stupid, saying my wife has magic powers. I’m not a child, immersed in wizard novels about fairy tales and fantastical elf-lore. I don’t even like that stuff, really. Some of it, maybe, I mean, I’ve watched the movies but I don’t take it seriously. I keep my feet on the ground.

I’ve always believed in ghosts and stuff like that. I don’t know if I’ve actually seen a ghost but I have felt some creepy paranormal stuff, energy and cold and unexplained noises while hanging out with friends in abandoned buildings when we were younger. We’d try to contact the spirits when we were feeling bold mostly because we were drunk. Once there was a loud crash in the distance when someone shouted at the ghosts we couldn’t see but we’ve all had supernatural experiences. It’s not that weird. The world is full of dark energies.

And witches, apparently.

I know what most people know about paranormal stuff, the occult, hauntings, vampires, wizards, all that junk. I watch the shows, see the movies. Some of it seems cool but most of it’s just for fun. I’d never really given it any thought. I never really thought it would impact my life.

When I think about it, though, apart from your basic Halloween witch decorations, I didn’t know that much about witches when this started. It wasn’t even a question I thought to ask, no more than I’d ask about mummies. They’re Halloween costumes. I wonder if werewolves are real. Shapeshifting is cool.

I used to work with this young woman sometimes back when I first started taking pictures. Annette would be like my assistant when I had big jobs that needed more than one person. I don’t know how we started working together but we had a rapport that made getting the job done easy.

I didn’t really know Annette that well but we talked sometimes during the downtime we’d have to endure during some of our jobs. One day, she casually mentioned that she was a real live modern day witch. I made some stupid jokes which I could tell annoyed her but then she told me lots of stuff I never knew about witches. That’s what got me thinking, when Annette said she thought my wife was a witch.

She was the first to say so and the only person who has brought the subject up since. Maybe there’s some kind of spell around my wife that prevents people from noticing. Maybe Annette is protected because she’s a witch too. Something to consider.

When she told me that my wife was a really a witch. I asked her how she knew and she told me. She was right about everything.

I’m no authority on witches although I do have personal experience with one or more of them. From what I have gathered, witches could be described as people who still follow the oldest religions. They come in every shape and size and nationality and walk of life. No culture or time period has been free of witches. Because they observe pagan ways, they are connected to nature far beyond your average tree-hugger; the connection isn’t rational or even emotional. The connection between witches and nature is spiritual. This other-worldly connection is the root of their power. They can do things, they know things, they can see things and foresee things. Yet you may never know when a witch is right next to you, even though you see them every day.

#witch #witchblr #reading #fiction #booklr #literature #novel

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marzipanandminutiae · 1 year

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Could you please do every questions from the ask game for Lucille? Sorry i couldn't choose! All of the questions seemed so interesting 🤣

My first impression of them

I think I just considered her a straightforward Evil Girlboss. But it took me forever to Blorbo these characters, though I saw the movie in theatres and loved it from the start. I definitely loved her costumes from the beginning; I recall that much.

When I think I truly started to like them (or dislike them, if you’ve sent me a character I don’t like)

April 2021. I was at home after my second COVID vaccine dose, realized the movie was on Netflix, watched it- and fell down the rabbit hole, hard.

The vaccine doesn't give you 5G blood or heart failure, it turns out- just makes you stan fictional thirtysomething incestuous murderesses. Bill Gates must be playing a REALLY long game.

A song that reminds me of them

Oh god, so many. But for now, I'll go with...Stolen Roses, by Karen Ellison. "And the weeds in the ground have grew up through my skin/Forsaking a lonesome girl's heart/I'd go where the stolen roses grow/To forget that I had fell apart."

How many people I ship them with

Two! Edith and Thomas.

My favorite ship of them

OT3- Edith/Thomas/Lucille. Any individual leg of the triad involving her is interesting to me, too.

My least favorite ship of them

Lucille/Alan. Like. Why? They exchange like five sentences that we see onscreen- two of those in a deleted scene -and then she tries to kill him. Hardly true love, in my opinion.

A quote of them that you remember

She has like 75% of the iconic quotes in that movie. So instead, I'll point out that all three instances of swearing in the movie are her- AND canonically within like an hour of each other. #RefinedProperLady indeed.

Your favorite outfit of them

Her blue or black dress! I suspect they're the same pattern- at least, I hope for the stitchers' sake that they were.

Your least favorite outfit of them

Much as it pains me to say this...her red dress. I love all of her outfits, but the collar and the weird hoodie-looking faux drawstrings on this one push it to the end of the list. I am so sorry.

Describe the character in one sentence

Someone who hit rock bottom only by slipping through every possible crack in her childhood/adolescence.

What’s the first thing you think about when thinking about the character?

Love and pragmatism.

Sexuality hc!

Hear me out: I think she's a lesbian who will never realize that about herself. Jessica Chastain said her "fantasies are more about women than men," and let's be honest- how much is her whole Situation with Thomas about attraction as normal adults understand it, and how much about devotion, trauma bonding, general uncategorized Love, and physical pleasure/comfort?

She loves Thomas. She likes having sex with him for the physical sensation and the mental associations. And she'll never be attracted to another man, so she'll never realize that it's Different from the way she feels about other women.

Your favorite friendship they have

Friend...ship? I think she knows the definition of the word, and that's about it.

Best storyline they had

There is only one.

Worst storyline they had

See above.

A childhood headcanon

When she turned ten, Lucille received her first and only doll: a wooden 18th-century lady that Thomas found in the attic trunk-room and fixed up for her in secret. This doll's name was Sophia, and she was treasured as few dolls have ever been.

What do you think their first word was?

Given her childhood, probably something nobody noticed or cared about. Or even bemoaned, in a "little girls should be seen and not heard, and now the tiresome thing won't ever give us any peace again" vein.

How do you think they were as a kid? (Like, were they shy, noisy, wild, etc)

We know from the character bios and the newspaper article about Beatrice's death how she was as a kid: curious, quiet, intelligent, brave, coldly polite to most people, and eternally self-sacrificing for her brother. Not yet as broken as she would one day be, but increasingly cracked as the years passed.

The most random ship you’ve seen people have with them

Lucille/Dracula. I have no idea.

A weird headcanon

She finds April Fool's Day extremely tiresome (spoiler: this is because it's her birthday).

When do you think they were at their happiest?

Weirdly, per the bios, the canon answer is "when she was pregnant with Thomas' child." She got to just be at home relaxing with her piano and her butterflies and her increasingly esoteric poetry about her and Thomas' Ultimate, Predestined, Celestially Perfect Union.

I'd say three-way tie between that, the time when she was a young child and Thomas a toddler and their nurse Theresa actually loved them, and the post-asylum period where she'd healed significantly and she and Thomas had free rein of the house but the money hadn't run dangerously low yet.

When do you think they were at their lowest?

After her son died.

Future headcanon

Based on the actual movie ending? She'll continue haunting Allerdale until it collapses, and then...who knows?

In my happier imaginings? Canon diverges before Edith gets too ill, and they all end up in a happy (if deeply unhealthy) triad together.

What do you think is a secret they have that they never told anyone?

There were more pregnancies after the first one. She ended them with herbal abortifacients the day she realized, every time, believing she could never bring a healthy baby into the world.

When do you think they acted the most ooc

It's not something she does onscreen, but Thomas' wives ring fingers are in the drawer along with their locks of hair. I don't see someone as fastidious as Lucille particularly enjoying the smells, staining, and visuals of severed limbs rotting in a heated room that would come before they ended up all neatly mummified as they appear to be in the movie.

When do you think they were being “themselves” the most?

When she was showing Edith around the library.

I think murder is something she does, but her interests and her devotion to Thomas are who she is. She doesn't want to be killing people- she doesn't regret it or feel guilty; assuming that would be woobifying. She just hates the necessity of it. She wants to be at home with her books and her butterflies and her piano, being a good sister-wife to Thomas and a good mistress to the house. And I think that's significant.

If they could meet a character from another show/movie/etc, who would be the most fun for them to meet?

I wonder what GDT Pinocchio Death would make of her?

The most unnecessary thing they ever did?

Y U Kill Dog?

How do you think they would be as a parent? (and if they are a parent, how do you think they would be if they weren’t?)

(She is, but her son is dead.)

I think the Sharpes together make one decent babysitter.

With Lucille alone, you get the kid fed nutritious meals, bathed, and put to bed on time after a suitable period spent in quiet play or practicing a skill- but they're lightly terrified of putting a toe wrong.

With Thomas, you get the kid having the time of their life- but they haven't showered in three days, they're covered in glitter-glue, and their last five meals were bowls of Lucky Charms.

Unless of course the kid happens to be running from a situation they'd find all too familiar, in an OT3 setup- but that's just an existing, very fleshed-out OC I'm trying frantically to work into a story someday. We'll see if she makes it.

The funniest scene they had?

Error 404. Scene not found.

#ask #lucillesharpeismybaby #long post #ask meme #ask game #character asks #incest mention #child death mention #abortion mention

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n-amelessart · 1 year

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Absconding Hero

[Fantasy, 1512 words]

When I came to it only took a moment to determine that I was not, in fact, dead. The Home of Lords would never be this bitterly cold, nor would I still be sore from my unfortunate encounter with the mountain’s wildlife. Sitting up against the violent protests from my body, I took note of my surroundings.

The room is small, hardly enough space for even one person to live in. The lower half of the walls are packed dirt and wooden restraining walls carved with holy words. The only things here are what could be called generously a door that stopped the wind and snow, the cot I was am laying down on and a wooden pack frame with a bedroll and neatly tied up sacks that presumably holds everything else a person would need to live on a mountain. Trying to stand proved to be a terrible idea, my whole body feels like it is getting struck by a hammer over and over in time with my heartbeat. Pulling off my gown which had been modified for the cold was an ordeal that left me sweating in spite of the cold, but I needed to see the extent of my injuries.

Bruises and angry red scratches cover most of my body with a single massive bruise that has turned the entirety of my left shoulder, chest and neck nasty shades of black, blue, purple, yellow and green. Considering the cause, I am in remarkably good shape. Something with the bruise on my chest caught my eye, a reddish brown pattern is barely visible amongst the more violent colorations. It took several moments of peering at the symbols before I realized that these are holy words, that knowledge immediately identifying the words even though I could only see them upside-down. That would explain why I am not dead. Figuring that what I need most of right now is rest, I slowly pulled back on my gown and arranged myself the best I could on the cot. It was perhaps fifteen minutes of doing nothing except for attempting to sleep while withstanding wave after wave of constant pain before the “door” to the have buried room opened.

“You’re awake,” it was said as a statement rather than a question.

Opening my eyes, I saw the man who saved me. Though he could have been mistaken for a burly mountain man, there are hints of a completely different man beneath the heavy coats and unkempt hair. His posture, gaze and stride are all too tempered for him to have spent his life in the wilderness. He stood out of arms reach checking my physical condition with a critical and I suspected he was calculating how likely it is that I jump out of the cot and stab him.

“Thank you,” my voice rough. “Relax yourself, I mean you no harm. Not before you saved me and especially not now.”

He is clearly still skeptical but he closed the door behind him then crossed the room to the simple hearth, sitting on the ground back against the wall facing me in the cot.

“Who sent you?”

“The Servants of the Lords sent me and three other groups out into these mountains. I was separated from my group... How long have I been recovering? Three days before then was when we lost each other.”

“How many people per unit?” He asked, ignoring my question.

“Will you hurt them?

“I won’t kill them.”

“... each group was dispatched with three apprentices and two squires.”

He fell silent for a time, thinking. Eventually, he reached over to his pack frame and pulled out a handful of dry sticks which he tossed onto the embers. One after another, the wood caught fire, growing into a proper hearth.

“The answer is clear, but you must say it,” he said breaking the silence. “What is the Servants’ purpose for sending you here?”

He did not turn to face me when he asked this and he kept any emotion behind a face that would have been called expressionless if it were not so tired.

“We are tasked with bringing you back so that you can fill your role.”

Sighing, he stood back up and grabbed his pack frame, slinging it over his shoulder.

“You’ll fully recover by winter’s end so stay here until then. There is a hole under the cot with enough food to get you through the season if you ration it out properly.”

“You won’t stay? Is this not your home?”

“I’ll make another. Somewhere the Servants can not find.”

Craning my neck to watch him leave was horribly painful so I gave up, dropping my head back down to rest and instead speaking.

“Why do you run?” Immediately, I regretted saying anything. The tension that filled the small room pushed away my pain momentarily and replaced it with a nervous cold sweat. All at once, every warning I was given about this man came rushing back. Stories of his bloody escapes, rumors of his skill with a sword and the implicitly understood power he wields as the Chosen.

“Run?”

I held my breath.

“Tell me, young squire of the Lords,” his voice holding an edge I did not want to test. “Do the Lord’s Laws apply to all? Are there any exceptions to the Laws?”

“No, there are no exceptions.”

“None at all?”

“Not even the Lords can disobey the Laws.”

“Now tell me what the Gifts are.”

“I... I do not follow. Where is it you are going with these questions””

“Young squire, the first and greatest Gift the Lords bestowed upon their creations is Separation. Distinction of oneself from another. That is why the Lords number in the dozens, the people are millions and why I am not you and you are not me. If not for this fact, there would be no Laws to break or Transgressions to commit as there would be no Other to hurt. That is the faith I grew from child to adulthood with and the faith I held when I condemned myself to a life of war as a solider, to save Another from the wounds war inflicts upon the innocent. So why then, is there a Chosen? Why, young squire?”

“Being Chosen is a gift granted from the Lords,” my answer calculated but true to the teachings. “Strength beyond mortal man to quell Transgressors and divide the Lingering One.”

“Was that not what I was doing? Going to war to stop those very sins? To protect Another from Transgressors?” He moved away from the door and into my line of sight, his expression exhausted despite the hard strength in his voice. “I did not ask to be Chosen, it is not something I had decided for myself. Rather, the Lords themselves are the ones who burdened me with a fate, a life not their own to direct as they wish. Young squire, I am a devoted man but my Distinction has been taken from me by those I have no hope of freeing myself from. The Lords have broken their own Laws while I still cling to them. Let it be known that I am not trying to sway your faith, I only wish for you to understand why I must never take up this mantle of Chosen. My faith will continue as will my prayers, regardless the fact that who hears them now is not known to me.

“When the season ends and you can return to the Servants, tell them that it is my unshaken faith that keeps the Chosen away. Label me a heretic, but I shall meet my end with more devotion to our faith than the Lords themselves. May your recovery be swift and painless. With luck, we shall never meet again.”

Again he stood and again he made to leave.

“Wait.”

“Did I not just make myself very clear?”

“As you refuse the responsibility, you should return the sword so that it may be given to another.”

“That piece of metal can be wielded by myself alone, though you are welcome to take it if you can. It is buried in a meadow directly east of here, at the foot of the boulder.”

“You... you buried the Sword of the Lady?”

“It never stays buried for long, the thing has a despicable tendency to move on its own. Again, please take it if you can.”

With that, he stepped out into the snow and cold, shutting the door to leave me in a tiny room with nothing more than a weak fire, a cot and supposedly a store of food beneath me. His words sank in uncomfortably, so I pushed them out with prayer. A prayer for my health, a prayer for the other squires and apprentices, a prayer for a swift winter and a prayer for summer to come before spring. I did not want to recount the Chosen’s words back the Servants, my stomach churning at the thought of it alone. May luck favor me, a demotion would be horribly embarrassing.

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agwic · 2 years

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i answer every unanswered question in umineko

ok so there are a number of mysteries in umineko left unanswered by the manga:

how did the hachijos know about gaap

why is there not a notable change in battler's character when going from turn, written by someone who had not seen battler in 6 years, one third of battler's life, to banquet, written by someone who literally had battler's memories, presumably including the latter third of his life.

what exactly happened in 1998

who wrote requiem???

now, all of these are easily explained by "ikuko is a physical manifestation of featherine augustus aurora/eua, who is literally omnipotent and omniscient, and the meta-world is a real place that exists and the battler there is real" but from an anti-fantasy perspective, they're all quite puzzling.

starting with #1, you could easily say something like "oh the hachijos found some notebook or something with a list of yasuda's ocs" but that's stupid and there is no evidence of that within the text. however, if you want to cling onto the most common interpretation of canon, that'll have to do. however, a more reasonable explanation for this is that yasuda somehow survived, which is perfectly reasonable considering that battler somehow survived, and we had his death confirmed in red, while we never had yasuda's death confirmed in red. furthermore, battler and yasuda were in the exact same state when we last see them in the boat scene, so if one can survive, why not the other? additionally, the boat scene in general is highly suspect due to it blending seamlessly into a magic scene, and also being literally the only scene to feature the real 1986 battler, which brings us into the next question

not many people bring this up, but the battler in legend and turn is, from an anti-fantasy perspective, literally just an aged up version of the 12-year-old battler sayo fell in love with, since she had not seen him once between then and when she wrote legend and turn. it might be slightly more accurate since she probably heard bits from ange, who has seen battler since then, but still, very much not the real battler. and then we have banquet, where we have a battler who is still very much the same battler as in legend and turn. however, this is not written by someone who has not seen battler in 6 years, this is written by someone with a fragmentary record of battler's memories, including those of the past 6 years, where he presumably changed quite a bit. like, I'm 18, and 12 year old me aged up by six years would be a completely different person than how I am now(this is funnily enough not compounded by the fact that I'm trans, since I came out when I was 12). and like, sure, you could say that battler did in fact somehow not change throughout all of middle and high school, but that's really fucking stupid. I guess you could say that tohya's idea of battler initially came more from legend, turn, and all the fake forgeries than from his actual memories, but that, uh, doesn't make any sense. like if that's the case then tohya could be literally anyone who has just tricked themselves into thinking they used to be battler.

no segueway to point #3 because this is mostly unrelated to the past two, and I think I can answer this one in a first go-over. since honestly, it's hardly a question, since the story itself asks this question, and while it doesn't explicitly answer it, I feel like it's pretty easy to answer. like, two different sets of events occurred in 1993, the trick ending, and the magic ending. the issue is that there are actually three different sets of events shown throughout ange's time in umineko, so this does require some further explanation. in summary, I believe there are three timelines of the events of 1998. first is the episode 4 timeline, which is pretty straightforward: ange jumps off the building, but survives through a miracle, fails to meet hachijo, and then goes to rokkenjima, and then amakusa snipes everyone on the island followed by her, ending in her death. next, we have the trick ending, which we know ends with ange killing amakusa due to having realized he was going to kill her. this means that this is likely the same timeline as episode 6, as that is when we, the reader, learn that amakusa was going to kill her, and also is the best opportunity for ange to overhear this. episode 6 implies that it is the same as the episode 4 timeline until the meeting with hachijo is successful. since ange never met with hachijo in the magic ending, this also must be the timeline where hachijo shows ange the diary. however, since ange is implied to read the diary at the convention and then promptly jump off a building and die, I guess hachijo just shows it to ange in the first meeting, but ange doesn't read it until later. so, the trick timeline is as follows: ange jumps off the building, but survives through a miracle, meets hachijo, realizes amakusa is going to kill her, takes the boat ride to rokkenjima during which she is possessed by the spirit of erika furudo and murders two people one of whom was innocent, then goes to the convention to reveal the truth of 1986(something she is on board with now that she's possessed by the spirit of erika furudo), but gets to read the diary first, and then jumps of a building again and dies, likely resulting in the convention being cancelled. I feel like it's thematically appropriate that the trick ending also ends in ange dying. then there's the magic timeline, which is the most straightforward: ange doesn't jump off a fucking building, and decides to just become a cult leader author. this timeline is also where hachijo decides not to reveal the contents of the diary during the convention, and also ange's meeting with both of the hachijos several decades later. anyways, one interesting takeaway here is that ange only learns sakutaro is a mass-produced toy in the trick ending. another one is that it provides an answer to why umineko didn't end ange's character arc in episode 4, where she seems to come to understand magic pretty well. the answer is that she dies due to her naivete. so that's interesting. lastly, the trick ending creates a pretty direct connection between ange and erika/bernkastel, which is actually quite helpful in our last question.

so, uh, requiem doesn't make any sense. episodes 1-2 are written by yasuda prior to the 1986 conference, episodes 3-6 are written by the hachijos, and twilight is a metaphorical representation of the choice ange has to make in 1998, and thus likely to have been written by yukari kotobuki at some point from an anti-fantasy perspective. but requiem? well, from a fantasy perspective, it is written by bernkastel, with the permission of featherine. bernkastel, from an anti-fantasy persepctive, is the hachijos' cat. requiem, from an anti-fantasy persepctive, was not written by a cat. okay, well maybe it was written by featherine. featherine, from an anti-fantasy perspective, is the penname of hachijo tohya, used by both of the hachijos, but more so ikuko than tohya. so I guess you could say requiem was written by the hachijos? but that doesn't feel right, since all of the hachijos' stories center around meta-battler, who, in the hachijos' stories, is a representation of tohya's memories of battler. but in requiem, meta-battler is dead, an event which only occurs in the magic timeline, one in which they definitely would feel no need to write requiem. I guess you could say that ikuko wrote it, secretly hiding it from tohya, but that doesn't feel right. not to mention that featherine is very much not a central character of requiem, so focusing on that isn't important. let's look at the central characters of requiem then. lion exists, and is the only character in their timeline who exists, so if requiem was written in their timeline, it was written by them. in which case, what the fuck? like, I guess I could buy that lion would have a bit of a crisis after learning that they were adopted. but I don't think that crisis would result in them writing a what-if scenario about what would have happened if natsuhi had attempted to kill them. not to mention that I don't think lion would have come up with the what-if scenario that is "oh I bet if she did that, she'd throw me off a cliff and I'd land on my dick and then be raised a girl" ok actually I do think they'd come up with that bit since lion is such an egg but going on I don't think it would continue as "and then I'd be raised as a servant, fall in love with my cousin, and then upon learning about the truth in this timeline I bet I'd plan a huge murder-suicide." like what are we supposed to conclude from that, that lion has a crush on battler and also wants to murder their family? not to mention that lion would not have the time to write all of requiem(which would include writing the rest of umineko) in between finding out about their origins and being murdered by kyrie. ok next we have clair, who did not write this, as she was dead before episodes 3-6 were written in her timeline(unless she's one of the hachijos, in which case refer back to the section about why it couldn't be the hachijos). next there's will, who is yet another idealized version of battler(also made by sayo to tell bedtime stories to maria and ange, if the fighting game is canon), and also a representation of van dine. requiem was not written by van dine. ok so let's go back to bernkastel. as previously mentioned, bernkastel is not in fact just a representation of the hachijos' cat. she's also a representation of furude rika, who also did not write requiem. she's also a representation of furudo erika, who was dead before episodes 3-6 were written, and thus also did not write requiem. however, furudo erika is also a representation of ange in the trick timeline. if I already knew this, why did I waste my time writing out every other possibility? because I thought of every other possibility before realizing this one, and you have to suffer with me too. so, in that case, ange wrote requiem, for the hachijos, in the trick timeline. most likely, just before the convention and reading eva's diary, as requiem ends with ange learning the true events of the conference and dying. mystery solved.

ok well I actually didn't answer either of the first two questions, other than implying two things. one, that yasuda is probably alive, and two, that hachijo tohya is likely someone who tricked themselves into thinking they used to be battler, not actually the real battler. this, oddly enough, doesn't contradict anything. there is nothing tohya knows that only battler would know. literally the only examples he gives are things which ange would have very obviously told sayo and maria. there are some things that tohya knows that only yasuda would know though, such as gaap. now, am I saying that tohya hachijo is actually sayo yasuda? yeah. that does seem to be the most likely explanation.

now, there are some obvious questions here. firstly, tohya's name, literally the only thing he remembered when ikuko found him, was his age, 18. that's not sayo "regularly lies about her age" yasuda's age. next question is why 18 though, which I answer by pointing out another thing I already established, which is that sayo did in fact have an aged up version of 12 year old battler running around in her head. additionally, when thinking about his age, tohya thinks that his body feels older, and mind feels younger. which doesn't make any sense if he's battler, but makes perfect sense if he's yasuda. yasuda's body is 19(older than 18), and her mind is an utter mess which I feel like could be described as younger than 18. now, there's the scene where tohya "realizes" he's battler. In this scene, he has a headache as he remembers the faces of everyone on Rokkenjima, one by one, except battler, before the scene ends. the implication here is that when he remembered his face, he realized he was battler. additionally, during this time, he's thinking quite a bit about ange. however, let's think for a second about battler's state of mind in the boat scene. he risked his life for "shannon". however, if this scene is to be believed, he goes on to think about shannon with no issue, but for some reason gets super torn up about ange, who is perfectly fine at the moment. that's odd. also, why ange specifically? out of universe, it's because ryukishi wants you to think tohya is ange for some reason, but in universe, why would battler care more about ange than like, his parents? now let's think for a second about yasuda's state of mind the boat scene. primary feelings are 1. battler and 2. guilt. except she's not guilty about killing people because a. she didn't kill them and b. why'd she feel guilty now? she's been planning to kill them for ages! however, one reason to feel guilty is ange. so, in terms of someone feeling emotion about battler and ange and no one else, yasuda makes a lot more sense than battler. now for the big piece of evidence that tohya is battler, which is that he literally says as much to ange. but, like, this is the magic ending. and also tohya already does make one known lie in that conversation, claiming that the boat capsized. also this is sayo "regularly lies about everything" yasuda. also, once again, this is the magic ending, if everything was exactly as presented, that wouldn't make any sense. and I think it's fitting, that the persona of battler who is constructed largely of the stories ange told sayo about him is the one who comes back, because ange is the witch of resurrection, so it's fitting that her stories are what allowed him to be resurrected. also, like, it's not even inaccurate that yasuda!tohya would be ange's older brother, but not battler, since yasuda is closer to ange genetically than a cousin.

now, this answers those first two questions I was talking about, but raises another. what happened to battler? honestly I don't care, it doesn't matter. the most thematic thing would probably be if he died to save sayo, so that's fine. but since we literally know nothing about battler's actual personality, just what sayo has concluded by extrapolating his 12 year old self and the stories ange tells about him, he also could have fucked off and never contacted anyone ever again, or even secretly been a trans woman and also ikuko hachijo if you want a wholesome beabato ending. the possibilities are limitless, and also not my problem.

#umineko #umineko spoilers

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 1 year

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Okay so this is impossible not to request with Father Luc 🌟 but I would actually love to see a quick moment of Flora going to midnight mass despite being sick because she wants to see Father Luc in that robe and him noticing her fever because am I misremembering or does that blessing involve the priest touching people’s foreheads?? (I’m not catholic sorry lol) and this unspoken moment where he’s a little tripped up by it but there’s a line of people so he can only say it with a look, but then slightly later approaching her like hey I think you might have a fever 🥺

Title: Cheer My Wearied Spirit

Words: 1853

Note: Thank you for the request, my friend! I love the reversal here from the other Father Luc thing I just wrote. A lot of it felt similar to the previous father luc fic, but it was essentially the same setting (just different years) so I suppose that is to be expected. I am still planning to write the day 2 follow up to the original father luc fic! Over the holidays I will have quite a lot of down time and hope to do a lot of writing over those two weeks or so, and that follow up is top of the list

It seemed she had just shut her eyes when the alarm telling her to start preparing for mass began to scream in her ear. Flora groaned as she reached out to shut it off. She didn't feel well. If anything she felt worse than she had before she fell asleep, which was obviously the opposite effect she had been hoping for. She nearly rolled over and went back to sleep. Since she was evidently going to be sick for Christmas, she was sure her parents would excuse her from midnight mass if she asked.

However, the image of the hot, young priest who had recently been called to her parents' church flooded her mind. She hadn't been able to forget his beautiful smile in the intervening six months since she'd met him over the summer, and she'd be darned if she missed her chance to see it in person tonight. For one thing, she needed to confirm if he was really as handsome as she remembered. She had fruitlessly googled him and scoured the woefully out of date church website to no avail. She needed to see him again for herself.

Every joint ached and her head throbbed as she got out of bed and began to dress. As a precaution she also took her own temperature. She was desperate, but she wasn't stupid. If she had a high fever, then of course she couldn't go. However, the reading wasn't even over 100 degrees. The show would go on. She put on her best "I'm not sick" face for her parents when she emerged, and they didn't seem to suspect anything as they got their coats on and loaded into the car.

The little church was packed when they arrived, and more people streamed in every second. The three of them were just barely able to squeeze into a pew while most of the other latecomers were relegated to folding chairs. They had hardly removed their coats when the organ began to belt out the opening chords to the first hymn. Everyone rose as one without being told, drew a collective breath, and began to sing their hearts out, with grinning and good cheer all around.

However, Flora wasn't paying much attention to anyone except the man in the robe who had just taken his place at the front of the church. He, too, was grinning as he picked up a hymnal and began to sing along, his face rosy and fresh and his eyes perfectly set off by the royal blue of his stole. Corny as it was, the most fitting comparison that came to her mind in the candlelit room was that of an angel.

"Damn," Flora sighed to herself. "He really is that beautiful."

The service was the same as it had been every year of her life. Usually she loved the comforting familiarity, but tonight there was a thrumming undertone that she couldn't quite place, except that it intensified whenever Father Luc looked her way. It would have been deliciously exciting if she hadn't been feeling so gross.

Ten minutes into the service and she began to wonder if coming had been a mistake. She immediately began to overheat, squeezed between her parents as she was, and the air felt thick even in the sanctuary, with its soaring ceiling and dozens of windows. Her head was throbbing before the end of the first hymn, which she couldn't sing along with anyway since her throat felt as if she'd swallowed glass. While her eyes followed the priest's every move, her sluggish thoughts couldn't actually follow what he was saying. She swallowed yawn after yawn, and soon she found herself thinking about her bed more than anything else.

She was in such a fog by the end of the service that she didn't realize it was almost time for communion until Father Luc began to prepare the host. She shook herself out of her stupor as much as she could and readied herself to be inches away from the hot priest.

She hadn't been to confession in months so she didn't plan to partake of communion (not to mention the idea of knowingly sharing a cup with the rest of the congregation while she was ill made her shudder), but she wasn't going to miss out on the chance to be blessed by him, so when her parents rose she did the same, and the three of them walked to the front when their turn came.

She moved down the line, lulled into peace by the familiarity of the sacrament and the lovely piano piece being performed. She didn't realize it was her turn until she was shocked into awareness when Father Luc made eye contact with her, his eyes warm and bright. She wordlessly indicated that she did not wish to partake in the sacrament, mesmerized by his deep blue eyes. With a warm smile he laid his hand on her head and began to murmur a blessing, according to tradition. However, she was startled when the smile faltered as his skin made contact with hers, and for a moment she thought he was going to draw his hand back, blessedly cool as it was. He did not, but blessed her as usual, though his gaze probed hers and a strange expression tugged his eyebrows toward the center–was it worry, perhaps?

She was unable to discern the meaning of his behavior before she was pushed along by the queue behind her. She made her way back to her seat in a haze of confusion and sickness, clamping her lips shut against a cough as she sat back down. She didn't have much time to dwell on the strange interaction before the service drew to an end. A little more talking, a little more chanting, and then the introduction to "Silent Night" could be heard as the lights were dimmed and candles were handed down the rows and lit. Soon Father Luc was only visible from the chin up, the candle he held casting strange shadows on his face as he sang, yet Flora still couldn't keep her eyes off him. She wished she could talk to him–say something funny or witty or memorable, in the hope that she would stick in his mind just as he had stuck in hers.

When the service ended, the congregation began to file out of the pews to meet the priest who greeted them as they exited the sanctuary as always. Once again Flora was electrified as she made eye contact with him, and he froze for a split second too. Her parents quickly drew his attention, seemingly not realizing what had transpired between them. They clasped his hand, thanked him for the service, and presented her for an introduction.

"This is our daughter, Flora. She's home from nursing school for the holiday break," her mother said. "I think you met her once before over the summer."

"I believe you're right. It's a pleasure to see you again, Flora," he said, holding out his hand to shake.

Flora mirrored the gesture breathlessly, attempting a smile. "Same to you, Father," she said.

Once again, the handsome smile flickered when they touched. This time his hand felt roastingly warm while she had started to shiver in the line to get out the door.

He opened his mouth, hesitated for a split second, then seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say. "I hope you are well this evening," he said, his eyes probing hers again.

She nodded and smiled as she was supposed to, then moved along so the next people could greet him. If only he knew, she thought to herself, that she was the opposite of well. And yet she thought he might suspect the state of her health. Why else would he look at her so closely? And use that particular phrase?

Her parents were always some of the last people to leave any church service. This had been the case her entire life. Their families had been attending this church for generations, so they knew everyone here, and if they didn't know them then they made it their mission to get to know them. Usually Flora didn't mind, but tonight she certainly did. She hovered by the door closest to their car, holding the door for everyone else lucky enough to be leaving and mentally imploring her folks to hurry up just this once.

However, her patience was rewarded in an unexpected way. Out of nowhere, Father Luc appeared and headed right for her as if he'd been searching for her. He had removed his robe and was wearing a royal blue sweater, the same color the stole had been, over a striped collared shirt and tie, looking very dashing indeed. Flora's heart fluttered as he drew near.

"Flora, I was hoping I would catch you before you left," he said, stopping only inches away. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. This will probably sound strange, but when you were receiving the blessing, I thought your face seemed very warm. I think you might have a fever. I just wanted to let you know so you could check when you get home."

Flora flushed immediately, fever notwithstanding. "I think you're probably right. I wasn't feeling the best this evening, but I really wanted to make it to mass. I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have come tonight."

"Oh no, that's not… it's a blessing to have you with us tonight and I wasn't trying to say otherwise. I just wanted to make sure you're taken care of. No one likes being sick on Christmas."

She flushed even brighter. "Thank you, Father. I have everything I need back at my parents."

"I'm glad," he said earnestly. "And while I am excited to gather with the congregation again for Christmas Day, under the circumstances I'll say that I hope I DON'T see you tomorrow!... Unless you make a miraculous recovery of course. And if the Lord chooses to work such a miracle, all the better! But… I guess you understand what I'm getting at," he stammered, his face red now as well.

She giggled a tiny bit, his nervous rambling somehow cuter to her than anything else he could have said, and also serving to put her at ease. "I do. I promise I'll stay home tomorrow if I'm still sick. I appreciate you checking on me."

"Certainly, and I hope you feel better soon. Take care, Flora." He turned and walked away, both of them still red-faced.

He had hardly turned the corner when her parents emerged at last, and Flora avoided their eyes, lest they notice anything amiss. She ushered them through the door with pleas to head home to bed, not needing to exaggerate the fatigue she felt. She wouldn't tell them she was sick tonight. They would only fuss and blame themselves for bringing her out in the cold weather. There would be plenty of time to be fussed over through the rest of this holiday break. Instead, she let silence reign during the drive home, smiling to herself as she imagined his cool hand on her face over and over again.

#sickfic #everyone is hotter with a fever #priest 'verse ocs #flora and father luc #answered asks #prompt fill #ask box story

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midori-laboratories · 1 year

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Flowers and Ash, Chapter 14

Book 1, Calendula Chronicles series.

Story synopsis: When the eldest daughter of Edward Ashford accompanies her father and brother on a last-minute trip in 1968 to secure their legacy, an act of spite turns into a boon for the family. When tragedy and scandal strike, the survivors will have to be clever if they are to live long enough to pick up the pieces of their lives. Pre-slash/Gen.

Chapter synopsis: A short and not-so-sweet moment of what-the-fuck, while some people interpret a 'no' as a 'maybe'.

CW for implied death of family member, isolation, dissociation, and violence, drugs, manipulation, grief

The knife came back up. “You’re...not.” Marigold said. ‘Marcus’ stopped advancing, utterly unruffled. “You are, but you’re not. Back up, please.” It sounded ridiculous to her own ears.

Marcus, on the other hand, seemed pleased at the assertion, if anything. He took a cursory step back, hands remaining raised. She wasn’t sure that would make a difference if he changed his mind and attacked. “You can sense it? Interesting.” The fractured, crawling sense of hunger grew, though his expression remained thoughtful. “I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised that they never bothered to move you. They kept you with the Tyrant program, I imagine?”

She looked back at him blankly. “I don’t…I don’t know what that means.” She blinked. “One of the researchers...I didn’t see. Only a few hours ago.” Her voice was hoarse from disuse.

“Tanks? Very large humanoid creatures?” He supplied. “Goodness, you couldn’t have been awake more than a day.”

“What are you?” Marigold snapped at him. He was being nice. Every instinct was screaming at the wrongness in front of her.

The man she had known would have been insulted at the question, snapped at her for asking stupid questions, or at least, been supremely irritated that he was being questioned at all.

This….thing…that spoke with his voice and seemed to recognize her, smiled, as if she were a precocious student who had finally hit on the right question.

“Why, I’ve evolved. Just like you did.” He fell back another step. “Brought down by the same people, I’m almost positive of it. The effect of being around you is much more pleasant now than it was back then, almost soothing. Pheromones, I assume. Although I always suspected the coffee had been dosed for the longest time. You hardly had time to prepare something. Your brother, on the other hand…”

Oh god, this was Marcus. “*Told him later. Assumed you were used to the taste of spit in your coffee by then.”

Marcus gaped at her a moment, then began to laugh. It was… unsettling. “Oh my dear, I really ought to be angry, but I am simply impressed at what the virus is capable of in a suitable host. Simply marvelous.” He paused. “Condolences, of course for your family. But you simply must accompany me back-“

“My family?” She said, sharp. Her head was clear, but Marcus was beginning to look uncomfortable. He seemed to be fighting not to give any more ground. “I have a good idea of how much of an accident that was, thanks very much.”

It was Marcus’ turn to blink. “Sonnetroppe was always volatile, but considering that Spencer had my own students murder me in my own lab, what happened to your father very likely would have happened sooner or later,” he allowed, carefully, “But…ah. Things at the Antarctic facility rather fell apart soon after you disappeared. The young prodigy passed not long after.”

Lies. Had to be. Marigold stared, speechless.

Marcus, in the meantime, gritted his teeth against the growing pressure in his head. The Prototype virus revealed, absolutely. The woman before him had likely subjugated him before all others in her slow transformation into a Queen of all touched by the virus. She was only just emerging from a long metamorphosis, in his eyes; still learning that her wings were hers to use. Right now she was projecting a clear back-off signal that all infected in the area were feeling keenly. It was a credit to the strength of the Queen Leech that he was still holding his ground.

He kept his hands where she could see them. He could feel her rage quickening. A lovely sight, barely less so because it was aimed at him. Appeasement then, if only for the moment. “No one knows what happened. Not for certain. Only that your brother had an accident, and your niece passed the following year.” He hurried to tell her what he knew.

“The boy?” Her voice cracked, and he winced.

“What boy?” His voice took on a pleading note. She was able to induce actual pain in T-Virus subjects. Fascinating, though it becoming annoying. “I was too busy preparing to publish after Spencer poached my best students. Evidently, he got wind of that.” He smirked. “In the long term, I don’t think that’s worked out well for him.”

Something pinged on the edge of his awareness- the training facility! His head whipped to the side. Someone was moving within the training facility once again. His two little intruders. As deliciously intriguing as this all was, perhaps he could revisit this once Marigold had cooled down. He had to secure the site, and then…”I have a matter to see to, rather urgently I’m afraid.” He smiled again. He imagined it seemed genial and charming. Marigold’s eyes widened, and she took several steps back. “I’m certain I can find you later. Unless you’d care to join me?” He shifted his appearance to the face he wore when he died. “I’m rather looking forward to hunting down a few choice parties, and I think you’d be surprised to know how many of them we have in common.”

Marigold swallowed hard, and shook her head minutely. “Ah, too soon,” Marcus tutted. “You’ll learn.” With that, he melted back into the trees, to return his focus to the hunt.

Courting could come later.

---

Marigold stared after him for several minutes. The smile he had given her was wider than that of any human, showing far too many teeth. “What in the fuck.” She murmured. Another wave of nausea passed over her, and she had to fight to keep the small rations she’d scavenged down.

Oh god, he would be coming back. The train tracks would lead her to town. If she stayed close to the tree line, perhaps she’d have a bit of cover before that could happen again.

Alex was gone. Somehow, she knew Marcus hadn’t been lying. Raccoon City was close enough that she could rest, but until then, grief would have to wait.

Things around here had clearly come unravelled. The longer she stuck around, the more likely it was that something would come to investigate. Or Marcus would come back. She shuddered at the thought. The rail tracks were still a solid way back. Once she got her bearings, she could change course towards town, rather than the Umbrella-controlled depot that would likely be on high alert now. It seemed like her options were limited until she made contact with an ally (all dead), if there were any left to call upon.

Hours later, the sound of a helicopter passed overhead. She faded back into the trees, watching it pass. Then, tracking its direction, she began to move away from the rail tracks and plot a course in the direction from which the helicopter had come.

As the hours passed, the ‘signals’ of the…creatures...dropped away, gradually. She kept moving. Were they dead? Moving away? She had to keep moving. The dead kept their distance.

---

Deep beneath the mansion, a self-destruct sequence began to run. It would begin a cascading sequence of protocols quite soon that would burn decades of work and research and blood to ash.

A man in tactical gear groaned quietly on the lab level, pushing himself to his feet from a shockingly large pool of blood. The surviving STARS would have their hands full enough with the Tyrant, but he couldn’t waste time. Today would be nearly worthless without the combat data.

He keyed in his administrative password. Rejected. He tried again, frowning. The computer informed him in a serene voice that those credentials had been removed from the database. The man closed his eyes, understanding immediately what had happened. Sergei’s suspicious nature had once again come out ahead.

t-ALOS was gone- the tanks had all been removed. The legacy research T-002 tyrant had recently been released. And…another tank had been decanted. Recently, as well; the floor around it was still wet.

He knew that tank. He’d put the occupant in there himself. Pored over her data, meagre as it was with Spencer’s embargo in place. She hadn’t been in the mansion, technically the least secure access point out, albeit the least pleasant. Which meant…

A local level file had been left open- unencrypted , at the same level as the tank controls. The researchers had requested that recent playbacks be made available for quick note-taking and review, holding a day’s playback locally before logging it to the database. The system had logged the tank’s shutdown several hours earlier - Dr. Clemens, dragging himself to the terminal nearly gone himself, looking forlornly around- and the emergency doors releasing about an hour and a half later. The video logs…

Showed Sergei’s loyal tyrant guard passively abetting what appeared to be a small woman, scurrying behind the back of the executive smugly surveying her former prison.

Albert Wesker, forever Umbrella spy and STARS captain, gave a short laugh of disbelief. There was nothing soft in the smile that he wore.

It seemed that one of the tyrants would be salvageable after all.

#calendula chronicles #flowers and ash #marigold ashford #albert wesker x oc #pre slash #resident evil fanfiction

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