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xiaoseminence · 1 year

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I’m not sure if you do these but

An imposter!sagau with a creator (gn??)who just keeps resurrecting when they die, like their body disintegrates and reforms in the same spot like a minute later

Anyway Zhongli’s reaction to killing the creator, then watching their golden blood spill everywhere and realise with horror what he did

Only for creator to resurrect not even five minutes later, but with massive obvious trust issues (and Zhongli’s subsequent extreme guilt)

It’s a guilt fic im asking you to write a guilt fic

𓆩♡𓆪 Divine Retribution 𓆩♡𓆪 (Genshin SAGAU Scenario) (Imposter AU!)

Summary ➵✬ Mislead by a false idol, Rex Lapis commits the ultimate act of heresy. It’s only when the blood of the real creator stains his hands a golden color that he realizes what he just did.

Warnings ➵✬ Heavy Yandere, Mild depictions of blood/violence, Worship/Religious practices, Dark Topics, Depictions of emotional distress, Reader dies but not really

Despite how much your legs ached and your lungs seemed about ready to combust, you were slowly but surely starting to realize that you’d never be able to outrun him. If anything, it was as if he was toying with you, his disembodied voice whispering fury filled words into your ears as tears streamed down your face.

“Sinner, Miscreant! You vile creature will meet your justice at my hands today”

You never asked for any of this. The initial excitement of discovering you’d awoken in the world of your favorite game, surrounded by the many characters you’d grown to know and love, soon turned into icy fear once you saw the look in their eyes. From the very first moment any of them met you, they looked at you with such disdain and malice, they’d curse at you, call you “Imposter” or “Monster”, and chase you away. So far you managed to outrun them all, hiding in the rural regions of Liyue without showing your face to a single soul. But as soon as he was informed about your existence, your life was running on limited time.

“Their eminence will be delighted to see your head on a stake, hung above the walls of their palace. Demons like you should know that only death awaits you in the land of the creator”

A loud cry erupted from your throat as you felt a piercing pain in one of your legs. One look back revealed a golden spear embedded deeply in your flesh. Although you tried to keep running, it resulted only in a pathetic limp before you collapsed to the ground shortly after. The black cloak you had grown accustomed to wearing hid your form from the archon that was drawing closer and closer to your shivering body. The countless scrapes and bruises that covered you from head to toe after running for such a long time felt more painful than ever before. The golden blood flowing through your veins ever since you first came to this world was absorbed by the dark cloth, remaining as nothing but a barely visible stain.

His steps were slow and silent as he lazily stalked up to you. To him, you were wounded prey - and he was the predator about to devour you whole. Finally stepping in front of you, his gloved hands reached out to harshly grab your chin, forcing you to look straight into his amber colored eyes that were burning with resentment.

“It seems as though the little pest has finally been caught in the trap. Speak, Rat. Dare you defend your actions of besmirching the divine creator’s name with your hideous attempt to copy their form?”

He always seemed like such a grounded and wise character, yet as you were met with his perfect features pulled into a dangerous snarl, it was difficult to believe that this was the same person. An involuntary whine spilled past your lips as his grip on your jaw grew stronger to the point that you thought your skull would break apart.

“I don’t know what crime you keep accusing me of. I never hurt anyone!”, it came out as a desperate plea for mercy, yet something inside you told you that it didn’t matter whether you were to beg on your knees or spit in his face - the archon of geo remained as unmoving in his resolve to kill you as mountain, ever unfazed by its surroundings.

“Pathetic.” - He all but growled this word as his eyes seemed to grow as hard as gold. Before you could even realize what was happening, a harsh push had your back painfully colliding with the muddy ground below. The tip of his golden spear dematerialized from its place embedded in your thigh, instead appearing only inches from your (e/c) eyes. You were scared to blink, even scared to breathe - in fear that the spear would come crashing down on you before you knew it. Your face - the face that everyone seemed to resent you for - was staring right at the archon who would be your killer.

For only a fraction of a moment, his amber eyes seemed to soften, their color appearing gentle and warm like molten pools of caramel. Yet this moment was soon over, as an even harsher scowl appeared on his features.

“How dare you? You really thought you’d be able to fool their grace’s most devoted worshiper?”, he hissed, as if it was somehow your fault that you looked similar to the deity they revered.

“You don’t deserve to utter any last words”

Before your mouth could open to let out one last defiant scream, before your muscles could contract and roll you to the side, away from danger, a sharp pain shot through your forehead - all but seeming to split your head in half as the spear found its place in your skull. The last thing your tired eyes noticed was a single splatter of shimmering, golden blood - before finally… your vision faded to black.

In all his years of seeing war, bloodshed, famine and death, the archon of Liyue never once faltered in his conviction toward his creator. Even after losing those who held close to his heart, his faith gave him the strength to carry onward - his body seemingly fueled only by sheer devotion. Yet in this very moment, as a single splatter of golden blood hit his face, he never felt more pathetic. Not a single muscle in his form dared to even so much as twitch, as the only feeling aside from his own heartbeat thundering painfully in his chest was the warm liquid sliding down his cheek. It seared him, felt so hot against his skin that he was sure it was a warning of what hellfire would await him after what he had done.

“I- Your grace?”, his words were barely above a whimper, hand outstretched as if to touch them, assure himself that he hadn’t done what he feared he had. Although he tried to convince himself that he must be mistaken, the endlessly empty feeling in his chest confirmed what he deep down already knew to be true. He had killed them.

ɢᴏᴅꜱʟᴀʏᴇʀ - ʜᴇʀᴇᴛɪᴄ - ᴅɪꜱꜱᴇɴᴛᴇʀ

The words kept repeating themselves endlessly in his mind. With a broken sob his knees gave out under him, allowing his body to fall onto the cold ground. He felt like he was burning from the inside, hellfire coursing through his veins, yet his shaking hands still reached out for his creator’s limp body. His gloves had long since been discarded, thrown aside and forgotten in the damp grass. “What a fool I am, your grace. What hubris led me to believe that I could be your most devoted servant, the one to lay the world at your feet when in the end… it was I who fell for a false idol?”

He wanted to cradle his deity in his arms, let the tears that spilled from his eyes wash away his sins and their blood. His face felt tainted, dirty - sullied with the blood of his one and only god. Blood that he had spilled. When his hands should have touched the body lying motionless on the ground, he was met with nothing but shimmering dust. The creator had disappeared.

It mattered little to Rex Lapis what would become of this world, of the inhabitants of Liyue and all those he swore to protect. Nothing in this world would ever matter again without the gentle guidance of the creator.

“Please, I beg you! Please punish me! I deserve a punishment worse than death”- He bowed down so deeply that he could feel the cool ground against his face. He was ready to beg and atone for as long as it took for you to punish him. He would accept anything, anything at all - but he couldn’t live knowing he’d been abandoned by you. A life without your presence was a greater torture to him than his mind could even fathom - if you stayed gone… he would break apart.

“Please… come back”, he had yelled and cried to the point his lungs started to hurt, and by now his voice was nothing above a raspy whisper. What a pathetic shadow of himself the archon had become.

You often wondered what the afterlife would be like. Would you end up waking up in yet another game world? Or… would dying perhaps give you a chance to go back home? Home, where you belonged and many friendly souls were waiting for you, people who wouldn’t curse and spit at you, forcing you to go into hiding for so long. Yet death did not come to you as easily as you expected, as when you opened your eyes again…

A cloud of shimmering golden dust was surrounding you like a cocoon. When it all at once burst open, you were met with a rather startling sight. Before you knelt Rex Lapis - or Zhongli as you’d first come to know him in the game. Yet to your surprise, nothing seemed to remain of the unshakable mountain he appeared as before. He was shivering, near silent sobs racking his body uncontrollably.

The slight golden shimmer in his peripheral vision made him freeze. His teary eyes raised themselves at a snail’s pace - too scared was he that it was a mere illusion of his desperate mind. Yet when he met your mortified gaze, he couldn’t help but cry out in relief.

“Your grace! I will repent! Whatever you want, for however long you see fit-”, the male practically flung himself at your feet, hands grasping all too eagerly at your stiff legs. His touch was gentle, but you knew it would be impossible to get him to let you go if he saw it fit to hold you in place. He was looking up at you with such… passion? It felt as though you could see right through his eyes, into a burning fire of devotion. This was far different to how anyone ever looked at you before in this world. They tended to gaze at you with either disdain or a twisted kind of pity that made you feel sick to your stomach. It scared you far more than if he had been angry, swinging at you with that spear of his.

“L-let me go! Don’t touch me!”, you frantically cried out, moving backwards so quickly that you fell over.

His expression immediately fell, an almost empty look replacing his formerly so fiery expression.

“I understand, your grace”, his breath shuddered as he instantly let you go, hands retracting so fast, it seemed as though your skin had burned him.

“I will prove my worth to you. Command me as you wish. No matter what you order me to do, who you want me to kill. If you want me to mutilate and torture myself I will be happy to do so, I’d burn all of Liyue down in a heartbeat if you so desired - if only to cleanse myself of the sin I have committed”

His fervent, desperate devotion was far more terrifying than his wrath could ever be. Word count ➵✬ 1850 Note ➵✬ Thank you for my very first request

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tired-teacher-blog · 5 months

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Characters : Tattoo artist Aizawa/ Florist fem reader

Featuring : Eri/ Hizashi Yamada/ Nemuri Kayama/ Oboro Shirakumo/ Emi Fukukado

Warnings and Genre : Fluff/ Romance/ Smut and Angst in future chapters/ Multi Chaptered Story

Summary : In a desperate attempt to get closer to the tattoo artist dominating every speck of your brain, you decide to pay him a visit one evening as a client seeking his service. This encounter will prove to be the beginning of something much bigger between you two, but will this new found passion be enough to stand against the difficulties your future holds?

Notes : Loosely inspired by this/ Art below is by the wonderful @/ael-draw who gifted me this gorgeous piece.

Masterlist|Second Masterlist|Third Masterlist

Chapter Count : Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11

_ "Eraserhead.." you mumble to yourself while browsing the pictures shared on the website.

You've always been intrigued by the name he has chosen for his studio, but more than anything, you wish to know more about the man himself, he's the reason why you're doing any of this after all.

Of course he is, because the mere thought of him branding you makes all your uncertainties vanish, and you are now anxiously counting the seconds until tomorrow comes.

You bite down on your lip while studying the pictures carefully, admiring him and his colleagues as they're clearly transferring their passion onto their clients' skin. The care, the focus and the beauty of it all is obvious in every photo, it is certainly more than just a job for them, it is love.

You snuggle up in bed a little deeper, bringing the covers over your head and clutching to your phone while browsing through the photos, until one of them stops you.

Your eyes gleam and your grip on the device tightens as you eagerly take in the details of the man in front of you. He looks so handsome, with his hair tied in a half bun that allowed you a better peek at the long slender neck you wish to run your fingertips along. Oh how you wish..

He's wearing a simple black tank top that accentuates the art adorning his flesh and confirms your previous suspicions, that the glimpses of ink you have so far been fortunate enough to see, are in fact but a touch of what's been hidden.

You want to make sense of the art he has chosen for himself, it's beautiful, elegant and obviously bears a meaning to him, but as much as you wish to, you cannot possibly understand the story behind it.

Your eyes land on his well defined muscles, taut underneath his skin as he diligently worked around a girl's thigh.

_ "Oh crap.." you breathe out as it suddenly hits you, that just in a few hours you will be exposing yourself to him much like the girl in the photo is.

Your body stiffens and your cheeks heat up as countless questions race in your mind, what if you decide to have it on your back? Or leg? Or tummy? Then would you have to remove your clothes for that? Obviously.. would you be able to do it though? You aren't so sure anymore..

Wouldn't it be much easier if you are to meet with one of the other artists? His loud blond friend perhaps, or the cheerful tall guy whom you seldom ever see since he usually comes a little later than the others.

Is it wrong of you to rush into this without thinking everything through? Seriously, what are you hoping to accomplish anyway?

Do you expect him to be charmed by you? To speak more intimately? To start something that would bring you two together?

How ridiculous! He would be doing his job and nothing more, so perhaps you ought to keep these outrageous thoughts to yourself and learn to give up on your absurd infatuation.

It would be best if you do, for your own sake..

Your body jerks violently to the blaring sound of the alarm clock, and you sit up at once, pressing your fingers to your throbbing temples and wincing in pain.

Is it morning already? When and how did you fall asleep anyway? It's hard to tell, because the last thing you can remember is the first thing on your mind right now, him.

Your day is passing in a haze, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot think of anything else but him.

You smile at yet another satisfied customer as she picks up her colorful bouquet and walks out of your shop all happy and excited about her purchase.

_ "It's almost time." you sigh heavily while peeking at the studio across the street— like you have been doing the whole day, still closed but won't be for long.

Your eyes shift to the wall clock hanging opposite of you, it reads six forty-five, almost time to lock up and get to your appointment with Mr Aizawa who will soon be here..

The butterflies in your stomach are fluttering furiously in rhythm with your pounding heart as you clean up around your shop to kill the few minutes left until you see him, and just like clockwork, he does in fact appear right as you are done securing your shop's front door, greeting you like he always does before walking into the studio where his colleagues already are..

_ "Oh good evening Miss! You're right on time," Ms Kayama greets you enthusiastically as soon as you walk in, "boss will be seeing you in a moment so why don't you have a seat first."

_ "Thank you." you do as asked, biting on the inside of your cheek nervously and watching while a couple walk in and are immediately greeted by the tall guy whose cheerfulness you frankly envy.

You're not really sure how long you've been sitting there -eyes moving between gleeful artists and their excited clients as they work out the details of their desired pieces- but it couldn't have been more than mere minutes before his warm greeting reached you, "welcome back."

_ "H.. hello Mr Aizawa." you curse your wavering voice as you stand up too quickly— that your head starts spinning, grateful for the hand you're keeping on the back of the chair for support.

_ "I'm glad you came back." he gets even closer to you as he speaks, so much closer that you can catch every little detail of his handsome face.

_ "Thank you." that's right, you were a mess yesterday, and you did make a fool of yourself over the whole thing, but for some reason you don't regret any of it since it somehow led you a bit closer to the guy you've spent months admiring from afar.

_ "Please follow me."

You walk closely behind him, admiring the stature of the man controlling every speck of your being, and wishing you could just reach out and touch him, but that would be too creepy wouldn't it? You're not even that close..

You shake your head to chase away those weird thoughts fighting within your brain and focus on the reason why you're here instead, the man is running a business for heaven's sake, and you have to respect that.

_ "Wow! This is.." you bite down on your lip to stop from squealing like a little girl as you finally take in the room where he spends all his evenings.

_ "So, you like it?" he sounds a bit flustered, the tone of his voice is way softer than before, as if awaiting to hear more from you.

_ "I love it, you have a great taste Mr Aizawa."

He truly does, and you find yourself admiring the colorful art brightening the otherwise dull walls around, the framed designs hanging neatly, and even the equipments that you cannot recognize or understand the need for them.

He is an artist, and it clearly shows everywhere your eyes have landed.

_ "Thank you, hearing this from you means a lot." and there it is, that beautiful smile of his.

You wonder what he could've possibly meant by that, does your opinion really matter to him? Or is he just being polite? No matter what it is, it's not the right time for you to lose focus, you have to get yourself together.

_ "I really mean it Mr Aizawa, and I'm really happy I get to see where you work up close." and the sparkle in your eye doesn't go unnoticed.

_ "You seem more relaxed today, I'm glad," he tilts his head to the side as he speaks, his luscious locks flowing around his face and neck, and casting a dazzling aura around him, "please have a seat." he gestures you towards the comfortable looking tattoo chair placed in the middle of the room before pulling out a stool for himself.

_ "The sketch is ready," he grabs his iPad from the large table where his equipments are neatly placed, scrolling through it a bit before announcing, "here you go, we can do some alternations if it's not how you pictured it."

_ "Thank you." heart is pounding in your chest and breath is caught in your throat as you accept the device, and soon, your nervousness is replaced with a giddy smile that you cannot control as your eyes finally land on the digital art that's shortly to be transferred onto your skin.

_ "So, I take it you like how it came out." he must've caught on to the meaning of your bright expression, and you can swear you sensed a little relief in his voice, as if he's been anticipating your reaction.

You know you shouldn't read too much into it, it's his job to meet his clients' expectations after all, but you just cannot help that tingling sensation spreading throughout your body as you delve deeper into delirium.

_ "I love it, it's perfect," you pause for a moment to admire it a bit more before snapping your head up all of a sudden, "oh by the way, I thought of an ideal spot for it, my wrist." this would be the only way for you to keep your clothes on when he starts working on you.

He looks at you for a moment but says nothing, pursing his lips and puckering his brow as if he's deep in thought, triggering your anxiety with every second that passes as you start wondering if something is wrong.

_ "May I suggest something?" he takes your hand in his, running a thumb over the sensitive skin of your wrist before continuing, "look, this part right here is very delicate and it would be quite painful."

It's warm, hot, burning hot where his hands are holding you, your heart races and goosebumps appear under his touch as he keeps talking, "since it's your first time doing it, I don't recommend this placement for you, but maybe if we push it up a bit and make it closer to your forearm where the skin is a little thicker?" and his fingertips press lightly there on the spot suggested.

_ "Y.. yes, okay." your voice quivers again, like it always does around him.

_ "Alright, perfect! I'll print it out right away so we can start immediately."

Good, this will give you a few minutes to collect yourself..

_ "So, what do you think? That's two inches, but we can resize it if you want." he leans back and gives you a chance to assess the sketch printed onto your skin, holding up a mirror for you and smiling as he does.

_ "I like it a lot! It looks gorgeous." the perfect design and the perfect size and you can't wait to get it permanently etched into you.

You have been so engrossed into admiring yourself for a moment that you almost missed his lingering eyes on you, almost.

_ "Shall we get started then?" he stands up from his stool to grab his kit and a pair of gloves before returning, "I'm going to ask you to sit back and put your arm on the armrest here, it's a small piece but will take about an hour to finish up since we're coloring it, if it gets too painful we can take a break that's totally fine."

_ "I understand."

You've always had a somewhat high pain tolerance, you've never been one to whine or complain over anything, which is probably why you're finding the persistent sting of the tattoo gun endurable, but maybe it isn't even that, maybe the reason why you don't mind the pricking sensation is actually the man causing it.

That must be it, yeah, looking at his side profile while he's deeply focused on work, eyes narrowed and lips sealed in a firm line, muscles lean and stretched as his arms move elegantly, hair pulled in a low bun with a few rebel strands tucked neatly behind his ears.. this sight of him is making you lose your sanity as you gawk at him stupidly.

You don't want your time with him to end too quickly, you wish it would stretch out to infinity, or at least until you're able to come up with a proper topic for discussion, it's the only time you have for such a thing.

However, the man needs his focus for your sake and his own, so no, it's not the right time for such a thing..

_ "And we're done, I hope it wasn't too uncomfortable," he leans back with a muffled groan as he straightens his back, smiling at you while finally removing his gloves, "you endured it well, I'm proud."

_ "Wha.. I.. thank you." why would he say something that is -once again- making you stutter like an idiot? It's not fair.

_ "Alright, let me show you how it came out before I wrap it," he picks up the mirror again and holds it out for you, "it's a little red and swollen right now but that's to be expected so don't worry about it, it should heal nicely if you follow my instructions."

_ "I will, thank you for.. for everything." for everything..? you regret the words coming out of your mouth as soon as they do, what if he asks what you meant by that?

Are you willing to tell him? That you're grateful for his patience with you? For not laughing at you or kicking you out when you burst in without a previous appointment like a normal human being should do?

_ "You're welcome," and he doesn't ask for further explanation as his gaze softens, "alright now listen carefully, you will have to apply a generous amount of ointment on the area at least twice a day until it completely heals," he starts explaining as he gently picks up your arm and rubs lotion on it, "be careful not to wash it for at least a day, after that you can remove the bandage I'm about to wrap your arm with and wash the spot carefully with antimicrobial soap and water before patting it dry," he wraps your arm slowly while making sure not to irritate the fresh wound, "also, don't peel off the dead skin, just be patient with it."

He steps back and holds out his hand for you to take, before pulling you gently to your feet, "it was great having you, I'm glad I was the one giving you your first tattoo."

I'm glad I was the one giving you your first tattoo..

You bid him goodnight and walk out to the reception desk where you finish up paying before finally leaving the studio for potentially the last time, ever..

I'm glad I was the one giving you your first tattoo..

Will you be able to forget his last words to you? Will you ever awaken from your delusions and see everything that's just happened as it actually is instead of what you wish it to be?

I'm glad I was the one giving you your first tattoo..

Probably not.

To be continued..

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fortheharbingers · 2 years

Text

characters: dewdrop ghoul/gn!reader

cw & wc: biting, hickeys, mentions of blood (dew's bleeding fingers to be specific), grinding, hinted jealousy/possesiveness, reader is a vampire and similar to btvs-lore, vampires are a type of demon. (left it vague but dynamics/effects of a vampire's bite is from WoD) nsfw content, minors do not interact — 1.3k

a/n: apparently touching grass or getting laid werent enough…

when another ritual comes to an end with bleeding all over his fingers, guitar and the stage; dew cannot help but let out a sigh for thank fuck it's over and finally he can have a drink too many to ignore the stinging pain in his fingers and black out the exhaustion of the night.

these plans seem to come to an abrupt end as some weight lunges at him from the darkness, his back hitting the wall rather hard.

maybe he should start carrying a napkin of sorts with him from now on, at least to help stop the bleeding a little faster. and surely it'd keep this certain vermins of demons out and away.

it is not unusual for the unholy church of lucifer to house demons of different types. though his kind is known wide and well, both for their long millenia of service and presence, other kinds like to pop by once in a while– some just to have a place to return after they're done whatever it is they wish to do on earth, some just bored out of their mind and must've gained enough favors to leave hell for a while.

and vampires, the lowly bunch of them all, is one species that can always be found, though they are born on earth and seek the church for reasons only known to themselves.

blood is never a good idea to have wiped off on your clothes, always drawing attention, stinking, a pain to clean up and total shitshow to deal with when there are vampires around.

maybe tonight is dew's lucky night, maybe not so much– or so he tries to decide as he recognizes your scent, your hands greedily roaming his figure already.

"missed me already?" your hands halt for a moment and opt to ignore his claim instead.

with your cold breath fawning over his neck already, he decides it's going to be a lucky night.

lips pressed against where his ear should be, you coo: "didn't anyone tell you what happens to lonely little ghouls bleeding all over late at night?"

cold digits wrapping around his aching hand, you bring it to his lips, dragging your tongue over his knuckles and joints where it bleeds. the coldness of your body always brings along a delightful jolt. humming against his hand and leaving behind a trail of saliva over his prickling cuts, dew watches your eyes closing with content and reopening to meet his gaze, something burning behind your eyes.

if this is what will bring you to him every night, dew is more than willing to cut himself up purposefully, maybe slit a limb here, stab a dagger there, fill the hallways with the sharp sulfuric scent of his blood whenever he passes by your chambers.

he can hear the sounds of others muffled, far away from where you are. separated by walls and doors, nobody cares where the other has gone lost to.

it infuriates him, to think you feed from others sometimes. lean into their personal space like you're doing now.

does your hands go under their shirts like now? do you drag your nails against their skin as well, draw patterns, write lucifer knows what– maybe a chant, long lost words to an enchantment perhaps. is this what it is? binding him with the dark arts, infiltrating his mind with the guidance of the maiden, the mother and the crone?

open mouthed kisses deepening in no time, dew can feel your teeth grazing his artery, nibbling against it, toying with it– oh how badly you want to sink your teeth in already, don't you?

pressing your body closer to him, dew pulls you by the waist, angling his hips just right to draw a moan out of you. he likes how your body melts into his so naturally, as if carved for him, made for him. each roll of his hips, you meet in the middle, moving down his neck, tilting his head with a hand to make more space for yourself.

slowly dew allows himself to slide down the wall, making sure to maintain contact between your bodies, quickly pulling you by the legs to straddle him completely once he is seated.

moving to give your love to the other side of his neck, you grind against his length, feeling his hardness between your legs.

you should thank the acting papa if you ever see him, for designing them pants that leave nothing to the imagination, the material used not dulling a single sense.

kissing slightly deeper with each one, your lips never leave his neck, guaranteeing him several marks to adorn his neck in the following hours.

for a moment dew cannot help but wonder if you kiss the others you feed from as well. do you kiss them with such fervor too? making sure to suck and paint, do you grab whatever you can get a hold of as you do so? hand on the nape of his neck, smashing his face into you, a hand kneeding his flesh, pinching his nipples, travelling south and meeting the waistband of the pants he wears...

do you lose yourself like you do on him with your other donors, too? do you straddle them, wrap your legs around as a means to cage, feeling every twitch of his dick, feeling his precum leaking through the pants if you're wearing a light fabric.

dewdrop recalls how you'd make sure to lick a stripe against the bite mark back then, something about fastening the healing process, some vampire thing you claimed.

as far as he knows, and he keeps his tabs well, he is the only one you kiss, bite and feed from and leave awith hickeys and bite marks adorning his neck afterwards.

something about this makes his chest swell with pride. and claim. of you and him, and sedating such cravings.

one hand on your waist, he moves you in sync with his hips, deepening each roll of his hips, making sure you'll be thinking of his cock even when you're not fucking.

he can picture it already, how you'll throw your head back in ecstasy in a short while, all clothing discarded on the floor somewhere, pupils dilated, your eyes pitchblack, riding on the pleasure you get from him– dew wonders if you'll even be able to make it out to reach his chambers or it'll be another one of those nights.

each bite you take grows bigger, the kisses decreasing in amount and getting sloppier and suddenly a sharp pain– and pure bliss that follows after.

there is a reason some humans allow vampires to feed from them for a reasonable price.

and if there's anything dew likes as much as feeling you around him, it is your fangs sunk into his skin, drinking his blood like a parched man. with each sip, each gulp of his blood down your throat, down your lips, your neck, your body; he can feel himself getting closer. fingers digging into your waist, he presses you against his body, grinding his aching cock into you, feeling your growing wetness and warmth, smelling your arousal already– and all that for him. not for those sorry excuses of people you fed on before.

you don't drink their blood more than needed like you do with him; allowing yourself to get greedy, getting drunk on his taste, on his blood, smelling of him in no time. you don't ride anyone else like you do him, you do not come on any other cock like you do on his, sinking your teeth into his artery as he enters you in one swift motion, snapping his hips onto yours as you've drunk more than you could handle, getting drowsy over him, body limp against his.

no, dewdrop knows you haven't visited your other 'snacks' as usually for a while now.

too busy having him fill you up, not bothering to lick the fang marks after you're done...

and he doesn't mind it, no. on the contrary, dewdrop finds himself enjoying it more when the marks are for all to see, both yours and his. leaving him curious how else can he leave his imprint on you, just as you will.

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dontmixpaintinyourcoffee · 1 year

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The queen herself!

design notes under the cut

alright, let's get started with the outfit-

The thing is that Ravens outfit is really cool, but it is a PAIN to draw, at least for me. There are some small details that come from them having to fit doll molds that drive me crazy, like the fact that Ravens shoes don't have heels but she walks like they do

I also had gotten really, really bored of drawing skirts, so pants it is

Ravens look is majority black with purple and silver accents, but I tweaked it a bit so that purple is the primary color, just for fun

The feathers were cool, but I wanted to save them for fancier looks, so instead I went with dragon wing style clamps on her jacket. It always bugged me that she was the first character with a dragon and that she didn't have any draconic features on her

Alright, so this is my explanation for the way she dresses in this interpretation- she doesn't want to be seen as evil, but her wardrobe is literally cursed to make any and all clothes she tries on as much like her mother's as possible. So she has to try and mold it to her own style, like "ok what's the most normal thing in here" but she's going through Goth Skeletor's closet and this is what she's managed to put together. I'd say she did pretty good! Cravat is a little much though

Yes she only wears one glove, that's on purpose. It was gonna be that the gloved hand is her primary spellcasting hand, but I immediately ruined that, so now I guess that's just something Raven thinks looks cool

Ok now the more character lore stuff

That weird little skull nightmare next to her is Prince! I don't have and have never read the books, but I have spent a lot of time going over wiki pages to try and find details I can incorporate into these designs. Apparently when Raven was a little kid her dad got her a puppy which she called Prince. At some point her mom decided it was unfitting for an evil princess and transformed him into whatever the hell a bone rat is. Needless to say, traumatizing. I can't stand a single even vaguely negative thing happening to a dog, so I'm deciding that Prince is alive, kind of immortal since he's undead-ish, and maintains the same memory and personality. He lives with Raven's dad when she's at school and he's a very good boy, he's just really, really weird.

Yeah I don't know where I'm gonna fit Nevermore in, I think she's just gonna have to join the canon with the rest of them in Dragon Games, cause I like Prince way more conceptually tbh

Evil Raven cause why not. I actually have some ideas on how the queen lineage would work, especially because Raven seems to completely control every aspect of her powers after signing in Way Too Wonderland. I really like the idea that as the next queen grows they gain more magic, but because they siphon it from the previous generation. Raven had a natural affinity for basic spells her whole life, but after a certain age she started to take her mom's powers, which are the new ones she can't control. Plus, I like that angle on the whole jealousy thing. The Queen isn't just bitter that Snow White is more fair than her, it's the double whammy of knowing that no matter what she does, her power will be drained away and made pointless by both Snow and her own family. Usurping based angst

#yes i have thought about this cartoon for children designed to sell dolls from almost a decade ago for far too long why do you ask #ever after high #eah redesign #ever after high art #eah fanart #eah #eah art #raven queen eah #eah raven #coffeepaintart

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 10 months

Note

OKAY i am confused why no one thought of this..mark and the famous BPS duo headcanons of them reacting to a REAL Angel Y/n coming down and basically getting rid of the alternates?? :00

Oooo y'know that's a good idea. It makes me wonder if ALL angels in TMC were just replaced or never existed at all after Alt!Gabriel came along--maybe they lost the war with the Alternates/demons and were eradicated all at once.

Except for Y/N, ofc, because main character plot armor™

.........

Mark

You've been watching over Mark for some time, eventually coming down to Earth disguised as his next door neighbor, wondering if he could help you move some stuff.

This strangely happens the same day he prayed for a "guardian angel" in his life, especially when he noticed you were wearing all white clothing, didn't specify where you were from, and.....looked quite ethereal in appearance.

But he thinks it's just a coincidence and becomes fast friends with you.

You shared his same values and beliefs, subtly protecting him whenever he visited the church and went to school.

Though you weren't sure if you should tell him what you truly are...

Until the night he gets that phone call from "Cesar" and goes to his house against your wishes.

When he inevitably leads the Alternate back to his own home, you're there waiting for it.

The second it enters, you stand between them and reveal your wings, halo, and several eyes, shocking the Alternate as it thought angels were already eradicated...

You basically say "nah I'm still here, go back to hell" and eviscerate it in a flash of holy light.

To your amazement, it actually worked! You finally had the power to avenge your fellow angels.

You immediately put your human disguise back on when you realized Mark's was watching the entire time-

But he's already kneeling at your feet, trying not to cry bc you're the guardian angel he's been asking for!!!

He 100% worships you now after you confirm that, but you ask him to just treat you like a friend and not as some divine idol.

Ofc you're telling that to a paranoid 17 yr old Christian human boy who saw you literally vaporize an Alternate so.....it's hard for him to talk to you so casually after that.

Adam

Posing as a new student, you approached him at school and asked if you could join BPS, feigning interest in the paranormal investigations.

He's like "sure but your clothes are prob gonna get messed up" as he gestures to your pristine white shirt and jeans.

You just wear a black BPS jacket over them and go along with the "ghost hunts", finding out that he's looking for Alternates specifically.

That's fine with you though, considering you came down to eliminate as many as you could w/o drawing Gabriel's attention.

One of the hidden cameras caught you making one disappear and Adam's mind=blown after replaying the footage and seeing your wings show up in a few frames, learning you were an angel all along!

You beg him to keep it a secret, but he's so excited he brags to Jonah and Evelin (who thinks he edited that stuff in).

He asks you to continue vaporizing any Alternates you come across as long as he can get footage of it...though you don't like the idea of him exploiting your powers this way for fame.

However he suddenly becomes afraid of you out of nowhere, especially in the days following the investigation at the Torres house.

He just kicks you out of BPS without explanation and goes into hiding.

But soon enough you find out he's a Sleeper Alternate and become faced with a very tough decision...

When he shows up on your doorstep, half-naked and pleading for you to purge him from this world.

Never in a million years did you think any Alternate would be so attached to his "humanity" that he'd rather die than live without it.

Unfortunately, you can't grant Adam's wish knowing he was closely tied to Six and Gabriel's plans, but you do reverse the damage the bleach did to his organs.

He's not in constant physical pain anymore, though you vow to protect this scared boy, knowing he didn't choose to be this way.

Jonah

You met him through Adam sometime after joining BPS.

And right away, he feels a lot safer whenever you accompany them on assignments.

There's just something about your presence that's reassuring.

He makes jokes about how you act like a "perfect little angel" when you tell him you don't do drugs, never curse, mediate any arguments he and Adam might have, and always have the cleanest clothing.

Then he's confused as to why you tensed up.

Before you realize "angel" is just a metaphor humans use sometimes and calm down afterwards.

So he doesn't know what you are.....yet.

He used to say "hell" (like "oh hell yeah!") on a regular basis but now feels awkward when he says it around you.

You're only forced to reveal your true identity when Preacher tries to give him and Adam M.A.D, and you just....eliminate her on the spot with holy light.

She was particularly resistant to it, so your energy was spent and you nearly passed out.

Jonah's understandably freaked out by your powers and runs away, but after you find him and help him calm down, he becomes quite clingy.

His friendship with Adam grows more divided as he sees you as more caring and protective than him.

He didn't believe in angels before but he sure as shit does now.

#clanask #anonymous #tmc x reader #mandela catalogue x reader #the mandela catalogue x reader #mark heathcliff #adam murray #jonah marshall #angel reader #platonic #headcanons

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mandos-mind-trick · 7 months

Text

The Garden - NSFW Version

Summary: Six years after the sudden death of your father, you return to his beloved home to restore it to its former glory. A series of strange events leads you to find a friend in a strange horse that appears on your property. Little do you know there’s more to this horse than meets the eye.

Pairing: Kix x reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, monster AU, kelpie!Kix, minor character death at the start, grief, magic, shapeshifting, loosely based on folklore, cultural differences, no foreplay, unprotected sex, outdoor sex, sex in the rain.

A/N: This is the NSFW version of the fic. It's slightly longer due to the smut at the end, but if you would prefer to read the SFW version, it is linked down below. This was originally going to be a kinktober day but this story got a bit away from me and wound up less...kinky I'd say than I planned. So instead I'm posting it just as a monster/horror/regular smut fic. (though there is a bit of a praise kink at the end 👀)

MASTERLIST | SFW VERSION

It’s a day you’d rather forget.

Your father had spent hours and hours of his time making the house perfect, making the yard perfect. He wanted everything to be perfect, but he’d never get to see it.

It happened suddenly. You’d been the one to find him, searching for him in the backyard, in the labyrinth of paths and bushes and trees. You’d found him lying there in the grass almost like he was taking a nap, but you knew him better than that. The panic that had risen in your throat was like nothing you’d ever felt, your scream heard clear in the house as you’d desperately tried CPR, but it was too late.

To say it was a shock was an understatement.

Now you’re sitting in the pristine grass he had mowed every other day without fail. His pride and joy was being tarnished by tents and plastic chairs. You tried to listen as some “mate” he’d had in college spoke about their time together, telling stories you’d never heard, referencing a man who was nothing more than a pile of ashes sitting on a table in front of the begonias he’d lovingly planted for your mother. She was crying into your grandmother’s shoulder, sobs wracking her body.

But you don’t cry.

Instead something is rising in you, something twisting, threatening to choke you. There were too many people, most of them you didn’t know, sitting in his lawn and tarnishing it with their heels and their shoes. He would have hated it, the holes in his golf course grade grass, the shoe prints that would no doubt be left imprinted in the grass thanks to the rain the night before. Footprints in the dirt of his precious gardens, trampling his flowers, squishing the only thing that mattered to him in this world beside you and your mother.

You can’t stand it anymore.

You don’t care that people stare as you get up from your seat, walking out of the sweltering tent. The sun is high, heating the ground beneath your feet as you take off running, losing your shoes in the process. You don’t care, feet squelching in the wet grass, then the underbrush as you force your way into the trees along the property line. You run through the trees, ignoring the branches grabbing at you, the leaves snagging in your hair, the roots tempting to trip you, tangle your feet and send you to the ground. Tears have blurred your vision now, running blindly, trying to get away from the pain, the...wrongness behind you.

Finally a root jumps up and grabs you, tangling around your ankles, sending you to the ground. The mud is wet as you hit it, splattering on your black clothes but you don’t care. You don’t even bother to pull yourself up, laying in the mud as you sob. You miss your father, you miss his quirks, the things you never appreciated before. The things you never paid attention to that you should have. The things you’d never get to do again, the things you’d never get to hear or see again. All the sorrow wells at once, the numbness of the past few days wearing off.

A splash near you draws you from your grieving, your head snapping to the side, finding a small lake. You had no idea it was there. Then again, you hadn’t spent much time in the forest by your house. Your father had always warned you of faeries but you’d never believed him. Faeries were children’s stories.

But the horse head staring at you from the lake has you questioning that.

It’s black as night, reeds tangled in its black hair. It's submerged up to its milky white eyes, no bubbles appearing where its nose is in the water. You have to be hallucinating. The past few days had gotten to you finally and you were seeing things. That was it. Maybe you’d hit your head when you were falling and this was all just a dream.

You stay still as the horse begins to move closer, its head rising up out of the water now. A low buzzing begins in your ears, rising in pitch until it almost sounds like...music. You’re entranced, staring at the horse as it stands still. Something draws you towards it, something tells you to touch it, not to fear the water but to jump in and climb on its back.

The cold lake water startles you from your trance. You hadn’t even noticed you had moved, kneeling at the edge of the water, wet mud threatening to suction you into place. It’s soaking your clothes but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Your name being shouted through the trees drags you from your thoughts. You lower your hand, realizing it had been reaching out towards the horse. It’s gone, taking all trace of it having been there, not even a ripple on the surface of the water left. Maybe it had been a hallucination all along.

Arms are wrapping around you, pulling you from the edge of the water.

“Stay away from there!” A woman is saying, chastising you for getting close to the lake. Your head is swimming, the buzzing still in your ears. “Those waters are dangerous.”

Something is wrapped around your shoulders, and you find you're shivering despite the warm sun above you. You recognize who it came from, the overwhelming scent of aftershave reaching your nose.

You're led back to the house and taken inside. Your mother is there instantly, worrying over you. You numbly allow yourself to be led to the couch, Jeffrey sitting you down on it. He lived two doors down with his mother, and more than once had come calling on you with any excuse he could use to do so. You thought he was sweet, but that was it.

Someone is speaking, someone else is handing you a glass of water. But everything seems distant to you. Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you were in a coma and this was all some sick fantasy brought on by delirium.

You know that’s not the case. The brain wasn’t capable of thinking all these people up, all the things that you’d seen, all the people you’d met over the past few days were real.

Your dad being dead was real.

You sip the water, letting people fuss around you. Jeffrey is sitting next to you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders supportively. You’re still wet, the cold water grounding you, but it was also a reminder of what you’d seen. The horse in the water. How you had been so drawn to it, wanting to touch it, willing to walk into the lake to get to it.

The thought scares you more than anything that had happened the past few days ever could.

***

Six years.

Your mother had held onto the house for six years.

She moved you both to town, unable to stare at the work your father had put in. The constant reminders of him were too much for her to handle and so she’d run from it. You had returned once you had your own car. You had constantly driven past it, pulled into the driveway to stare at it. It looked sad, like something out of a fairytale. The outside needed repainted, the yard had overgrown, starting to take back the house as well. The garden your father had put so much work into and the bushes were all dead. It was like the forest was slowly creeping in, retaking the land as its own.

Six years and you had finally graduated from high school, gone to college and gotten a useless degree. Six years to work up the courage to ask your mother for the keys, wanting some place to stay that wasn’t the cramped apartment rife with your mother and her sorrows.

Finally it was yours.

You start with the house, cleaning it up inside. It was dusty and damp after the six years it had been closed up. You air it out, sweeping and dusting every inch, making it shine, just like it had six years ago. The yard, however, was something else. Its glory was gone, shriveled up and overgrown from six years of neglect. You knew you could never return it to its full glory, but at least you could try. Spring is coming, the days slowly lengthening and getting warmer. You want to get it cleaned up so you can begin planting soon.

A few days go by without incident. You finish fixing up the interior of the house and begin on the exterior. Ivy has made itself at home on one side of the house, and it desperately needs repainting. The roof needs to be cleaned as well, moss growing on the side facing the forest. It truly feels like the forest had slowly been reaching out, trying to reclaim the land.

For a moment you feel as if you should let it, as you watch the ivy peel back from the side of the house. What was the point of cleaning up the house? Your father is gone. He won’t ever see it again.

You push the thought away, finishing your work for the day.

It’s after dark when it happens for the first time. You had been making dinner after closing up the house when a low buzzing had started to sound in your ears. You look around, wondering if perhaps it’s one of the lights. You move around the room, standing next to each one, but the buzzing never changes in tone or volume.

You flick the lights off, but the buzzing doesn't cease. The moon is out, illuminating the lawn as you stare out the window. Your lips part in a gasp as you catch a shadowy form standing in the long grass. You move closer to the window, blinking in shock.

It looks like...a horse.

Its eyes glint in the darkness, reflecting the light of the moon. A feeling of uneasiness washes over you, the buzzing in your ears feeding the fear starting to bud in the back of your mind. Your hand shakes as you reach for the curtain, quickly drawing it closed. The room is bathed in darkness and you fumble for the lightswitch, the buzzing stopping as soon as the light flicks on.

You breathe in the sudden silence, your heart thudding in your chest. There was a horse in your yard. You turn back to the kitchen, trying to calm the fear gnawing at you. Maybe one of the neighbors had gotten a horse and it somehow escaped into your yard. There was certainly plenty for a horse to eat in the overgrown yard.

Perhaps you should make a visit to the neighbors again. It has been years since you’ve seen them. You can let them know one of their horses is escaping at night.

***

None of your neighbors have horses.

You try to process the thought as you work on painting the exterior of the house. You had visited them the day before, making them known of your return to your childhood home. You had asked briefly about the horse, but you’d gotten nothing but shrugs and one strange look from Jeffrey’s mother.

Perhaps it had escaped from somewhere outside of the neighborhood then. There were many farms all across the countryside. The horse could have wandered in from anywhere. Hell, the horse could have been a hallucination for all you know. A trick of the shadows.

For all you know there was no horse at all.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, something in the back of your mind prickling. You get the sudden feeling you’re being watched. You turn on the ladder, glancing at the forest behind you. You scan the treeline, but there’s nothing in the thick underbrush.

Your father had always warned you about going into the forest as a child. Forests are strange places, and while there were no large predators you had to worry about, there were...other things. The trees were tricky and liked to play games, making you get lost on purpose.

And the faeries.

You had believed him, at least as a child. Then you brushed him off as you grew older. Faeries were nothing but stories and legends.

Still, you never ventured into the forest. Something about it has always given you goosebumps, making the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

You turn away from the trees, resuming your painting. You want to get it done and dry before the weather turns wet with the coming spring. You have a lot to do before then.

The buzzing returns that night.

You’re in bed this time, tucked away upstairs in your old room. It hadn’t felt right, sleeping in what was your parents' old room. Some of your dads stuff is still in there, and you don’t feel brave enough to start looking through it. Not yet.

You had just been drifting off to sleep when the buzzing started, pulling you from the precious slumber. Your heart jumps in your chest, fear buzzing through you almost as loud as the buzzing in your ears. Your gaze turns towards the window overlooking the front yard. What would you see if you got up and looked? Will the shadowy horse figure be there again?

Your breathing picks up as you hear the familiar creak of the porch steps. The front door is locked, you had made sure of it twice before you retired to bed, but that doesn’t stop the fear screaming in the back of your mind.

Your legs are shaking as you rise from the bed, slowly tiptoeing to the window. You glance down at the yard, but you can’t see anything. The porch continues to creak, slow, heavy footsteps making their way around the side of the house.

You open your door, glancing down the hallway towards the stairs. You let out a breath, cursing the fact everything you could use as a weapon is downstairs in the kitchen. You tiptoe along the hallway, making your way slowly down the stairs.

You stare at the kitchen window as you make your way to the bottom of the steps, the curtains thin enough you can make out something moving on the porch in the moonlight. You sink down, making yourself as small as possible as you hold your breath.

There’s a horse on your porch.

It’s unmistakable, its shadow illuminated through the kitchen window. You’re afraid, breaths ragged and shaky as you stare at the figure through the window. You wonder if it can see you even in the darkness. Its head turns towards the window, ears flickering. You hold your breath, the buzzing in your ears getting louder.

It almost sounds like...music.

A deep, sad song begins to come through the buzzing like a radio picking up a distant signal. Tears fill your eyes as something tugs deeply in your chest. The grief from the last six years comes back to the surface, the house suddenly feeling so large and empty. You want to escape, you want to run out the door. You can’t stand it, being alone. The house was supposed to be full of light and laughter and happy memories. It’s so cold and empty now.

The creak of a board on the porch snaps you from your thoughts, your body halfway to the front door. You hadn’t even realized you had gotten up. You stumble back, racing for the stairs and back up to your room. You push your desk in front of the door before diving under the covers, putting a pillow over your head to try and block out the buzzing music.

***

You let out a shriek as you leave the house two days later.

Standing in your yard is a black horse.

It’s just standing there, staring right at you, unmoving. Your hand is on the doorknob, ready to rush back inside. There’s no buzzing this time, no song. It’s morning, the sun coming over the hills. The world is damp from how cold it was last night. There’s no hoofprints in the tall grass, no sign of the horse trampling through it. You wonder how long it’s been there.

“Can I help you?” You ask, feeling stupid as the words leave your mouth. You’re talking to a horse.

Its ears flick at your words and it continues to stare at you for a moment before it lowers its head, starting to graze on the tall grass. You relax just slightly, your hand slipping off the doorknob. Perhaps it’s just a lost horse, come to graze on your jungle. The other neighbors all keep their lawns well kept, so you can rationalize why a horse would choose this yard over theirs.

Maybe this was the horse you’ve been seeing at night too, simply making itself at home where there’s plenty of food. Maybe you’ve been imagining the buzzing, the music. Maybe the emptiness of your home truly is getting to you.

Your foot hits something as you take a step forward, drawing your gaze downward. Sitting on your porch is a silver halter. You glance at the horse, its eyes on you as you bend down to pick it up. The leather is soft and worn, diamonds lining the sides and the nose. The buckles shine like new, and you wonder if they’re real silver.

You glance back at the horse, finding it staring at you as it chews. You take a cautious step forward, then another. The horse doesn’t move, staying still as you make your way down the creaky steps.

“Is this yours?” You ask, holding the halter up.

The horse bobs its head before bending back down to graze.

You blink in shock. Did the horse just...nod? You take a couple steps forward, closer to the horse. It’s big, tall and strong even with its head bent. Its coat is slick and shiny in the morning light, its mane thick and curly and long enough it drags on the ground when it eats. It’s a beautiful horse, and you can’t imagine someone just leaving it here.

“Aren’t you...supposed to be wearing this?” You say, holding up the halter.

The horse rears back, letting out a loud neigh as you approach. You stumble back as it moves away from you, staring at you with a cautious look. Your heart is pounding in your throat, short breaths puffing in the cool air.

“Okay, okay.” You hold your hand out, your fingers trembling. “You don’t have to wear it.” The horse continues to watch you as you make your way back up the steps. “I’ll just...put it inside so it doesn’t get damaged.”

The horse is grazing again when you step back outside, almost like nothing had happened.

You watch it for a few moments before sighing. “I guess if you’re going to help with the yard you can stay.”

You should put up a poster at the general store in town about the stray horse that’s made itself at home on your property. You go about your day, the horse contently grazing on your long grass, paying you no mind. It’s nice, not being alone, even if your companion is a mysterious stray horse that apparently understands you. You’ve always heard horses are very intelligent, though, so perhaps it wasn’t that strange it was able to answer you.

You work on repairs outside the house until sunset, tired and sore from all the work you’ve been doing. You haven’t even touched the garden yet. You should pull out the lawnmower tomorrow and at least get the grass trimmed down. Make it look like more of a yard.

You turn around, nearly jumping out of your skin as you find the horse right behind you. You hadn’t even heard it approach you, not even its footsteps on the stone path to the front door.

You put a hand on your chest, taking a deep breath. “You’re a sneaky thing, aren’t you.”

An almost mischievous look flashes in its eyes, so fast you almost don’t notice. Almost. You take a deep breath, calming your racing heart as it stretches out its head, sniffing at your sweatshirt. You hesitantly reach up, resting your hand on its face. Its hair is silky and smooth under your hand, almost feeling faintly damp.

It blows out a breath, pressing its face into your hand. You scratch its nose, a smile tugging at your lips as it moves its head with your hand.

“It’s nice, not being alone.” You say, gently patting his head. “Things didn’t used to be this way. But, maybe someday they won’t be anymore.” You pat his head before pulling away.

He watches you walk up the porch steps, and you take one last look at him before you close the door, locking it.

You relax on the couch after dinner, your eyes drawn to the halter sitting on the coffee table. You pick it up, feeling the weight of it in your hands. It’s heavy from the diamonds, and you just know it has to be expensive. You turn it in your hands, looking at the other side. The leather is worn, which must mean it gets used often. It probably looks good on the horse, the silver contrasting its dark hair.

On the back of the nosepiece is three letters embroidered in the leather.

KIX.

Are they initials? Or perhaps the horse’s name is Kix.

There’s no other markings, no other indication of the owner’s information anywhere. You run your fingers over the soft leather again before you set it back on the coffee table, heading off to bed.

***

The horse is standing in your lawn again the next morning. You’re less afraid this time, walking down the steps without pause. It watches you, its tail flicking. There’s something about its stare, those dark eyes watching you with almost human understanding. It sends a shiver down your spine, fear tickling the back of your mind again.

You shove it aside as you pull the lawnmower out of the shed, sighing as you stare at the expanse of lawn you’re going to have to mow.

You turn to look at the horse, its eyes on you. “There was a name on the halter.” You say, leaning against the lawnmower. “Kix, I think.”

The horse bobs its head in a nod.

“Is that...your name?”

It nods again.

A smile tugs at your lips. “Are you...a boy horse?”

It nods once more, before lowering its head to graze. So that was his name on the halter. You still can’t help but wonder who he belongs to. Surely someone was looking for him.

Kix continues to graze mindlessly as you mow the tall weeds and grass. As you said you would, you leave a small patch for him to graze on in the back of the house, away from the street and the front door. You know it’s only a matter of time before the neighbors notice your mysterious visitor. You’re surprised none of them have come knocking yet.

The day grows warmer, the sun bearing down on you as you mow the lawn, working your way in a circle around the house. You finish up back by the shed, shutting the lawnmower off before you collapse in the newly cut lawn, breathing heavily.

Footsteps crunch through the grass before you’re staring upside down at Kix’s nose. His lips tickle your forehead as he sniffs at your head, your hand pushing his nose away. You push yourself up to sit, wiping the sweat from your brow.

“I don’t know how my dad did this, like, every day.” You say, running your hand over the short grass. “He loved his lawn. He loved his yard. He loved his garden.” You shake your head, staring at the tangled vines and dead bushes, the weeds that have taken over where meticulously planted flowers used to bloom every spring. “Now look at it.”

Tears burn your eyes. You don’t have the skills your father had, the knowledge, the drive to make and keep the landscaping so beautiful.

“It deserves so much better than this.” You say, shaking your head. “He deserves so much better.”

Kix nudges against your back, nickering softly. You sniffle, wiping the tear that slides down your cheeks. You knew it would be a lot of work, and you knew you could never restore it to what your father had. You could still try. You could still make it look decent. If nothing else, you could at least clean it up.

***

Kix is there every day, greeting you at the porch every morning. He hovers behind you often as you begin to work on the garden, snacking on weeds and helping you clear bushes. As soon as you cut one down, he drags it to your trash pile for you.

You talk to him as you work, telling him all about your family, your dad, your life after you left. You worry about your mom, but you know she’s doing what’s best for her, just as you are.

Kix seems to understand you, not in the way animals do, but in a human way. It’s a bit unnerving sometimes, the way he looks at you as you’re speaking. You have little experience with horses, though, so you can’t be sure if it’s all that unusual.

You like having him around. The house feels less empty, even if he stays outside. You haven’t had any strange experiences since he showed up, so you can’t complain. You had begun to question if coming back out here was worth it. Now you’re glad you came back, and you decided to stay.

You get the garden and the areas around the yard cleared, everything looking so bare now. There were a few bushes still standing, Kix having pushed you away from some of them. You had left them with a shrug, moving on to others that were dead and crumpled. Deciding what to plant was going to be harder.

You do research, looking at various plants that not only look good together, but also will be easy to manage. You’ll be spending a lot of money, but it’ll be worth it.

Kix is surprisingly absent the morning your plants get delivered. You don’t see him until the delivery truck is long gone, and you’re hauling plants around the yard to their respective places.

In fact, any time you get visitors, he makes himself scarce, even when it’s the neighbors. It’s odd, but perhaps he’s just shy. You don’t blame him. You weren’t the biggest fan of all of the neighbors, but you’ve known most of them since you were a child.

Jeffrey’s mother comes to visit one day as you’re working on planting some seeds for flowers. You invite her in for tea, sweaty and dirty but she doesn’t seem to mind. Kix is gone, having disappeared silently before she arrived. Sometimes he moved so swiftly and silently it almost seemed unnatural.

“How have you been, dear?” Jeffrey’s mother asks you.

You shrug, pouring the tea. “It’s strange, being back. The house seems so empty.”

“The yard looks lovely. I’m sure it will be positively stunning come summer.” She says, looking out the window. “Your father would be proud.”

A bitter smile forms on your face. “I’m sure he would be. I’m not nearly as talented as he is.”

She turns from the window, her eyes spotting the halter on the table. She gasps, covering her mouth as she stares at it. “W-Where did you get that?”

You frown, eyeing the halter before looking back at her. “It showed up on my doorstep.” You say. “With a black horse.”

She rushes towards you with surprising speed, grabbing you by the arms. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone into the woods again! Don’t tell me you’ve gone back to that place!”

“W-What are you talking about?” You frown at her. “I’ve never gone into the woods.”

Her grip on your arms loosens just slightly. “You don’t remember. The day of your father’s funeral. You ran from the service like a sinner fleeing church straight into the woods. We found you out by the lake, right on the edge of the water.”

Your ears begin to buzz with the familiar sound as images flash through your mind. You remember being angry at everyone for ruining your father’s yard. You remember running from the service, running through the trees. You remember feeling like they were grabbing at you, trying to pull you in all directions. You remember falling, you remember the buzzing sound and the horse in the water. The black horse with milky white eyes.

“You must get rid of it.” She says, staring at the halter. “Do not go near that horse again. It will only bring you death.”

You sit on the couch, staring at the halter after she leaves. Things begin to click into place as the memory of that day, the memory of what you saw, the memories of the strange events when you returned replay in your mind.

Your father had warned you about lakes in the area, that there was a legend about shapeshifting horses that would lure you into the water and drown you. You had brushed him off, just as you had about other things. You know what you saw that day, though. You had nearly been a victim of one yourself.

And you’ve been talking with it every day for the last few weeks.

It hasn’t seemed like it wanted to hurt you. But it’s understanding of your words, it’s knowledge, it’s manner, even its eyes tell you everything. You’ve been spending every day with a kelpie.

***

You leave the house the next day, halter in hand. It’s a foggy morning, colder than it should be. It feels fitting as you approach the dark figure waiting in your yard. You stare at its too human eyes, holding the halter tightly in your hand.

“You’re no horse, are you?” You ask, your heart thudding in your chest so hard you’re certain he might be able to hear it. “It was you that day, wasn’t it? You were going to kill me.”

The horse blows out a breath, taking a step closer to you. You take half a step back, holding the halter up between you like it might protect you. He takes another step forward, stretching out his neck to nose at the halter. He wants you to put it on him, you discern.

You’re not sure what will happen when you put it back on. He doesn’t look like that horse in the water without it, but will that change? Will he turn back into the murderous beast he’s supposed to be? He could kill you in this form. A well aimed kick would do the job. Why would he want to be in his other form to do it? Would it be easier? Quicker for you.

Or perhaps the halter will allow him to communicate easier with you.

It’s a risk you’re going to have to take.

Your hands shake as you fit the halter onto his face, having to try a couple times to get it in the right position. As soon as you buckle it the buzzing begins again in your ears. You stumble back a couple steps, Kix shaking his head before he stares at you again. His eyes are milky white, his coat dripping with water as if he’d just climbed from the lake. You stare in horror as his body begins to contort, his bones snapping.

You stumble back a couple more steps, your feet slipping in the damp grass, sending you sprawling onto your back as he shifts and changes, and suddenly you’re staring at a man.

He’s tall and strong, rippling with muscles. Your cheeks grow hot as he steps towards you, damp curls falling onto his forehead. He’s naked, tanned skin on display, save for a silver chain around his neck. His eyes are dark, not unlike those of the horse.

You scramble back as he squats in front of you, but his hand catches your leg, keeping you still. The buzzing becomes almost unbearable, pulsing in your head like a migraine. Cold skin touches yours as you screw your eyes closed, the buzzing beginning to quiet to almost nothing.

“I apologize.” A deep, accented voice says. “I did not realize you were so sensitive to magic.”

You crack your eyes open, staring up into deep brown eyes. He’s squatting over you, his hand on your cheek. His skin is cold to the touch, though he’s likely been out in the cold all night.

“You....you’re...” You stutter out, staring up into his handsome face. He is handsome, his face like what you would expect to find sculpted out of marble in a museum.

“I am a kelpie, yes.” He says.

“W-Why....why?” You ask, shaking under him as he stares down at you with a mix of emotions on his face.

“Let’s get you inside, then I will explain everything.” He says, gently hauling you to your feet.

It’s possibly dangerous, allowing a kelpie into your home but you’re not in a state of mind to protest. At least this way your body won’t be laying in the yard for days, you think. At least this way you won’t face the same fate as your father.

He’s shockingly gentle as wraps a blanket around you, sitting you on the couch. He’s still completely naked and dripping water and here he is taking care of you. Your face is still hot despite the chill to your fingers.

“There’s a towel in the closet.” You say, trying not to stare at him. “A-And some clothes that might fit.”

He nods, stepping away from you finally. You sink down onto the couch, staring out the window as he digs through the closet by the bathroom. He comes back a few moments later with a towel wrapped around his shoulders and sweatpants covering his bottom half. They were your fathers, the spare he kept downstairs in case of emergencies.

He sits down on the opposite end of the couch from you, staring at you. You pull your knees to your chest, tucking the blanket tight around you as you stare back. You can hardly believe you just watched the horse you’d spent the last few weeks interacting with shapeshift into a human.

“Are you going to kill me?” You ask, wanting to get it out of the way first.

He shakes his head. “No. That was never my intention. Though, I did consider it briefly when you appeared on the shore of my lake. It is simply my nature.” He shrugs.

“Why didn’t you?” You ask.

“I could sense something about you. The deep sadness within you, and something else that I now know is your sensitivity to magic.” He explains. “I was curious about you. I watched you every day until you left. I waited six years for your return.”

Your heart is still thudding in your chest. “You were on my porch.” Is all you can think to say.

“Yes.” He nods. “I wanted to see you again. I tried to draw you out, but you were resistant to my magic.”

“That’s why...you gave me your halter?” You ask.

He nods, stroking the silver chain around his neck. “It is what gives me my power. Without it, I am hardly more than a regular horse.”

“So...if I took that off...you’d turn back into a horse?” You ask, eyeing the chain.

He nods. “Yes, and I could not change back until you placed the halter back on.”

“Why...why did you wait for all those years? Why did you find me?” You ask.

“You are very beautiful.” He says, a soft look in his eyes. “And I was curious about you. My normal form was too much for you, and I knew I had to gain your trust, so I gave you the source of my power to do with what you wished. I would have remained a horse forever if that is what you wanted of me.”

Your lips part in a gasp at his words. It sounds so very romantic from someone you just found out is actually a shapeshifting horse. You’ve known him for quite a while, but at the same time, you’ve only just met him.

“Kix,” You swallow thickly. “I-I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

He scoots closer to you, taking your hand in his. His skin is still cool to the touch, even against your slowly warming skin. “I wish to be with you, if you will have me.” He says, sincerity shining in his eyes. “I will stay with you until you cast me out. If you wish for me to remain a horse, I will do so. You will carry my halter for all eternity, just as you carry my heart.”

You flounder as you stare at him. It’s all very sudden, though you suppose the courting rituals of supposed mythical creatures is a bit different than a human’s. “This...this is moving very quickly.” You say, shifting so you’re sitting on the edge of the couch. “I...I considered you a friend, as a horse. It was nice having someone around. This place...it’s so...empty and lonely now. It’s like a void when it once was full of life and joy.”

Kix’s arm wraps around your shoulders. “Let me help you fill that void. I will do whatever you ask of me.”

***

You keep Kix at arms length as the weeks pass. Human culture and customs are foreign to him, and you find yourself not only having to teach him, but having to move him often. He likes to be close to you, he likes to touch you. It’s strange after years of distance and sadness. He’s eager to do anything you ask of him, sticking close to you almost every hour of every day he can. He only disappears every few days to return to his lake, usually late at night. He’s always back by morning, sometimes in horse form, but usually in his human form.

He helps you with the yard, eager to mow it as often as you ask him to after you teach him to use the lawnmower. He does it with almost no effort, always leaving a small patch for his horse-self. He helps you with the plants as well, the flowers you’ve planted growing and blooming, and the bushes he’d pushed you away from while you were clearing things out beginning to grow back as well.

It’s not as good as your father would have done. You still like to think he’d be proud, though.

The spring rains arrive, bringing a steady downpour for days. It leaves you and Kix mostly cooped up inside for an extended period for the first time since he revealed himself to you. He begins to grow a bit restless, and you hear him sneaking off every night to return to his lake, or perhaps just to run around for a while. You feel a bit bad, keeping him cooped up, but he offered no complaint. He could leave if he wanted, you had made that clear, but he stays dutifully at your side.

Things begin to change as the rains continue, the dynamic between you shifting. He stands closer again, hands lingering when he touches you. He sits closer to you, stares at you more.

Things shift even more one night when you’re making dinner. He had been setting the table as you chopped vegetables for a salad when your knife slipped, cutting into your skin. You drop it with a hiss, watching the blood bead along the edges of the cut before sliding down your hand in a steady stream.

He’s there in an instant, hands cupping yours. He stares at your cut and for a moment you’re afraid he might snap, he might change, his promises might go out the window. Were kelpies like sharks? Would they lose all senses of themselves in the presence of blood? You had done a little reading on kelpies, but sources were varied and contradictory. Of course, you could have asked the actual kelpie in your house, but you’re never quite sure how to broach the subject.

He wraps the dishcloth around your hand before leading you to the couch. He sits you down before gently unwrapping your hand. The dishcloth is stained and will have to be thrown out. His cool hands close around your injured one, surprising warmth blossoming across your skin as he closes his eyes. The buzzing begins in your ears again, vibrating through your whole being. He brings your hands to his face, whispering something inaudibly before he blows against your hand.

He slowly removes his own hands, and your eyes widen as you see nothing but smeared blood on your skin. Not even a line where the cut had been. The buzzing dies down to a quiet murmur, where it always was with him near. He wipes the blood from your hand and from his with the ruined dish towel.

“How did you do that?” You ask, still staring at your hand in awe.

“Magic.” He states simply, his breath fanning your face.

You look up from your hand, finding him so close you can see the small imperfections of his face. The light stubble growing on his cheeks, the light smattering of freckles on his nose, the crease between his eyebrows. His arm wraps around your waist as he leans in closer, eyes fluttering closed as he presses his lips to yours.

You freeze in shock, stiffening in his arms as his cool lips touch yours. You weren’t expecting it, and it’s a bit forward, but you don’t dislike it.

He tears himself away from you, jumping up from the couch. He looks horrified, eyes wide and wild like a startled horse. “Forgive me.” He stutters out before he flings the door open, racing out into the rain.

“Wait-Kix!” You yell, running to the door but he’s already gone, disappeared into the night.

You glance back at the house before you take off running towards the trees. The rain pelts against your skin but you don’t care, the memories of your father’s funeral fresh in your mind as you break through the treeline, entering the forest.

It feels as strange as it did that day, the branches and bushes and roots seeming to reach out to you as you run. You call out to Kix, but he’s completely disappeared. You pause to breathe, looking every which way, but you’re not even sure which direction you came from anymore. You’re not even sure he entered the forest at all.

“Kix!” You call out loudly, starting to run forward again, hoping you’re going in the right direction. “Kix, come back!”

A root reaches out and trips you, sending you into the mud. The canopy of trees blocks out some of the rain, but it still slips through, misting down onto the forest floor. You push yourself onto your knees, spotting a lake just through the bushes. You crawl through, ignoring the way the bush tears at your clothes and skin.

You stop at the edge of the lake, looking out at the water. It’s alive with the falling raindrops, your hands and knees sinking into the mud as you kneel at the edge of the water.

“Kix!” You call out again, crawling forward until your hands are in the water. “Kix, please!”

It’s cold, the rain having soaked you to the bone. You’re shivering, your heart thudding in your chest. You’re not even sure this is the right lake. Nothing looks familiar, but then again, you haven’t been here in six years.

The water begins to ripple, dark ears and milky eyes peeking above the surface.

“Kix!” You call out. “Please...come back. I-I liked it.” You take a deep, steadying breath. “I’d like you to kiss me again.”

The horse sinks back under the water, your heart still thudding in your chest. A sudden horrible thought races through your mind. Was this even Kix? Was there more than one lake in the forest? Had you just signed your death warrant because of your foolish desperation?

The water ripples, a familiar curly-haired head appearing from the depths as Kix slowly makes his way forward to the shore in his human form. He drops to his knees in front of you, the buzzing sounding in your ears as he cups your face. His skin is frigid, even against your own chilled cheeks.

“That was foolish, coming after me.” He says, almost shouting over the pouring rain.

“Why did you run?” You ask, shivering from the cold.

“You did not kiss me back. I thought perhaps I overstepped. I thought you were angry with me, that you might throw me out.”

“It surprised me,” You say, looking up into his dark eyes. “I-I wasn’t expecting it. But I liked it, and I’d like you to do it again.”

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. You breathe each other in for a moment before he’s closing the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck. His skin is frigid and offers no respite to the cold mud seeping into your pants, or the rain pelting down around you.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you tight against him. You’re shivering, fingers and toes long having gone numb in the freezing rain. He moans into your mouth as you bite his lower lip, your tongue slipping in to tangle with his. His hands slide down to your waist, wrapping around you tightly.

He lifts you, pulling you slightly up the bank before your back meets soft grass. You part your legs for him, his naked body slipping between them. The rain pelts down around you but you don't care, his hands making quick work of your soaked clothes. Despite your nakedness, the chill is leaving you as your body warms with arousal, his cold hands dragging along every inch of exposed skin.

“I’ve been waiting so long for this.” He says, nipping at your neck as his hands squeeze at your body. “So long for you.”

“Take me.” You gasp, hands grabbing at his curls, at his body as much as he is yours. “I’m yours.”

He lets out a content hum, pulling away only to pull your pants off. They disappear in the grass with a wet plop but you don’t care, laying naked in the dirt and rain under him. His cock is hard as he stares down at you, slick and laid open for him.

Your fingers sink into the mud as he drags his cock along your slit. His eyes are dark as he stares down at you, lining himself up. Your lips part in a gasp as he presses into you, stretching you open. It burns, your hands pulling him down against you. You cling to him, meshing your lips together in an attempt to distract yourself from the pain. He’s so big, stretching you open as he presses into you.

Your head falls back as he bottoms out, pressed entirely into you. Your body buzzes with energy, fingers sinking into his skin as the sensation becomes almost unbearable.

“You can take it.” He moans into your ear. “You can take it. That’s it.”

You clamp around him, a breathy moan leaving your lips. You feel him smirk against your jaw, his hips rolling against yours as he slowly begins thrusting into you.

“Such a good girl for me, offering yourself to me like this.” He says. “You’re mine.”

“Yours.” You gasp, walls fluttering around him at his praise. “All yours.”

A low noise rumbles through his chest as he speeds up his movements, fucking into you faster and harder. The dirt at your back bites into your skin as your body moves from the force of his thrusts.

“Kix!” You gasp, pleasure mixing with the buzzing under your skin. It’s becoming too much, warmth pooling in your belly.

“Such a tight pussy, taking me so well.” He groans in your ear, nipping at the shell. “Going to cum for me? Going to cum around my cock?”

“Yes!” You cry out, back arching against him.

“Good girl.” He all but growls. “Going to fill you with my seed. Can you take it?”

Your eyes roll back at his words, your mind hazy and buzzing. “Yes! Yes! Please give it to me!” You cry.

His hips drag along your clit as he fucks into you wildly, your orgasm slamming into you. You cum with a cry, milking his cock as you writhe under him.

“Yes!” He groans. “Yes, take it.” He slams his hips into yours, his hot release spilling into you.

You groan at the feeling, toes curling in the mud as he fills you in the middle of the forest. It’s so carnal and wild, your body streaked with dirt and soaked from the rain.

He collapses on top of you, his heavy body pinning you down. You wrap your arms around him, the warmth of your skin contrasting the chill of his. He presses his lips to yours, kissing you passionately.

“Ride me.” He breathes against your lips.

You pull back to stare at him. “Didn’t we just-”

“No,” He laughs. “I want you to ride me.”

Your mouth falls open. “Oh, right. Okay.”

He pulls away from you, stepping back into the water before his body contorts and cracks, shifting back into its horse form. He kneels in front of you in the mud and you slide onto his back, not caring that you’re naked. You wrap your arms around his neck as he stands, his hooves kicking up mud and water as he takes off running into the trees.

You cling on for dear life but you can’t help the laugh that tears from your throat as the rain and wind whips at your bare skin. You feel happy and free for the first time in a long time.

Taglist:

@rosechi @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @wolffegirlsunite @jedi-hawkins @sinfulsalutations @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @clio3kantarella @eris-k @thorsterstrudle @idontgetanysleep @clonemedickix @sleepingsun501 @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @523rdrebel @thrawnspetgoose @originalcollectionartistry @gwalchmai2970 @maddiedrmr @sunshinesdaydream @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @lickylickylicky @sweetheartsnips @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mooncommlink @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @ghostperson69 @captain_rexs_cyare @jediknightjana

#star wars #star wars fic #the clone wars #the clone wars fic #clone medic kix x reader #clone thirsting #x reader

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sunriseverse · 6 months

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what do you think would be li cu's reaction to seeing the iron triangle all together for the first time?

me? writing something under 1k for the first time in months? apparently! not sure if this fulfils what you were looking for, but i hope you like it! (also thank you for letting me indulge in my emotions about these horrid little fictional characters.)

He wakes with a sputtering gasp, lungs burning and eyesight swimming, hard rock at his back and the memory of darkness pressing against him. It’s still dark, but no longer that all-encompassing blackness of the caves, no longer starless and starlost, no longer stagnant air that hadn’t been touched by human breath in its entire existence, the thrill of terror keeping him going deeper, deeper, deeper into its depths. Instead, now, before he even stops wheezing, there are hands on him, steady and sure, and a voice murmuring something he’s too out of it to hear, but just conscious enough to recognise, with a stroke of startlement that cleaves him in two, of anger. Without thinking about it, he’s struggling out of the grasp, shrugging off those hands even before he can draw a full breath into his lungs, before he has any sense of direction.

“—hey! Easy, easy,” Wu Xie is saying, sitting back on his haunches, his hands up in what must be an attempt to show he’s no threat, even though both of them know that’s patently untrue, has been untrue, will be untrue forever, because Li Cu knows him, knows this man, the width and breadth of what he will do with a smile on his face. “You scared us pretty bad.”

Feeling more than a little vindictive, Li Cu spits the last of the water from his lungs in Wu Xie’s direction. It doesn’t hit, because right now he feels colt-weak and unsteady, and his vision is only just now starting to merge from the doubling that has been plaguing him. It’s enough that he notices the other figures hovering around him—Yang Hao unhappily fiddling with the oxygen tank, which has a noticeable dent in it, though it hadn’t ruptured, and Su Wan chewing on his nails and looking anxious. There’s also two other men, one of them whom Li Cu vaguely recognises as Wang Pangzi, and the other one, who hangs back at a distance, clad in dark clothes and looking like he could disappear into a crowd even with his striking features, who must, by sense, be that third member of the Iron Triangle—Zhang Qiling. He drags his hand across his mouth and attempts to regroup. “What’s he doing here,” he demands.

Su Wan starts guiltily; shoves his hands into his pockets. “When we lost contact with you, I called for help.”

“Fucking Wu Xie?”

“No, Hei-ye,” Yang Hao says, and at least he has the decency to look irritated about it. “Fucked off to Russia or something, I don’t know. Said he’d send someone, since the biometrics we had on you hadn’t gone red yet.”

“And a good thing, too,” Pangzi says, ambling closer, and crouches down next to Wu Xie; slings an arm over his shoulder. Wu Xie relaxes into the touch, a half-smile flitting across his face, seemingly on instinct. “Our Tianzhen would have been devastated if you died. And not even in a tomb!”

“Pangzi,” Wu Xie says, and he sounds slightly pained. He hasn’t tried to reach out to Li Cu again—good. Li Cu struggles to his feet, makes it about one step and then has to stop, breathing far too heavily to be comfortable. Twin sets of hands find him, but this time, they’re a welcome touch. Their hands are warm through the fabric of his diving gear. “You’re lucky you didn’t get far into the caves,” Wu Xie says, and there’s something like worry in his gaze, and Li Cu hates it, vicious and sudden. “You could have died.”

“Then you should have let me,” Li Cu shoots back, too tired to care to censor himself. This one thing, this one thing, is where he was never supposed to have to be reminded of Wu Xie again, and now he’s gone and put himself in it again.

Wu Xie rears back as if struck. “You don’t mean that.”

“You should have just ignored the call,” Li Cu continues, ignoring Su Wan’s quiet, pained, Ya Li!. “Let nature run its course.” It’s unfair, maybe, but at the moment, Li Cu doesn’t really care all that much. Normally, he’d at least try and skirt civility, but at the moment, the thought is unappetising. He’s tired, and his head hurts, and he should have died there, in the dark, and been at peace with it. Instead, here he is, still alive, because of Wu Xie, who’s never been able to let him die, even if it would have been kinder.

“I don’t want you dead,” Wu Xie says, lips pursed into a thin line, looking almost pained.

I wish you did, Li Cu thinks, bitterly. “It would have saved us both a lot of trouble,” he says, instead. His breathing is better, now, and he can no longer taste that bitterness at the back of his throat.

Wu Xie looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. It’s strange, how much more expressive Wu Xie is, now. In the desert, he’d always kept his emotions carefully hidden behind the gently-smiling persona he’d constructed for himself. Now he doesn’t need it anymore, he’s shed it like a snakeskin, and Li Cu doesn’t recognise the man underneath. He lets himself lean into Su Wan and Yang Hao’s touch, and says, “You can go now. I’m fine.”

Wu Xie hesitates for a moment; turns to glance behind him. The other man, Zhang Qiling, has drawn closer, and he tilts his head at Wu Xie, a silent question, though for what, Li Cu doesn’t know. Pangzi’s lips twitch, and he bumps Wu Xie’s shoulder with his own. “Hot pot for dinner?” he offers.

Wu Xie glances at Li Cu, again, and for a moment, Li Cu has the horrible sense that he’s going to be asked to join. Thankfully, Wu Xie seems to think better of it, which is good, considering that Li Cu doesn’t know what he might have done, had Wu Xie offered it. He still doesn’t have a good, cohesive set of emotions towards Wu Xie—it’s all muddied waters, foggy jade. Instead, he shrugs. “Only if you don’t steal half of my mushrooms,” he says, and then to Li Cu, “maybe stay away from caves for a bit. Xiao Hua keeps complimenting me about my new hobbies.”

“Then you shouldn’t have given me that credit card,” Li Cu shoots back. It had been less given and more shown up in the mail with no return address. Still, it has its uses. He might have a complicated tangle of feelings about Wu Xie, but he won’t say no to money, which is the least of what he deserves.

Rather than answer, Wu Xie laughs, eyes crescents and crows-footed at the edges. The familiar spark of anger in Li Cu’s gut flares, and he considers saying something, before he realises that, at this point, it’ll probably just make Wu Xie laugh more. He doesn’t know how to interact with this man who Wu Xie has become, nor is he particularly happy about it—it’s harder to be angry at a man who barely resembles the one who’d rubbed ashes into his open wounds, who glows like the moon in the presence of the other two thirds of the Iron Triangle. Instead, he watches him turn and amble towards Zhang Qiling, Pangzi at his side. His lungs shouldn’t burn anymore, the liquid all expelled, but they still do, as if set aflame. He coughs a couple of times to try and dislodge the sensation to no avail. “Did you cancel our hotel booking?”

“No, just extended it,” Su Wan says. “Hao-ge didn’t want to pay the cancellation fee.”

“Only because your pockets aren’t bottomless,” Yang Hao says. “If I wasn’t looking out for you, you’d run yourself into bankruptcy.” His tosses his arm over Li Cu’s shoulders, hand extending to tug at Su Wan’s ear, who gives a quiet yelp of surprise. “Plus, they have an all-day buffet. It would be a waste of money.”

“Ya Li,” Su Wan whines, and—it’s not perfect, the simmering anger and helplessness is still there, beneath his skin, raw from seeing Wu Xie again, but this helps. Li Cu laughs at him, and lets himself settle, slowly, back into familiarity.

#dmbj #li cu #wu xie #little treat for YOU!#spinecorset writes #c.txt

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 4 months

Text

Moon-chosen, Moon-guided - Part I

I wanted to feel accomplished and finish up the Isobel-centric counterpart to my previous BG3 fic here, but the length got away from me. So here is the first half, just in time to end the year. Hope you enjoy!

Be warned that this fic is once again pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Jaheira, and a bit of Shadowheart Length: ~9400 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Features classics such as hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, a complicated father/daughter relationship, flirty sparring, and coming back from the dead, in no particular order. The idea of Isobel's magical photography is something that has chosen to live in my brain ever since I read about it (here, for instance), so I simply had to include it.

Summary:

There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave. From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

The brilliant, defiant Beacon of Last Light many revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all.

Also on AO3.

—

Part I - Last Light - The Inn

It happens so very quickly, for something that would rewrite the fate of your home and all you ever loved for the next century. Like a carelessly tossed pebble turning into a rockslide.

An ominous chill that barely has the time to register fully; a bark-whine from Squire, cut short; a searing pain in-- through-- your side and your chest, fading into numbness within moments, so fast that you barely choke out a desperate blood-drowned breath as blackness swarms the edges of your vision; a frantic cry of Isobel! ringing out from somewhere above or below; and then--

nothing

and nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

---

"...bel. Isobel."

You know that voice, impossibly distant though it sounds. Your father's voice. Soft, barely rising above the dull droning noise in your ears. And then feeling trickles in, slowly but steadily. One cold hand on your cheek, one cradling your head as if to help you lift it, sending ice down your neck, down your spine, laid against cool, damp marble.

Your eyelids are heavy, so very heavy, and a weight is settled on your chest. You struggle to draw a first, raspy breath, then just barely manage another, but the third turns into a weak cough as the musty reek of a mausoleum overwhelms you. Smoky incense chokes lungs that already feel flooded. Your chest feels fit to burst with a heart straining to pump stale blood once more.

Your father hovers over you, exclaiming when you finally force your eyes open. It is hard to see him, in the shadows, with sight that doesn't work quite right just yet. He is older, so much older, and so much more worn and weathered than you've ever known him to be. But this apparition is also hideously not him, and it is beyond you to even try to understand the look nestled deep in the dark sockets of the dulled eyes, the miasmic air of rot and decay he exudes.

You double over and vomit black death-reeking ichor. And the twisted shade of your father rubs your back ever so gently, tries to steady you. Dabs at your face with a cloth that smells of alchemical herbs. Pats down your hair and shushes you, murmurs nonsense sounds of comfort, and holds you to him.

There are bones everywhere you look. Opened caskets, upturned marble sarcophagi, and an endless, endless sea of bone. Some arranged in patterns, circles, spirals - shapes so deliberate and familiar and deeply, deeply foul, you do not need conscious thought and acolyte training to recognise. An entire macabre skeletal dance makes up the armour you are pressed against, cutting into you like shards of ice.

You can barely manage breath. Speech feels right out of the question. You try, anyway, a feeble: "What--," until you are reduced to tearing, wet coughing again.

Cold hands to cold arms, you are moved to sit up fully. "Hush, don't strain yourself, Isobel. I'm here. I'm here." And then, reverently, "you're here."

He looks at you and smiles. "My Isobel," the once-beloved, grave-distorted voice is in awe. "My darling daughter, returned to me. We can be together again. A family once more." The mouth of the sickly grey shadow-laced corpse-face looming above you stretches into a perverse mockery of affection once lavished upon you by your dear father.

It is not him. It is not him. It is the broad, rough outline of Ketheric Thorm, filled in with something else, something wrong. This… warped creature of horror clad in bone and darkness cannot be him. But it is.

If I am back, where did I go? You want to ask. Where have I been?

Cold, dark, damp. Nothing but blackness. Shadows, grasping, from all around you, reaching within you, from within you. The feeble flicker of a few candles does nothing to subdue them. No light, no light can withstand… except…

You had warmth and light unconquerable, once. You remember little, can make sense of even less, but you do remember her.

"Aylin," you rasp out, "where is Aylin?"

It is hard to run in a funeral robe, on shaking, unsteady legs. But the fine cloth burns white and silver on you and the all-encompassing shadows do not touch you, recoiling when they try to reach and claw and grip.

And all the while something guides your steps; something so achingly familiar, a gentle yet unshakeable foundation upon which you had built up so much of your life, your self. Even though you feel like a stranger to your own bones, as if the rest of you might just slough off and leave you but a pile of dust, you travel safely and surely down an unseen path, laid before you as if it were a bright, moonlit, well-trod road, your pursuers nowhere to be seen.

The path She sets before us, your addled mind recites as it grasps around for something reassuring, but always it is us who must walk it.

You stop, gasping for air and doubling over in a fit of coughs, as a giant of wood and brick emerges from the shadows.

You knew this place, once. You celebrated here, attended festivals and feasts and casual drinks alike. Helped out at the bar on account of losing a bet - it amused them to see you fill ale mugs still in your initiate garb, and you cheered and jokingly bickered and laughed and laughed and laughed. Lived, alongside your friends and cousins and aunties and uncles, down every street and around every corner of what this town once was.

It is less an inn and more a dilapidated husk, now. And it echoes with the same feeling you bear of being hollowed out violently, then just as violently filled to the brim with something foul, wrong. But it is quiet, and it still stands despite the ruin of everything you have trudged through so far, as if it has been waiting for you to find it. The creak of the stairs as you climb up to the top floor is the only sound for miles.

Your feet take you around the landing, to a large room that must have been homey once. Then your eyes catch on the faded designs on the thick, ragged carpets on the floor, the luxurious chair by the now-cold fireplace right next to surprisingly well-stocked bookshelves, the large double bed with finely carved posts. And you remember scenes from what feels like someone else's life.

A slow trickle of memory, disjointed, of a time you stayed here for a good tenday after an argument with your father, attempting to prove a point, and of the poor innkeeper trying to play peacekeeper between you despite the steady stream of income your feud provided her in an off season for trade. More pleasantly, there was also a memorable birthday you spent here with Aylin, both of you away from formalities and duties, huddled together in your own little world for a precious few days.

Aylin, who treated you with such unimaginable tenderness, in the face of all her sheer divine strength. Aylin, who looked just as resplendent in dark blue brocade, offering you her arm at a function, as she did armoured and grime-covered, stepping off the battlefield to sweep you off your feet. Aylin, who gazed up at you with wide, bright, honest, adoring eyes as if you'd hung the very Moon in the sky, despite her being the daughter of the Moonmaiden herself.

Aylin, who was dead.

You peel off the grave-chilled garb, but still feel so deeply wrong you want to retch. Your lungs don't work right, again, and the darkness and dust covering the lounge in a thick carpet do nothing to help. In your struggle for air, you open up a large double door that exits onto a balcony, and are greeted with a wondrous sight.

Light. Weak, shimmery, so faint you might think it an illusion, a trick of your own addled mind. But it is there in all its diaphanous silver, and you know, somehow, it is for you.

You tear off the last remnants of the white silk funeral gloves and extend a hand towards it, into it. "Selûne, please," you rasp the hallowed, oft-spoken name out softly, barely above a despair-laden breath. "Please."

The moment the moonbeam - for it can be nothing else - touches your skin, you feel burning. But it is not a judgement, or a rejection, and you do not have it in you to fear such a thing, not now.

It singes you but doesn't - it sears something away, and you step into it, arms spread wide, welcoming it, or giving yourself up, you aren't sure which. Aren't sure there is much of a distinction to be made, anyway.

As you stay there, bathed, ignoring the sting of it - a miracle. It coalesces into something stronger, then stronger yet. A pillar of light forms around you and when you understand it is yours to do so, you step out of it.

It remains.

The shadows recede.

The inn has a closet full of dusty grey-silver Selûnite robes. You dress.

You dust off a cobwebbed mirror and gaze into the long-dead eyes of a corpse, the Moonmaiden's holy symbol rendered in detailed black ink upon its face. Then you take the entire frame out to the balcony, and arrange it so it catches and directs the precious light.

You kneel down in front of it, curled in on yourself to preserve what feeble warmth you are granted. You pray that whatever your father has become will not find you here. That the shadows will not reach you here.

In return, you receive a purpose.

You were very young when your mother died. The searing, half-understood pain of her departure had time to dull into an ache, then into a sense of absence you have grown up with, that will always be yet another part of you. You keep her final letter, and reread it less and less as the years and then decades go by. You can hear and feel her words just as well in the soft, warm moonlight that blankets Reithwin on blessed nights. It makes you feel like you can firmly grasp and hold and understand all that she tried to leave you with.

There is a distinct sense that she is proud of you. That she will see you again one day and tell you so herself. So you smile up at the Moon, the ever-changing treasured constant in your life, and bask in the pale, gentle love you receive in return.

When you lost a mother, Reithwin lost its head cleric. In the years since, it has had only interim duty-bearers. And you understood, years ago, even as you settled into a promising role in the House of Healing, that you were being looked to as the replacement.

And true - this has ever been your calling. You feel you were born for this service, sometimes, so easily does it come to you - the deeply felt devotion, the lightness of moonlight always ready at your fingertips, the sheer awareness of Her presence, of all She gives and provides and strives for. A cause so good and just and right you would barely deign to call it a choice - though a choice it is, always, freely made by you, again and again and again.

So when you reject the notion of taking up office at Reithwin - at least for the foreseeable future - and announce your plan for undertaking several pilgrimages of increasing length and complexity, it causes a stir among the clergy and a dark thundercloud to settle upon your father's brow.

The further away the locations you list as you stand before him in his study, oddly formal, the deeper his frown becomes. By the time you mention leaving Waterdeep and the House of the Moon and the settlements on the way to Neverwinter, he raises a hand to cut you off.

"I do not think this is wise, Isobel. There is need of you here. The roads are perilous--"

"I can take care of myself. You know I can, papa - you've seen to that. I have trained and prepared for this all my life." Then you smile, hopeful, and make your biggest misstep. "Besides, Aylin will be there to protect me, should the need arise--"

"Of course she will," you catch the mutter under his breath and your mouth slams shut.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and reach across the desk to lay a gentle, reassuring hand on your father's, meeting and holding his heavy gaze. "Reithwin is my home. No matter where the road takes me, no matter how far, I'll always come back. And to you as well, papa."

Reithwin, ancestral seat of your family, safe and idyllic, surely does not need you as much as the wide world; the vast, colourful, challenging variety of the realms. There is so much you can do, and offer. What good are gifts if you are not going to use them? Hoarding them, hiding away, sheltered - no, you refuse to be a waste.

"I need you here, Isobel."

There is an edge of desperation to your father's voice that makes your breath catch and your eyes burn. A pain that calls to mind, oddly, the sting of the black ink being slowly applied around your lids, a needle shaping the curl of the holy symbol down towards your cheekbones.

And there it is, perhaps - the real root of the struggle at hand.

"I can't be your little girl forever," you exhale, frustration mounting, somewhat undercut when you see the naked hurt on his face. "I can't be just that," you amend. "I have an entire life to live. My own life."

"With Aylin," he suggests darkly. Disapprovingly. "And when she carelessly discards you, a mayfly in her eyes--"

"Is that what this is truly about, again? Father," not quite papa at the moment, no, as you try so very hard to keep your calm in the face of your own rising irritation, "must we?"

"How can I not, Isobel? When she has clearly been feeding you this - this drivel."

"It has nothing to do with her!"

The doubt is writ plainly all over his face, and you bristle. Fine. If he is not ready to relinquish his chokehold over Isobel Thorm, cherished daughter, then he will have to reckon with Isobel, accomplished cleric of Selûne, and prospective Silver Lady initiate. You let go of his hand and step back, square your shoulders demonstratively, stand up ramrod straight.

"Our Lady champions and rewards self-sufficiency, agency, travel, and discovery - of ourselves, the world around us, and all in it who might need guidance or help in any way. It is mine to freely give, and I intend to do so, wherever I am needed. In Her name."

You turn and leave without waiting for your father to scrounge up a response.

It is the last conversation you have with him for a century.

You've snuck enough glances at the dates on the Harper reports and missives by now. It sends your head into a spin and you try so very desperately not to think of the sheer implications, but--

A hundred years.

It feels impossible to wrap your mind around it. That you've been gone for so long, an entire lifetime spent in the grave. That you are here, now, after all this time, and so much has changed. The world at large you know next to nothing about, but the place and the people that once made up your own are… gone, or worse.

It feels like a cruel jab of fate, then, to find it, stuck between the wall and a half-disintegrated cabinet's hardwood back: a picture, one of your own, somehow preserved after all this time, left here for you to rediscover after losing it so unthinkably long ago.

It seems like an odd yet exceedingly bittersweet passtime now, your efforts to capture moments, memories, and people, and immortalise them. You remember some poking fun at you even then, when the first sheets of silver coating on resin-treated paper came out a blurry mess. When later you wandered around town, hunting for the perfect angle of the perfect view you wished to capture. But are not light and mirrors and silver all tools favoured by Your Lady?

Time-consuming, each one, to get just right, to get the colours to set properly, to get the sharpness - but each and every one became a precious little capsule of Reithwin and its people. (Oh, if you'd known!)

It felt good to give families the small comfort of a picture of their lost loved one, when they were beyond the help of even the famed House of Healing. When they had neither the time nor means for more traditional portraiture.

You took so many of Aylin. She humoured you, of course, as she did all your whims and oddities, with an earnest fascination and yearning that made your heart swell, sometimes painfully so. She laughed, too, at the idea of immortalising her, the unchanging immortal, of capturing her in a moment. When she would live in it. Forever.

Worry not - I am not leaving your side, sweet Isobel. Spoken always with the slightest tinge of sadness, if either of you stopped to think about it. That always it would be you leaving her.

By virtue of the process and of the artisan, there are no such pictures of you. You think you might prefer it this way.

All told, you took dozens, hundreds, even, once you perfected the method. But to your knowledge only one picture survives. A picture, now a hundred years old - and you would feel thrilled at the quality of your handiwork if the situation were less grim - of the two people you cared for most, who you naturally wanted to care for each other most. Who humoured you that day: two stubborn, mighty paladins posed together, awkward truce radiating off of them both, but radiating also endless, endless love - for you.

You will never stop wondering what truly became of them, after they lost both the thing that bound them together and that kept tearing them apart - you.

Did they ever grieve together? Or did they just lose themselves in throwing around curses and accusations? Instead of tragedy helping them to bridge the gap that had always existed between them, did it instead turn it into this chasm that has swallowed whole everything you ever knew and loved?

What happened?

What went wrong?

How could Aylin, immortal, be--

A knock at the door, followed by Jaheira's voice, pulls you out of the reverie that was threatening to become an abyss. "Isobel?"

You tuck the picture out of sight, stand and straighten out your robes, and take a few deep breaths that do nothing to calm you and only threaten to turn into coughs. Then you open the door of your room, and Jaheira almost knocks you over stepping in without any further greeting or preamble.

"Here," she turns to you, unceremoniously shoving a variety of items into your hands, and you barely manage to keep up without dropping anything. Another small mirror; a tarnished but visibly real silver bowl; a tin pot that smells only slightly sour.

"We have been doing… inventory. I don't know the finer details of your rituals but I know some of what you need - you will have to tell me the rest. To you, Isobel, belongs the honour of receiving the final scrounged-up dregs of this inn's uncurdled milk." With a wry smile, she nods towards the door to the landing, "and there's two more reasonably uncracked mirrors downstairs."

The mood whiplash is making you dizzy. "Thank you, I… I'll be sure to get them. You're right - they will help with focusing the moonlight that makes it through the shadow shroud. All of this will."

You manage a smile, even. The one Jaheira graces you with in return is slightly less keen-edged than what you've come to think of as her usual.

"You and your Lady of Silver snatched us from the claws of a very unpleasant shadow-cursed doom. And now you act as our main bastion - at some cost to yourself, I'd wager, though I know you won't tell me. I'd be a fool not to do everything in my power to help bolster your efforts." She inclines her head in a simple, grateful nod, and you almost, almost want to break down and tell her everything. Let spill all the unpleasant truths you leave buried the way you sometimes think you yourself should have been. "Thank you, Isobel."

You choke down another treacherous cough and the gnawing guilt. If she knew who you truly were, she'd never look at you like that. She'd never talk to you like that.

Something about this sharp, weathered, experienced, stubbornly uncowed version of a famed hero you'd only started to collect tales and songs about, before-- well. It would have doubtlessly been an honour and a thrill to meet her then. But now? How much has she seen, what has she done, what impossibilities has she survived, in the hundred years you've been gone? A storied hero, the High Harper, and who knows what else besides.

But here, in the strange, desperate whirlwind you have become caught up in, she feels like the stalwart support beam without which you would be utterly lost, and all of Last Light with you. Perhaps most irrationally of all, she makes you feel something resembling safe , even though to call your situation a nightmare would be putting it mildly.

"You're very welcome, Jaheira. If you have a moment, I…"

You trail off, thinking of asking her, like a child, to spare a few minutes to sit with you and tell you a story of one of her adventures. Something with an eclectic cast of loyal, brave Harpers and a happy ending. Something that took place far away from here, to take you both far away from here. There has to be at least one in her repertoire, surely?

She looks at you expectantly, an expressive eyebrow raised. Instead, you motion towards the balcony doors, the items for your would-be altar held precariously in your arms. "It's nothing, never mind. I'll get the ritual ready. Thank you, again, for… all of this. I'll come downstairs for the mirrors shortly."

Jaheira doesn't argue this time, and though her gaze on you is uncomfortably piercing and follows you all the way outside, she says nothing at all.

There is no real day and no real night in the inn of Last Light. Only endless twilight, glimmering remnants of shadows seared away by moonlight. Utterly ruinous to the very idea of regular sleep - even if such a luxury were afforded you.

Tired, tired, tired. The exhaustion has sunk so deep into your bones you cannot fathom the idea of it ever leaving.

You trudge down the stairs, numbly relieved there are no Harpers or Fists for you to greet with a plastered-on smile, and retrieve your bowlful of milk for the day.

There is a cat, somehow. A sleek, furless, vain thing. It slunk in with one of the patrols, and nobody has ever questioned its presence. You gave it a brief once-over with some simple divination, found nothing to threaten your haven, and so it stayed.

You attempt a scratch between its ears in passing, and it mewls at you almost angrily, a bit of claw catching on the worn leather of the gloves that continue to fail to warm your hands at all.

Unbidden, your mind dredges up memories of Squire, the fiercest of warhounds and most gentle and loyal of girls. The precious litter of her puppies you welcomed, raised around Reithwin.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing is left untouched. Death and decay and shadows of a life. Of lives . Exchanged for what - your own dullened half-existence? A horrid bargain if there ever was one. The endless reports of horrors, of deliberate atrocities that the monster that was once your father wrought throughout the land crowd the edges of your mind and you pause, working very hard to push them out and regain your calm.

"Hello there, Isobel. Everything alright?"

Marcus. One of the Flaming Fists who's been in your little haven the longest, whose presence you've almost gotten used to.

You swallow and smudge away the blackened tears before turning to face him. Your vigil - for what else could you call it? - is endless. The commitment and focus required is endless as well. You don't have the time or capacity for this now. Still, the man has never been anything but perfectly polite and friendly, and you had manners and decorum thoroughly instilled in you, a long time ago.

"Just getting everything ready for the prayer. Thank you for the concern," you reply almost airily, sloshing the milk around in your little bowl, not quite meeting his eyes. "Duty calls, and all that. Good night."

He mutters something non-committal in return, and you get a vague, uneasy sense he is not convinced by your casual façade, feel his eyes bore through your back as you leave. Still, you push the encounter from your mind, quietly make your way back upstairs, and avoid any further disturbance.

You adjust the angle of a mirror and try to grasp at the threads of moonlight that have made it to you today. After a few failed attempts as they slip through your fingers, you shake away your misery-laden distraction, gather up the light and reinforce, strengthen, bolster.

The shield is enough for yet another night.

There is no warmth. There will never be warmth in your world again.

Jaheira's sharp, knowing gaze has caught you shivering miserably one too many times, witnessed your futile efforts to rub life and feeling back into your gloved hands, and so there is a well-tended roaring fire in your room's fireplace, even when you forget to stoke it.

But it doesn't help.

The chill of the mausoleum, the dark damp of the stone and the coffin. It will not out. It is in you so deep you might as well claw your own heart out to remove it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it just in time - a crack in the moonlight dome, the one thing between you all and oblivion. So you rush out to your altar-balcony, arms raised.

"No," you breathe to yourself, to the stale shadow-night air, to no one in particular, "no, I will not allow it. I won't let you win."

Your spells are stronger than ever. You channel moonlight that beats back shadow and burns brighter than ever before, rotten conduit notwithstanding.

Your shield holds.

It holds even when you fight off the attack of an insidious traitor, as you cling to consciousness despite blood loss and bruising and struggle to shake off the burning, paralytic claws of the monstrosities that have surrounded you. That have dared to invade your precious, hard-won safe haven.

You allow the rage boiling in you to bubble over, to fuel your wild spear-strikes. You gasp for breaths that refuse to come right and cough and spit out blood and incantations both. The ghouls fall or flee from you, scorched, terrified, sad remnants finished off by Jaheira's faithful scimitars, and then the only foe before you is the one who was once a man.

It is something you've had all the miserable time in the world to ponder. Something you made up your mind on what feels like an age ago, now. Given the chance, you would strike at Ketheric Thorm with neither hesitation nor mercy. But he hides, coward, in his tower - your long-lost childhood home - and sends out pawns and playthings to drag you back to him. Keeping himself safely out of reach, for all his fabled claims of invulnerability.

But Marcus, Marcus is here, a pair of hideous, rotten wings on his back, and he gloats, spreads them so arrogantly, so boastfully--

You sear them with white-hot moonfire, and you feel more alive as he screams and collapses than you have in all the time since your supposed resurrection.

For such a long while you have had neither time nor space for grief. You are too tired, tired of waiting, of holding out against shadows, of making yourself into nothing but the perfect conduit, of pouring all of yourself into holding out for this one far-fetched hope and the final stand you were never going to be present for.

If the Harpers fail, storming the towers, what will become of you? Alone, in the inn, waiting, waiting, waiting, until your mind or your spirit or your body finally give out, buckle from the strain of holding up the moonlit shield for someone who will never return.

Eating, sleeping, breathing, all of it kept to a bare minimum. What little camaraderie can be found amongst the Harpers, the Fists, the refugees - none of it extends to you, their precious saviour, their lodestar and bastion.

The Beacon of Last Light they revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all - purposefully, by your doing, and for very good reason.

You have never felt so alone among so many.

And then, a miracle.

Streaking across the sky, a bright comet from the hands of Selûne herself. Driving away thorn and vine and shadow - beating back something within you, as well. For a moment, hands clenched around the railing on the dilapidated balcony that was your temple and your altar, for the first time since your awakening, you feel as if you can breathe. The metallic scent of moonlight and silver and the incense burning around the fresh milk in your ritual bowl penetrate through the miasma coating your lungs.

It cannot possibly be... and yet you feel stubborn, foolish hope settle in your chest like an ember, burning a hole right through you.

"She is dead." Ketheric had said it with all the finality of the tomb, the deep scowl carved in the jagged shadows of his face. Only later did you grasp what it must have done to him, for Aylin's name to be the first one on your lips upon awakening.

(Later still, once more of the awful truth becomes yours to mull over and live with, you will shudder to think what he would have done to her in turn, had she been within reach. An odd thing, to have even the smallest of thanks for Shar and her treacherous, labyrinthine plots.)

You've told so many not to trust Ketheric Thorm, traitor, oathbreaker, false and fallen. Monster.

And yet you unquestioningly believed him in this. Perhaps because it seemed only natural, in this horrid void that the Lady of Loss had made your home, your life into, that your angel, immortal and indomitable, would be taken from you against all odds, as well.

You stand and gaze over the ancient battlefields and the darkness Jaheira and the Harpers marched off into from where you climbed to pray for their safe return. And above all you yearn for the miracle of it being her. With every stolen breath you feel unworthy of such a blessing even more.

It is her, unmistakable beneath the blood and grime. It is her, but changed, just like everything else you'd count in the remnants of your life - not even she, divine, could escape this unscathed.

Pale-grey as marble, with dark shadows around her oddly haunted but blazing eyes, every inch of her that you can see laced with shining golden scars beyond counting.

And you've seen this before - been shown this before: your darling bled silver and scarred gold as an odd manifestation of her heritage. But this is so far beyond even the worst of the battlefield trophies you ever sat her down to heal.

What happened to her?

You recall the words that had sparked such hope in you, now in a brief flash of horror - an immortal Ketheric had imprisoned in the Shadowfell.

How? How could he not see that you've always treasured her as much as yourself? That by raising a hand against her, so unthinkably far beyond breaking any rules of hospitality or kinship, he could have only swatted you away from him utterly.

She falls to her knees, gasping out your name in hallowed shock, disbelief laced with painful hope, as all of her divine radiance seems to melt away, leaving behind only Aylin, your dearest, most beloved.

You reach out with a gentle touch to her chin, just enough to tip her face up to look at you. It is all you dare do, for now - what if she dissipates into so much moonwhisp-smoke, nothing but a dream? Her wide, teary eyes are filled to the brim with matching wonder when they meet yours.

And you realise: you forgot, for the first time in days, perhaps months - as soon as you were caught up within her silver glow - that you were supposed to be dead.

Jaheira shoots glances at you and Aylin with the most inscrutable yet oddly soft look in her eyes all evening. A part of you itches to ask for clarification, to finally know more about the woman behind the hero who's done her very best to share what she could of your burden. But you are loath to prod at what must be old, old wounds - not when there are still so many fresh ones to patch up.

You muster up the courage to approach her almost in passing, on your way out of the central hall.

"I am happy for you two," she lays a hand on your shoulder, stiff, as if dusting the cobwebs off of the whole idea of camaraderie. You stop to fully face her, releasing Aylin's hand for what seems like the first time since your reunion and letting her hesitantly step outside without you. Jaheira shakes her head.

"Go," she urges, a knowing smirk on her face. "Don't waste time you could be spending with her, in this short breath we have been afforded. The briefings and strategising and endless planning will wait."

A nod towards the corner Aylin turned not moments ago, a gentle shove, and that look of long-held sadness that years have turned into a dull ache, bearable but ever-present. Something you might have seen on your own father's face, before… before. "Don't squander your miracle."

For once, you don't stifle your urge to embrace her. And to your surprise she returns it, firm, warm, and only slightly awkward, making vague tutting sounds of disapproval throughout.

Then you hasten outside into the receding gloom to catch up with Aylin, and you do not look back.

It is an unusually warm and bright summer day for Reithwin, the relentless sun urging you to rush your errands around town and make your way home to the merciful shade. And it is upon your return there that you find the glorious Dame Aylin laying waste to an army of training dummies in the otherwise empty practice field beneath Moonrise Towers.

You steal a moment to watch and appreciate the spectacle that is her entire being in perfectly orchestrated motion, uncharacteristically free of her ever-polished armour, sleeves rolled up - a vision of ferocity, even if it is against such laughably unworthy foes.

It calls to your mind, amusingly, the poor announcer in your father's audience chamber a little over a month ago, so very unusually formal and far too visibly nervous, struggling to rattle off one too many titles.

The Valiant Dame Aylin Silverblood, Undefeated Sword of the Moonmaiden, Paladin and Daughter of Selûne. Arriving as formal Emissary of Our Lady of Silver, speaking in Her name.

She turns when she hears you clearing your throat to announce your presence, an indulgent while after your arrival. Ever so slightly out of breath, with a subtle sheen of sweat on her radiant brow, she inclines her head with respect. "Ah! Lady Isobel. I was just thinking of sending to fetch you. A request, if you please."

"Of course, Dame Aylin." Anything for the resplendent emissary, you want to add, only half-teasingly. It is frustratingly difficult not to act a smitten fool around her, and sarcasm has proved a feeble defence from her charms.

Her request, however, is nowhere near anything you might have anticipated.

"I would have you meet me in the sparring ring, if you are willing."

You blink. "I-- pardon?"

"You are no mere lord's daughter, nor are you simply the demure local healer. I can tell by your bearing you have training. Not the typical mace of the clergy, no," she hums, as if in thought, looking you up and down quite brazenly, appraisingly. "The rapier, perhaps, along with a dagger for the offhand? No, rather, the quarterstaff--"

"The spear," you cut her off. And the lofty, approving tilt of her chin is so fetching as to be insufferable. "I can protect myself, you're right. My father is an accomplished general, after all," and stiflingly overprotective to boot, but that part you bite back and keep to yourself. "It is only fitting. Besides, any devotee of Our Lady knows how important it is to be able to fend for oneself."

"Show me, then, general's daughter," she gestures to the packed-dirt training ring with a grin. "I grow quite bored of this straw-filled wicker regiment I have been pitted against."

She's got a good head and a half of height on you. Her reach outclasses yours quite overwhelmingly. She is visibly broad and strong and unshakeable as a mighty fortress. And though you do indeed have training, the martial arts were hardly your main focus - very much unlike her.

A challenge, truly, but one you cannot help but suddenly crave.

"Fine, then, I accept." A giddiness washes over you as you speak, and your head feels oddly light. The heat and humidity of the day, surely. Treading dangerous ground, Isobel.

Aylin immediately goes over to the training weapon racks to put away the blunt sword she has been using, and you follow her.

"I have trained in arms of all sorts, but I find I most favour the greatsword," she muses as she rummages, retrieving two wooden staves with padded ends, testing their weight. "The spear I must confess I have neglected somewhat, in recent times."

You smirk as she hands you a staff that has evidently passed inspection. "There is no need for excuses, Dame Aylin. When I trounce you, I assure you it will have been fair and square and well deserved."

You expect the hearty bellow of her laugh, some lively banter in return, an exclamation, Ho! Instead, she inclines her head in a respectful gesture, and does so with a surprisingly soft smile and oddly inscrutable gaze in your direction. "I would expect no less of you, my lady."

You look away hastily, wipe the sweat from your hands and put on the leather gloves from your belt. The day has been far too hot for them and the afternoon sun is still beating down fiercely, but you are not about to embarrass yourself and risk losing on the technicality of a splinter.

Then, you face each other.

Her stance and the way she holds the wooden training weapon speak of years, decades… centuries of experience, perhaps. It is hard to truly imagine, and you find you do not really know. Immortal, yes, but… well, since when? Does she have a universe of deeds and escapades on you, a hundred lives lived to the fullest, or merely the knowledge that they lie ahead of her?

When could it possibly be polite to ask such a thing?

You shake away the distraction of your thoughts, just in time to block a quick, testing blow aimed at your own weapon. A tease, really, hoping for a reaction you know well enough not to provide.

She continues with the probing attacks, none of them with any real force behind them, and you think how under normal circumstances it might be a good strategy to let your opponent waste her strength and tire herself out like this - but you know better. You have discreetly observed enough of her training sessions to know that if she is anything at all she is tireless.

But she is leaving it up to you to attempt anything other than these light provocations. So you do - you would hate to disappoint, after all.

You strike out high at her head, once, twice, then at her front leg, swift as a viper, and when she moves her weapon down to parry, you jab at her shoulder and step back in time to avoid the afterblow.

"Oh-ho! An excellent feint, perfectly executed!" The joy that lights her face even as she rolls the struck shoulder is so infectious, you can't help but laugh breathlessly, warmed by this small triumph. "I was indeed correct in my assumption - the most noble Lady Isobel is not to be underestimated. Her skills and merit extend far beyond even the lofty requirements of her duties - be they of the court or of the faith."

The next strike you attempt, flushed with both the heat of the day and the effusive praise, is met with far more resistance, and soon you are exchanging blows with vigour. She repays your shoulder blow with a tap to your hip, then tries to strike the staff from your hands in a disarm you just barely avoid with a well-timed tilt.

Your next attempt at a feint is parried at the very last moment, but you do not retreat, and so you end in a bind. She is much stronger than you, yes, but your angle is superior, and you can see her straining to stay in position, close to that ever-important centreline, and keep her balance. A bead of sweat trails down her neck to her collarbone, and it takes you a moment to realise you are following it, rapt. It takes you another moment to register she is staring at you just as raptly, even as you feel your hair sticking to your temples and realise the paint around your eyes is likely a smudged mess.

Distraction. An opening if you've ever seen one.

"Do you know, when I heard an emissary of Selûne was coming to our town, I did not expect her to have a bard's silver tongue on her." Instead of moving to disengage and putting distance between you, you draw even closer to her, until your mouth is almost at her ear. "In more ways than one, perhaps?"

Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed silver, shining. It is the oddest and most captivating blush you have ever seen, made only more so by the closeness of your study.

And of course, the moment of distraction proves sufficient for that slight shift you needed. The great oak topples with so little effort - leverage, always, the key. Her reaction is faster than you anticipated, however, and so with the force of her riposte you go down right after her. Foolish of you, really - the thought has time to rush through your mind as your sense of balance disappears - to underestimate an accomplished paladin so.

In any case, within moments, Aylin is on the ground, and you land atop her. You have enough presence of mind, somehow, despite the proximity and the warmth and the, well-- to reach for where your weapon started to roll away and press the end of it lightly against her neck. "Yield?"

She raises her hands, palms up in surrender, and nods, struck speechless for once.

You scramble rather gracelessly to your feet in all your triumph, and offer her a hand up. She accepts, then somewhat disappointingly lets go to dust herself off before you've had a chance to fully appreciate the feel of her hand in yours.

"Well!" Aylin turns the bright glint of her full attention on you, charmingly tousled still. "I see no point in struggling to prolong a losing battle. A challenge, skillfully won." She steps closer to you and inclines her head in a slight bow. "Besides, I can tell my yielding on the field of battle pleases you, and I am not one to deny a lady her pleasure."

All of it spoken with a smile, and a shockingly honest, unmasked, open, and entirely unabashed look in her eyes. Damn her.

You do your best, feebly, to catch your breath and return to something resembling calm propriety. And you fail to squash a niggling doubt. "Thank you for the bout, Dame Aylin. But… honestly now, were you holding back?"

"Only as much as is appropriate for the training ring, of course. One is never to exert one's full might in these circumstances, as you well know." She shakes her head, a small frown furrowing her brow, and you can't help but feel this is a recitation she has been made to repeat until it stuck, something she had to deliberately become aware of after getting carried away one too many times. A thought to file away for later, perhaps. "But not in the sense you doubtlessly meant, no. I would not pretend and deceive after asking a fair duel of you. Such things are beneath Dame Aylin."

The heat floods your cheeks again. Damn her phrasing.

"Ah," she clears her throat. "The day has grown too hot for martial pursuits, I fear - let us retire."

She offers you her arm, ever gallant. You allow yourself the bold indiscretion of taking it only after you have peeled off your gloves and tucked them back in your belt. You've not known Dame Aylin for a very long time, but you are well aware she is possibly the least subtle creature in all of Faerûn. The ill-concealed catch in her breath and stiffening in her shoulders as your skin meets hers is a treasured token you stow away for further contemplation.

It is a regrettably short walk to the pleasantly shaded entrance hall of Moonrise.

Aylin pauses after closing the door behind the both of you, palm pressed flat against it, as if gathering herself. Hesitant as you haven't seen her be since those earliest days of your courtship, a clear tension running through her, to the very tips of her wings. A flutter to them, to her, you'd even dare to call nervous. One you yourself feel nestle somewhere in your belly, with a surge of fear - what if she can tell, with her refined and otherworldly senses, what if she can recognise everything that is wrong within you? What if she, of all people, recoils from you in disgust, confirming all your darkest, deepest doubts?

"Aylin?"

She finally turns as you softly call to her, the broad, armoured shoulders sagging somewhat, and stops again to gaze at you like a wondrous revelation.

Then she surges forward, rushes to kiss you again, more deeply and thoroughly than that brief, breathless reunion in front of all your allies. You in turn rush to peel off your gloves to run your hands through her hair, to touch her beautiful, cherished face so very tenderly with no bothersome barrier between you.

The ache to reacquaint her with gentleness and care and all the immense affection you feel wanting to burst out of you is overwhelming. Your hands are icy still, but Aylin does not seem to mind, and takes them in her own, then draws them to her lips to kiss the digits one by one.

She buries her face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you, and you cling to her just as tightly. Allow yourself to focus on nothing but the feel of her warm breath on your skin and of her strong, if regrettably steel-clad, frame in your arms.

"Isobel," she murmurs, intoning it like a prayer, over and over again. "Isobel. My Isobel, returned to me."

You insist on slowly and utterly inefficiently removing her armour yourself, once her disbelief has simmered down and allowed a brief, temporary end to the crushing embrace. The lengthy, involved process is made even longer by her impractical refusal to ever fully break contact between you.

She in turn insists on setting you down on the barely-used bed and spending considerable time on her knees before you, enraptured in her favourite form of worship. And you - you find you have no complaints to give. Not when something resembling warmth has finally returned to your world. Not when there is light that you are not painstakingly wringing out of your own self. Not when it drives away all thought of the deep-set wrongness within you.

And it never fails to rob you of breath, to astound, since the very first time you saw her thus: the Moonmaiden's daughter, a blessed, angelic being, knelt before you in such utter devotion. It was almost too much to bear then, and still is now. Her eyes, her mouth, her fingers. Divine all.

And then, the way she happily, even eagerly bows to your touch, led by your hand, your will, your every word. Magnificent and mighty, glorious and oathbound, immense strength restrained and controlled, all for you.

You, so undeserving, and if she but stopped for a moment, if she were to look--

When the unwelcome darkness crowds again in a moment of distraction and another shudder climbs up your spine, chill chasing chill, strong, familiar arms draw you in, holding you from behind. Aylin presses against you as closely as she can manage, as if seeking to obliterate the very thought of you ever being apart. Kisses, still with an undertone of desperation, rain against your neck, down to your shoulder, with the slightest scrape of teeth. Pale wings, downy and sleek in turns and as fine-wrought as the softest starglow, move to envelop you both. Protecting but also hiding, almost - uncharacteristically, for someone wont to proclaim her love for the whole world to admire and envy.

You feel welcome, precious warmth sinking into you anew along with the murmurs of exaltations against the sensitive tip of your ear. You breathe out Aylin's name and feel her shudder behind you, running all the way to the tip-feathers of her wings.

"Let me hear you, my love. Please." Her fingers trail up your throat as if she is trying to draw sound out of you. "Do not deny me your sweet voice, a balm for my heart," she continues her plea before you have a chance to respond at all. "One I feared I would never be graced with again. Lost to me forever, now… now… found. Here, with me. Precious, darling Isobel."

Her own voice falters - a melodious trumpet proclaiming victory on the battlefield, but capable of becoming such a soft, gentle caress when with you - and a tear drips onto your shoulder.

You turn in her arms to kiss her in hopes of providing comfort and instead you taste reminders you cannot escape, as your tongue meets the golden crack splitting her lower lip. The sudden need to shower her in tenderness is so strong it takes you aback, and you stop, catching your breath.

Then you push so very lightly against her, one hand on her sternum, to get her to lie amid the mismatched, piled-up pillows - and she is once again so delightfully eager to follow your lead. You continue with feather-light touches on her strong, treasured, beautifully open face, down her neck and arms and chest. Nothing but gentleness for her tonight.

You hold her gaze as you hover above her, perched on her somewhat precariously. Bright eyes so overflowing with trust and love, utterly incapable of masking it, and unable to even comprehend why one would ever try. That great, fierce, ever-beating heart. You lay a hand over it, over the interlocked scars forming a golden centrepiece on her chest. And you want to weep for the sheer divine beauty of her and the unfathomable cruelty wrought by your own blood.

"Let me take care of you, my love," you lean down to murmur against her ear and she nods a wide-eyed hitched-breath acquiescence.

The first time that night that you fail to stifle it and your cough wakes Aylin from hard-won rest, you wince at the nakedly concerned look in her eyes. And then the cold fear floods you at the questions she is doubtlessly preparing to ask.

But instead, she sits up and moves to hold you to her chest, and pulls at the covers on the bed until they envelop you both. The two of you stay that way, wordless, until the hitch in your breath passes, and you sink back down into sleep.

Well after the towers have been stormed and ransacked, when most of Last Light has prepared to move out and join the Harpers at Moonrise for the final stretch of road to Baldur's Gate, Shadowheart approaches you with a crumpled, yellowed paper note.

It is not exactly a surprise to see her, truth be told. You've been expecting her to come to you with questions, after she has had some time to mull over the upheaval of her own life and the revelations Aylin paid for her freedom with. Once she's wrested out of it all some understanding of what it even is she wants or needs to ask. Whenever it was to come, you swore to yourself you'd do your very best to be gentle and generous with her.

You hardly started off on the right foot with Shadowheart - quite understandably, of course, considering.

Now you look upon her and feel the strangest tumbling mix of feelings: pity, that she was a victim of a Sharran plot; anger, that they would kidnap and torment a child and rob her of her future just to spite Your Lady; gratefulness, that her lapse, her knife-edge decision spared your Aylin's life and returned her to you so miraculously; and a roiling bitterness that she could have ended her, endless, on that wicked spear-tip just as easily.

But oddly enough, questions are not what she has for you at all.

"Here," she starts, unceremoniously, proffering the bit of paper. "We found this on-- nevermind." Terrible Sharran material, really, this Shadowheart, and you almost, almost want to laugh. As if you haven't seen her cleaning Ketheric's skeletal armour herself. "I thought... if you wanted... to remember him by."

She doesn't remember much of herself, of her parents - you know this from what Aylin has told both you and her in brief, quiet confidences, a part of the grand tale of her long-awaited unshackling. Much of it (and very obviously) sanitised for your sake still. So this must be a painfully honest effort at an olive branch. You stare at her for far too long and wonder if you see misplaced envy in her gaze. Wonder if you envy her, a little.

What a pair you make.

You take the bit of paper from her and look over it quickly - you don't remember writing it. You drew and wrote and scribbled hundreds of little scraps much like this. Why this particular one received the honour of preservation and how is beyond you.

You would have perhaps been inclined to accuse her of a typical Sharran plot to pour salt into wounds and rejoice in another's loss with a sickening eagerness, once. But she is so very obvious and straightforward about it all - entirely unbecoming of her former supposed ilk. You wonder, idly, if her travelling companions saw something of this in her as well, behind all of the dark trappings and posturing.

"Thank you," you mutter, ultimately. Shadowheart means well, and you know you should encourage this. "Kind of you, to think of me."

A nod, a brief moment of awkward, slightly tense silence, and then she leaves. Any questions she might have you suppose she will keep for some other time.

You sit by yourself in the emptied-out room and clutch the note in silence for a long while. Eventually, you let yourself weep for the man who died when his daughter did, and for the little girl he refused to let go.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #i love them and wish them all the succor in the world #what's that you say knight/lady flavoured nonsense oh don't mind if i do

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