#that was basically my thought process lol. anyways hope whoever read this enjoyed it!

[archonsbane]

BEAUTY IS TERROR

The gods crafted all mortals to have weaknesses, and foremost of many of Il Dottore’s is you. So when you ask him to be your companion to an annual winter ball, he is powerless to refuse. 

pairing. prime!dottore x reader, implied segments x reader, implied harbingers x reader, implied dottore x pantalone 

cw. gn!reader. reader is the tsarita’s child. reader referred to as they/them. dottore is a warning by himself. mentions & thoughts of violence + murder + human experimentation. drinking. biting. biting hard enough to draw blood. a bit suggestive but not nsfw. 

wc. 15k

an. first ever fic! hope you enjoy :D the title is from ‘the secret history’ by donna tartt. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away. 

He remembers the first time. He had been a child then, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, so unknowing about the world. His parents were fighting — they always fought, about money and work and him — and his father, a big man with small-set eyes and a hard mouth made for scowling, had begun to go on one of his drunken rants, prompting his mother to scream louder. He was crouched behind the stairwell, watching their shadows flicker and dance with the candlelight on the yellowed walls of their home. 

How hard he prayed that autumn day. His lip quivering, hands clasped together, every atom in his body searching for a hint of mercy from those who claimed to love him, both gods and parents. Stop, he would chant in his mind, stop, stop, stop. As brown and red leaves fell outside, as day turned to night, he prayed. He had never prayed so long or so hard until that day. The shouting never stopped and the gods remained silent.

Autumn reigned outside, and his faith died with the spring. It was a season of rot: the rot of the earth without, the rot of faith and soul within. He sucked in a harsh, shaky breath as the walls trembled from the screams. For a moment the house pulsed as though it had a heart. If it did, it had long been poisoned. 

He slipped out when the house went quiet, his parents dragged to exhaustion by their fight. There was no real goal in his mind, only that he wanted to run far, far away. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him, the wind in his hair, the distant call of birds at his back. He ran and ran and ran, and sooner or later the sun found him alone in the woods and free. 

Not for long. His parents found him three days later, surviving only on berries and the leavings of other beasts, grass-stained and muddied, yet cleaner than he had ever felt. He had shed his faith like a dirty coat, and his shoulders trembled with new-found purpose. That little rebellion earned him the worst beating he ever took in that house, but it no longer mattered. 

The next two times were far less pleasant. Even after all these years, they still rankle him. It had been a dark, starless night when the villagers came to cast him out. For his ‘madness’ and ‘monstrosity’, or whatever the hell they were shouting at him. He was too busy trying to not die to listen to all that. Some carried pitchforks, other crudely-made cudgels, and bats, yet all carried torches. It was like all the stars had come down from the sky to enact upon him his inevitable destruction. Inevitable, but Dottore did not believe in such silly lies anymore. He would take his fate and crush it with his hands and build a new one from smoke and ash. That house was the chain that tethered him to that broken old village. He burned it down that night, his parents still inside, and the chain broke; it was more than liberty: it was rebirth. He likes to think he was born on that ashen grass surrounded by the house’s fire and brimstone remains, sweaty and stained with blood. The Tsaritsa claims all the Harbingers are her children, but he knows he is not a holy child, just a creature forged from Hell. But Heaven imparted on him a farewell curse: the jagged scars that run down the left side of his face to his neck, smoking with resentment and remembrance. He left before the villagers could find out he was, in fact, not dead. 

Sumeru Akademiya, he thought, would be different. All the scholars were mad for knowledge, he had heard. So was he. He had expected to find a treasure trove of opportunity. He found old gray sages scared of their own shadows and peers who could not tell the difference between madness and truth. It was a shame, really. Nothing is as pitiful as something with wasted potential. But he had long learned if life did not go as planned, he would carve his way through, as a river changes the earth. And so once more he ran. 

The next time, fate would not catch him running like prey pursued. The Fatui had given him the opportunity to create the enhanced humans he knows could surpass the Heavens above. The next time, the gods above would meet their equal: a mortal man who, too, has learned the divine act of creation. 

“You’re thinking again.” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and back into the planes of reality. “Am I really so boring of a companion that your mind has to wander off?” 

He frowns, tapping at the armrest of his chair. Sometimes the memories come back to him unbidden, especially when he wants to think of anything but the present that sits in front of him. You sit across from him (it was his intention that he sit as far away from you as possible), legs informally crossed, your elbow resting on one knee and your chin cupped by your palm. You look nothing like the feared heir to Snezhnaya you normally are. Your grin is as pure and unfiltered as the spring sun, amplified by the fire roaring in the hearth, the look in your eyes warm and guileless. It’s a facade, unnoticed by the untrained eye. Your teeth are bared like a beast’s and your gaze is as sharp as a predator’s. When it pleases you to play the darling child of winter, you do. But he knows better. You like playing this little game with him — with all of the Harbingers, really, he’s seen how you’ve attached yourself to them, not only him, and it makes his chest tighten with some unnamed emotion — teasing him and complimenting him and following him around like some malignant ghost from the children’s tales. You’re a cruel little wolf like that. You play with your food before swallowing it whole. 

“You, boring? No.” Never boring. As irritating as your frequent visits are, he will always be kept occupied by one of your antics. “Unexpected? Yes.” You barged into his wing of the palace unannounced in the night, having completely evaded all his guards and segments, and casually sat down on his couch with a tray of tea and biscuits that seems to be a pacifying gift.

You pout mockingly. “Still haven’t forgiven me?” 

Irritation flickers against his skin. He readjusts his mask and scoffs. “It’s been five minutes, I require much more time than that.” 

“How ‘bout your gift?” You clasp your hands together. “Please? It’s your favorite. I got it from Lonnie.” Your leg bounces, an anxious habit of yours. What could possibly make you nervous? Certainly not his presence, you had made that clear, with all your unabashed visits to his lab, his foreign workshops, and now his own rooms. 

“I’d really rather have whiskey.” 

You raise a brow. “I didn’t bring any, and there aren’t any glasses.” 

“There’s a bottle in my drawer. Under the…” He trails off. He keeps indulgent snacks underneath a false bottom, just because, but you seem to already be aware of it. You slide out the wooden plank and hold up the bottle, the brown turned golden in the light of the fire. “... of course, you know.” 

He reaches for the tea cup on the coffee table, hot in his palms, but that never bothers him anymore with all the modifications he’s made to his body and swallows it all in one large gulp. Black tea with a twist of lemon. Four sugar cubes. His favorite. Somehow that makes his mood even worse. You hand him the bottle as you sit back down (closer to him now, which he does not fail to notice). He pours into his teacup until it almost sloshes over the edge.

The moment of silence stretches for a moment too long. He really wishes you’d just get on with it and end his misery, he wants to sleep or work or do something that removes the stain of you from his mind. Your face flickers like a flashlight in his peripheral vision, ghostly in the smoke. Your eyes glow terribly bright, a godly trait from your mother. It’s as beautiful as it is eerie. He transfers all his weight to his left foot, then his right, then back again. You wait for him to finish drinking, your gaze never leaving him. 

“Have you forgiven me now?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. He swirls the whiskey around in his cup. The grandfather clock in the room ticks and tocks and he wishes for time to go faster just so he’d be rid of you already. “Do I have to?” He’s always dealt insolence back tenfold, ask any of his segments, or the poor, cursed souls who lie in his personal mortuary, many of whom have committed lesser crimes than breaking and entering into his personal space. “You really think you’re that special?” 

“Yes.” 

He wants to strangle you and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your stupid face. He wants to carve out those eyes so they’d never make him squirm under their gaze again. He wants to — he does not know what. 

He scowls and runs a hand through messy curled hair. “Five minutes, before I have my segments drag you out.” 

Amusement flickers across those too-bright eyes. You know that he knows he won’t. You let him pretend anyways.

“Wonderful!” You say happily, like a child just told they could play in the playground for a little while. “I need a favor.” 

There’s an unexplainable drop that he suddenly feels in his chest. He had expected you to be here simply to annoy him or make fun of his sleep schedule (that does not exist) or something stupid like that. Why, he cannot say it out loud. His company has never been termed as pleasurable anyways, as much as you continually seek it out. This is expected, it should have been. 

You place a cream-blue envelope with gold lining on the coffee table. He tears it apart, secretly smiling at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. The tattered paper has elegant calligraphy that marks it as from some noble-born priss, one of the many in Snezhnaya whose names he has never bothered to learn. They wrote that they were cordially inviting Their Imperial Highness to… 

His eyes narrow. “The Sokolov Winter Ball.” He waves the paper in front of your face. “No. No. No. Absolutely not—”

“—yes, oh, come one now, it’ll be fun—” 

“—you know how much I hate these things, and all those useless, simpering lords and ladies hate me—” 

“—they’re not simpering. Some of them are nice, like Duke Romanov’s daughter, and anyways, you’ll be with me the entire time and they won’t dare to insult a Fatui Harbinger to their face.” 

He slams the paper down on the table. The teacups rattle from the impact. He leans forward, chin raised in defiance. “No.”

You cross your arms and lean into the couch. “Too bad. I command you to go.”

"Can't you ask the others? Why torment me, specifically?" He gestures wildly with his hands to emphasize his irritation. 

You place a hand on your heart, eyes blown wide for extra effect. "Torment? Dear Doctor, you sadden me so. Can't I spend time with my favorite Dottore?" 

"Oh? And here I thought Gamma was your favorite."

"You're my favorite of all the non-Gammas. Anyways, I can’t really take an eleven-year-old to the ball."

"Just take Theta and be happy with that." 

"But I want to take you." 

There’s a desperate lilt in your voice that weakens his resolve. Could you really? This wasn’t just another one of your jokes, was it? He hates balls, hates the moronic socialites of Snezhnayan society, but absurdly, hope becomes a twittering hummingbird in his heart. 

He grits his teeth. "I should file this as some sort of abuse of power." 

He wants to deny you, he does. He knows he can’t. He feels the insidious truth squeeze at his black heart. 

You reach out and pat his head condescendingly. "You do that, dear." 

"Is there anything I can do to make you take someone else?" He waves his hand at nothing. "I'll give you my entire secret stash of chocolates." It's hidden beneath the false bottom of his desk. A very obvious hiding spot, but he doesn't think anyone should care much for a simple stash of chocolates. He prides himself on it, for all its insignificance. He's collected chocolate-covered hazelnuts from Mondstadt, boxes of assorted chocolates from Fontaine, white almonds encased in matcha-infused chocolates from Inazuma, and choco pies from Liyue. 

"Er," There's a strange, sheepish smile on your face. "No." 

“Will you leave even if I still say no?”  

“No.” And then, in a hushed tone barely above a whisper, the final blow to his resolve: “Well, yes, if you really don’t want to go. But consider it, at least? I want to do this with you.” You don’t look at him as you say it, you don’t turn that captivating gaze of yours on his body to make him squirm. Your face is turned towards the fire, the glow of it making your cheeks red. He almost believes you. He wants to believe you. 

You sigh at his silence. “You can get something out of this.” 

He raises an inquisitive brow. “Like?” 

“Archons, I don’t know. A favor for later. More funding. More… resources. Whatever. Anything I can wrestle out of the others.”

It’s a good deal, he muses. Your influence as heir apparent is not one to be undermined. Moreover, the other Harbingers are strangely fond of you. They would bend for you, and not just out of duty. 

A pause, and then, with a world-weary sigh he puts his face in his hands. He does not want to see your ebullience, it would hurt his pride too much. “Alright.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back and stuff them down his throat, but it's too late. 

A joyful sound leaves you. He hears the rustling of cloth and excited steps on the wooden floors before he’s enveloped by the warmth of your body. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, and your head rests on top of his head.

He flinches slightly. You pull away but your hands remain on his shoulders. He hates, hates how his heart leaps to his throat, how every atom in his body starts to vibrate with life. He cannot, will not, let you have this power over him. He tugs on his heartstrings like a puppeteer and wills his heart to turn to stone. 

“You’ll have a fun time, I promise.” You disentangle from him your hair falls over your eyes, and without thinking, he lifts a hand and brushes it away. You grab his hand and entwine your fingers together. “You won’t regret this.” 

“I’m there to accompany you and leave as fast as possible,” Dottore replies wryly, but his heart lurches. 

He cannot explain to himself why he allows the moment to go on longer than he should. You both stay locked in position, half-hugging with your hands intertwined. Your eyes are half-lidded, your eyelashes fluttering with a mix of embarrassment and playfulness.  His gaze trails from your lashes to your lips, red as cherries. His throat feels suddenly parched and his cheeks flush with warmth. From the fire, he tells himself. 

The grandfather clock chimes midnight. 

You watch with amusement in your eyes as he jumps back, elbow hitting the armrest, swallowing the noise that threatens to escape his body. Suddenly all the irritation comes rushing back up to the surface of his skin. Many a man has fled from that look, from the green children Arlecchino supplies them with to veteran soldiers who have faced blood-soaked horrors on the battlefield. 

You blink innocently. 

He rubs at his temple, glaring at the fireplace in order to avoid looking at you. You quickly school your lips into a languid smile and start to ramble on about the details — white tie, no theme, dinner, and a ball, don't be late, and remember your manners — and his mind has started to drift to the experiments he needs to finish. There's a particularly annoying disease that's been sweeping through the masses, and the Tsaritsa charged him with taking care of it. He's already gotten a dozen test subjects but one particularly insolent one destroyed a week's worth of research while trying to escape. Then there's a whole batch of delusion prototypes in need of a field test, and it's almost time for his segment's monthly inspection. 

"—and you need to learn how to dance." 

His head snaps up. "You're kidding—" 

"Nope," you say, cutting him off. Archons, one day, he swears to himself, he will make you shut up (How? A voice inside asks. He has no answer.) and his life will be all the better without your grating voice sniffing at his heels like a hungry dog. "You'll be taking classes with me starting next week. Mother says it's about time you learned, too. Everyone else knows." 

He scowls at you. You've got him by the hook — no matter what, the Tsaritsa's will cannot be questioned. A thousand times he deflected, making up excuses or sending segments in his place. He does not think it ever fooled his Empress, but she never pressed on it. She would forgive them a thousand little times over, but when she was steadfast in her resolve, her will was as unconquerable as a glacier. 

“Fine. Just get out already.” 

Your little chuckle rings in his ears. “Mother might call in the army to search for me if I linger.” 

Oh, thank Tsartisa. “Then go,” he says dryly. He really, really does not want to be accused of high treason today. Your mother was terrifyingly overprotective.

You roll your eyes. “That’s no way to see off a guest, but I’ll forgive you from the kindness of my heart.” 

For his personal gratification, he launches a throw pillow in your direction. You catch it with one unamused brow raised. You throw it back and it hits him in the face. 

You put on your boots and your cloak and slip out the door, gently closing it with a click. The fire is still roaring, but the room feels much colder now. There’s a strange, hollow place in the room he cannot help but feel that your shape should be filling. There’s a dull ache pounding in his chest. 

He rubs his eyes and moves to his desk, his perpetual sweet tooth aching for that chewy heaven in his taste buds. He almost thinks he's opened the wrong drawer when he finds nothing there, but with a flash of anger, he realizes there's a note in your familiar handwriting. 

Sorry. I'll pay you back. :) 

You insolent little minx. You ate all of it. 

He sighs and pulls back his leather chair. He falls into the soft fabric, all the tension in his body dissipating into the air. He’s too tired to be annoyed. All the energy he exerts in your presence could do that. He sinks deeper into the plush chair and stretches his legs underneath the desk. If there’s ever been a miracle in his life, it’s that his spine hasn’t broken yet from all of the bone-shattering positions he puts himself in. 

He’ll have to adjust his non-existent schedule now. The Doctor operates on impulse and instinct, rotating between experiments and whatever’s captured his attention, sometimes not leaving the lab for days on end or going out and doing more… personal research. He’s begun digging deeper into Ruin Guards, and what he’s found has fascinated him. You would like it, he thinks. He’ll have to tell you all about it one of these days. 

Archons. What have you done to him? Slipping through the iron walls of his heart and plunging yourself deep into the myocardium. You’ve infested his body like a disease, and now it seems all thoughts and actions have been dedicated to you. He hates it, he enjoys it, he cannot tear you out of him no matter how hard he tries, and he’s tried. Oh, so many times. 

Now that you’ve left, he allows his lips to curl into a sneer. That moment — the entire night, really — was just a weakness he has not yet stamped out. He wishes he could tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped doing that infuriating flutter whenever you’re near. He sucks in a harsh breath and taps frantically on the armrest. He is so, so fucked. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away, yet it seems you’re the one divinity he cannot escape from.

The morning before the first lesson finds him sleep-deprived, exhausted, and in an absolutely foul mood. The previous night (or, rather, three a.m. that morning), a Chaos Core went wild and exploded. It was the last in his stock. He sent Beta to hunt for more, but it would be a while until he returned with a sufficient amount and he had to put a hold on his studies ‘till then. One of his test subjects had also been spitting out defiance after defiance as of late, dragging his research longer than it should’ve gone on. He killed them, of course, sometimes you just have to cut your losses and be done with it, but it wasted so many days spent conducting test after test. The thought of it makes him furious all over again, but he cannot be in a mood today. 

Dottore has never found out the secret of looking as though he’s just waltzed out a Fontainian perfume commercial like Pantalone, but today he looks worse than ever when inelegantly he rolls out of bed. His appearance has never bothered him before, not with his mask covering the worst of it, but his hair sticks out in so many directions it looks as though he’s just been hit by lightning, his skin is sickly pale, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. He drags a hand down his face and moans in exasperation. He knows you won’t care, but court conduct requires just a little bit of dignity from him. 

A much-needed shower and eye drops solve the worst of it (or so he hopes). He still looks like Death himself has come to haunt the palace’s hollow hallowed halls, but that was his common appearance anyways. 

The Fatui and the servants who go in and out of the palace keep their eyes trained on the ground as he passes by, a manic grin that shows sharp ivory teeth on his face. It’s an effort to keep up the appearance running on three hours of sleep, but the memory of that night rattles around in his mind, and he will not be that weak again. Just for fun, he turns his gaze on one of the new-bloods. The way they flinch brings a sliver of confidence back to him. 

A familiar figure makes him pause in his tracks. His grin is genuine now, and he feels this is a wonderful restart to a day that has, so far, been miserable. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Regrator.” 

He does not have to see the front of his head to know Pantalone rolls his eyes and stares pointedly off to the distance before turning around to face him. He looks as youthful as ever, still looking like an early thirty-something, as he has for the entire time Dottore’s known him. The smile on his face is polite and patronizing. 

“Dottore,” Pantalone forces out. He folds his fingers together across his stomach. “How… lovely to see you.” 

“Is it?” He gives the man a mocking smile and tilts his chin up with his hand. “Lovely, but so cold. Where are the happy smiles for me, my lord?” 

Pantalone scoffs and crosses his arms, half-turning away. “A wretched creature like you doesn’t deserve one.” So he’s dropped all formalities, then. This would be interesting. 

Dottore places his hand over his chest for dramatic effect, in a comically similar way that you had all those nights ago. “I thought we were getting along so well. You wound me, Lonnie.” 

“Good. I hope it kills you.” 

A faux gasp leaves his mouth. Pantalone’s eye twitches. He turns to leave, but Dottore wheels ahead of him and blocks his path, stretching his arms wide. As much as you annoy him, he can’t say he does not understand what you feel when you do. Pantalone, his favorite target, always elicits the best emotions that keep him entertained for weeks after. His rotten heart beats with energy. 

“Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone,” he says, in a child’s sing-song voice, “Won’t you indulge me just this once? You’ve been so busy, you’ve barely had any time for me and our oh-so-enjoyable meetings this month.” 

Pantalone looks close to pushing him out of a crystalline window. Dottore hopes he does not, the Tsaritsa does love her windows. 

“It seems you’re the one who does not have time today, Dottore,” He says, “You’re expected for your dance lessons in about, oh, five minutes, aren’t you?” 

Dottore hisses, his mood turning sour all of a sudden. “Who fed you that morsel of information?” 

“People like to gossip,” Pantalone shrugs, amused and unkind, “but if you must know, it was Theta who told your maids who told the guards who told my maids who told my secretaries who told me.” Damn that Theta. Dottore makes a mental reminder to reboot that impertinent pillock’s system without you finding out. “You really must hurry,” he continues on, oblivious to how Dottore glares a burning hole through the pillar behind him, imagining the ‘scolding’ he’ll give his segment when he sees them, “You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, do you? I feel enough pity as it is that you’re their chosen partner. I can’t imagine why they would choose you…” 

“... over you, my dear Regrator?” 

Pantalone simpers, but an emotion Dottore knows all too well flashes across his eyes. They’ve known each other for too long and too closely, no matter how much he tries to hide, Dottore can break down that steel skin of his and pry out the truth from his chest. “I am far more handsome, and sociable besides.” 

“But they chose me.” 

Pantalone levels his gaze to Dottore’s. The corners of his mouth are curled down, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his narrowed gaze is sharp as a knife. He says nothing.

“You’re jealous,” Dottore says, jumping well over the line that all of the Harbingers put between their facades and the truth. His grin is wolfish and triumphant. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

Pantalone glares at him and turns to leave. “I have better things to do than be jealous of you. Good day, Dottore.” 

Dottore takes long strides to stand in front of him, blocking his path once more. Before Pantalone can open his mouth and spit out insults that could have him thrown into the far northern military camps if it were any other person, Dottore leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear, “I know,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, “things like being jealous of them, too.” 

He whistles a happy tune through his teeth as he leaves, the Ninth Harbinger paralyzed behind him. He does not pay any mind to how his skin has been set aflame or how his heart beats wildly in his chest. 

Yes, if he could only be that way with you, everything would be alright. He cannot understand why it’s so different from you. It’s the power, a voice whispers. It always circles back to that. Only three people stand above him now: that rat bastard Pierro, your mother, and you. You and your irritating smiles and your irritating laugh and your irritating jokes. You unnerve him with the way you hold his life so carelessly in your hands. A single touch, a mere look, and you could send him spiraling down to the depths if you so commanded. Everything he’s achieved in his life undone. In this pack of wolves the Tsaritsa calls her children, both by blood and bond, there’s a clear hierarchy in which you stand above all others. 

He and Pantalone can devour each other whole, but when it comes to you, he’ll have to force the bitter taste of defeat down his throat. It’ll take everything in his power not to gag. 

He’s ten minutes late when he finally arrives at the Queen’s Ballroom. The ballroom is beautiful, made of marble and gold furnishings. The floor is polished hardwood arranged in complicated swirling patterns that mimic the winter winds. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the nature of the north: galloping wild horses and sly foxes, wolves prowling through the green underbrush, golden ivy snaking at the edges as clouds raced on a blue sky. The crystal chandeliers are unlit and unneeded, the pale light of the morning provides enough to see clearly. This part of the palace is rarely ever open, the Tsaritsa is not one to throw balls and parties like so many of her aristocratic subjects do, so the doors stay locked. Of course, any exception can be made for winter’s favorite child. 

He barely even notices the dance instructors wheedling about in the corner. He immediately finds you, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window. One leg is crossed over the other. With the morning light coming in through, you’re bathed in the brightest living gold. For a moment old prayers come crowding to the forefront of his mind. For a moment all that time spent on his knees seems to be reasonable, if only it had all been dedicated to you. For a moment you’re baptized by the sun, for a moment you’re holy. 

The cocky smile on his face, a remnant from that moment with Pantalone, crumbles. His breath hitches in his throat. Oh, shit. 

You turn to him, mouth pressed in a thin line. Your pointed steps ring across the floor as you stalk toward him, and he cannot help but feel like a trapped critter. He wants to fight or flee or do something —

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” you murmur, reaching for his gloved wrist with the lightest of touches. He swallows at the sensation of touch. “I was starting to think you had flaked out on me,” you say teasingly.  

“Oh, no, I was just… occupied with another business,” he mutters, looking back at the entrance. A smirk cannot be restrained. You raise an eyebrow and he shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s alright now.” 

Your answering smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. The two of you walk side-by-side toward the instructors on the other side of the room, close enough for your shoulders to brush against each other, a united front. He realizes, quite abruptly, that you were nervous too. 

The dance he has to learn is the Varsovienne Waltz. Their instructors are a pair of siblings, boy and girl, who look very much alike with dark eyes and dark hair. They regard him with the fearful respect most everyone regarded him with, taking care not to seem too patronizing. 

He first learns the fundamental dance positions. He thought he was mechanical, awkward, and unsure for the first time in years (Archons, how do you manage to coax these emotions out of him?). You said he was doing well, and the instructors affirmed so, but he cannot tell if that was genuine or from a place of fear. 

And then comes the actual dancing. 

They demonstrate it beforehand. Together, the pair of siblings glide across the floor with the gracefulness of swans fluttering about in the lakes. You had already learned this dance as a young child growing up in the icy walls of Zapolyarny, and so after the instructors had finished, you request to dance with one of them, if only to test your muscle memory. You take the role of follower, prompting Dottore, who guesses he would be assigned the role of leader, to imprint each step and twirl into his mind. 

He hates the sick feeling of anxiousness brewing in the pit of his stomach as he watches you dance. But it does not go away as he watches you laugh and toss your head back, not a hair out of place. It’s not a surprise you’re so good at this, each move perfectly executed, your angles a wonder of geometry. This kind of life was your birthright. But not for him, not for the boy who had grown up in an indigent village on the borders of Sumeru. His history is not what bothers him, though, he had shed it from himself like a coat a very long time ago. What bothers him is you. 

Vexation pools in his mind the longer he watches. He begins to impatiently tap his foot against the floor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. This was your life, not his. Dancing is not something the Second Seat of the Fatui Harbingers should be doing. Such a frivolous and foolish activity was not meant for a man of his nature. Heavens, what was he doing here? Hundreds of years ago you couldn’t have dragged him into the ballroom kicking and screaming if your life depended on it. Now he stands here, awake at six-in-the-fucking-morning operating on barely any sleep for you and your dance lessons that’ll be put into use for only one night. One night! 

You could do this to him. You could force him to take dance lessons like some twelve-year-old lordling. You could tear down the meticulously made steel and calcium walls that surround his heart with a sharp smile and bury yourself within the bloody tissue. You could make a home there, familiar and warm, floating above a poisonous black rot. Only you could coax half-forgotten emotions out of him that he thought he had sealed away centuries ago. Meeting you, he thinks, has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to him thus far. 

He wants to turn to leave but finds his feet rooted to the ground. 

He barely notices you’re done before you saunter up to him, hands your hips, your mouth pressed into a thin, worried line. 

“Are you alright? You look…” You cock your head to the side. “... not good.” 

“I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he rasps, extending a gloved hand. “Can we get on with it now?” 

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. A moment passes before you decide to stay silent and take his hand. 

The girl instructor lifts the needle on the gramophone and the record begins to spin. The music is a sweet, simple melody. He has never heard it before, but memories of days spent exploring the surrounding forest of his village catapult to the forefront of his mind: dipping small toes into warm springs as he ate sticky sunsettias, the juice running down his fingers, the warm, incessantly lovely sun on windblown hair. He shakes his head like a wet dog shaking off water. 

He does not realize just how much tension his body holds until you hum as he spins you around, your back to his chest, his left hand on your hip, and his right hand cupping yours. “You need to relax,” you say. 

“I am relaxed,” he replies stiffly. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Your Imperial Highness,” he mutters, a sardonic smile on his face, “I think I am much more qualified to say what my body feels more than you.” 

You purse your lips but say no more. The look in your eye tells him you don’t believe him at all. 

The next three hours are agonizingly slow-paced, yet somehow when he reaches the end of it, are a blur of colors and shapes and unintelligible music as though he had been shot past it all. He would not be surprised if the gods somehow made time move slower then faster then slower than normal just to play another cruel trick on him for their own amusement. 

He isn’t terrible, and his rarely-used combat experience has finally found some employ, but he lacks your practiced poise or the easy grace of the instructors. He moves less like a human and more like some forest creature, his physicality more wild and jagged than it was elegant. The instructors tell him his lordship took to the dance more easily than most, and with a few more sessions could be flawless, but he does not pay any mind to them and instead places his gaze on you. Something unpleasant lurks behind your carefully-blank expression. His mind lurches with the sudden urge to find out what had gone wrong and go back in time and fix it. Trial and error is something he is intimate with, and his mistakes do not bother him, so long as he fixes them. He realizes, suddenly, that he wants to please you. 

Pantalone does not need to push him out a window, he’ll very well throw himself from one after this. 

“Walk with me,” you say, slipping an arm through his. Your expression is almost quiet. He has no choice but to let you lead him out the door and into the hallways. The guards at the door bow their heads and murmur the appropriate greetings. He does not miss how their eyes land on their interlocked arms for a second too long. People will talk. 

You both stroll through the hall in strained silence. He flexes his fingers. 

“Are you alright?” 

His head snaps to the side, his ears unbelieving. He had been bracing himself for a reprimanding, for jeers, for mockery. Not this. “Pardon?” 

Was that pity in your eyes? His jaw clenches. Anger, black and brutal, burns within. “Are you alright?” 

He tries to disentangle himself from you, but an iron grip keeps him locked in place. He forgets how truly strong you are. “I’m fine.” 

You sigh and look at the arched ceiling, as though exasperatedly asking it if it could hear his words. “Dottore, I’ve known you for a very long time. You overestimate your ability to lie to me.” 

He grits his teeth, forcing the words out of his throat. “I am fine. I have weathered much worse than dance classes, Your Imperial Highness. If you found some fault in my conduct or wish to admonish me then please, don’t drag it out.” 

“Admonish you?” Your eyes widen, startled. “What? No, I’m just—” 

He barks out a laugh, self-deprecating and cruel. “What? Pitying me?” 

“Worried about you.” You stop. You step forward and face him, eyes bright and shining, the corner of your lips curled into a frown. “Don’t be mean.” 

Worried. You were worried about him. His anger ebbs away and morphs into soft bemusement. You don’t move from your position, instead, you cross your arms and tilt your chin up in defiance like an angry child. He almost believes you’re genuine, but he knows better than to argue with that stubborn jut of jaw. 

He huffs, willing up his signature grin. It’ll be easier to make you happy if only to get this over with. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.” He flicks your forehead and thrusts his fists into his pocket and starts to stride forward. “I’m quite alright. If you’re wondering about my less-than-stellar performance, it’s the three hours of sleep I got.” 

You roll your eyes and scurry after him. Before he can escape, you grab his hand and lead him toward a wing of the palace he has been in only a few times before. Your own. 

“No, no, no, you’re not escaping me today.” A childish groan escapes him and makes you giggle. “You can sleep after this, but humor me for a bit and have breakfast with me.” 

“You didn’t have breakfast?” 

“Did you?” Fair point. 

He wants to go back to his room and sleep until sunset, but he cannot help but feel a spark of interest. Most of the time you simply hang about his laboratory and annoyed him, but for you to actually invite him to something as simple as breakfast with seemingly no other motivation than to spend time with him was a break from your norm. A very unfamiliar break. 

All his instincts call for him to flee. 

“Alright,” he says, against the better judgment of his head, “just this once.” 

The imperial family’s apartments are bigger than the Harbingers’, and much emptier. The hall is big and white and echoing, with wide hardwood flooring that was arranged in an intricate repeating diamond pattern. There are paintings of you and your mother, silver embellishments in the likeness of frost plastered on the walls, the furniture was elegant but plain, and the windows had no curtains. The only hint of your personality is the vases of your favorite flowers. Everything had an eerie, deserted look, haunted by the ghost of you. There were barely any people, only two stoic guards posted at the entrance and a maid that scurried past them. He never realized just how isolated you were from the rest of them; no wonder you sought the Harbingers out so often. 

Breakfast appears with instantaneous magic: fried bacon, sunnyside-up eggs, blinis, and biscuits. His stomach rumbles at the sight. He hasn’t had anything to eat that was more than trail mix in close to thirty-six hours, not that it bothered him significantly, he was used to getting distracted by his studies and forgetting to nourish himself. Thankfully, he had improved his body long ago so that it could weather mortal flaws like hunger. 

He wolfs down a slice of bacon while you slather a blini with butter and honey. He rarely eats with company if not forced to. Outside of that, he only ever eats with his segments on the off-chance they’re all free, which is simply a microscopic natural disaster filled with food fights and whining and endless bickering. But breakfast with you is a quiet affair. You eat with calm, methodological grace. He subconsciously looks at you, noting your dining habits, wondering if this was your favorite food. You catch him staring and send him a bemused smile. He looks away, suddenly interested in the tapestries that adorn the walls, feeling heat rush to his face. The windows are open and he can hear the world outside: birds twittering about, the recruits at their morning drills, servants rushing to do this and that. A stillness settles within his bones that he has not felt in a very, very long time. Part of him wants to rip it out, but another part shushes it. He is tired, sleep-deprived, and busy. He still has experiments to do, reports to check, papers to sign. But right now the sun is coming in, soft as a caress, and you are sitting across from him and smiling.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you say suddenly, your words cutting through the silence like a sword. “but you seemed really out of it earlier.” 

He raises one eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his bacon. “Is this a therapy session or breakfast?” 

You kick his leg beneath the table. “Archons, ‘ttore, I just want to be nice.” 

Nice. Inwardly, he laughs. He absently pushes the runny eggs around on his plate. “Hm. There were just a few things on my mind, nothing to worry about.” A pause. “I’m very surprised you haven’t teased me yet for my horrible dancing skills.” 

“Ah.” You prop your arm up on the table and rest your cheek on your fist. “Actually, I was expecting they’d be just as bad as your harmonica skills. But you’re actually okay. Not good, but you’re getting there.” 

He splutters. His mouth opens and closes, much like a fish, before he erupts. “My harmonica skills are amazing! You’re just deaf or inane or have horrible, horrible taste.” He pokes his silver fork in your direction. “I’ll have you know I was the best harmonica player in Sumeru, thank you very much.” 

You bite on your lower lip, vaguely amused. “Really now.” 

He leaps to his feet and leans forward, hands on the table, a flurry of feathers and cotton cloth and fury. “Yes, really now! If you weren’t heir to the throne I’d have you chopped up into little pieces and sold to the butchers for that.” 

“I think you’d miss the pleasure of my company too much to do that.” 

He harrumphs and jerks his head away. “You presume too much.” 

You laugh. It’s warm and comforting and familiar. He wants to never hear it again. “You’re so pretentious. Can’t you admit you’re just a little bit fond of me?” 

“Fond? I—” The word coils around his throat. No, he wasn’t fond of you. He was simply slightly more tolerant of you than everyone else. “—no. No, I’m not.” 

He isn’t, really, he isn’t. All these little moments were just lapses of mortal weakness he has yet to stamp out. Something else to add to his itinerary of things to modify. This acquaintanceship with you was getting too bold and too powerful and one of these days he’s sure it’s going to come crashing down on him. 

“I think you are.” You dangle your fork between your fingers. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” 

He waits for you to continue. But you don’t. You sit there and stare at him, twirling your fork, those eyes bright and big and full of inexplicable warmth. One corner of your lips curls up into an absurdly endearing lopsided smile. He banishes the thought from his brain. The silence stretches, on and on and on, until it becomes a blanket that suffocates him. 

He taps his fingers against the table. “You’re madder than I am.” 

“You of all people should know the difference between madness and truth.” 

“It’s not the truth.”

You peer up at him and cock your head to the side. “Is it?” 

You stand and circle around the table, dragging one finger on the wood. He turns his head to the door and away from you. You hover next to him, just a breath away from his skin. He fights to shove back down the shaky breath that threatens to escape him. He does not know why he doesn’t just move away, putting those barriers back up that he allows you to shatter over and over again. The pieces are on the ground, ready to be gathered and assembled once more. He is a scholar, he knows how to eliminate weakness, how to tear down and rebuild over and over again until his product becomes perfect; he can build on the evident fragility of his resolve when it comes to you. 

All it takes is discipline. He must throw you back as he throws back enemies on the battlefield. He must deny you any more ground. 

One hand intertwines with his while the other holds the pulse of his wrist. His heart begins to beat itself to death in his chest. He relents and turns to look at you, your face carefully blank, but he has known you for too long. Something stirs within your eyes, something hungry and wolfish.

You bring his hand to your lips and gently turn it over to expose the scarred skin peeking out from in between his sleeve and his glove. His wrist is barely an inch away from your mouth. You lean forward and bite, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. 

He jerks away, eyes widening with incredulity. “You—” 

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. There is no hint of remorse or disbelief for what you just did in your eyes. You smile at him, affable and innocent as a puppy. But there was nothing puppy-like in your eyes. How could he have let himself forget? You wild little wolf. His wrist throbs, but to his surprise and disgust, the sensation was not at all unpleasant. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to see what that would be like.” 

“You wanted to see what it would be like to bite me?”

“To mark you.” You move forward as he moves back, a twisted iteration of the waltz you danced earlier. “I don’t understand why you don’t let me in. Did I do something wrong?” His Adam apple bobs up and down as his back hits the wall. “Tell me, please.” 

He looks at you and runs his tongue over his teeth. Every coherent thought evaporates within the confines of his brain. He cannot let you know the truth. He cannot. 

“Get away.” His voice is hoarse. 

There’s the slightest hesitation in your muscles before you take a small step backward. In one swift motion, he lurches forward, grabbing ahold of your shoulder and your chin. He leans over you, red eyes blazing underneath the mask. Something cruel and sharp slithers in his veins and buries its fangs into his anatomy. He does not know who he is angrier at — you, or himself. You for being an inescapable prison where he was the prisoner. Himself for never trying to escape or not trying enough. 

He grazes his thumb against the outline of your lips. “You insufferable little brat,” he spits, “the other Harbingers may allow you to do whatever you please with them, but that weakness is not inside me, and you cannot root it out. You—” He squeezes your skin. “—you cannot conquer me, no matter how much you try.” 

Will you have him thrown out of the Fatui for this? Locked up in the deepest cell? Will you ask your mother to impale him on a glacier, forced to slowly wither away? He watches and waits for your response.

You smile and easily disentangle yourself from his grasp. You lean forward, one hand on his shoulder, your lips brushing against his ear. 

“Liar.” 

He does not think he’s upset you, but you’ve abstained from interacting with him outside of your dance lessons, which themselves have become awkward and brief. You regard him with the same absentminded politeness you would a waiter or a maid, your eyes glazed and the candor of your voice mild. Ever since that night, you’ve made no move to tease or touch. Even as you dance, your bodies locked in a tangle, every time skin brushes against skin your new-found coldness burns like ice. 

He tries not to dwell too much on your last conversation, on the phantom throbbing of his wrist where your teeth had bit into his skin. 

His life has become strangely empty now. There’s a hole in the shape of you begging to be filled, but no material could ever replace your flesh and bone. No one’s barging into his laboratory to annoy him or sneaking into his apartments at odd hours of the night. All for the better. 

Except it isn’t, because now it’s the night (or rather, morning) before the ball and he can’t seem to sleep and the past few weeks have been absolutely insufferable. He’s irritable, much more than he normally is, prone to commonplace mistakes, and worst of all, unfocused. His segments have noticed, even the younger ones, who have been increasingly more competent than him. He knows that they know the reason why; he sees the various looks of disapproval, amusement, and disgust. Zeta even had the gall to make fun of him for it, to his immediate regret, as Dottore scolded him with such ferocity they all went quiet in a rare show of obedience. Perhaps he should scold them more often. The resounding silence, if it happened more often, would undoubtedly improve their research and his moods. 

He stares down at the unfinished reports on the metal table, acutely aware of the laboratory clock ticking away the minutes. Another and another and another go past. He’s been staring dumbly at the thrice-damned half-empty papers for two hours now. He can feel Theta’s bemused eyes burning into the back of his eyes as he mops up the blood from their latest failed experiment. Suddenly the sloshing of the water is too much for him to bear. 

“Go. Leave that for the maids,” Dottore barks. He hears swift footsteps before they pause right at the door that leads into the segments’ living quarters. 

“You should sleep,” Theta says. Dottore turns in the swivel chair and shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not saying that out of, urgh, concern,” the segment hurries to correct, “only that, don’t you have something to prepare for tomorrow—” He shoots a glance at the clock. “—I mean, today?” 

“None of your business.” 

“We’re the same person if you hadn’t noticed, so yes it is my business.” 

Dottore rubs his eyes and stays silent. There’s too little energy within him to bicker right now. Theta is still rooted in his spot, smirking silently. He crosses his arms.

“Maybe,” he continues, with a mischievous lilt in his voice, “if you’re feeling too tired to attend, I’ll be glad to—” 

It’s almost comical how fast Theta goes flying into the metal cabinets. He lets out a groan of pain. Dottore does not even comprehend when he stood up and punched him. He only knows the way rage flared in his chest, that wild emotion that he could not name roaring in his ears. He had been the one asked to the ball. Him, over Theta. Theta was your favorite of all the adult segments, for who-knows-what reason, the segment that was him during his final year in the Akademiya. You always claimed it was because he was the most fun to be around (Only the Archons can understand your definition of fun) and so it was him you often asked after. 

But this time it’s Dottore that you wanted, and he would not let anyone take away what was rightfully his. (Your voice seems to whisper in his ear, as though you were standing right beside him, “I want to do this with you.”)

The second he realizes his thoughts, he’s tempted to shoot himself with one of the expertly made and modified Fatui guns. It’s the tiredness, he reasons to himself. The lack of sleep was poisoning him with irrationality. The last time he slept was… well. Approximately four days ago. 

He remembers the last thing he said to you, and thinks of your wolfish eyes and predatory grin. You cannot conquer me, and your sly answer, Liar. How is it, he thinks, that he has barely seen you in weeks yet your presence has enlarged and completely overtaken him? The scholar in him wants to pry around for answers, but another part, a mortal part he thought he had killed long ago already knows what the answer is. 

He wonders if you still actually want him to be your partner. With the way you’ve been ignoring him these past few weeks, you might truly prefer taking one of his clones instead. The only adult segments in Snezhnaya right now are Theta and Zeta, the latter of which was on the other side of the country doing research on the mysterious disease. Theta was the only true threat to his position… unless, of course, you decide to ask one of the Harbingers or your subordinates instead. 

To his surprise and mild disgust, uncharacteristic fear grips his heart. Shit. If you took someone else to the ball, he would lose the reward you had promised to grant. He needed it — Tsaritsa only knows how much people, especially certain bankers, love to get in the way of his research. 

The thought of you swaying in another person’s arms tonight almost makes him punch Theta again. 

Theta is rambling about something insignificant, still scrambled on the floor and clutching his bruised face, glaring daggers at his creator. Dottore would have paid more heed to a rat squeaking in the corner. Dottore jerks his head to the door. A dismissal. 

An annoyed sound leaves Theta’s artificial throat. “Looks like I touched a nerve there, Prime. Scared I’m gonna steal them away?” 

“No.” 

He huffs. “Whatever. It’s just one date, I’m always gonna be the favorite.” 

Dottore wonders if he can get away with Theta’s permanent deactivation without you finding out. Probably not. “It’s not a date.” Until now, he had never thought of it as such. But Theta speaking it into existence makes his heart thump. “It’s—it’s a business agreement,” he insists, privately cursing the stutter, “an acquisition of advantage.” 

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been applying that skin cream Pantyliner gave you every night? Even though you’ve never opened it until now?” 

“A certain image is required of me, not that your rat ass would know.”

“Honestly, it’s hilarious watching you fall over yourself for them.” 

Dottore hisses. “I’m not ‘falling over myself’ for them.” 

Theta grins, all that sharp teeth flashing in the fluorescent lights. “Sure.” 

“I’m not!” He sounds indignant, like a child protesting their involvement in mischief they were very much involved in. 

Theta rolls his eyes as he stands and disappears into the other room, snickering. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Prime,” he calls after. 

Dottore sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m not,” he says softly, almost desperately, though, of course, no one hears it. Just the empty air, eating his words. 

He sighs again and glances at the clock, still ticking away. It’s half past three in the morning. You had agreed to meet at six in the evening. You had told him on the day of the last lesson, very aggressively, that under no circumstances should he be late, which he was infamous for being. If he slept now, he could get some much-needed rest before the ball. 

It’s a fitful sleep, though any sleep is better than none. He oscillates between the waking world and darkness, his body simultaneously feeling like it has been doused in fire and thrown into the icy-cold bays of Snezhnaya. Three-quarters after one o’clock he’s woken, gently and fearfully, by one of your subordinates. In a quivering voice, she tells him you had sent an entire team to “ensure full preparedness”, which he knows really was just to say, “don’t show up in a fucking lab coat”. He reluctantly lets them pull him around in a flurry of various outfits for him to try in a long, awkward, and agonizing two hours. He allows them to style his hair, clenching his teeth all the while, thinking about how furious you be if he harmed one of yours as his fingers twitch. In the end, the effort is barely seen — it’s really just a cleaner, shinier rendition of his usual hairstyle. 

They don’t do makeup. They know better than to cross that line. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, has ever seen what's underneath the mask. 

The outfit they chose, in the end, was appropriately glamorous, though not as fancy as something Pantalone or Signora might wear. The royal blue fabric is soft against his skin, though his cravat seems tight around his neck. Strange, since he was the one to do it and did not deviate from how he usually did it. He tugs on the white fabric and realizes his hands are shaking. They haven’t in centuries, not since his expulsion from the Akademiya. White hot rage sears through his bones. You are the reason behind this resurfacing weakness. He has no doubt about it.

He almost wants to dive back into bed and flake out on you; it would be terribly amusing, but ultimately pointless. The consequences are not ones he wants to bear. 

He does not want to see the looks his subordinates will undoubtedly give him once they catch him on his way to the foyer of the imperial family’s private apartments, where you had agreed to meet. It was a revolting thought: The Second Seat trudging through the halls like a tamed dog The thought of it makes him want to puke. He’s already heard the multiple rumors of your relationship, has heard the giggles, has seen the coy smiles. He wonders if the other Harbingers experience it as well. 

Instead, he takes one of the palace’s secret passageways known only to the top three Harbingers, Pierro, you, and the Tsaritsa. The narrow stone hallway is dusty and dark, rarely used and reserved only for emergencies. He can see well enough with the enhanced vision he gave himself when he moved to an artificial body. He knows there are many more passages snaking through the walls that he does not know about, yet for all his explorations and the hours spent poring over the palace maps, he has never been able to find them. He supposes they’re for only you and your mother. Zapolyarny Palace was a strange place, filled with magic of a thousand years past. He’s heard rumors of ancient spells and complicated runes imbued in the walls of the palace, keeping out any who dare intrude.  

The passageways are filled with twists and turns, with multiple ladders and stairs and secret doors he had long since memorized in his mind. He emerges from behind a tapestry and steps into the deserted hallway adjacent to the foyer. 

Truth be told, he likes this part of the palace. He keeps his private estate and rooms in a similar sparse fashion, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to decorate. But he feels that the emptiness here is intentional. The beauty is quiet, serene even, as silent as the first brush of snow. Especially when the Empress is in one of her moods and true frost conquers the walls and floors and snow impossibly starts to fall indoors. When that happens, suddenly, the palace is transformed into a winter wonderland, conjured out of childlike whimsy. 

You await him at the bottom of the staircase. 

He pauses mid-step, the breath caught in his throat. He has never seen you so… dressed up, before. He knows you like going out on this excursion or that: to the opera with Pantalone or taking a pleasure barge with Columbina, and when out in the public’s eye a level of regalness was expected in your fashion. But alone with him, usually shut up in the labs or in his private estate, you wore simple clothes that allowed freedom of movement. 

But tonight you were glittering, doused in jewels he knows could fund him for years. The moonlight slants in through the windows, making you shimmer. He has never seen you look more ethereal, as though you had just stepped out of one of the Snezhnayan fairytales you so loved. And although he never grew up in Snezhnaya, looking at you he feels as though he has read those fairytales, has spent nights under the covers living in every word in his head. He looks at you and sees magic.

He realizes, suddenly, that he wears the same colors as you: royal blue and white. And then, just after that punch to the head, he remembers: royal blue and white are the colors of the imperial family. 

He swallows an emotion he does not want to touch with a hundred-foot pole. 

“Hello,” you say softly, terrifying warmth blooming in your eyes, “you aren’t late.” There’s a tease in the words. 

He harrumphs and looks away, trying to conceal the growing red in his cheeks. He thanks the Tsaritsa she does not keep her palace well-lit, even at night. “You ought to have better expectations of me. I know I’m not known for punctuality but I know when something is important.” 

You smile. It is blank and careful. “Well then.” You extend your hand. “Let’s go.” 

He takes your hand and lets you lead him to the awaiting carriage. Suddenly the room is too hot and stuffy and your body is too close yet too far. He wishes you’d press yourself closer but you haven’t in weeks, not since that fateful day. He almost misses it, before he catches the feeling and inwardly scolds himself.

Not for the first time, he wonders what game you’re playing at. You had declared, though indirectly, that you could conquer him, yet had made no move to do so. He squints at you from underneath the mask. Your face is set in a neutral, almost air-headed expression. It was the expression you used during boring meetings that you couldn’t care less about. Was he boring you? Exasperation and aggravation flood his mind. Him? Boring? He supposes he hasn’t been trying to poison you as of late. And anyway, it was you who came to him. He had never sought you out before if not for business reasons. Was he expected to make some kind of move? 

The ride to the Sokolov estate is coated in a heavy, awkward silence. Or at least, he thinks so. You don’t seem to notice. Or care. Zapolyarny Palace is situated outside the capital city, so the carriage ride takes more or less an hour. The hour is the longest he has ever experienced, except perhaps the hours he spent dancing with you. You say nothing the entire time, simply stare languidly out the window, your chin cupped in your hand. Midwinter already rules over the land, not that it really mattered when it seems two-thirds of the year saw snow. From time to time you put your hand through the open window and catch a snowflake. There were fleeting moments your eyes would meet, there would be a pause, then a quick aversion and you would both retreat into the invisible walls you had built around yourselves.  

He wonders if you expect him to apologize. 

The silence is enough to suffocate. 

Then, blessedly, the manor materializes in the distance. He almost breathes an audible sigh of relief. He has to restrain his body from jumping out of the carriage as soon as the door is opened. He exits the vehicle first and extends a helping hand to you as you shuffle out, like a proper gentleman. Not that he was one. 

You smile at him. Still, blank.

The Sokolov Winter Ball is an event for aristocrats by aristocrats. There are barely any Fatuus in sight, exempting the noble children who had joined to cur favor and prestige, though such children were few and far between. Though the Tsaritsa rules over all, there is undoubtedly enmity between the nobility and the Fatui; the two factions are caught in an uncertain back-and-forth of power, constantly at each other’s throats and on the verge of bloodshed. In public, members of both groups were expected to be cordial and pretend there was equality among them. So Dottore did get a certain satisfaction in seeing the lords and ladies of Snezhnaya bow before him, even if it was really to you rather than him. 

He almost falls asleep internally as you go through the motions of socializing, him following behind as he has nothing else to do: trivial small talk, false fawning and compliments, pretending to care about the latest gossips sweeping the city. You did seem to actually care about the latter, one of the many characteristics you shared with Pantalone. He, on the other hand, was utterly uncurious to the silly little lives of the people. 

They mostly pretend he does not exist. Not rudely, but fearfully. They understand Dottore is not exactly in the best of moods and offer only commonplace courtesies. 

He wonders how long you can go treating him like this, like some distant, half-hearted acquaintance and not… whatever he should be to you. He has never, ever been the slightest bit interested in socialization, but he wishes, just once, you would turn your head to him and chat. Even if the talk was the silliest of topics, even if he did not care a wit about them. He simply wants to hear warmth flood your voice once more, wanted to hear your ringing laughter.

He flinches slightly when he fully realizes the thought that had crossed his mind. 

“You should smile more,” you say to him as you wheel around the ballroom, trying to avoid another mother who hoped to introduce her dashing children to you, undoubtedly in hopes it will blossom into marriage. The thought of you marrying one of these pathetic pups stirs fierce vindication in his chest. “You’re scaring them.” 

“I am smiling,” he says, frowning. 

The utterly annoyed look you give him makes him laugh, the sound deep and full of heart. 

A little later, when the clock strikes nine, Duchess Sokolov practically materializes in front of the both of you with an element of surprise even Arlecchino would admire and only scheming, middle-aged women can conjure. Your startled half-smile makes her smile in turn, the look of it sly. After a session of unabashed bootlicking, where she complimented almost every piece of your body, from your feet to your eyelashes (the only other person he has ever heard say such things is him), she asked, with a grandiose show of humility, if Your Imperial Highness would do us the honor of opening the dancing with my son? 

If anything, Dottore admires her gall.

His body moves before his mind can comprehend what he is doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, smiling widely, making sure his sharp teeth are visible to anyone who dares steal you away. 

"The geir has already promised their first dance to me, Your Grace." The words come out wild and aggressive, like the barks of a wolf. "I'm afraid your son will have to wait his turn." If I let him have one. 

The duchess pales slightly and steps half a foot back. "Forgive me Lord Harbinger, I wasn't aware." 

You laugh and press your gloved hand to your mouth, a lovely gesture.  "Oh, please excuse Lord Dottore. He's a very particular person. I'll be glad to dance with your son after."

The Duchess visibly brightens and blunders away after numerous thanks, eager to tear away from Dottore's burning glare. You slip your arm through his and weave through the sea of bodies to the center of the ballroom, the party guests skillfully parting to let you pass. He does not think he is imagining your smirk.

As you near the center, Dottore ignores the hot flash of anxiety in his stomach. It has been so long since he has felt that emotion or other adjacent ones that it takes a moment for him to recognize it. Memories of those torturous hours spent dancing, and dancing, and dancing again resurface in his memories. Though not as graceful a dancer as you, he had reached a level of acceptable elegance towards the end that received glowing praise from the instructors. You had smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. It had left a strange empty feeling lingering within him. 

What reaction did he even want from you, anyway? He thinks the instructors weren’t lying; the fear in their eyes was minimal. He would most likely never dance again after tonight. So, it truly did not matter what you thought of his dancing. It did not matter. He had gotten over the anxiousness that came with socializing a very long time ago, and it is not the crowd that is making him nervous. So what is it that he fears?

He feels himself getting more and more agitated as you both pull yourselves into position: two hands outstretched and intertwined, his hand on the small of your back, yours resting on his shoulder. He feels the sharp, curious eyes on the both of you as the music starts.

“Relax,” you whisper. 

“I am relaxed.” 

“No, you’re not.” You squeeze his shoulder. “Your body is so stiff.” 

“I’m doing fine,” he grits out. 

“You’d do even better if you’d stop fidgeting and relax.” 

How could he relax when you’re so close? He can hear your breaths and count the lashes of your eyes. Your eyes already shine naturally with unnatural brightness, but beneath the light of the chandeliers, they seemed to gleam like the faces of a diamond. 

“Is something wrong? You’re staring quite intently.” Your voice evaporates his thoughts. He swallows nervously and looks away, his gaze darting around the room, hoping to see anything but you. “Dottore?” The tone of your voice has been nothing but level for weeks, so the sliver of genuine worry that escapes into the words makes his heart jump. 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

He moves as though he’s in a dream, lost and dazed. He cannot explain to himself why he leans in closer, or why he squeezes your hand cupped in his. He messes up — once then twice then thrice, missing a step or taking the wrong turn even though he memorized the entire routine in his head the night after your first lesson. It cannot be his memory, flawless as it is. 

It’s his heart, his Archons-damned heart, thumping against his ribs. It’s your inquisitive eyes on him, your cold skin pressed against his. It’s the way there is something genuine and vulnerable living in the light of your eyes. It is the way there is a very dangerous mortal emotion flooding his veins. It is the way he cannot help but want to press closer, wants to take you into his arms and sweep you off your feet this night, and many more. 

It is an utterly terrifying thought. This is what he is scared of, he realizes with a jolt that earns him a questioning look from you. This closeness, this… intimacy. Your hands on his skin, warm enough to make him believe you’re both human. 

How long has it been, he wonders, since he has wanted to stop running away. 

The music reaches a crescendo quietly, as though from far away. For all he can hear is thump, thump, thump, his mind all but submerged in the fervent tide of his own beating heart. 

When the dance ends, he needs more than one hand to count the mistakes he’s made. You had gracefully saved him from each mistake, maneuvering your body in such a way that the flow of the dance was upheld. As he bows to you, the crowd bursts into rapturous applause.  

Before he can even blink, numerous lords and ladies have already swarmed the both of you like angry bees, buzzing with life. Each vy for your next dance, the questions flying so fast you barely have time to plaster on a polite smile. You’re generally a sociable person, but your eyes widen as the crowd presses closer, each bothersome member trying to be louder than the next. Your gaze lands on him.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, scowling at the crowd. Briefly, he remembers you had promised a dance to the son of Sokolov, and then decides he could give less of a fuck about that. 

“Their Imperial Highness needs space,” he snaps. The response is instantaneous; he almost laughs at the way one girl jumps almost a foot back, banging into a boy behind her.   

You grace him with a thankful smile. He thinks he would kill all of the people in this room to earn it again. 

“I need air,” you declare, more to yourself and him than anyone else. Before someone can get in the way of your plans, you hook your arm through his and lead him out into the gardens. 

The Sokolov estate is massive, though not as big as Zapolyarny. The hedged gardens sprawl north, east, and west, with the manor at their backs. Though there are lots of small flowers here and there, it is mostly made out of small trees and shrubbery, unlike your own gardens back at the palace, which were bursting with all kinds of plants. It was hard for most greenery to withstand the cold so far up north, but the Tsaritsa had scoured the land for every flower that could grow in Snezhnaya and created for you your very own Eden. 

The glow from indoors lights up the pathways but slowly grows dimmer and dimmer as you both wander down the winding stones. He has no trouble seeing, a perk of inhabiting a modified body, and, it seems, so do you. A godly trait, perhaps. He would love to thoroughly study you one day, though your mother would probably not approve of it. 

You walk in companionable silence, arms still linked together. He wants to say something. What, exactly, he does not know. 

The manor has all but faded into the distance when you stop at a quaint marble pavilion, the night outside cool and still. There is a large pond next to the pavilion, bright and silver as a knife in the moonlight. Faintly he hears the chirping of crickets in the underbrush, the gurgling of water from a nearby miniature fountain, the honks of swans. 

You cross your arms and lean against the railing, eyes glazed and unseeing, lost in thought. He hovers behind you, uncertain as a child with an angry parent. The breeze cards its fingers through your air and makes it flutter with the wind. The air is sweet, and even the annoying chirp of the crickets softens into a mellow sound. You remain silent, your gaze trained on the water.

In the steady stillness, all those emotions from the dance rush back into his heart. Rage — at himself, at you, at the world — burns through his chest. How could he have been so stupid? So weak? He thought if only he played the game right, if only he took the correct steps, he would escape unscathed. He had not realized he never stood a chance. 

Gods and their goading, tricking everyone into believing fairness was not a shadow on the wall, fickle and false. He would have never won. 

You cannot conquer me, he had declared to you, already conquered. The more he writhed from your grip, the deeper your claws sank in. And if he ever does escape, it will be with claw marks on his soul. In this game you both play, he has played and lost. Defeat is a bitter taste on his tongue. It happened again. The gods have bested him again. 

And you. You did not even know it. You still gaze thoughtfully at the pond. He resents the way you still stand so serenely as his entire world comes crashing down around him. 

He has always been a man of action. He never waits, never stays still. Yet here he is. Staying still. 

When the silence swells into something unbearable, he says, "Am I really so boring of a companion your mind has to wander off?" He levels a cool gaze at you, hoping to mask the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his teeth grind against each other, and the way his heart thumps and thumps inside his chest. 

You turn your head to look at him. Your answering smile is amused. "You could never be boring, Dottore. Not you."

"Is that why you've been ignoring me for weeks?" The hurt slips into the words before he can catch it. He winces inwardly at himself, embarrassed at the sordid display of emotions. There's a flicker of pleasure in your eyes as the words soak in. 

You shrug like a child denying their wrongdoings. "I thought… I thought you’d be inclined to dissect me and damn the consequences if I approached you again outside our lessons, after our last encounter." His wrist throbs with the memory. Mischief slips into your voice. "Why? Did you miss me?"

Yes. "Hardly." 

"Really."

He scowls. "I barely noticed your absence." 

You rest your chin on your fist. “Mhm. Theta told me you were miserable without me.” 

That stupid, loose-lipped segment was asking for deactivation. Dottore truly does not know where the young segment got his penchant for gossiping. It was something that he, Prime, never did. But it did stem from spite, which is where ninety percent of his decisions originate from. “Theta, as you know, is a serial liar.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Anyways, I don’t think he’s lying. Pantalone told me you’re behind on submitting your financial reports,” you hurry to correct when he gives you a look, “more than usual, I mean. And I heard from a little dove you’ve gotten nothing done these past few weeks.” He makes a mental note to lock Columbina out of his lab. It’s a futile pursuit, he knows she’ll find a way in through Archons-knew-what means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try. 

He arches a brow, though you can’t see it through the mask. “How arrogant of you to assume you’re the cause behind my recent… difficulties.” 

“I don’t think it’s arrogant to be correct. Or maybe it is. Would certainly explain the reason you have oceans of arrogance.” 

“Haha. What evidence do you have, anyways?” 

“Gut instinct.” 

Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is scraping and throaty. “You would make an absolutely dreadful scholar. You need evidence, my liege, before you go around making such far-fetched claims.” 

You say nothing. You slowly walk towards him, a wolf on the hunt, smiling all the while. He stays rooted to his spot, frozen. Watching. Waiting. There is a part of him, a concerningly large part of him, that longs to feel the warmth of your skin again. Another part wants to eviscerate that part. But he stands still, and he knows, oh he knows why. 

Was it truly such a miserable fate to be conquered by you? To be desired by you? He wonders if deer run only because they want to be caught by the wolf. 

You lift your palm to his neck. Your thumb pokes and prods underneath his jawbone. He leans into your touch, baring the hollow of his throat. You’re so close. You could do what you wanted, and a sick feeling tells him he would let you. You were poised to maim, to kill, to devour. But you don’t. You simply continue to press against his skin with the flat of your thumb. 

He realizes too late what you’re looking for. 

Your devilish grin is equal parts terrifying and utterly gorgeous. Mischief truly becomes you, he thinks dimly. “There,” you say softly. “Tell me, Doctor, why is your heart beating so fast? Hmm? And—” You remove your hand from his throat and his heart screams for you to place your hand on his body once more. You grip the edge of his mask, tilting it slightly up. Enough to imply your intentions. “—May I?” 

He does not mean to nod, but his body moves of its own accord. 

You let it fall to the ground. He has never considered himself to be the most handsome of men, even before the scars. And he has never cared much for his appearance. But suddenly he is aware of his rough skin, of the jagged lines that cut through the left side of his face. He wants to pick up the mask and hide once more. But the way your eyes sparkle as you take him in, all of him in, makes him feel crafted by the gods themselves. You gently brush your thumb against the bottom of his eye. 

“Dilated pupils,” you whisper. “Whatever could be making you anxious, my lord?” 

His eyes narrow and his scowl deepens, but he does not move. “Maybe I’m coming down with an affliction. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or my drink was poisoned. Maybe your presence is so foul it is enough to kill me.” 

You laugh softly. He wants to record it and play it over and over again until his heart beats to its rhythm. “We both know that’s not true.” You caress his scarred skin with your knuckles. “Do you think I can’t tell? This is my mother’s domain, after all.” You do not say that foul, four-letter word. But you let it hang between the two of you like the blade of a guillotine. 

He's doomed himself, he knows. Human connection is not something the Second Seat should trifle with. Attachment is humanity's weakness, to be exploited and used for his own gain. The burn scars on his face remind him there is always, always something else the gods could take away. But though he has cheated death for these past four hundred years, he cannot cheat his own humanity. It is something he can never escape. It terrifies him. It beckons him closer. He thinks of your smile and your laugh. 

Your smile transforms, though your lips do not move at all. It becomes brighter now, something true and warm. He wonders how long you've been waiting for this. The sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. A voice, unbidden, whispers in his ear: there are things worth burning for.

The breeze has stopped, he realizes. As though the very world is holding its breath. 

Oh. Damn it all to the Abyss. 

He closes the distance between the both of you and presses his lips onto yours. 

You taste like wine and chocolates and all things addicting and sweet. Your lips are softer than he ever dared dream of. The shocked gasp that leaves your mouth makes him smile against your mouth. He jumps at the opportunity faster than you can react. He surges forward and grabs your waist, pressing your chest against his. His teeth graze your lips and he can see your eyes widen as he bites down, hard. Your resounding whimper makes his chest bloom with pleasure. He understands, truly, he does, why you play your game with him. With all of them. To have you weaken in his grasp, to finally, finally elicit the same vulnerability you seem to conjure so easily from him, is an experience he will never forget. There is nothing in all of the world that is as addicting as stripping monsters into mortals. 

It seems like an eternity before you finally pull away, his hand still on your waist, a silver string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your eyes are blown wide and our fingertips brush against your lips, against his teeth marks. They come away red with blood. 

“You—” The word catches in your throat, and you splutter out weak noises before you regain your voice. “—you fucking bastard!” 

If I have to burn, you burn with me. 

He shrugs, grinning. “See? It’s as you said. I’m never boring.” 

His heart thumps with equal parts terror and euphoria at what he had just done. There is a part of him, smaller now, but still there, that still flinches in his head, utterly consumed by terror by what he has just done. To announce his heart’s desire so brazenly, so thoughtlessly. Yet it was a fair exchange. He had forced you to offer up your own heart as well. Catching you off guard was such a sweet sight, it excited him more than anything had in these past few years. If he had known the sensation of kissing you would be so sweet, he would have done it long ago. 

“Fuck. Fuck. What the hell?” Though he does not believe in karma, your panicked state cannot be described as anything but. “I didn’t think you’d…” You shake your head, laughing weakly. “Fuck.” 

You bury your face into his shoulder, still cursing softly. He debates pulling away, but instead, he wraps his arms around you. You seem so small, so fragile, like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. He hums as he traces soothing circles on your back.  

"Did you miss me too in the past few weeks?" He asks impulsively. It is out of a desire to satiate his curiosity more than anything.

You draw in a shaky breath. He feels you smile against his skin. "Of course I did." The reply vindicates him.

Beat.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, looking down at your head. 

He nudges you. Had you fallen asleep somehow? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’d ever done. 

He does not catch what you say, what with the softness of your voice coupled with it being muffled by his chest. But you stir in his arms, still unable to look at him. 

“Is everything alright?” He repeats. 

“No.” A pause. “I’m a bit afraid.”

“Of what?” He asks, puzzled. 

“That if I look at you, my heart is going to burst from my chest.”  

It starts as small chuckles, then wheezing, the bellied laughter as he doubles over. Now you were the one holding him in your arms. There’s nothing funny about what you’ve just said. It’s not even a joke. But wasn’t it, in some twisted way hilarious, after all this time, how the scales have balanced themselves? 

You stare at him, incredulous, your previous anxious state shed like a snake skin. You disentangle yourself from him and slap his chest, hard, which only causes him to double down in his fit of laughter, clutching at his sore sides.

“What’s so funny?” You say shrilly. “Don’t laugh at me! Dottore!” 

“I’m not sorry,” he says after recovering himself, wiping a tear from his eye, laughter still laced in the words. 

“This isn’t funny!” You pout and stomp your feet on the ground indignantly, like a child. “You’re so mean to me.” 

He smiles. “Always, my dear. What did you expect?” 

You sigh. The sound is drawn out for dramatics. You cross your arms and turn your body away, chin up, a comical imitation of an irritated housewife. “I should’ve just taken Theta.” 

Suddenly the smile dies on his lips and his body is flooded with an ugly, twisting rage. Stupid Theta. Always ruining everything. “You don’t mean that,” he says coolly. “I’m the one you wanted to take tonight.” 

That evokes a sly smile from you. “Aww, are you jealous, my dear Doctor?” 

Definitely. He scowls. “Of course not.” 

“You seemed jealous back at the ball, too,” you tease. 

He recoils as though the words materialized themselves into the physical plane and slapped him in the face. “Of those low lives? Never.” 

“So, you wouldn’t mind going back to the dance I promised the son of Sokolov?” Urgh. He had hoped you’d forgotten about that. Anyways, it’d be a bit awkward to go back now. You’ve both been gone for so long you might as well ditch the party. And if you insisted on going back… well. He wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be forgiven, of course, and people fear him too much to make it an issue. He wonders what excuses you’ll have to draw up when you inevitably apologize to the Sokolov family for leaving so early. 

“It’s not worth your energy.” 

“But I only danced once tonight!” 

“It was good enough.” 

“You were not that good. I kept having to cover up your mistakes.” The words, though snarky, hold no actual venom. Though, it does prickle him. The overachieving scholar within yearns to be more than ‘not that good’. And anyway, who is Il Dottore, if not someone who goes above and beyond? Your smile urges him to take the bait. 

He does.

“Then,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, extending a gloved hand, “would you allow me to make up for it?” 

You place your hand in his.

Dancing has never seemed fun to Dottore. Little things (well, little socially acceptable things) have. It’s a waste of his time, in his opinion. The constant pursuit of knowledge has been his entire life. Even when he was mortal, he never understood what happiness such frivolous activities could elicit that books could not. Yet he does not recall a time he has ever felt such soft, weightless happiness as he does now. As he sways with you to invisible music in the sweet grass of the night. You mess up, and he does too. You trip on stray roots. He is unbalanced on the uneven ground. He blames it on your shared jumble of nerves. You giggle and smile and blame him. But you continue to dance, letting him spin you around as the moon bathes you in silver. Now all those years running from divinity seem so silly. How could he ever fathom running away from this? 

It disgusts him somewhat that he’s fallen into… whatever he could call this… so easily. All that time spent battling you, battling himself, all evaporated in a single night. All that effort turned to cinders. He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. He does not think the game has ended, no. You’ll play it again and again and again, until time reaches its empty end. He does not know whether he wants to devour you or be devoured by you. He does not find the latter as unappealing as it once was. Who could have guessed that pain could be pleasure? He pitied — no, he still does pity — mortals for their sad, forever-yearning hearts that beat for contentment, for companionship. Yet he finds that same weakness in him. It is utterly terrifying.

But as you spin in the moonlight, your laughter ringing in his ears, and his heart thumps and thumps, he thinks it is utterly, utterly inescapable. 

#— full fics. #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #dottore #il dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #fatui x reader #fatui harbingers x reader #love as conquest. love as a game. love as the inevitable pyrrhic victory. love as both sides losing. . #what is love if not the deer offering itself to the wolf. what is love if not the wolf utterly devoted to the deer. #love as that eternal dance between prey and predator and then predator and prey #because love requires both sides to offer up their bare throats and their hearts. what is love if not something that can kill you. #because love is #above all #mortal. human. #that was basically my thought process lol. anyways hope whoever read this enjoyed it!

[world-of-socks]

Chapter one: Spies are Forever (sorry I had to…*)

*If you don’t know what Spies Are Forever is please look it up. The full thing is on Youtube, you won’t regret it!!

(Got the idea from @steven-universe-au-prompts. I’m still working on concept art and stuff I’ll post that later. Anyways this was super fun to write and I hope you all enjoy this first look into hopefully will be a series that I’ll complete for once lol)

...

“Soldiers!” A pearl roared to the oncoming sea of quartzes and other miscellaneous gems and fusions.

Nobody was paying her any mind, the camp was full of excitement, everyone was talking to each other and conversing about the next move and where they were stationed. The air was so abuzz with different conversations that Yellow Tourmaline heard none of them. Nor did she care. She was here for one purpose and one purpose alone, and that right now, was to hear that renegade pearl speak.

“SOLDIERS!” she roared again.

A few looked up and then went back to chatting.

The pearl looked towards everyone’s leader, the rose quartz, who was speaking with a fusion, and then turned towards the crowd once more, “SHUT! UP!!”

Everyone turned to face her, and ceased their conversations. Yellow watched the pearl sigh, and then continue,

“We all appreciate you being here, your service is greatly needed in our fight to win back this wonderful planet. Though, we will need to have some form of organization in our camps, you will now hear a word from my general and yours: ROSE QUARTZ!”

The crowd erupted into applause and roars and cheers. These gems loved this Quartz, loved her more than any gem Yellow Tourmaline had ever seen. The Rose Quartz dismissed the applause, humbly, and then began to speak.

“You wonderful gems, you’ve worked so hard your entire life to please someone who doesn’t care about you, or your well-being. You’ve slaved away for the whims of a dictator who thinks you are a pile of sediment, unworthy. Those days are over. When you are under my command you are free to be whoever you want, and to fuse with whoever you want!”

There was another planet shaking roar of applause, Yellow just stood there, dumbfounded, she didn’t understand. The Rose quartz held up her hand to silence them once more.

“Though I would like to make one thing clear. There will still have to be a level of organization in my camps! You will be organized by your station, you won’t be shattered if you don’t listen, but if we want to do this properly, it would be preferred if you would do as I tell you. Though, all ideas are welcome! Pearl will continue from here.”

She then stepped away and resumed talking to the fusion, her pearl then started commanding everyone on where to go.

“The front lines will be stationed in the first two barracks, the blacksmiths will be stationed…..” her voice seemed to fade away.

After the meeting, Yellow knew exactly where she was to go, she was a general on the front lines (she had perfected the basic general appointment test) and would be staying with other generals in the barracks. She hadn’t met any of them yet, and wasn’t thrilled about staying a week with everyone else, but she knew she had to.

She pushed back the fabric of the tent and stepped in timidly, inside was a table with chairs and a few gems gathered around it, a few cots (she only recently learned what those were), and a weapons rack. As she walked in a few of the gems looked up at her, a few looked a little wary, but the others appeared friendly.

“Heya, we got a new one ‘ere!” exclaimed an Ametrine.

She got up from her table where the rest of the generals were huddled over a map, and approached her. Yellow backed up slightly, she wasn’t used to being interacted with in such a way.

“Ey, I’m not gonna ‘urt ya.” Ametrine gave her a pat on the shoulder, “I’m Ametrine, by the way, but you can call me Ame, everyone does.”

Ame looked her up and down to take her in, Yellow watched the evaluation process go on in her head, “Let’s see ‘ere, a newby most likely from, what, Yellow’s court?”

Yellow stiffened up, not used to the informal addressing of the name, “Yes.”

“Ah! rough, mate. I was too. She’s a bit cold, ain't she? Kinda emotionless, yeah?” Ame shook her head, hands in her pockets,“Yeah, I’m real glad I left when I did. I started feelin’ real low, always scared of gettin’ shattered, y’know? I’m feelin’ much betta’ under Rose’s command, though, no need to worry ‘bout little ol’ me.”

Yellow just gave a weak laugh.

“Ya don’t talk much do ya?” Ame remarked, “What’s ya name anyway?”

She straightened up, “I’m Yellow Tourmaline.”

“Do ya go by anythin’ shorter?”

“No.” she retorted simply.

“Well that’ll have to change.” Ame thought for a moment, “I’m sure durin’ trainin’ tomorrow a betta’ name will reveal itself.”

There was an awkward silence yet again, Yellow wasn’t very good at interacting like this.

“Lemme’ introduce ya to the team!” Ame said with fake or real enthusiasm, Yellow couldn’t tell.

“This is Black Opal, but we call her Bo. She don’t say much either, but she’s a great archer and an even betta’ general. Her surprise attacks are some of the best and smartest in the biz!” Ame pointed to a tall and darkly colored gem towards the left of the table, she looked up and simply nodded in greeting.

“Over there’s Emerald, but we just call her Bear. She got the name cuz’ we went on a scoutin’ mission, and ran across an earth creature, Rose said it's called a bear, and she got chased by that thing for hours! Once she got fed up though she stopped in her tracks and screamed in its face and scared it off into the woods! She’s more a bear than it was!” The Emerald rolled her eyes, she must’ve been used to the anecdote.

“There’s old Peach Sapphire over there, Bismuth, and oh that there’s Cat’s Eye, don’t mess with them, they’re a tricky one. I could tell ya a million stories about all these guys.” Ame laughed, but quickly stopped when she saw the unamused look on Yellow’s face, “Ah, but, I won’t… I won’t.”

Yellow strode across the room to the map on the table, and looked at it for a moment.

“Judging our strategies, are you?” Peach Sapphire retorted to Yellow’s glance at the map.

“Wha-... no.” Yellow lied.

“Ah well you were going to.” she mused.

“I thought only Blue Sapphire’s could predict the future.”she grumbled, realizing she had been caught.

“Hm, yes, and that’s where you're wrong. Blue Sapphires can predict the future more accurately than I, but no, they aren’t the only ones.” She sighed, “And if you’re worried that we won’t succeed without good incite on the future we have a rare Blue Sapphire on our team. She’s fused with Ruby, they go by Garnet by the way, she’s Rose’s lefthand gem.”

Yellow cringed slightly at the mention of fusion, “The Pearl is the right hand?” she clarified.

“Yes.” Peach sighed and looked back at the map, “Newcomers aren’t permitted to be strategists until they go through a week of training. Our apologies, but this war has been long and hard, I’ve lost friends, loved ones, excuse me if I don’t trust you right away.”

“I… see.” the room was silent, a distant grief hung in the air.

“I assume you aren’t one to sleep are you?” Emerald asked, breaking the emptiness, “The newbys usually aren’t.”

“No, I don’t sleep.” she replied.

“That’ll change!” Ame called from where she lay on her cot, her cap over her eyes.

A few of the other generals snickered.

“Well even if you don’t sleep I recommend resting on the cots until morning.” Emerald added kindly.

“Is there really nothing else I can assist with?” she asked, desperate, not loving the idea of being left alone with her thoughts, surrounded by strange gems.

“Not until we get a chore list, a training schedule, or a command.” Emerald replied.

“Or until Jasper comes in here and breaks something.” Peach muttered.

Ame laughed from her cot, even Black Opal snickered slightly.

Yellow sat in the cot the second closest to the tent opening. She lay down on her back stiffly, and closed her eyes, but when nothing changed she sat up and looked around. She hated the feeling of not being in charge, but she knew it was only going to have to be for a week.

After an hour or so of sifting through the pamphlets for newcomers, she was startled by a loud sound. The tent ripped open and a giant Jasper burst through with a terrified look on its face. Yellow jumped to her feet.

The Jasper ran over to where Ame lay presumably asleep and shook her violently.

“Ame! Ame!!” she cried, “You gotta wake up! Please wake up!”

“Wha-... Jazz what’s,” she yawned, “What’s goin’ on ya loon.”

“I was just-...I was just!” she panted and stuttered, “I was just-... practicing my acting! Free acting lessons with Jazz as soon as the sun goes down!”

“Nobody needs ya classes Jazz, not in this war. Besides no non-sleepin newby would ever join.” Ame muttered readjusting her cap.

Jasper stamped her foot, “Yeah, but MORALE! Ya know?” she turned excitedly to Yellow who felt more uncomfortable than ever before, “Hey, would you wanna join?”

“Uh… no.” She answered, Jazz frowned, “Uh I mean- no, not really.” she stuttered.

“Dang,” Jazz mused, “This one IS new. Welp, they're always open if ya ever change your mind.”

Jazz crashed onto an empty spot on the floor which had blankets, that were probably chipped in from the other generals, for her to lay on. Yellow hadn’t noticed the broken cot pieces before.

Yellow resumed her sitting position at the end of the makeshift bed and continued looking through the pamphlet, more to look busy, she had already read the entire thing. After an hour or so the other generals retired, save for Cat’s eye who, without a word, glided to the tent entrance and stood guard.

Once she determined it wouldn’t be awkward to stop reading, she layed back down, this time on her side. She stared at the dirty tent fabric.

It would just be for a week, then she could transform back into her usual form, get into her ship, and drive home with whatever plans she could find. Nobody would know, not even the others on homeworld. She could finally end this fight once and for all.

#my writing #steven universe #su #yellow diamond #steven universe au #su au #blue diamond #bellow diamond #bd #bellow #yd #ametrine #jasper #cat’s eye #bismuth #peach sapphire #pearl #emerald #rose quartz #ruby #sapphire #garnet #yellow tourmaline #guys for real tho please watch spies are forever #spies are forever #starkid mention #anyways hope you enjoyed #let me know if you wanna see more #loved writing the other generals #each and every star fell to earth au

[bittercoldbrew]

PLEASE tell me about the alien plant girls im so gay for anthropomorphic fem plants

omg thank you SO MUCH for asking and i apologize in advance for the infodump because i have been thinking about these alien plant people for literal years now, i love them so much. I first started thinking about these guys a little after TFA, because of an oc i was working on for a lil star wars fic that i have mostly abandoned by now--so sorry to the like 3 people who were reading my sidon ithano fic but tlj/tros really killed whatever passion i had for the franchise for a good long time :/ but Mando is great so i've been thinking about them'st again...

anyway i am sticking this under a cut because a) im very attached to these characters and if someone steals my shit i will kermit and b) sweet jesus this got so long, i am so sorry

in the SW universe at least, these plant people (that i still for the life of me cannot settle on an actual name for) were the primary inhabitants of a dwarf planet way out in wild space; they had a pretty symbiotic relationship with a race of sentient insectoid people (basically human-sized bees) who could travel between the planet and their home on one of its three moons (affectionately called the Honey Moon). what the plants didn’t know was that the bees were also able to travel to different planets, and had been doing so for a couple centuries before everything went to shit--but we’ll get to that in a bit.

the plant people weren’t particularly interested in the galaxy around them--they had a decent understanding of astronomy and cosmology, but little cultural interest in journeying to the stars. since the planet was pretty small and distant from the galactic core, it was pretty rare that a visiting ship would even pass them by, and scanners didn’t register them as genuine life-forms separate from the natural flora, so even if someone happened to end up out there it’s not the sort of place anyone would really choose to land. on rare occasions, a pirate or smuggler would try to hide out on what they thought to be an unoccupied planet, and would return to the Outer Rim with tales of mobile, sentient trees and bizarre, organic cities found on some uncharted world; likewise, occasionally a plant person would turn up at the local bar with tales of crashed space-ships and strange aliens that seemed almost like people. neither would ever be taken seriously.

the plants aren’t a particularly verbal people. they understand spoken language (a somewhat-modified Basic, at least, which is what the bees speak hmm i wonder where they picked that up from) and many can talk, but most don’t really bother learning to do so. mostly they rely on an ESP-like combo of pheromones and body language, highly attuned to the point that it’s essentially a kind of telepathy. i think i mentioned in the tags on that post that my character Antheia is sorta kinda a jedi? for these people, force sensitivity tends to manifest as an extra-extra-sensory-perception that causes you to be hyperaware of every living thing in your environment, not just the other sentient ones.

this made her uhhh extremely off-putting as a youth, easily distractable and often disinterested in the other people in the small community she grew up in, where she was already pretty disliked to begin with. there’s quite a lot of diversity among the plant people (a wide variety of skin tones/textures and body types, though few if any secondary sex characteristics; four limbs are most common, though occasionally some have two or more sets of arms; different types of leaves/vines/blossoms/etc in lieu of hair), and though they have a barter-based economy there’s still a lot of classism that’s mostly based around lineage (and thus evinced by one’s appearance and the traits one manifests). to protect (or attempt to bolster) those lineages, prospective parents can apply for a spot in a nursery, where their offspring are propagated and tended--mostly just through infancy before going to live with parents, though sometimes longer, and the very high class have private nurseries that will do all the rearing so they don’t have to.

But, on very rare occasions, certain wild plants will spontaneously develop sentience, and even more rarely will survive on their own long enough to find their way to a community. Hundreds of years ago (or “before the bees could speak”, which is their version of “once upon a time”), these spontaneous growths were revered and cherished, and whoever was first to encounter one would see it as a great honor to be responsible for their care and upbringing. now, with a much more striated society, these “weeds” (derogatory) are considered inferior, feral, dangerous. fortunately for Antheia, the man who found her, tangled in marsh reeds under the light of the Honey Moon, didn’t buy into any of that bullshit. he was a really sweet dad, very attentive and doting on his increasingly-strange adopted daughter; they were very close. but the older she got, the more her unusual ability developed, and the more he realized he was well out of his depth to help her understand that part of herself. eventually, she’s sent away to a kind of temple/convent for other people like her, where she’s trained to hone and control her extra senses, rather than be overwhelmed by them.

many years later, the sudden appearance of several large starships in their atmosphere turns their society on its head. it turns out, the bee-people have been traveling to other planets, forging alliances, brokering deals; they claim they just want to facilitate inter-planetary trade. Antheia is among the first to mistrust these invading aliens and their fleet of well-armed droids who seem hell-bent on mining their planet (which is, apparently, rich with cortosis, which--thank you wookiepedia--is apparently capable of repelling lightsabers and blasterfire alike). She flees her convent, joins up with an underground network of resistance fighters, discovers that her hyperawareness makes her a truly formidable force on the battlefield, and helps lead her people in defending the sovereignty of their home. And then things take a turn for the worse...but we don’t need to get into that right now.

ANYWAY.

my other oc, Shoal, is from the same planet but not even remotely star-warsy; either from a different time period well before the droid incursion, or just like an AU of my own stuff, idk. but she’s great, i love her deeply even though i dont really know what i even want to do with her yet. i mostly just was thinking about what a normal, average person in this world would be like, but then i got too attached. she’s also one of the spontaneous “weeds”, a semi-aquatic plant girl that washed up on a sandbar that occasionally connects a small island with the mainland when the tide is out. she was sort of “found” by multiple people at the same time, since they were making their way across to go trade goods at the mainland market, so to avoid the confusion of who should be responsible for her, she’s just sort of raised by the village as a whole. they name her Shoal, since that’s where they found her (it started as a joke, but then no one could agree on anything else to call her so it just sort of...stuck).

she grows up without realizing that it’s a pretty unusual upbringing. as a teen, she gains the reputation for the island’s best fisher (it helps that she can breathe as well underwater as above, and she’s always been a good swimmer). one thing that’s pretty consistent among all the plant people are their teeth--they all have long, sharp incisors and canines because sexy and also as more of a defense mechanism than a dietary one. they don’t eat much, typically absorbing nutrients from the sun/water/air/soil (mud baths are such a beloved experience, like for the most part they are very dignified people but find them some good mud and they will wallow for days) but when they do it’s pretty meat-heavy. they don’t really enjoy the process of eating very much, especially because they don’t have much gut bacteria so they typically have to swallow some stones to break up their food and nobody wants to do all that. but, at least in the coastal towns near where Shoal grew up, fresh-caught fish is considered a delicacy, and they can trade for quite a lot in return.

as she gets older, though, she starts getting restless. she loves her village, but it’s all she’s ever really known. also, it is so hard to even consider dating when literally everyone your age is practically your sibling, i mean, yeesh. so one day she just packs her bags and says her goodbyes and waits for low tide, then sets off to find her own way in the great wide world. she stops wherever she can, sees everything she can, but eventually settles down working at a tavern in a medium-sized town that’s mostly acclaimed for being a crossroads between bigger and better places. she likes it there, likes getting to know lots of new people and hearing about someone else’s travels more than she actually liked traveling herself. after a few years, the tavern-keeper retires and decides to leave the place to her, and she finds she’s become a permanent fixture in this new community. that’s really all i have for her so far, and i have no idea whether i’ll ever actually do anything with this character lol, but still she is very precious to me so i hope i find a story she’d be a good match for sometime soon.

#my ocs #oh my god this is...way too much i am so sorry #the sad thing is this is me trying to restrain myself there was more i wanted to talk about for both #and still i somehow wrote like 1500 words of backstory orz #but yeah i am hoping to have a bit about antheia and mando written up soonish if anyone is interested?? 👀👀 #and wow i really wanna write something with shoal i just. dont know what that something is yet #ugh #thedragonagelesbian #thank you so much for indulging me anthropomorphic plant girls are SUCH an underutilized monster girl its so sad #but i am doing my part to rectify that injustice

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 227: Basically Just Me Saying “Holy Shit” a Bunch

Previously on BnHA: We went on a semi-enlightening romp into Toga’s past. Basically she was an adorable child who just so happened to have a taste for blood. And whoever’s job is was to explain to her, “hey Toga, I know you like blood, but other people like being alive, so, you know. Let’s explore some other options for you,” they basically dropped the ball there. So after she murdered her hapless Deku-looking classmate in middle school, she went on the run, and we basically know the rest. Back in the present, Toga had just been blown up from the inside out as you may recall, so she spent most of the chapter kind of out of it. At one point Kizuki even started talking about her like she was already dead, reassuring her that she’d become a martyr for the Army’s cause (which, no thanks). But then Toga managed to stumble to her feet and transform into Ochako as she tried to flee. It was revealed that while transformed, she can use the quirk of whoever she’s turned into, and she proceeded to demonstrate this by floating Kizuki (and half her redshirt goons) a hundred feet into the air before dropping her back down to the pavement. Yeah. So I’m pretty sure she’s dead now. Ah well.

Today on BnHA: Toga passes out in a shed after a job well done. We learn that the MLA is recording all of the fighting, most likely for propaganda purposes because as we have previously established they’re a bunch of dicks. Hanabata confirms that Kizuki is dead and gets the Army all fired up. They charge at Tomura, who is really fucking sleep-deprived you guys, and as he stands there blinking at them he has another flashback. Turns out the little girl from the previous flashback was his sister, and back when they were cute lil munchkins and she was still alive (sob), she showed him a picture of Nana and told him that their grandma was a hero. Tomura doesn’t remember this clearly, but he remembers the accompanying emotions, which is enough to get me hyped out of my mind fyi. Back in the present, Tomura disintegrates I’m-gonna-go-with-about-200 Army henchpeople basically instantaneously without even touching some of them, which, oh shit. And then Dabi is all “oh cool I want to do some mass murder too” but before he can let loose, some dude with fucking ice powers shows up to challenge him. I guess this means we’re never going to get Touya VS Shouto, or if we do it’s going to be very repetitive. But it’s not like I’m complaining either way. Here’s hoping the villain flashback trend continues next week because omfg.

(All comments are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter like an hour ago lol. I did a quick edit for grammar and clarity, but aside from that this is as close to a live liveblog as I’m going to get. It took two-thirds of a year, but these recaps are finally caught up.)

this is so exciting guys. I mean, for me the reading process is basically the same, but the posting process is going to be a new one since I’ll be trying to get this up the same day once I’ve read it! so you can expect many exciting errors and brain farts! prepare for the full brunt of my unpolished rough draft thoughts!

so anyway, here’s Toga

lol so much to analyze here. real quick:

“sleepy.” if that isn’t the most relatable chapter title in the history of time, though

loving the “my villain academia” logo in the background! as far as I’m concerned that’s the official title of this arc

“the conclusion of the battles” y’all I read this and I was like “what?! already!?!” but then I realized they’re talking about volume 23, which features the conclusion of the joint training battle arc. so who knows how many more villain battlin’ chapters we’ve still got ahead. I have a feeling we’re already winding down, though

note how all of the stuffed animals are stabbed. ah this girl

it’s 2214, who the fuck still uses polaroid cameras. that would be like someone in our time using a [googles inventions from 200 years ago] modern suspension bridge. ...wait

anyway you guys maybe I should start reading the actual chapter already if I want any hope of actually getting this posted before fucking midnight though

oh hey, so Toga is dying in a shed you guys. fun

I’m not really thrilled about this! to be honest! I mean for fuck’s sake she’s only 17. she was blown up from the inside out. and although the consequences initially seemed to have possibly been handwaved, it appears that no one can escape BnHA’s realistic injury clause for long! so. yeah

I get why she hid, because it’s not like the others are just gonna drop everything to come help her (although Twice, though...), and there are enemies everywhere so this is probably safer. but it also means that if she passes out here there’s a good chance she’s not going to wake up again! and that is bad! that is very much not good

what she really needs to do is call Ujiko! hitch a ride out of there while you still can! he is a doctor, right? even if it is the questionable mad scientist type! worst case, you end up as a Noumu. actually, wait a sec, maybe we should think this through

and yet the fact that she’s still laughing, though. just. goddammit. I love her so much. I swear to god Toga if you fucking die...!!

so now she’s curling up in the fetal position and thinking “once again I’ve gotten closer to you”

yeah, Deku really does do this every other week. or he did for a little while at least sob

and now we are cutting to ReDestro who for some reason is monologuing about Toga!

oh right, because he had the cameras and shit set up to livestream that shit

okay but is it just me or is he not looking at any cameras. he’s just enjoying the view from his little observation tower same as before. does his quirk allow him to see everywhere at once or what

is it bad that I barely even paid attention to the actual content of his ramblings lol. it’s just the same old same old. blah blah society rejects anyone who’s different, it’s so unfair, blah blah

it’s not a bad point, mind you; it’s just that RD and his army are completely full of shit and acting like they’re so much better even though they’re just a bunch of mur-diddly-urderers. it’s like how PETA acts like they’re champions of animal rights when really they mostly just kill shelter animals, insult Steve Irwin, and claim that milk causes autism. but I digress sob

oh shit I forgot about this dude

here I was thinking there was only the one other miniboss to go before the big bad. silly me. how could I have forgotten that two page spread and our friend here with the Gorillaz mouth and the Beatles haircut

wow are you serious?

Giran sitting there with one skeptical eyebrow raised thinking about how these guys threatened to kill him in order to lure his friends out so that they could, you guessed it, kill them!

and also, way to completely disregard the dozens of other minions who already bit the dust before Kizuki. like, your entire town is basically doomed, guy. but sure let’s cry for the one dead villain who actually had a name though

holy shit you guys

are you telling me that’s why you were recording the whole thing? is that why you invited the League here in the first place?? for the fucking publicity? kill the bad guys and earn the public’s good will? did I miss that part of the planning sesh, or was this objective already painfully obvious and I somehow either missed it or forgot all about it?

either way it’s amazing how these guys become bigger assholes with each progressive chapter

oh now he’s explaining it all on the next page lol. so I guess I didn’t miss the memo, good

okay but first he’s getting real physical with my boy Giran here though

okay first of all, all he did was say “footage...?” like wth was so fucking impolite about that. and second, why do I get the feeling that there’s probably a fair percentage of people who read this chapter and got to this panel and now suddenly ship it sob

I mean, he just got so up close and personal though. all up in his face. this guy has such a weird energy and it’s really creeping me out now ngl

anyway so here we go with the explanations

holy shit you guyssssssssss

when did Giran get so fucking hot?? and is he single?! asking for a friend???!

anyway so now RD is wiping away his crocodile tears and says Giran is lacking in imagination

oh hey

what an interesting segue back to Tomura!

wow, Spinner’s asking how much longer until Big G wakes up, and Compress says one hour and twenty minutes. so that means they’ve already been at it for like an hour and fifteen minutes! minus however much time it took to warp over and then follow Back-Stab n’ Go out to the center of town for the ambush. even if that took a whole half hour they’ve still been fighting for a long time! but I guess they’re more than used to that by this point, thank you so much Ujiko and your six weeks of brutal endurance training

Spinner’s all “no matter how many we defeat, they just keep on coming!” and I know, dude, it’s almost like there’s over one hundred thousand of them or something dfskdj

although to be fair, probably not every last one of them is actually there. can you imagine. it might take a whole nother hour to beat them all

now Hanabata is driving in on the back of an election van. because apparently he just fucked right off in the middle of his fight with the League, and then came back. with a van

so he’s all “EVERYONE I HAVE SOME DEEPLY SADDENING NEWS” and oh my gosh what is it

oh

yeah dude we already been knew. RIP and all that

so the crowd is all distressed and asking what the Supreme Leader said

really?? that’s what they call him?? yeah you guys aren’t evil at all

and Hana quotes, “‘do not let her sacrifice be in vain’“

sorry bruh. but. it’s gonna be in vain. hate to break it to you

right??

GASP

TWICE STOP BEING AWED AT HANABATA’S INFLUENTIAL AURA AND START PAYING ATTENTION TO THE DUDE WHO’S SNEAKING UP BEHIND YOU AND TRYING TO SNATCH YOUR MASK OFF

anyway so in the meantime this is happening

maybe there are 100k of them. seems like there’s a lot. I do like that from this angle it appears that Tomura and the others have holed up in a relatively narrow alley, thus creating a choke point and limiting the number of enemies who can attack them all at once. although this panel does make it look like there’s just a big ol’ wave of bad guys surfing their way towards them though, so it remains to be seen how effective this strategy will actually be lol

eh?

yeah no shit boy you’ve been fighting Daruk from BotW for the last month and a half

anyway so apparently he’s feeling ~weird~ though

I shit you not guys, my sister was hospitalized a couple months back (she’s fine now) because she started hallucinating after a three-day bout of insomnia. shit is no joke. don’t be like Tomura. go to bed and don’t stay up all night fighting villains

-- OH SHIT!?!

ASDFALSDFHLKSDHLFKJHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

IT’S A LITTLE GIRL!! AND SHE’ S OPENING A SECRET DRAWER!!

SHE’S ALL “IT’S OUR LITTLE SECRET!” OH MY GOD

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

SWEET JESUS MARY JOSEPH!? HORIKOSHI DO YOU FUCKING READ THE THEORY POSTS ON TUMBLR JUST SO YOU CAN IMMEDIATELY SHIT ON THEM TWO DAYS AFTER?? HOW THE FUCK

AND IS NANA’S SON WEARING DEKU SHOES?? OH MY GOD PLEASE

AND THIS MEANS THE LITTLE GIRL IS ACTUALLY TENKO’S SISTER SOBBBBBBBBB NOOOOOOOOOOOOO

BUT ON THE PLUS SIDE THIS MAKES TOMURA MUCH MORE LIKELY TO GO APESHIT ON AFO’S ASS IF HE COMES TO REALIZE THAT AFO INDIRECTLY MURDERED HIS SISTER OH SHIT

BUT SHIT YOU GUYS, SHE’S SO CUTE AND SHE’S FUCKING DEAD NOW SOB THAT’S SO FUCKING HORRIBLE I MEAN IT I’M REALLY UPSET THOUGH

BUT LET’S CONTINUE WITH THE FLASHBACK TO SEE IF HORIKOSHI WANTS TO TOY WITH MY EMOTIONS ANYMORE!!

NANA DIDN’T DO A GOOD ENOUGH JOB ERASING ALL TRACES OF HER CONNECTION TO HER CHILD AND IT EVENTUALLY RESULTED IN HIS DEATH OH SHIT. I’M SERIOUSLY SO UPSET ABOUT THIS??

NOTE HOW BABY TENKO’S FACE IS PURPOSELY BLACKED OUT EVEN THOUGH (A) HIS SISTER’S IS NOT, AND (B) WE SHOULD, IN THEORY, ALREADY KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE! IT’S BECAUSE HE DOESN’T HAVE THE SCARS OR THE WHITE HAIR YET CUZ AFO HASN’T WIPED HIS MEMORIES. [nods sagely as though I have any sort of proof of this whatsoever and it’s not all just wild speculation and conjecture]

HANAAAAAAAA oh shit I better come up with another nickname for Hanabata then. looks like it’s Back To The Full Name for you mister

!!?!?!?

okay you guys I think this is intentional misdirection. we’re meant to believe that Tenko’s dad was perhaps abusive and that his behavior toward his son ultimately triggered the awakening of his quirk and led to all of the subsequent Horrible Things happening

but I think what it actually is is that Tenko’s dad probably resents Nana for giving him up. and maybe Tenko wanted to know more about her and maybe he got in trouble for it? because now Hana is showing him the picture, and then talking about this mysterious conversation with their dad and saying she’s on Tenko’s side. so that’s my bet

anyway! but this means Tomura might not need as much convincing as I previously speculated! I figured he probably wouldn’t know much, if anything, about his grandma even if he did somehow get his memories back, because he was only four when all that shit went down, and Nana had parted ways with Tomura’s dad years ago. but if he actually did know a bit about her and even possibly felt a connection with her, as this flashback suggests, that could go a long way towards fueling his eventual breakaway from AFO’s side once All Might is able to explain the truth

ahhhhh you guys this is exciting I’m excited. though also still very sad though because wtf seriously

so Tomura’s tiredly thinking that the least his stupid memories could do is show him the whole picture instead of these fragments. “it’s like a broken tape recording or something”

HOLY SHIT

...I have no words. holy shit

anyone else getting flashbacks to the Highway to Hell though? what is it with Tomura and periodically pulling off the most badass stunts in the whole fucking manga. all because he didn’t get his nap dsflkjlk

ReDestro look at this loss of life. are you crying again. no, I can’t imagine that you are. you ass

you guys are probably getting tired of me just going “holy shit” over and over, but

hooooooooooooly shit

guys, if Tomura can dust people without even touching them he might as well just change his name to fucking Thanos and we’d better start praying this kid gets redeemed and soon

so now there’s a panel of Tomura being all drooly, and honestly he looks like he’s about to pass out. not sure if this is intended to be a glam shot or what lol

ohhhhSHIT

YESSSSSSSSSSS DABI. DRACARYS

!LKJDSLFKJLSDKJF!!

OH SHIT YOU GUYS, IT LOOKS LIKE WE’RE ABOUT TO GET ALL A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE UP IN THIS BITCH

who is this weird little black mage. I’ll tell you one thing, he’s the only guy I’ve seen so far who’s actually dressed appropriately for fucking December weather, though, so good on him

will he defeat our boy Touya (spoilers, he won’t)? will Touya have some flashbacks of his own (TOUYA PLEASE), since that seems to be what all the cool kids are doing these days? will I lose my fucking shit all over again next week? stay tuned! but yes I absolutely will, oh jesus this is awesome

#bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha 227 #toga himiko #giran #shigaraki tomura #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #makeste reads bnha #are there any theories about tenko's sister possibly still being alive? #please you guys I need there to be theories where she lived #justice for the shimura sibs #brb going to pore through the entire manga looking for clues about who she might be if so #she's probably a couple years older than him #but we don't know her quirk #she could be anyone dammit #shimura hana please show yourself please I need this

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

As previously warned, I have a huge number of questions for the fanfic author ask thing. So, here we go: 4, 5, 6, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 20, 21, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30, 31, 33, 36, 37 and then, if that wasn’t already enough, and there is anything you want to answer that I haven’t already asked, then pick one of your choosing to answer as well! 💕

Holy crap you weren’t kidding! lol this is gonna be so much fun!

4: What made you start writing fanfiction?

My 3rd grade teacher, Mr. Gula, gave me a challenge to write out my own ending to my favorite movie or TV show. As I was never really one to back down from a challenge, I went home and wrote out my own story about the first Transformers movie and another one about what I would do if I had been in HIgh School Musical. Yeah... needless to say, I was the Hermione of my grade.

5: Favorite pairing?

I know I don’t write for them, but my top is probably either Dee Dee and Frankie from the Beach Blanket Bingo, Bikini Beach, and Muscle Beach type movies or Seaweed and Penn from Hairspray. Something about those types of romance are sort of sweet to me. Guess I’m just an old soul. I also adore Cory and Topanga form Boy Meets World, but I’m mostly here for the older romances.

6: Least favorite pairing?

I’ll probably get flack for all of my answer, but I’m a little bit opinionated about this lol. The way Ginny and Harry’s relationship in the films was, was just confusing and so not what I had expected from them. The books gave them so much more than the movies ever did. The books were way better. Another case I don’t like was Bella and Edward/Renesmee and Jacob from Twilight. I think the other relationships in Twilight were better (Jasper and Alice are so sweet!) and Stephanie Meyer just kinda tossed Bella and Edward and Renesmee and Jacob together in the hope it would work and it just didn’t.

12: What’s the weirdest fic you’ve ever written?

I can’t believe I’m admitting to this.... I used to write full stories about One Direction. I had a full Niall x OC story I posted on a 1D Imagines group on Facebook that got almost 2,000 likes. It was silly, but, my word, it was almost as long as Broken Record. It spanned over the month of October 2014 and I can’t believe it ot the attention it did. It wasn’t all that good, but I guess it was good enough for people to like it, so that’s alright by me lol

13: Weirdest fic you’ve ever read?

I don’t believe it’s on fanfiction anymore, but I remember the basic info on it. It was Make a Wish by FireBladePrime. It was pretty much a girl made a wish on a shooting star and it made her favorite toys come to life as full size humans. I believe she ended up falling in love with one, but I’m pretty sure it just ended up being something that she came up with in her head when she was in a coma due to a car accident. Definitely a weird one, but it was pretty well written as far as memory serves.

14: Do the people in your life know you write fic? How do they feel about it?

Well, quite a bit of my family knows, actually. It started with just my parents, but my dad was always wanting to show off whatever his baby princess did (I was his only biological child, my older siblings were from my mom’s ex-husband). Dad shared with his siblings, mom shared with her siblings and my grandfather. My nieces and nephews know as well, but I believe that’s it. As far as I know, they are all very supportive and have no problem with it. My neice, Lorali, and nephews, Erek and Drake, have read all of my Teen Beach fics and quote things from them daily just to see if I’ll react, but they mostly just like reading them or having me read to them. They’re very loving and supportive of my writing.

15: Favorite fandom to write for?

I don’t know if I could pick one! I love Teen Beach so much, but I also have a certain affinity for writing small oneshots or “x Reader” style stories for Avengers and Harry Potter which can be found here and here. I do share the Harry Potter page with my sister, but she handles reblogging things to our page. Anyway, those would probably be my top fandoms!

17: What is the harshest criticism you’ve ever gotten on a fic?

Holy crap. Okay, I may or may not have repressed this for a long time, but I have more than one that I can’t decide between. The other one was from a girl in my class who stole my writing notebook and read my writing. Fuck you, Ashley She gave it back to me later that day with marker scribbles all over my writing. She said that I was horrible. The next day, I stole the makeup bag she had brought from her mother’s bathroom and buried it on the playground.

I was a good child that believed in getting even. Nobody found out about that btw.

Anyway, the first real criticism I had on a fic was someone who said, “You have no talent and you shouldn’t be writing. It all sucks and you’ll never go anywhere as an author.” I had actually written this down and, when I felt it no longer mattered to me, I burned it. It took me a couple of years to come to the realization that their opinion didn’t matter to me.

 20: What’s your biggest struggle when it comes to writing fic?

Having time to sit down and write, probably. I usually have great ideas, but, in order to write them out and have them come out alright, I would need to sit down and feel it all come together while I write. I need time that I just don’t have most of the time.

21: Your biggest strength?

When I sit down to write, it all just flies out of me. Once i start, I don’t stop until my idea is all out into either m notebook or my computer. I can have a simple idea that somehow spirals into an eight page chunk that I never thought was possible. I like to think of that as my biggest writing strength.

24: What’s your process?

Write out the “backbone plot” (The stuff that has to happen, no matter what)

Decide on characters. Figure out appearance, personality and basic traits. (Sorta like a sim, I guess)

Bounce ideas with whoever will listen/listen to music (Gain ideas and write them in a small notebook)

Wait for inspiration and time to line up accordingly.

Write as much as I can.

Go back into that later on and edit what needs to be there and delete what isn’t necessary.

Publish!

I hope that’s what this means, at least.

25: Of all the fics you’ve written, which is your favorite?

Most definitely Broken Record and Creating a Rift. It was one of my first published stories and I just adore them.

26: Which of your fics is your least favorite?

I don’t even know how to find it anymore, but it was called Life’s a Rollercoaster. It was a Transformers fic that I had written when I was 11. Never finished it bc I lost the login stuff and it, now that I remember it, sucked hard.

27: What’s your most popular fic? Do you think the popularity is warranted, or is there another fic that you think deserves it more?

Any of them really! I love that Broken Record has had almost 10,000 reads, but I don’t believe it. As I go back over it, I wonder how on earth it gained popularity in the first place, but I couldn’t be happier that it did!

29: Which of your fics was the hardest to write?

My book. Probably the Christmas one, tbh. I only feel the pull to write it around the holidays and that kinda sucks lol

30: Favorite fic writers?

You better know you’re number one, girlie! For those who don’t know, Eleanor here is one of my closest internet friends and she’s practically family to me at this point!

As for other authors, I love Ulurnaga’s Primary Mechanisms story (Transformers). I know she hasn’t updated it since 2014, but it was so good that she could’ve left it at multiple parts and it would’ve been fine. I think it has abot 118 chapters to it. I have a few favorites from AutobotGuy710 who does a lot of Transformers stories basing around adoption (helps for my references and also a better understanding of what goes on a bit in adoptions/foster care). On Tumblr, I have a few faves, but not a ton. I like imagine-and-marvel and potterlyimagines fics a lot, but that’s about it at the moment as I haven’t sat down to read fics in a little while.

31: Do you write just for fun, or would you ever consider pursuing writing?

A bit of both, actually. I mostly enjoy writing my fics as a bit of an escape from reality. I enjoy being able to place myself in a world that doesn’t exist and sort of play around a bit. However, I do actually write as a job. I was working for my county newspaper for a while and that spiraled into me writing my first book, Feather Picked. I am currently writing one of the sequels to Feather Picked which takes the focus from my original main character, Melody, and moves it to her best friend, Roxy. I am planning on publishing a total of at least 5 books, the first four being the chronological 4 that take place over the course of a full year, each taking one season. The last one will be a look into the future, hopefully.

My first book can be found here!

33: Fanfiction pet peeves?

Goodness gracious. As someone who loves English classes, when people don’t place paragraphs correctly or spell simple words correctly, it reeeeeeally grinds my nerves. I will still sit through a story if it’s a well plotted story, but, come on people, at least do proper paragraphing!!!

Also, when people spell “definitely” as “defiantly”...... uuuuuuuuggggghhhhhhhhh

36: Which charachter(s) would you never write for?

For this one, I don’t really have much to say.

Probably characters from shows like soap operas or shows that never seem to end. If I can’t grasp the character’s backstory or personality after watching it because it never stops changing whenever it benefits the story or what the writers have planned, I refuse to write for them. 

Mary Sue types like Bella Swan who are merely the damsel in distress  and are only there to play out the author’s wish to be put in some type of scenario where everyone fawns over them constantly (can be applied to male characters as well).

37: Which character is your favorite to write for?

Out of already made characters: Butchy, Lela, Cheech, Evie, Ben, Harry Hook, Bucky Barnes, Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood.

Out of my OCs: Mick, Malina, Roxy Madden, Candi DiMaggio

Since you said I could pick one if I wanted, I’m going to pick #40.

40: Imagine yourself 10 years in the future; do you think you’ll still be writing fic?

I think I will be, yes. I don’t think my ideas for movies and books will ever stop. Especially knowing what I have planned after Creating A Rift is done. But... that’s a story for another time, lol

[amateuranxiety]

Ken Rants About “Vanishing World” for Probably Way Too Long

Good evening. My name is Ken, I am a dumb, overanalyzing nerd, and I have completely fallen for the narrative Vocaloid producer Grey (a.k.a. Monstrosity) has set up in the first two songs of her series, Vanishing World. I know only two out of the ten-ish-maybe? songs have been released so far, but I’ve been stewing on my thoughts for a while now and I felt that I absolutely needed to get them down somewhere. in this essay i will- I hope that people are able to see this and possibly be interested in checking the series out? I just feel like it deserves a lot more attention. I highly recommend listening to all the work on her channel. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCrq2qxXTl7u-YKeSqIJ5xZA Now, without further ado, I give you my analysis. i feel like im giving myself too much credit for my hyperfocused ramblings lol

WARNING!

This writing discusses themes of mass death and other death related subject matter. If you are disturbed by these things, then please proceed with caution. Stay safe.

Basic Plot Summary

Vanishing World is the story of the end of the world, and the beasts who cause it. One beast for every element or force of nature or whatever. So far, they seem to choose a human to “cooperate” with in order the wreak their havoc on Earth. Human resistances rise up around the world, although not much information has been provided about them yet. Our story begins in the twenty-fifth day of the month of June, they year 2000.......

Part 1: Aberrant Garden 

Kaylee Tagetes was a young girl with a remarkable, and almost scary, gift for gardening. However, as she grew, she spiraled out of control. She began fusing plants with other forms of existence, creating a deadly army for the first destruction god, Carnation. where are your parents??? Also she had this weird flower with a face growing out of her head, but I don’t think it’s that relevant also it just scares me so I’m just gonna ignore it unless I think something up about it, ok? Ok.

An investigator dispatched to “the site of the anomaly (I’m assuming this is Kaylee’s house)” finds this information and more inside of a conveniently placed exposition note that was probably just lying on the ground I guess. 

Some important things I want to highlight in the note:

“However, as she grew older, she became... curious about something. Almost like a mysterious force was feeding her thoughts. What was this thing she was curious about, you ask? Simple!

...”By what means? That part... shall remain a mystery.”

“...and it was at that moment when she was poisoned by a spider monster. Acid flowed through her veins. She fell, passed out from blood loss. Probably dead.”

“‘My name is Carnation, the Monster of Flora. You shall hear more about me in the afterlife- your time is up.’“

“Into a giant maw she was dropped... no one ever saw her again as Kaylee Tagetes.”

What these things mean (probably):

Every beast is able to get into the mind of its host and pretty much possess them and lead them to do what they want.

Whoever wrote the note wants the process of monster creation to remain a mystery.

Probably dead. Probably.

use your real name, nerd the one you made up sounds stupid

She was eaten. Trapped within the monster’s stomach.

Our investigator pal jumps on the bandwagon with his own exposition!

“In the year 2100, the apocalypses rises, fear the chrome god monsters and their trapped traitor humans.” 

He goes on about how weird it is that Carnation woke up 100 years before the rest. Also that note was pretty strange too I guess. But the question is, who wrote it? Well, my friend, it seems obvious that it was written by a human being, so I propose the theory that Kaylee herself wrote the note. I’ll explain my reasoning soon enough, but for it to make any sense at all (even though it still probably won’t), I need to move on to.......

quick note: the more i think about this the more stupid it sounds for reasons ill get into in a moment, but im just gonna keep the Kaylee Note Theory here in case it somehow leads to me having some grand revelation about the true author.

 edit:upon further reflection it may be possible, but i still think there is plenty of room for error within my theory.

Part 2: Ulterior Spectacle

Our Earth was at peace. Finally. But they didn’t let it last.

Stephan Alexander, nineteen year old photographer and the second traitor human in our story. Using a device gifted to him by the Monster of Ice, Morzogo, he is able to freeze any landscape and turn any human being into stone with the click of a button. This device is the grand Tundra Lens. One of the worst birthdays I’ve ever heard of ngl. He goes around killing millions over a period of five months because of what Morzogo had told him.

“They don’t deserve to see the world as you do. They deserve to be a part of a picture, do they not? Make them go still so you may have the perfect picture. Travel the world and make them allll stiiiill, so they’ll be with you forever.”

To summarize the end of the story:

 girl’s voice snaps him out of trance was that a pun?

instant regret for literal mass murder

suicide via medusa method (mirror, click, bye bye)

Also, if you watch the lovely PV, you’ll notice that that girl that brought him back to reality is literally Kaylee Tagetes. A twelve year old killed a chaos god of mass destruction that ate her after she was poisoned and lost a lot of blood. This takes place maybe around the year 2032 and she still looks 12. h o w ? guess she’s dead now idk all the humans are gonna be ghosts and talk about their poor life decisions in the afterlife i guess

So yeah that’s basically my explanation for my whole Kaylee wrote the note thing.

Explaining my Kaylee Note Theory:

I think I figured out how she killed Carnation. The poison in her blood. Ingesting that could have killed him. I don’t know what it takes to kill an old one or whatever those things are, but maybe??????

The prophesy just states that the human traitor are trapped. Not dead, right? dont know about poor stephan tho oof. unless the possession automatically gives you op protagonist powers. they’re probably still dead tho

I don’t know what motivation she would have for leaving the note behind though.

Maybe she wrote it as a ghost-type-person-thing????? idk i feel like im reaching at this point ive been typing for over an hour now.

also im not sure where to fit this in but some characters talk about The Crisis which is where humans randomly turn into monsters????? idk its just been brought up once so far so i dont know what to think of it.

Alright. The last thing I want to talk about today is.......

Zone-B and Codename:NULL

We first meet Codename:NULL in the description of Battle: Xelzerin (that’s Carnation’s real name btw. i guess he’s a dork who doesn’t think his full name sounds cool like me). She’s receiving an email from another Zone-B member, Codename:GANYMEDE, who basically gives us some information about Xelzerin we didn’t already know. Including the fact that Xelzerin isn’t dead??? i should have re-read everything before i started typing this has just turned into one big semi-organized mess im so sorry 

anyway!! foreshadowing about the Earth and Electric beasts, NULL’s name is revealed to be Madeline in the description of Ulterior Spectacle, and apparently Stephan froze over 70% of the world in only five months. Probably a rich kid.

if i weren’t so tired and had more information about a story that’s barely half-way done, i feel like i would be much more thorough with my analysis and theories. i may type out a part 2 once song three drops. until then, ill wait patiently. maybe ill choke out a little theory if i have a sudden revelation but nothing on this scale. maybe ill be able to choke out a timeline as well. i can barely spell i should probably stop hope you enjoyed sorry it go so messy towards the end especially right here ily goodbye.

proofreading: barely im sorry

#vanishing world #vanishing beasts #monstrosity #monstrosity vocaloid #aberrant garden #ulterior spectacle #kaylee tagetes #stephan alexander #ken does theory #im coughing so much please save me im tired #vocaloid

[araneasgf]

Rays of Light

@ffxv-oc-week Day V: Fairy Tale / Goddess or God

Summary: Hera always appreciated Gladio’s company on the way to work, but how well could you really get to know someone on a five minute walk anyway?

Word count: 1580

A/N: So this is only vaguely related to the prompt I know. I kind of saw the prompt list and was like...hold up, I named my OC after a goddess, this is literally my sign to finally get to work on this lol.  But I hope it’s still enjoyable to read.

Hera took one last look at herself in the mirror by her apartment door before she finally headed out. She paid especially close attention to the black button-up shirt.  Even with the top few buttons unbuttoned, she always managed to get makeup on her collar no matter how careful she was and no matter how many tissues she put around herself when she did her makeup in the mornings.  She nodded at her reflection, satisfied that there were no smudges of her golden brown foundation on her top this time and carefully put on the black coat they were required to wear.  She then leaned in closer to the mirror, dark brown eyes reflected back at her as she made sure she didn’t already have flakes of mascara on her lower eyelid.  Sometimes she wished she could add more of a pop of color to the outfit than just her red lipstick, but it did make getting ready in the mornings a lot easier.  She moved the curls that had fallen in front of her face out of the way, and made her way out the door.

It had been raining a lot more than usual in the Crown City lately, and just as soon as she had walked out of the door, she took one look out of the stairwell window and had to go right back in to grab her umbrella.  She did love the rain and didn’t mind having to walk the short distance from her apartment to work, but wasn’t looking forward to what the rain did to her hair.

As she closed the door to her apartment building behind her, the soft sound of rain hit her umbrella and a cool breeze blew across her face and the exposed parts of skin her coat didn’t cover.  Sometimes Hera felt like their uniform consisted of too many layers, and the cool air was much appreciated.

Hera wasn’t technically part of the Crownsguard or the Kingsglaive, but she and her coworkers did work very closely with them and were required to have basic combat knowledge and skill.  It was her team’s job to keep physical records of the progress of the current trainees.  They kept track of their skill and met with instructors regularly with the information to help advise them on whether a trainee should move forward with combat training or be relocated to other work within the Kingdom.

She was coming up on her fourth year of work since finishing university and had no intention of leaving. When the trainees did well in their training and were invited to graduate, she gladly attended every ceremony.  And if they didn’t seem to excel in combat but were recommended to another position, she was just as supportive.  

She really did love her job and helping the young recruits to find their place in the kingdom.  And at this point, working in the Citadel was probably the most comfortable place for her to be.

“Mind if I join you?” a deep voice spoke suddenly from behind her.

She thought she recognized the voice, but continued to walk on.  There were so many people on the streets of Insomnia all the time, whoever it was had to have been trying to catch someone else’s attention.  She sped up to make room for whoever they were trying to get to until she heard heavy footsteps run to catch up to her.

“Hey, Hera.”  The tall man leaned down so he would be visible under the rim of her umbrella.  His face seemed to be flushed from the short run.

“Gladio,” she stopped and placed her hand over her heart.

“You running away from me?” he smiled, still leaning down.

“I thought you were someone else,” she laughed.  “Uh…do you want to get under here?”

She lifted the umbrella up slightly to make room for him.  Even with help from her heeled boots, she was still more than a foot shorter than him.  It hadn’t been raining too hard since she left her house but she noticed Gladio’s usually wild hair was wet and flat against his head.

“Nah, I’m alright,” he replied.

“But your hair isn’t,” she said without missing a beat; smiling as she spoke.

“Oh, so you’re gonna be like that now, huh?”  Gladio let out a deep laugh.

“Like, I know you’re the outdoorsy type but you’re gonna make yourself sick before we even get to the citadel,” said Hera.

“Well it is a nice umbrella…and I’d love to,” said Gladio, a bit of sadness to his voice.  “But I’m running kind of late today.”

She watched as he brought his phone out of his pocket and typed rapidly across the screen.

“I’ll see you later, though?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, of course,” she replied smiling back at him.  He lingered for a second, looking at her under the umbrella.  His gaze made her feel hot under her jacket and she quickly swallowed, looked forward and continued to walk on, pretending she didn’t notice.

“Hey…” he started, “you changed your hair.”  He looked towards the top of her umbrella, following the tight blonde curls down to where they rested just past her shoulders.

It had been a while since she had gone blonde, so she knew that couldn’t have been what he was talking about.  Hera had wanted to try something other than her usual dark brown or black a few months ago, but it had definitely been a process.  She and her stylist started with a darker blonde at first, but once they were completely done, she found it flattered her a lot more than she had thought it would.  Over time they gradually went lighter and lighter, and even though it was more maintenance than she was used to, Hera couldn’t imagine herself with any other hair color than the pale blonde she currently had.  

It was just that week to give the flat iron a rest and wear her hair the way it grew out of her head. Of course she had to have picked a day when it was raining to start though.

And of course Gladio had actually noticed.  “It looks good.”

Her face was beginning to feel warmer under the umbrella and she found the cold air blowing against her skin wasn’t helping much.

“Shit…sorry.” Gladio quickly looked at his phone again.

“I gotta go.”  Gladio gave her a thumbs up and one of those smiles that probably could have made her knees go weak if she let it.  She was almost glad to see him go if it meant she’d stop overheating.  

“Bye, Hera.”

“Later, Gladio.”  She let her voice trail off in a happy tone.

She could’ve sworn she saw a wink from him as he turned around and jogged out of her field of vision…but not by much.  He was still so much taller than half of Insomnia.

Of course she had known who Gladiolus was for a while now.  They tended to be in the same part of the Citadel during work hours, but Hera had only seen or spoken to him in passing before.  

A few months ago she began to notice him headed towards the Citadel on her walks to work.  They exchanged pleasantries but more or less walked separately until one day, they just seemed to be walking together.  Through small talk she found out that he had recently moved into a building close to hers.  Neither of them really seemed to wait for the other, and Hera felt like she always left her apartment first anyway, but Gladio would always end up catching up a few moments later.  Some days she wouldn’t see Gladio in the mornings at all, but it was alright since she’d always end up seeing him somewhere in the Citadel later.

Hera really did enjoy the company in the morning, no matter how short the walks tended to be.  And she was definitely not oblivious to the fact that he was charming, and that he was good looking.  But more or less, their short conversations had been pretty casual.

Although it seemed like she was working even harder to keep things just that lately.  Somewhere along the many walks and the short time they spent together in the mornings, the casual and friendly chit chat she was trying to keep to more often than not had turned into flirting from both of them. Hera had always been the worst about that.  And Gladio was not exactly shy about reciprocating either.

This definitely wasn’t anything she was going to pursue or make the first move on.  Probably.  She told herself on most days.  She wasn’t sure how well you could get to know someone on a less than five minute walk to work in the mornings, anyway.  But she couldn’t ignore that part of her was starting to grow more curious about him.

She sighed and walked along; ignoring her thoughts and following almost the exact path on the sidewalk that Gladio had rushed off on just a few moments ago.  Hera made her way to the east side of the Citadel and punched in the keycode to open the side entrance.  As always, there was work to do and more to look forward to later.  

She’d be seeing Gladio sometime again later in the day as she always did.

-

As always, thanks for reading if you made it this far :3

#ffxv oc week 2017 #oc #Hera's last name will be decided after I talk it out with someone lmao #there's more to come soon #just laying some bg #igwrites