#the explanation is kind of long but i promise its even longer in my own head

[ferniforest]

Of Hope and Black Holes

The promise of rain hung over the city, a stifling and steady static blanket draped between the skyscrapers.

Casey was done running. Sick and tired of it really. There was nothing to run from but his own mind, and no amount of training could make him clever or quick enough to escape it.

Casey stared at the cracks in the pavement, at the weeds and green life surviving under impossible odds, flourishing into something stronger.

"It's not right," his voice is another crack in the concrete. No hope grows with it, not anymore.

Leo looks over, lingering in his peripheral with the pitiful expression Casey's learned to expect.

"Grief, " the slider swallows and shifts his feet, "grief has many forms, CJ." He lets the silence stretch in a way that's painfully familiar before siting down beside him and continuing.

"I used to think it was just sadness when you missed someone who was gone. But now.. I know its what's left behind when you loose something that was once there... even apart of yourself." His words are slow and careful. Leo's walking in a minefield and they both know it.

A frustrated noise leaves Casey's throat and he shoves his head into his knees. Pitiful. "I know grief, Leo," he all but growls. "I know how long it takes before you can breathe and not physically feel the void they leave behind in your chest. Something that never goes away but you learn– I know how to keep fighting and not forget someone. I know how to light candles and take off my shoes and–" his voice breaks off, because those shrines will never be tended to again. And they will never get real ones. He doesn't know which one is worse. Leo watches him, deep eyes searching his face.

"This–" he wheezes, clutching the edge of the concrete with calloused hands, "this is not that weight. This is–" he desperately searches for anything to put the maelstrom that has consumed him into words. Uncle Tello would have a word for it.

"A black hole." That is the only word that seems to come close. He remembers how scared and in awe he was of them as a child, sneaking into his Uncle's lab to listen to his long explanations of the stars and planets they could no longer see.

"I know grief for a person." Yes, he knew it well. It was a companion his whole life. "I don't– I can't – I can't hold grief for a whole world, Leo. I can't keep–" he bites his tounge and looks away, dark and unkept strands falling into hollow eyes.

Leo doesn't make an immediate response, instead pulling Casey into a side hug, singular heavy and warm arm trying to ground him.

"How– how?" His hands are shaking and Casey thinks he might collapse in on himself. A super nova. There is no purpose for him here. From the moment his mom and Uncle Raph found him he has been brought up a protector, a follower, a student. The krang are gone. The resistance is gone. His Sensei is dead gone.

"You don't carry it alone," Leo states, an attempt at solid ground.

Casey knows he means well, but he can't help spitting back, "You don't know them. You're not them— Your not h—" him. Gone.

"I'm not saying we are, Case, " he responds, when was he so patient (when was he not?) "I'm saying you're going to let us carry their legacys too."

Casey stares at Leo's stripes (wind blows through his heart) and trys to think about what that means, what that would look like. He does not know how to remember a whole world. The thought of forgetting tears him down to bone.

"Okay?" Leo is holding his shoulders now, leveling him with a familiar look. The look of a leader, someone to follow.

"Okay."

Leo is not Sensei.

His hugs are more fleeting, less solid but perhaps more warm. They're almost the same height, Leo and him. If anything he's a bit taller than the slider, which feels all kinds of off-kilter.

His presence does not loom over a room protectively, instead Leo fills it with laughs and bright eyes.

Leo is not Sensei, but he will still follow his lead. He will still make a life beyond the ink that clings to them both, unrelenting, from where they've been. He will hope. He will hope when it hurts, when it tears him asunder.

Casey will not leave their legacy behind.

[nicotinemaiden]

To become another's poison;

Pairing: Marazhai Aezyrraesh x F!Rogue Trader (Lavhinia)

Rating: E (Smut)

Tags: Jealousy, Dagger Play, Blood and Torture, Vaginal Fingering, PiV, Anal

Word count: 3,887

You can also read on AO3.

Summary:

Marazhai Aezyrraesh doesn't like when others touch his things. He doesn't even like when others look at his things. The problem, however, comes when he hadn't yet made clear to the Rogue Trader that she was his. That he knew, despite her confident attitude, that she was desperate for him to claim her. After a mission where the male mon-keigh she insisted on keeping around kept looking at her with longing, the Druhkari decided it was time to make her wishes true, to strip her of anything but him.

“Rogue Trader.”

The inhuman's cold, husky voice replaced the silence the automatic door into Lavhinia’s chambers had left upon closure, just before her pale eyes found the angry, hungry ones before her.

“Marazhai. I would ask what are you doing here, invading my privacy, but I doubt it would get me any answers.”

The Druhkari, having tried to quell his thirst with the unwilling help of the prey on the lower decks and finding them all wanting and unsatisfying for his needs, was mostly covered in blood, his weapons sheathed for the moment.

He looked at her in search of answers, an unwavering and challenging smile on his expression. He had seen things, both on the battlefield against her and afterwards, once they had… joined forces. 

From the beginning, from the first time he saw her, he could smell it. Feel it burning in her gaze. The stolen glances they exchanged when no one else was looking filled him with the want to test her, to learn the limits of her pain and the reach of her pleasure.

She was curious. Willing. Obedient. She could command a whole section of the galaxy with one word but she begged him to show her his ways with one gaze. And it had been a long time since he last had a pet of his own, even longer since one who showed so much promise.

How he wanted to see her on her knees for him. To see her bleeding and broken, her screams providing the music to this boringly quiet place. Her usually calm voice moaning his name.

How he wanted to claim her.

To submit her to such a wondrous and exquisite torture that she would beg for more the moment is over.

He almost couldn't stop himself from starting that instant, the slicky texture of his prey staining his skin, the delicious smell of it clouding his senses in a blanket of rapture —

Marazhai had no reason to stay his hand when it clawed her neck and brought her closer to him, his shadow darkening the blue of the gaze that challenged him.

“Usually when someone looks at me like that I either take their heads as a prize or claim their bodies for my personal fun.”

The real reason he had traveled the entirety of the ship from the lower decks to her chambers was simple and extremely complicated at the same time. Simple because it could be explained by just one word: lust. He didn’t need further explanation and no one would ask it from him.

Yet he hadn’t expected to feel such kind of attraction towards a mon-keigh's suffering… nor towards her groans and screams and the odor of her enticement. It was distracting, even in battle.

“Is that a threat, xenos, or a promise?”

Interest flickered across her eyes. An honest question. 

With his free hand he unsheathed the dagger from its place at his hip and slashed the side of her face superficially, enough to draw blood without leaving a scar, even with a weak body like hers. Her pained hiss was sweet and dragged long, an intake of air following it, her tongue licking the blood that reached her lips. He looked, mesmerized, and mimicked her by running his own tongue through her wound and following the trail of blood right onto her lips.

The moment his mouth was upon hers, his mind overwhelmed by the rush not only of her reaction but of his previous massacre which she had allowed without a reason more than to cater to his wishes, he lost the rest of his carefully learnt control.

Lavhinia clawed at his armor as if to ask him to get closer, the tip of her fingers missing their grab at first until he conceded, pushing her against her desk unceremoniously, ignoring every unlucky object in their path.

She landed hard against the metal of the table, catching herself with her hands upon it, looking at him breathless and disheveled. Pretty, but not nearly enough.

The Druhkari launched himself after her, standing between her legs, his dagger taunting to break the cloth above her neck. His free hand gripped her thigh to the table, the metal of his glove piercing her trousers.

“Will you be my pet, little mon-k- Lavhinia? Will you allow yourself to learn what your kind refuses and considers sinful? Will you allow me to show you the different flavours of pleasure only I can offer?”

The blade started slicing her shirt, deeper than she had expected, slicing her flesh just as easily. Breathing heavily and containing a surprised cry of pain she looked at the deep green pools of darkness in front of her and found desperate desire, an untamed craving of which she had seen signs before, even while they were enemies. And she just wanted to surrender to it, because she knew hers was looking back just the same.

Her chest exposed, her shirt torn from the side and easily removed afterward, the bright red of her blood making a fine decoration on her pale skin, she moved her mouth to pronounce her choice, her lips already pursuing the opposite ones to continue the game.

“Lord Captain. Esteemed member of the Inquisition and beloved affiliate of your retinue, Heinrix Van Calox, is currently asking to speak with you.”

She was distracted by the communication transmitted directly into her walls, looking up to the direction of the cold, almost robotic voice, and Marazhai took the opportunity to bite down her neck hard, making her cry and shudder. He left the dagger on the table and moved his metal covered fingers to her nipple, pinching it, pulling it. The Rogue Trader looked away, almost ashamed, her attitude dubious.

“Lord Captain? Should I send him your way?”

They looked at each other, the image of her grinding his middle as best she could without getting closer enough, bleeding for him, burned into his brain.

He knew the reason behind her doubts, he had seen the interactions between her and the male mon-keigh that always followed her around. He had seen others of their kind struck with the same illness as the male seemed to have fallen with, a useless, meaningless concept they called ‘love’. Or, if he was mistaken, it was surely something similar.

It made the mon-keigh feel entitled to things that weren't his. It made him feel… important, when he was little more than a fly, annoying and hardheaded, his head filled with ideas that shouldn't come to be. That wouldn't.

Because she will be his.

She will be his little pet, his good, submissive girl.

He'd even mark her, if she was good enough, if she endured his games.

And he wouldn't allow anyone else to touch what was his.

“Well? Aren't you going to answer? My patience is running low.”

The tip of his fingers invaded her inner thigh, tearing the cloth covering it easier than they would paper, and teased at the side of her cunt, not fully touching it. After a moment of shortcoming breath, she found her voice.

“Excuse me, Vox Master Vigdis, I'm extremely busy. Please tell Mr. Van C-”

The connection was interrupted, leaving a strange static for a couple of seconds before a new voice invaded the channel. He was growing tired of these pointless interruptions.

“Lavhinia, pardon my bluntness but I need to see you as soon as possible. Would you mind sparing a moment of your time… or, if you are so inclined, perhaps a bit longer?”

The implication was clear as day for anyone listening to the communication, which Lavhinia assumed was only the three of them thanks to the care her subordinates took with the privacy of their conversations. Still, three was still one too many and the Druhkari was gripping her tighter by the second, the hand that had been playing with her breasts now still, his nails digging her flesh.

His expression was unreadable, his mind focused on the punishment he would inflict upon her for making him wait, his hand moving to get back his dagger and use it on her belt. Her trousers, unmade by the tear of the metal nails on his gloves, gave up easily. He would lose his time no longer — he was drunk on the sensations and smell of her pain, just like he had been while he tortured her back in Commorragh, fighting with himself and his needs as his own torture in response.

It had been so sweet.

It was sweeter now that he knew how she tasted.

“I'm sorry Heinrix, I’ll call for you later.”

He gripped her waist and moved his glove right to her cunt, placing special care in how to circle her clit precisely, the tip of the metal grinding against the soft, wet flesh of her inner lips. The connection broke, making a series of controlled noises, just before she moaned for him, loud and unexpected.

The Rogue Trader skillfully found the bindings of his upper armor and undid them, pulling from the thing as if willing it to come off on its own since she had not the concentration required for it. With the smirk of a winner — of someone that hadn't doubted he would come on top, of someone capable of laying claim on something with a gaze — he moved his hand to her chin and made her look at him.

“You haven't answered my question.”

Startled by the sudden memory and proximity she shuddered, nodding without saying a word, waiting for him to crash his mouth with hers just like he had done before. He didn’t move, his expression unchanged, waiting.

Waiting for her to say it out loud.

“I'd be anything you want me to be.”

Grabbing her neck he positioned his covered fingers at the entrance of her pussy, her leg using the table as support while the other rested, her hole opened for him.

“You're going to be such a good girl.”

She moaned against his tongue after he started kissing her, three of his fingers sliding inside of her without effort, scrathing her insides in the most wonderful torture she could ever had imagined. His fingers moved with precision, applying pressure in her best spot, making her body grind against them fervently, the pain another layer to her pleasure.

He moved down to bite and lick her nipples, his unused hand helping him by playing with the one his mouth left free, and she felt herself pushed into oblivion.

But right before she could reach it he stopped, removing his fingers from inside her and bringing them to his mouth, licking the metal. She looked with interest and desperation, the edge of her climax interrupted, biting her lower lip with want.

Marazhai moved his fingers to her mouth and waited for her to comply without him having to voice it. After a brief look she opened her mouth, willing, and he put his fingers inside, making her lick them, pushing them so deep she gagged multiple times. He couldn’t wait to see her gag on his cock.

He stopped, wiping the remains of the fluid on her naked chest, and removed his upper armor with ease, the binds already unlocked. Following that, the glint of attraction shining bright in the Rogue Trader’s eyes, he removed his gloves. They were fun, the taste of her tainted with blood from the scratches they created such a delicious game. But he wanted to feel her, to sense the changes in her body as he did with her as he pleased. The contractions and spasms he provoked.

After a moment he removed his boots and trousers, unnecessary things for what he had in mind, and signaled her to move to him, her face admiring his build, his crevices, his multiple scars. She left no corner overlooked, no shadow uninspected, unbothered by the state of her clothes, by the wounds of her body. She approached him once she had had her fill scrutinizing him, his patience only enduring because he wanted to satisfy her curiosity, since she was so willing to follow his instructions.

The Rogue Trader grabbed his cock firmly, no more stranger to the gesture than she could be to holding a weapon in her hand, and traveled its full length excruciatingly slowly, never losing sight of the Druhkari's eyes. He clawed her hair and pushed her down, her knees readily bending to his will, her face looking up shadowed by his presence.She licked her lips in anticipation, positioned her hand better and brought her mouth to his lower head carefully.

He didn’t like to have any kind of care. He pushed her head to him until he could feel in the edge of his cock the start of her throat and pulled her back, repeating the movements and delighting himself with each of her gags. He did it quicker and quicker, ignoring the way her nails dug the skin of his thighs, focusing on the build up of his bliss. Her teeth scratched every now and then and he moaned a guttural sound each time while her tears overflowed and mixed down her lips with her saliva.

Not done with her for the night he pushed her away, making her land hard on the floor, her hair sweaty and tousled, her breath deeply labored. In a way that had never resonated with him before, he could see the beauty in her, in her expression, in the dirtiness remaining now in her, decorating her body with red and glistening. Why would he ever allow anyone else to admire it? Not without him guiding each step, deciding over her pleasure. Only he was allowed to show her everything she had been missing — he would make her addicted to him, unable to find pleasure if it wasn't him giving it.

He would be her poison.

“Now, my new and lovely pet, get yourself up to your desk.”

Her body trembling, she stood up and moved without a complaint, her doubts, if she still had any, completely silent. He followed, precise and agile, his left hand grabbing her wrist and pinning it to the surface under it, forcing her down, his own leg invading the table to chase her.

His dagger glistened at her side, calling to him, and he picked it up with his free hand. Soon the cold blade pressed against Lavhinia’s chin and forced it upwards, his mouth claiming hers with his taste still intact. Another day he would have the time and patience to taste himself from her mouth fully, the white warm liquid an appetizer for the rest of their meal, but he was too… rushing tonight, impatient, as if something could take her away from him and the ravishing bond they had created could break, forbidding him from ever trying again. Knowing their history of finding problems everywhere and beyond, she could be called out at any moment. He couldn’t allow that.

He had already decided he wanted her.

His blade cut near her shoulder first, making her flinch out of reach. Deeper still, it slashed a bit lower the next time, his tongue sequestering hers with a smirk on his lips. Her pain was consuming, his length spasming when its smell reached him, anxious.

And lower still down her arm he kept placing cuts without care of how deep they were, unimportant if they served their purpose, her cries and moans safe within the walls of his throat.

Almost desperate to feel her he nailed his dagger beside her arm, the blade sharp edge facing her skin so that it would keep doing its work even without his handling. Once done, the Druhkari grabbed his erection strongly, positioning himself at the center of her cunt. He bit down her lip hard, pulling it, a playful and curious smile on his face, a deep, dark, uncontrollable desire in his eyes. 

And he slid inside, all the way to his end, without a second to accommodate her to him, groaning next to her ear. She tightened further, closing her legs around him, her hands, both finally free, clawing at his back. She sliced her arm with his blade at the movement and flinched, but instead of moving away she simply dug her nails harder into his back. Her reaction was priceless, accepting the wounds, remaining in place, looking at him with confidence.

He would break that confidence step by step, until she was little more than a dirty, bloody mess.

And it started that instant, when he lowered himself from the desk bringing her to the edge with him and pushed her right leg further open, using it and his other hand clawing the table as support for his thrusts. He shoved his cock fully into her and exited her hole just as fully, both of them moaning at the feeling. It hurted her and it only made it more enticing.

He continued, raising his rhythm, biting his lip and admiring her and her cries. Sometimes she would try to close her legs, others she would spread them further. Every now and again his blade sliced near her stomach or her fingers would tangle in it searching for support only to be betrayed by the coldness of it. It was beautiful. He had missed sex like this. He couldn’t believe how long he had gone without it.

Even less could he believe the one who would capture his attention would be a lowly mon-keigh in place of his own kin. Yet the prospect of studying her was too intriguing to pass up.

“Tell me, Rogue Trader, how does it feel to be fucked by the one who tortured you? Tortured your companions? Killed your people?”

She froze for a moment but he continued, enjoying the look in her eyes, the defeat in them, the self-deprecation. He pushed harder, avoiding to leave her now, reaching a point inside her body that made her scream in pleasure. In shame. If he could bottle up a smell to remember when he pleased he would choose the one she emitted now, fighting with herself between her willingness to enjoy everything he offered and the reminder of his deeds, of his sins. He didn't need to wait for her to reveal the winner.

He gripped her hair to make her look at him, her face contorted between agony and ecstasy.

“Your master has given you a question. You will give him an answer.”

She coughed and grinded against him, her arms surrounding his neck, her climax building with her body enveloping his cock.

“It feels good. More than it has any right to.”

“Oh and it will feel even better. For me, it tastes like absolute victory.”

One last push, her head falling back, and she screamed his name between moans while she came undone, the continuous tightening and loosening of her cunt sending waves to his body, almost taking him with her.

But he had other plans, he needed to test her further still — it wouldn’t do if she turned out to be an incomplete pet. A useless pet.

Marazhai turned the human around, gaining a perfect view of her ass, her breasts squishing against the table. He pushed her head down to it too while using her cum to lubricate her back hole with his cock, sliding it up and down and popping its head into her ass, trying to enter. She groaned and moved, not fully resisting but not making things easier for him either.

He lowered his mouth near her ear and whispered his next words.

“I will fuck each of your holes and you will enjoy it, Lavhinia. You are fully mine. You need to understand it.”

She moved further away, her eyes slightly panicked, and only then did he realize the reason why it was being more difficult to penetrate her there. He smirked maliciously, the opportunity too perfect, a gift for him. It was extremely rare for a Druhkari to be a stranger to anal sex, it was in their nature to use everything given to them that could make the reaches of their pleasure greater. He supposed it was not so for mon-keighs. He should have known not to expect better from such lowly creatures.

“Please, Marazhai, I-”

Her voice broke when the head of his cock finally entered her ass, her eyes rolling backwards, her muttering incoherent and breathless.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to address me.”

Slower than he would have liked, the waves of pleasure shaking his body, he thrusted further inside, enacting cries of rapture and torment, the perfect combination. Once he reached as deep as he could he lowered his hand to her cunt and put three of his fingers inside, grabbing her with them and putting pressure in her most erotic spot, fucking her with his fingers more intensely and agile than if it was his dick. After the shock had passed and she was moaning uncontrollably, he started fucking her ass with firm shoves and pullouts.

“Please Master, I can’t resist…”

It sounded exactly as it should, defeated and accepting, completely submissive. He would make her say it a thousand times. Someday, he will even make her do so in front of her beloved crew, just to see her squirm, embarrassed and wet for him.

“That’s better. Go on, come for me my pet. You have earned it.”

After a couple more thrust and a well-timed press on her cunt she reached her climax a second time, panting and drained. It was fun, watching her reach her ecstasy for him, changing the labored breaths of the battlefield for the ones at the bedroom, claiming something from her no one could ever experiment in the same way. She made him feel possessive, even more so than his usual things, even more than he had been with his position as Dracon. Yet he attributed it to the fact that it was common to be attached to the newer toy.

He didn’t stop, not even for a second to allow her to compose herself, and the tension of her overstimulation just served to edge him further.

He was almost there. And it was almost a shame it would come to an end so soon.

Almost, because she would seek him further. And he would claim her again, over and over, showing her more pieces of his world. Drugs, hallucinogens, toys, chains. He hadn’t been fully prepared today for everything he wanted to test on her, he had not even fully trusted she would be so willing for him. But now that he knew, he had so many ideas. Thinking about them while fucking her ass with his cock and his cunt with his fingers drove him to perdition, to an explosive orgasm he had been needing for some time and failing to find a worthy partner to grant it to.

Grabbing his dick to pull it out, watching the mighty Rogue Trader with her clothes in tatters, covered in blood, cuts and bites, with her cum running down her legs and his semen sliding from her ass, he truly felt he had won their final battle.

He was the victor.

And he couldn’t wait to test all sorts of punishments on his new plaything.

[mweothe11e]

Hi e11e!!

I'm your new follower and i just love your PAC resonated with me!

If a slot is open for me, then i hope you let me in!^^

My initials are SM, and my empowering songs are "you should see me in a crown" and "how far I'll go". And my dream life— well i think it's quite impossible to reach, and i think i might be delusional. It's a powerful position that i might not be able to achieve even in my dreams. I've tried letting it go many times but i just can't, do you think i should pursue such dreams?

Sure thing, why not?

Hi SM,

Thank you for reaching out to wanna participate in my last ask game~

Is the 1st song from Billie Eillish? 2nd song from Alessia Cara? If so, I know how amazing those two song are; two different vibes yet both have their own unique way of encouragement.

Whatever your dreams are, you don't owe anyone any kind of explanation as to why you desire it because you desire those dreams because your future self is living it.

So the cards I pulled for you are the following:

Wheel of Fortune, 3 of Wands, 4 of Wands

Here are the following encouraging messages from your Future Self wants to tell you:

"Life is a journey of unexpected progressive chapters full of lessons and blessings all intertwined in this ever-evolving story. Trying to control the outcome is the same as dictating the ocean waves. Instead of dreading those beyond your control, learn to ride the waves. Make the most of every highs and lows. Enjoy the view and persevere through its trials and tribulations."

"Honoring your pain by sitting with it will do wonders for your well being, both in the short term and the long run."

"Expect and embrace miracles~ Instead of treasuring broken promises and regrets."

"Seize the opportunities you feel called to pursue. Discern false gold among the shiny offers."

"Change may look scary at first, but only because it's unpredictable. So, as much as possible, do it even if it scares you. Dream big because you know you deserve to make the most out of your life."

"Save up for rainy days. Don't rely on one source of income. Have multiple emergency funds. Get your finances in order. Learn how to be financially literate right now because it will benefit us so much in the future. It helps us survive unexpected expenses."

"Follow your passion and keep the momentum for as long as possible. Find ways to keep yourself motivated and disciplined. You'll save us years of heartbreak by consistently showing up for our dreams and goals in life.

We get to make our dreams come true bit by bit the more you put in the work. And we actually are so close to our dreams coming true. It just takes longer than we originally estimated. So don't lose hope no matter how long it takes, okay?"

"I love how we never gave up on getting better and mastering our skills. I'm proud of you putting in the work."

"I'm proud of you for thinking outside the box. I see you putting yourself out there gives us a fighting chance to achieve more. So seek out new opportunities and experiences. There's literally a whole world of adventure to explore. Go beyond the limits of our hometown. We're luckier and richer beyond those walls."

"The right people for us finally found us. We finally are surrounded by people who genuinely want the best for us. We are finally supported and encouraged by loving and amazing people who believe in us.

We finally feel that we belong somewhere. I'm so proud of you, for opening your eyes and going out into the world. I'm so proud of you for taking risks. because of this, we're finally happy. Thank you for making us happy."

This is all I can pull out for you.

Do let me know how this resonates with you~

(This reading is for entertainment purposes only)

[the-whumpening]

My Own Worst Enemy, Part 3 [Son of Bat]

Prev | Masterpost | Next

CW: hospital, medical content, vomit/gagging, intubation, trichotillomania, reference to alcohol abuse, thoughts of self harm, mention of past parental abuse

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A bright, pinpoint light shone in James' eyes as he woke to a quiet, dimly-lit hospital room. It must still be the middle of the night, he guessed, his head aching but growing slowly clearer. Air was forced in and out of his lungs, and he realized there was a tube down his throat.

He glanced around frantically, searching for some kind of explanation or help. His body was heavy; a groaning fire in his nerves demanded he stayed still. A hand squeezed his fingers.

"James? Can you hear me, baby?" He knew the voice, though his eyes swam, unfocused and unsure, to find her face. The word that came to his mind was 'mom,' though something about that seemed off.

Debby. Of course. She smiled when his eyes landed on her face. She was crying. He wanted to comfort her, but he couldn't find the strength to move yet. He tried to speak, but to no avail; he was only able to gag against the tube.

"It's okay, I'm here. Everyone else is here, too. Vince and Eddie and Molly . . . " She shot a look at someone else in the room and dropped her voice. "Can't we do something about that? Does he still need that tube now that he's awake?"

Someone responded, but James wasn't paying attention. There was too much to take in. This hospital room had been dappled with personal items—things he recognized as his own. Pictures of his friends, his guitar pillow, even a stack of his favorite books. How did they get here? How did he get here?

While he was lost in thought, he felt a tug at the oppressive tube in his throat. Someone turned his head to the side and loosed the tube from his mouth, a coughing spout of vomit following its exit.

Familiar hands gently cleaned his face, but his eyes squeezed shut against the ensuing dizziness. He groaned, the pain in his body finally reaching his consciousness. What happened to him?

A few murmured voices alternated in offering soothing words. When his eyes finally settled and began to focus again, he realized it was his friends. They all looked so tired, so stressed—what the hell's been going on? He tried to piece together his foggy memories; at the moment, all he could recall was driving home from the gym.

"Can you squeeze my hand, sweetie?" Debby asked.

He concentrated, trying to tap back into his lethargic and painful body. His fingers twitched. The control was there somewhere, he just had to find it. Maybe . . . After a moment, he curled his hand around Debby’s and limply grasped. Sighs and breathless laughter of relief circled the room

Through choking tears, Debby said, "That's it—you've got it!" She held his hand tightly in both of hers. "We've been so worried about you, James. It's so good to see you awake."

That's weird . . . I can't have been out for that long . . .

Seeing James' face scrunch in confusion, Vince half-whispered to Debby, "He probably doesn't remember anything. How much can we tell him?"

She pressed her lips in a tight line before quickly returning her attention to James. "We need to step out for a second, honey. Molly and Eddie are right here; I promise we'll be right back." Her cool hands brushed his forehead as she gave it a kiss, then left the room with Vince.

Molly quickly took her place by James' side, Eddie closing the gap on the other and carefully squeezing James’ exposed fingers. James could see the warmth in them light up as soon as they saw him. Truthfully, he felt a little warmer, too.

But mostly, he just felt pain. Being awake meant trying to move—consciously or not—and trying to move meant jostling every broken and bruised part of his body. He swallowed the pain as best he could; he wanted to be awake for just a little longer.

"H–" he started, before realizing his chest was too sore and his throat too raw to speak. He tried to take a deeper breath to whisper, but a sharp pain from his ribs rejected that idea. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't keep the grimace off his face.

Molly leaned in and brushed her fingers against his warm forehead. "It's okay, bud. We'll call the nurse and get you some pain meds soon.”

Confusion still wracked his brain. He was struggling to place the wheres and whens and whys of it all. His body felt foreign and disconnected, trapped in a cocoon of casts, braces, wires, and tubes but somehow still on fire. Every thought was slow and effortful; he'd already forgotten and remembered Molly’s presence twice since she last spoke.

Some memory nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite place it—a terrible, familiar dream, maybe? An anxious sadness welled up in his chest, pressing against his sore muscles and broken body from the inside; he needed something specific, someone specific, to help soothe this ache in his heart.

With what little strength he could summon, he returned Eddie’s squeeze on his fingers. His eyes drowsily swam, unfocused and bloodshot, and he mumbled a single syllable: “Mom . . .”

Eddie froze, looking to Molly for help—certainly James didn’t mean his own mother, right? She combed her fingers through James’ hair, and he began to settle under her touch. “Do you want us to get Debby, bud?”

He nodded, a tiny fraction of a movement, closing his eyes as his head began to spin. Eddie loosed his fingers from James’ limp grasp and slipped out of the room. Molly didn’t try to fill the silence; as much as she wanted to pepper James with questions and smother him with affection, she knew it would be better to hold her tongue for now and let him rest. When Eddie returned, Debby and Vince in tow, Debby rushed to his side once more and fumbled for the call button for the nurse.

James’ eyes cracked open once again at the gentle sound of Debby’s voice and her hand on his face.

“Hi, sweetie. I’m here; it’s okay.” She smiled, the lines beside her eyes crinkling softly. “I'm not going anywhere.” As soon as she began to speak, James’ anxiety began to quell. The familiar fruity smell of her shampoo, the quiet hum of her voice; it wrapped him in comfort in a way his own mother never could. (Is that okay? he wondered. Is that normal?) “James, honey . . . Do you remember anything about what happened?”

What did he remember? After he left the gym, it was all flashes—he took the same road he always took, but he never got home, did he? It got dark . . . and his chest slammed against something hard. He remembered fear, the dread deep in his gut that the breath forced out of his lungs would be his last. He remembered a shattering sound, his ears ringing, and pain—blinding, stabbing, searing pain. He remembered the metallic taste in his mouth, a bitter mixture of bile and blood. From there, it was all a blur of colors and sound until his vision finally faded.

He shook his head barely an inch, held in place with the neck brace and his own pain. Even if his memories were more clear, he couldn't communicate them just yet.

"You were in an accident driving home from the gym. You got hurt pretty badly, and you've been in the hospital for a while. The doctor said you might have trouble moving around and thinking clearly for a little bit."

A flood of questions poured into James' head. The noise was overwhelming; he couldn't parse out any singular thought with the static of a dozen others in the way. He squeezed tighter on Debby’s hand, trying to stifle the confusion and panic bubbling beneath the surface, but hoarse and keening groans of pain slipped past his lips against his will. She returned his grasp, rubbing the top of his hand with her thumb.

"I know this is a lot, and I know you must have a lot of questions. But right now, you need to rest." At the flash of panic in his eyes, she continued, "We're not going anywhere, I promise. We'll still be right here. You're just gonna get some medicine to help with the pain, that's all."

He felt like a child, too small and too fragile to face the world. Every wave of emotion hitting him seemed to drown him entirely; he couldn't control his body's reactions to the constantly shifting tides. Whatever growth he'd made since childhood—physically, mentally, and emotionally—seemed to temporarily leave his grasp. He was once again in that tiny, vulnerable body that imprisoned him as a child.

Vince felt sick as he heard James' whimpers and saw the doe-eyed fear in his expression. It had been years since he'd seen James like that—nearly decades, even. He had to turn away to collect himself.

"Why don't I, um, try to find a nurse?" he asked through a choked voice, but his offer was rendered unnecessary almost immediately.

James' eyelids fluttered against the drowsiness of the medicine. Maybe I can just sleep for a little bit, he reasoned. That might . . . be nice . . .

As soon as his eyes closed and his breathing grew slow and heavy, Vince made a beeline for the nearest bathroom and allowed the nausea to take over. In the old days, he'd drown out this nagging guilt and self-hatred with alcohol—or simply pushing it down and ignoring it until it swallowed him whole. The latter had been his way of dealing with the past weeks, and he was exhausted. What little control he had left over himself was waning quickly; in the cramped stall, long-forgotten memories jabbed at his burning throat, the contents of his stomach spilling out violently.

He hadn’t seen James as he was in that hospital room. He saw the brown-eyed little boy who’d sat on his lap and begged for more stories before bed. He was scared of the dark, scared to go to bed alone, and he loved his older sibling more than anyone in the world. He remembered using his lamp to make shadow puppets and soothe the little boy. He remembered the fallout when they were found awake past curfew, and how he taught his brother to sneak and hide like him.

He saw the scared, lonely little brother he’d kept his distance from years ago. The little brother he wanted to protect—desperately—but who he’d let fend for himself far too much. He remembered the day James broke his wrist when they were kids. He remembered how confused and scared James had been, how angry their mother was, how much Vince wanted to hide and avoid her wrath . . . and how relieved he’d been when she left him at home to take James to the doctor.

He remembered that little boy growing up to be big, to be angry, to be hurt by his family and lash out in response. He remembered resenting that big, angry boy for leaving him behind to face their parents alone—but then, Vince wondered over the years with increasing self-hatred, did he not do the same to James? Letting him take the fall and divert attention away from himself, letting him be the scapegoat and the family punching bag just to save himself? Letting James slip from his grasp and wander all on his own, so he could pretend that everything was fine?

He hated every cell in his body for it; he hated that he’d let James down over and over again, and he hated that he could ever resent him for setting himself free. And now, knowing that his neglect of James—I should’ve known; I should’ve noticed he was overworking himself—had once again caused him immense harm . . . the guilt was unbearable.

When the fits of heaving finally stopped, he propped his sweaty head in his hands. His fingers itched to pluck the fine hairs of his scalp—something, anything to distract from the racing thoughts. He roughly scrubbed his scalp with his nails, hoping the scratching would alleviate the temptation at least a little.

Knock, knock.

A timid hand tapped on the stall door. “Vince?”

Was that Eddie? He’d hardly spoken the entire time James was under; Vince was shocked to hear his voice. He cleared his throat and tried to quickly clean his face.

“That you, Eddie?”

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“Just . . . feeling a little sick, that's all.” He stood up, leaning wobbly against the cubicle walls. “I think I should maybe—maybe go home for a little bit.”

He tried to maintain an air of calm as he unlocked the door and stumbled to the sink; the cold counter beneath his arms helped soothe his feverish skin. Even so, Eddie knew something was off.

“Hey.” He grabbed Vince’s arm as he headed for the door, loosely holding him in place. “I dunno if you should be alone right now, man. You know you can talk to us, right?”

Vince flashed an unconvincing smile and waved him off. “I appreciate it, but really—I’m fine.”

But, as he turned to leave, a sinking feeling weighed deep in his gut. Maybe he’s right. Vince knew his own true intentions; he knew that if he went home, unsupervised in his current state, he would surely end up raiding cabinets for booze or scratching himself raw in an effort to quell his mounting panic.

He stopped, his back still to Eddie. “But let’s say, for argument’s sake, that I wasn’t okay. That, just for example, seeing James hurt and scared like that brought up some really painful memories that I don’t know what to do with. Things that make me feel guilty and ashamed . . . What, um,”—his voice started to waver and caught in his throat—“what should I do?”

Eddie thought for a moment. He knew most of what James and Vince had been through, but he’d never heard much of Vince’s side of things. For him, it had been difficult to see James so vulnerable and small—he’d always been Eddie’s protector, the strong and unshakeable one, still powerful and huge even in his lowest moments. It was strange, unnerving even, for him to whimper and cry rather than rage and scream. But staying by his side, despite that dissonance, made Eddie feel like he could return the favor and protect James, even if only in spirit.

“I think . . . maybe it would help to do the things you wished you’d done before. Like, taking all those old memories, but changing the ending.” He suspected he knew what Vince might have been referring to, but he guessed there were probably a dozen more stories like it in their past. “I think it would mean a lot to him if you were here when he woke up. But I don’t know, this is all hypothetical, of course—if you think you should go home, at least let one of us come with you. Personally, I’m still feeling a little anxious about people driving alone right now . . . ”

Vince knew he was right; Eddie always had a way of finding solutions no one else could. And, as much as he hated to admit it, Eddie often seemed to know James better than him. Maybe because he got to see the happy, unfiltered, unrestrained version so much more—all Vince had ever really known of James before coming back into his life was the suppressed, beaten-down kid that had nearly given up on everything.

“I . . . I’ll stay with him a while.”

Alone with James in the dim hospital room, Vince sat at his side and retrieved the small paperback book from his bag. The spine was cracked and nearly laid flat; the pulpy-thin pages were stained along the edges and fluttered easily to the passage Vince had read time and time again. His quiet voice warbled, a lump pressing painfully in his throat:

"‘We may even get lost and be frozen by frost. We may die in an earthquake or tremor. Or nastier still, we may even be tossed On the horns of a furious Dilemma. "But who cares! Let us go from this horrible hill! Let us roll! Let us bowl! Let us plunge! Let's go rolling and bowling and spinning until We're away from old Spiker and Sponge!’"

[karizard-ao3]

Wrote this whole ass thing for my role reversal fic and I don't like it so I'm probably going to take it out.

I feel like it's unfair to the Founder Ymir for her pov to never to see the light of day, though (and also I spent a long time on it), so here it is. If I do end up using it in the fic, pretend you didn't read it already 👍

Context: it's kind of fragmented because Mikasa is seeing Ymir's story play out in memory bursts after she kisses Historia's hand at the medal ceremony. No further explanations forthcoming.

...A little girl stumbling, terrified, through the woods with hounds and hunters at her heels. The sharp, throbbing pain of an arrow shearing through skin and muscle to lodge itself in her bone. A glowing, many-legged creature scrabbling inside her failing body and giving her a new one that no one on earth could destroy. A cruel and despotic king using her newfound power for conquest and taking her as conquest. Rocking her babies and humming them lullabies, all other murmurings of maternal love muted by her clipped tongue. Looking in the mirror and seeing a woman who wanted to be free but had always been owned and did not know how to live without a master, and so she obeyed, bringing the king closer to obtaining the empire he craved and wishing that she could exist as something besides a weapon for someone else’s war. She found her way out in the path of a rebel’s spear hurled at her king, its sharp point glinting with the promise of liberation. She threw herself in front of it, taking the death meant for her master and keeping it for herself. In service to her king she also defied him, sucking in her last breath as he ordered her to live and help him complete his triumph, slipping away from his grasp as her final exhalation diffused her soul into the ether. 

How cruel it was to discover that even in death she could not escape the will of her king. She had no body but she lived on. Her children, her precious daughters, had been made to devour her body, absorbing the essence of what she had become. They carried her within themselves, keeping her manacled to existence, held in a lonely, expansive prison constructed by her own legacy. As her progeny multiplied, each new life was a chain to bind her to the Paths. She fell into her old, familiar ways, toiling on, obedient as she had always been to the commands of Eldian kings, longing for an end to her servitude, knowing that if she had suffered a little longer— if she had fulfilled her duty to see her king and his tribe victorious— she might have been permitted the sweet release of oblivion.

It was that unfinished task that had damned her, but humans were warlike and greedy and she was sure the day would come when one of her children would fulfill their long ago sire’s wishes. Little could she have suspected that one of her king’s own blood would so love peace that he would summon all his people behind these walls. She was powerless to refuse a royal titan shifter's whims and so she did his bidding and twisted the new islanders' memories, making complacent recluses of them all and closing the door on their freedom and hers.

[gangstalkerbarbie]

it's also checking on your fellow jews and offering them cultural learning in this worrisome time so ugh in the name of alleviating the climate of fear im breaking my commitment to not being on jumblr, if anyone wants me to teach them anything i know or to teach me anything they know let me know, send me asks, if you drop a tidbit in my askbox I will put one in yours)

i have for you

• yiddish (unfortunately loves im ukrainian so its gonna be yivo compliant and sound a bit like lev ozerov because this was the literary standard of communities behind the iron curtain, but i live here and i promise speakers here in the us will still understand you, just get the hang of the typical vowel shift)

• hebrew (id go learn this anywhere else tbh, but i will yap with u about hebrew grammar and try to connect you to practice resources a la pdfs of the hebrew warriorscats)

• talmud, especially its cultural anthropology and explanations of why they're all like that

(i should clarify that im a lesbian, part of a non-american intellectual tradition and an apikores by many modern standards, so if that puts you off learning with me fair enough, but otherwise i have a long yikhes recorded in a dusty roll going back to chazal on one side; a mostly unintentional orthodox education [my grandfather would be one hell of a find for a spy]; an ancestral affection for our sages; and the benefit of a religious childhood in which rabbis both living and dead took, in hindsight, surprisingly good care of me)

• hasidus (ive spent my fair share of time with likutei moharan, and the facts of why rebbi nachman went thru the torment nexus mirroring my life and then said "oh gd please no more I hope to Fuck I'm the last airbender" only for people to invent even newer and worse forms of rebbe husbandry is part of why i went otd, but you know how its a whole thing in this stream of thought that you can learn things from anywhere?)

• jewish herbalism, astrology, supernatural folklore, fairytales and segulos (i had a niche kind of upbringing by a grandfather raised by his own great-grandparents and grandparents, who had an interesting type of what I can only call baal shem autism, and so i know more plant names and healing folklore in yiddish and hebrew than everyone i know)

• jewish etiquette - i have relatives in a lot of different communities with different norms and standards so if you're ever unsure how to act human at a function i got you

i would love

• ladino (I have a few phrases passed down thru the family along with a key to a house that no longer exists, that is all)

• all of your divrei torah that you think are too lame or uneducated or perhaps unconventional to share

• modern and haredi hebrew idioms (I did not grow up using it as a spoken language for evident reasons, and I would like to be able to talk comfortably with all kinds of people)

• to trade recipes

• to hear (anonymised unless it's something evil that should be named and shamed please i will not enable L"H) hot goss from your community unrelated to current events, the better to remind us both that we keep on living

See you soon!

american jewish culture is being terrified right now

[altarfates]

Whoops! Busted.

In Lynx’s defense, there’s certainly worse things an older brother could catch his younger sister doing than playing with a wild animal. The small creature has a chubby body covered in cream-coloured fluff, with dark leathery paw pads & equally dark eyes, head tipped with two round little ears. The geomarrow heater in her room was off, which was itself a terrible idea & now it made sense.

Sitting in a bathtub full of ice water, the Snow Plains bear cub munches away happily at the hazelnuts she’s provided while getting its fur carefully brushed out by a pet brush, collecting the downy fur it’s been shedding.

“G-Gepard! I can explain, it’s not what it looks like!”

The cub whines & drops its snack before scampering into the teen’s arms, apparently intimidated by the sudden appearance of a much larger human. “Shh, it’s okay, Orion. My big brother won’t hurt you, I promise he’s not scary at all once you get to know him!” She soothes, hugging her quadrupedal friend close. “I found him in the Snow Plains. He was all alone, I don’t know what happened to his mother. I can only assume the Fragmentum creatures…” she trails off. “He needed someone to look after him.”

Orion whimpers sorrowfully.

The inhospitable bite of belobog’s winds might encircle the city, corralling those grand structures in a niveous white but the warmth that kept the city sustained remained a potent force. That wasn’t to say it the temperature no longer held its proclivity to plummet to a punishing, glacial chill only that the people within had acclimated to it. That same, familiar cold that swept across the frontlines slid beneath the closed door, provoking both a sense of disquiet and intrigue within him. That was the reason the segments of his gauntlet shifted to accommodate drawing the door open, the exuberant splashing confined to the tub inconsistent with what he’d come to expect from Lynx. That was initially why his gaze lingered, met with a pair of fuzzy ears and dark, inquisitive eyes, staring at him as if it was a transgression on his behalf to witness this scene unfolding. He doesn’t respond with immediate reprimand, considering it was his prerogative to enforce belobog’s laws this was a rather lenient reaction. Gepard knows his sister expects his commanding voice to cleave open her excuse, dismissing any explanation with terse efficiency, however, for a moment that seems to extend beyond that initial expelled breath of disbelief, he permits her to be the first to speak. His brows, however, furrow involuntarily, for he knows kind intentions alone are not enough to provide shelter, sustenance and all else this cub might need to thrive. Lynx is by no means irresponsible, in fact, even when his own mind leaps towards admonishment he knows that usually she has some semblance of a plan in place for her long ventures into Belobog’s most belligerent regions. 

Reluctantly he smiles, it isn’t quite genuine nor wholly reassuring but he has yet to launch into a diatribe about how this was no place to be harboring a cub. He merely strides into the room, casting a long, imposing shadow, before hesitating a step or two behind her. “ You know, saying this isn’t what it looks like does not negate the fact that there is a bear-cub taking up residence in your bathtub.” Slowly, he crouches down until he’s at her height, taking in the cub’s pristine white fur contrasted against the flaxen hue of her hair. “ Lynx.” he warns, but it holds no weight, after all, if he intended to interrupt her in earnest he wouldn’t currently be resting his elbows on his knees, a precarious balancing act merely to take in the sight of his sister and her companion. “ Do you have the supplies you need to take care of him ?” this was the question that mattered, was she prepared for the consequences of her actions, that this kindness was tethered to things she would have to be held accountable for. Returning him to the bleak snow-plains did not seem advisable given the circumstances, so he merely asks her this, allowing her to determine how she might go about taking care of it now. “ Orion.” He trials the way the name feels, the impression of it and finds it satisfactory. “ Have you told Serval ?” After all, when it came to bending the rules for situations like this their sister was far more capable than he was, even if he were begrudging to admit it. “ As long as you have the things necessary to take care of him, I cannot advise you to take him back, so long as we don’t know the whereabouts of his mother.” Upon closer inspection he could discern the reasons why she’d grown so attached, it wasn’t merely that the cub was cute but empathy tended to inspire people to protect those weaker than themselves, that was a sentiment he understood well enough. “ If there’s anything you need, allow me to help you, I’m not needed on the frontlines and my patrol doesn’t start until dawn tomorrow.” 

[weaverofink]

AU where Tim's family is connected to the Court of Owls rather than Dick's, and Tim decides to go undercover as a member of the Court

alt version and explanation under the cut

(Disclaimer: I know the court of owls storyline happens in the n52 continuity, but for my own sake (as i don't really like tim's whole deal in it lol) this AU is using pre-n52 backstories and characterizations)

In this AU, Janet Drake was a member of the Court of Owls, unbeknownst to Jack and Tim. Bruce eventually finds this out, but chooses to keep it from Tim to protect him. Tim, of course, finds out that Bruce is keeping this from him, and, feeling betrayed both by Bruce and his own mother, decides to infiltrate the Court on his own. The court has been sending him cryptic invitations ever since Bruce announced his initiative to improve Gotham, looking for a way into both the Wayne family and WE. As a member of the Court, Tim is able to gather information to help stop them, but in order to maintain his cover, he is forced into many situations where he is forced to choose between compromising his morals or compromising his position in the Court.

[yesimwriting]

All The Good Dreams

A/n this one is based on a request from @ateliefloresdaprimavera who requested a fic where General Kirigan has been dreaming of the reader for as long as he can remember and that’s one of his few reasons to smile and the reader has been having the same kinds of dreams about him and when they meet they just know. 

This one is being written in third person bc it’s the only way I can see this fic being done but I’m a little insecure about writing in third person so be gentle lol

Also a little personal update I’ve been working on my original novel and it’s coming together y’all!!

--

ALEKSANDER. 

The morning sunlight seems to only come to take her from him, peaking through the curtains and stirring him awake and away from his dreams. Aleksander keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer, trying to will her features to remain in his mind. She had looked more angelic in last night’s dream, dressed in all white and watching him with an adoration he doubted real life could duplicate. 

The girl has haunted his dreams like a ghost of promise since before he began to change the world. Since before anything in his life was solidified. He lets out a sigh, something similar to a smile playing at his lips. Thinking of her would not bring her to him, if he could manifest her, she’d be by his side right now. He has things to do, duties and obligations that will bring his final goal closer. Each day is a step closer to victory, and each night brings the promise of dreams. The promise of her. 

--

Y/N.

“Y/n.” The voice is gentle and distant. “Y/n,” a little harsher. “Wake up, you’ll be late.” 

Fighting against grogginess, y/n wakes up, eyes squinting open. “What time is it, Danna?” 

“Late.” Danna’s reply is curt as she steps away from y/n’s cot. “I thought you were awake already and then I came in to look for my boots and you were still asleep with that ridiculously peaceful look.” Danna paces around the room. “You must have been dreaming of your prince again?” 

Y/n feels her skin warm. “He’s not a prince!” It’s a weak defense. “I regret telling you that almost every time I dream I see the same man.” 

Danna drops down, grabbing her worn boots and pulling them on quickly. “You’re making me believe in soulmates, l/n.” 

Y/n rolls her eyes, sitting up and placing her feet on the ground at her own leisure. “It’s nothing like that--I’m not even sure he exists.” 

Lacing her shoes, Danna narrows her eyes at y/n. “Sure.” Y/n opens her mouth to protest, but Danna beats her to it, “If you need to argue with me, do it while getting dressed, we can’t be late today--General Kirigan’s visiting this camp for the first time and I doubt he’d appreciate being interrupted by a non-Grisha medic.” 

At that, y/n wrinkles her nose, but she stands anyway. “Ugh...Grisha.” She walks towards her uniform. “They can get away with anything and I hear Kirigan’s the worst of all of them because he’s in the same order as the Black Heretic that began all of this.” Y/n pauses, crossing her arms. “And it’s ridiculous that the army even needs non-Grisha medics. Healers exist and they should not be primarily reserved for other Grisha who rarely get injured, especially to the extent that the rest of us do.” 

“I know, y/n, but don’t speak like that until the General is gone.” Danna draws her lips into a thin line. “And hurry up before you get us both in trouble.” 

Y/n lets out a sigh. “Go ahead without me, I’ll catch up.”

Danna eyes her friend wearily. “Alright, worse comes to worse I’ll try to cover for you.” 

“You won’t need to.” Y/n isn’t sure she believes herself. “I’ll be there.” 

Danna pulls on her second boot, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t really believe you.” She stands easily. “But knowing you, you’ll talk yourself out of any trouble the way you always do.” 

“I do not always talk myself out of trouble.” 

Turning to leave, Danna pauses, “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” 

Y/n rolls her eyes. If she had more time to argue with Danna she would take it. But she doesn’t. She’s quick to get dressed, thoughts of the mysterious stranger from her dreams keeping her company. Last night he seemed more tired than normal, a crease between his dark eyebrows as he sat by her side. A part of her she keeps buried worries about him. It’s ridiculous, to concern yourself over a figment of comfort your mind created for you. 

By the time y/n’s changed, she knows she doesn’t have much time to get to her station. She’s rushing out of her tent, one boot still untied. The medic bag she slings over her shoulder swings as she jogs towards the medical tent. Today the camp is hectic, everyone desiring to appear efficient and reliable for General Kirigan. It’s all ridiculous to Y/n. General Kirigan will never be impressed by them. If he’s revered even among Grisha, Y/n can’t imagine the superiority complex that man must possess.

Her eyes scan the soldiers and workers she knows so well, each of them behaving so differently than normal. There is no friendly chatter this morning, no casual banter. There is only the business of war. 

Y/n watches the people she knows, so focused on their nerves that she barely registers the person she crashes into. “Sorry!” The apology leaves Y/n on instinct.  Her bag falls off her shoulder, gauze and antiseptic falling onto the ground on impact. Y/n bends down instantly, beginning to pick up her supplies. She mentally curses herself for being so easily distracted and not properly shutting her bag this morning. “Everything’s so hectic today and I was running late and I just--I have no idea how I didn’t see you.” She drops her supplies back into her bag. “I guess it’s a good thing they keep me off the battlefield and in the medical tents.” 

Reaching for the last of her supplies, Y/n’s eyes land on the shoes of the person she just crashed into. They’re leather. The fine kind of leather meant for marble halls, not trekking through the unknown. Y/n’s mouth goes dry as the possibility of the graveness of her mistake sets in her mind. She exhales slowly, daring to look upwards as she closes her bag. 

When her eyes meet those of the stranger, she is left with no choice but to gape. She’s not staring because she’s now at the mercy of General Kirigan. She’s not staring because nothing could have prepared her for his beauty. She’s staring because she knows that face. She knows those sharp features and steady eyes.

His lips are slightly parted. Y/n is struck with the odd thought that perhaps he too has words wedged into his throat. 

“It’s you.” The whisper leaves her faintly. 

The words seem to unfreeze Kirigan, his expression moving from shocked to stoic. “Excuse me?” 

Awkward regret floods through Y/n. She drops her head downwards, desperate to escape the power of his gaze. “General Kirigan.” She uses her words as a way to dismiss the emotions her chest seems to be brimming with as she stands. He’s not the man from her dreams. That’s impossible. “I apologize for my inappropriate behavior an--” 

“No, no,” he shakes his head once. Y/n bites her tongue at his dismissal. “You said ‘it’s you.’”

Embarrassment knots her stomach. “I just hadn’t realized that I ran into you, General. I--I knew you were coming today, but I wasn’t expecting to see you much less like this.” 

Kirigan’s eyes seem to be nothing more than inviting pools of kindling emotion. So familiar yet so distinct. He can’t be the man from her dreams. The man from her dreams must be nothing more than a composition of traits she finds generally attractive. General Kirigan just happens to possess those features. That explanation is the only thing that keeps Y/n’s feet rooted to the ground, but the longer she looks at him the more that explanation loses its strength. There’s just something so knowing behind his expression, so specific to the face that she’s only seen while asleep. 

Tearing his gaze away to scan the area, Kirigan reaches forward, placing a hand on Y/n’s arm. The touch leaves Y/n warmer than it should. Maybe that’s why she lets him lead her forward, ducking into an empty medical tent. She keeps hold of her bag as he turns, his eyes full of something dark and unknown. But not angry, Y/n notes, no, not angry. The look is too peaceful for rage, perhaps even hopeful. 

“When you looked at me…” He exhales, voice low and sacred, “You said ‘it’s you’.” Y/n can only blink, still mesmerized by something so foreign and familiar all at once. “Do you know me?” 

In his urgency, Kirigan’s hold on Y/n’s arm becomes more assured. Something in Y/n wants to pry herself free in order to prove to herself that she’s capable of resisting his drawl. But his touch is not to trap her, the look in his eyes tells her that. His touch is pleading--desperate and hopeful. 

“Everyone knows you,” when Y/n finally finds her voice, she is not convinced it is her own. 

The corners of Kirigan’s mouth fall downwards, something in him threatening to deflate. “I meant--have you seen me before?” The question is not one Y/n is too willing to answer. How could she tell this strange man, this general she was convinced she’d dislike on some fundamental level while never speaking to him, that she knows him? She knows him like she knows her own beginning. “Because I’ve seen you.” 

Y/n can’t help the way her eyes widen. This doesn’t mean anything, she warns herself, he could have seen her walking. “I didn’t see you, that--that’s why I ran into you--” 

“No, you’re avoiding the question.” Her face is warmer than it was when Danna was teasing her this morning. It’s warmer than it’s ever been. “Because you’ve experienced it as well.” 

The swelling in her chest is overwhelming. “Experienced what?” 

Kirigan eyes the entrance to the tent once more, confirming that no one is approaching. “All of the good dreams,” he exhales, “They have been of you.” 

Y/n can’t help the way everything in her melts. She’s not insane. She’s not projecting something dangerous onto the Shadow Summoner. “I see you in my dreams always.” 

Slowly, he releases his grip on her arm. Watching her like she might be a mirage, Kirigan raises his hand, brushing his knuckles along Y/n’s cheek. She lets him, holding her breath until his hand falls back to his side. A part of Kirigan expected the girl to be a trick of the light, something that his touch would reveal to be a fallacy. But she remains true, watching him with eyes the size of saucers. 

“How long I’ve been waiting for you, you’ll never know.” His voice is as heavy as a lament. 

Y/n feels her back straighten slightly on instinct, desperate to pass whatever scrutiny is being passed over her. “How--how does this happen? How do two strangers dream of each other for so long and...” 

Something knowing colors his smile a shade of ambitious green. “What is your name?” 

“Y/n.” 

Kirigan’s minds flit through lifetimes worth of faint memories. The girl laughing, the girl teary eyed, the girl embodying all the stars he’ll never have, the girl representing all he needs. Y/n. There’s finally a name to her. 

“Y/n,” the name is a gift. Kirigan pulls a ring from his fingers before grabbing Y/n’s arm. Too lost in a strange euphoria, she lets him pull her arm forward before pressing his ring into her skin. Her brow furrows as he begins to guide the metal down her skin. That slight confusion quickly turns to total shock as a thread of light begins to spindle down her skin, following the path he’s creating with the ring. “You and I are going to change the world.” 

--

General Taglist: @theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7 @lonelystarship @mentally-in-northern-italy @uhanddreag @kaitlyn2907

[munofmanyminds]

Patience had come with the long centuries. Time passed differently for Celeste now - slower, perhaps, or at simply less significant. Whether it was age or apathy, she no longer cared much for its passage - she no longer measured worth in minutes. So it didn't matter how long Semira lingered in the shower. Celeste waited, hips propped against the counter behind her, hands folded loosely in front of her, gaze resting calmly on the naked silhouette before her. Just there - present for her sake, but not overly indulgent. Though not particularly warm, her presence at least offered silent confirmation that Semira had not lost value in the span of one fateful evening. Even if Celeste was anything but pleased, the fact that she remained at all - that she had chosen to indulge Semira's wishes - was, in its own way, a promise that forgiveness would come. Eventually.

Semira didn't look at her, and Celeste didn't press for it. Normally, she loathed being ignored - by anyone, let alone a pet - but she understood the need for solitude in shame. So she let Semira grapple with the memories, the guilt, the confusion, with not a word of interruption. She watched in silence, unmoving, eyes glinting through the rising steam, her stillness as statuesque as it had been for hours beside Semira's bed. Eyes followed the path of furious hands scrubbing blood from matted hair, the growing desperation in movements as they shifted from urgent to frantic - scrubbing at skin that was already clean, scouring as if to erase memory itself. Movements that grew harsh - even punitive. Celeste's head tilted slightly, a slow blink the only outward shift on her features at the sight before her. She didn't interfere though, not yet - but she took it all in.

When Semira finally turned, Celeste's cold gaze snapped to meet the remorseful depth of hers with the immediacy of metal drawn to a magnet. Still, she said nothing. She didn't need to.

A moment later, Semira did exactly as expected; stepped forward and lowered herself to her knees. Ever the dutiful little thing, pristinely presented. She hadn't even taken the time to dry off. Instead she knelt atop the cool tiles, water trailing in fat rivulets down flushed skin, dripping from collarbone and elbows like penance. Celeste's chin dipped a fraction to maintain the connection despite the increased space between them, dark eyes never wavering from Semira's.

And then came the explanation - what little Semira had to offer. Halting, incomplete, laced with regret. But Celeste allowed it; Cassius had already provided most of what remained. Her response, at first, was only the faint narrowing of almond-shaped eyes and the barest hint of a crease between her brows. A shallow shake of her head followed, damp curls sliding against the slope of her shoulders like falling silk.

"You know what this place is," she said at last, voice measured with softness, carrying just a breath of that razor-sharp disappointment. "Someone new may have gotten away with that kind of ignorance. I might have excused it." Her gaze darkened with the weight of expectation. "But you? You, my sweet girl…" Disappointment thickened on her tongue. "After all this time, you know better."

She reached out without breaking eye contact, and grabbed the towel hanging on a hook beside her. Then she moved forward, slow and controlled, and crouched before Semira with the same eerie elegance she brought to every gesture. She draped the fuzzy softness over trembling shoulders with a gentle press of her hands, palms drifting down both arms in a smooth, grounding motion. Then, with a sudden shift too quick for human eyes to follow, her hand snapped upward. Fingers caught Semira's chin in a firm, steady grip. Not painful, not rough, but absolute - the kind of grip that didn't allow for retreat. The pointed tip of her thumbnail grazed Semira's bottom lip, and her gaze flicked briefly to the delicate pulse fluttering at the side of the girl's neck - a place her fangs had found countless times. A low purr bloomed in her chest, vibrating in the stillness between them, filling the seconds between then - and the moment she chose to speak once more.

"The shower helped." She leaned in closer, habitual breathing a whisper against Semira's lips. Her nose hovered within an inch of her pet's skin as she inhaled lightly through her nose - just enough show to ensure Semira felt the way she was being scented, catalogued, judged. Celeste's voice dropped lower, an intimate murmur against the girl's sweet pout, "But you still smell like Cassius." The words were not an accusation. They were a conclusion, dropping with the finality of a prison sentence. Inevitable and condemning, ringing out sharply like the ceremonial snap of a hardwood gavel.

She released Semira's chin and rose in a single fluid motion. Her shape stretched long in the steam-hazed mirror behind them, a shadow touched with silver - regal and unyielding.

"One week should suffice." By then, the scent would have faded and the taste would be ( mostly ) hers again. "But you won't be locked away like some errant child," she added lightly, her tone edged with a hint of amusement at the ridiculousness of the notion. "You'll be by my side, my darling. Where I can keep an eye on you." Her voice turned silkier then, the cruelty of her punishment hidden in kindness until her next words: "And when I feed, it won't be on you." She paused just long enough to let the implication settle. "You'll be watching, pet. Every moment. Quiet and obedient - like the good little thing I taught you to be."

She nodded subtly towards the towel wrapped around her. "Now, dry yourself off, sweetness." An almost gentle smile ghosted across her lips - elegant but dangerous. "I'm hungry."

SEMIRA DIDN'T KNOW HOW LONG SHE STOOD IN THE SHOWER , watching the scarlet bleeding into the water grow more diluted with each passing moment . the loofa wasn't much better , suds stained varying shades of rose and burgundy , and mole peppered skin had began to feel raw from how her scrubbing went from slow , shameful circles to desperate , aggressive streaks . curls had been pulled straight , no longer clotted with the essence of many — herself included — and clung like a thick , back cape to her back . semira had been foolish , that she had known , but hearing celeste voice her disappointment made it sting . like each slow , silky word had been doused in poison .

the water eventually ran clear , the condensation in the washroom thick — running down nearly every surface — as steam plumed like a thick , impenetrable fog . semira had kept her eyes turned away , dropping the loofa in favor of rubbing her palms against her face , throat , chest — wanting to be clean , desperately so , but no mater how unblemished her skin became , , , she felt dirty . her memory was foggy , shrouded in hole-filled shadows , and she could only remember bits and pieces of the evening prior . primarily , she could recall cassisus's scent , the rich purr in his voice and that dangerous look in his eyes . one that the remembrance of alone had a second heartbeat pulsing between her legs .

semira eventually turns back to celeste , brushing a cleansed lock that had adhered itself to the side of her face to curl behind her studded hear . brown eyes had softened , resembling that of a struck puppy's , and her lips had found an almost permanent pout . without looking away , semira reached beside her and turned the water off , the drip-drip-drip of the shower head all that sounded for a moment as she turned her head to the side to ring the moisture out of soddened locks .

stepping out , semira immediately returned to her knees , lowering her water-slicked limbs down to the ground at celeste's feet . goosebumps peppered her skin , but not from the fact she was soaked — with moisture puddling around her — but because semira wasn't sure what to anticipate from the vampire . what to expect . she'd never wronged her before — not in a manner such as this .

" i'm sorry , " she whispered , speaking for the first time since celeste had tenderly coaxed her into the bathroom , placing her hands atop bare knees . arching her spine so she could look up at the woman better . salt burned her tear ducts , and her breaths wavered . " i had — i had only stepped outside for a moment . for some fresh air , , , i hadn't been feeling well , miss , i didn't think , , , " she frowned , her voice quivering alongside her short , shallow breaths . " i didn't even recognize him , whoever it was — i had told him i was yours . only yours and , , , then i can't remember what happened . all i remember is fading away , , , then waking up this morning . seeing you . " and cassius . she vaguely remembered cassius , teeth coming to find the corner of her lip . semira then craned her neck , fingernails gently pressing into the flesh just above her knees , making an incredible effort to keep her voice from trembling . " i missed you . i'm sorry — i'm so sorry . i'll take whatever punishment — anything , , , please , miss . it will never happen again . i'll even stay in my room for the rest of my life if you wish it . "

[offtorivendell]

Hope Springs Eternal

This little fic is dedicated to all of my book club friends who correctly recognised the superiority of Hannah Bellinger and Fox Thornton (from Hook, Line and Sinker, by Tessa Bailey) in the March Madness ship wars, and voted accordingly. The rest of you? You're all completely wrong, obviously… but I still love you, don't worry.

A huge thank you goes to @gopeachllama for being my beta; I'm so incredibly thankful. Sorry that I dragged you into a three day discussion about a single sentence; I'd promise that it wouldn't happen again, but it would probably be a lie. And @wingedblooms, as always, thank you for your invaluable advice.

As an added bonus, make sure you check out the gorgeous artwork of this fan fic, linked at the end of the post, by the one and only @livlochan. Liv, I was - and still am - absolutely honoured for the chance to work with you. Your art is a joy, and you are a gorgeous human to boot. Everyone, please give her some love on Tumblr and Instagram.

Read it on AO3, if you prefer.

Word Count: 1866

TW: mentions of canon poverty and trauma.

Disclaimer: this is an Elain centric, post canon one shot that delves into the possible memories of her hypothetical reaction to manifesting a power that involves assisting plant growth after experiencing poverty and food hardship while growing up, and how she failed Feyre at the time, as well as an explanation as to why it - potentially - wasn't as simple as "well why didn't Elain plant vegetables." Background Elriel.

I'm not claiming that Elain did in fact try to grow fruit and/or veg, we won't know until her own book, but there are valid reasons as to why it might not have been as simple to try as people think, or even worked if she had made an attempt. I urge people to read this with an open mind, and understand that sometimes you need not only solid knowledge, but the privilege of knowing you have room to make mistakes and waste food in the process of learning, which Elain and Nesta didn't necessarily have. This obviously doesn't absolve them from everything else they did - or didn't - do, as an FYI.

*

Dawn bloomed softly across the townhouse garden as Elain Archeron weaved through the dappled patches of sunlight, her heart and hands singing with life. She felt the probing, whispering reach of the individual plants against the well of her magic—they were cheeky little things, really, just like people, each with its own personality, depending on species and health and age—the early blooming clematis that lived on the wrought iron archway was already full of a vivacious humming and just about set to flower, whereas the twin banks of rose bushes calling to her from the walk were yet a gentle sigh, ever increasing as the days grew longer, that would peak with a riotous chorus of colour and scent and song come June.

It was a brisk March morning in Velaris, the kind wherein the strength of Old Man Winter’s grip on the world was beginning to fail, making way for the warmth and bounty of spring proper. As Elain slowly made her rounds to the different beds of plants, wrapped tightly in a soft, cobalt shawl, she could feel the latent magic of the earth awakening as the sun's rays graced the soil, touching it, drawing forth its life-giving threads of power to entwine with the surrounding roots even as it began its task of burning away the layer of mist that hung in the chill air. The slow unmasking of her garden, a constant dance between light and dark, of life and death circling each other since the dawn of time—that would continue so long as the sun was destined to rise, a rhythm woven into the very fabric of the universe well before she or her sisters had ever graced the world—was something that Elain had always loved to watch. Even as a human child.

Passing by the bird bath, which currently served a lone robin, the only one either brave or fool enough to test the still-icy waters, Elain smiled at the sky, rubbing her hands together as she felt the sunlight caress her face. Her ability to make her magic, herself, one with the land, to monitor and help, and even borrow from, if necessary—though only sparingly, and then in times of trouble—was the greatest gift she was granted by the Cauldron. It allowed her the ability to not only nurture new growth, from strengthening the roots of a sapling to encouraging the first blooms of a rose, but also, brilliantly, to aid in the decomposition of old life, allowing the earth to reclaim what once was and begin anew.

She rarely shared the latter aspect of her powers with others, for even her own sisters had been a little… taken aback when they found out the full extent of her magic—in truth, even she had to admit that it was a little grotesque—but he had never worried about the implications, or been put off. After she had confessed to him what she felt when she opened herself to her wellspring of not just life, but death, too, in a way, dreadfully afraid of the potential consequences, he had, with his usual quiet constance, simply asked her what a bloom would be without the aid of a little blood and bone, and her shoulders had seemed to lighten in an instant. He was correct, and of course of all faeries, it would be he—he, who felt and heard things others did not, could not, comprehend—who understood. The world would stop turning without the old making way for the new, and in helping the life of the realm, she was required to get her hands a little dirty, both literally and figuratively; if she had to encourage the rot of death to give the land the strength to support new life each year, then so be it. Her role changed with the seasons, feeding and nourishing in spring, then breaking down, a lumbricid turning the soil, in autumn—each process vital to the yearly rebirth of the earth. She was more glad than she could ever admit to, having been blessed with a power so attuned to her innermost wishes and joys, especially after Nesta's Cauldron powers had weighed so heavily on her, even though it had taken some getting used to.

When she had first realised what she was capable of, there had been a bitter resentment that rushed through her, swamping any happiness that she may otherwise have felt at having such a constructive power under a wave of unrelenting regrets. Why had her human self not been able to do such things? Elain simultaneously felt like both the betrayer and the betrayed, of and by her body, that she had such an ability now, when she did not need it to contribute food to the table as she desperately had then, all those years ago. It was a discordant bridge between her human and fae selves, and the sour notes had taken much time to fully resolve.

Acceptance had been work. It had been hard, because she had tried so hard, with the singular, sad potato that she'd managed to save from the cook pot the winter she had turned fifteen, determined to make a stand for the first time in her young life. From the depths of her memories, grounded in the stolen mornings she had spent amongst the gardens and greenhouses of their old estate, Elain had remembered the head gardener setting the potatoes out—to chit, the kindly old man had said—and this one did sprout much as she recalled it should, but there her luck had run out. The plot of land on the edge of the forest that housed their cottage hadn't been able to support much in the way of new life, in fact, it could barely support the native plants that scrounged the meager nutrients that their poor soil could provide after the towering trees are their full and, after planting the two halves in the best spot she could find, only a few small, green leaves had broken through the soil before some sort of beetle infestation had made short work of her hope of providing, in some small way, for her family. The next year, the two saved and planted potatoes didn't even manage a single leaf between them, and in the years that followed, there had been no spare potatoes to even make an attempt.

The weak promise of food in the future meant nothing when their bellies were empty in the here and now. Winters spent scrounging and starving soon disabused all three sisters of the idea of leftover food. Scraps didn't exist to create compost, even if she had known what to do with them to realise her dream of rich earth and a thriving plot.

She had tried to beg seeds and starts from the farmers that brought crops to the local market, but they were understandably, if disappointingly, protective of their own income, and seed lines were a closely guarded trade secret. But the problem with their soil would still have existed; while it may have been able to support a few flowers during the best growing conditions of the year, bearing fruit that matured enough to harvest was another thing altogether.

So yes, she had experienced an internal crisis, felt renewed shame at her former failure, when her new powers manifested in such a way that highlighted her past inability to contribute to the table, to lessen Feyre's burden as the sole hunter and provider. Elain had many regrets from her youth—would do it all differently, be a better sister, if she had the time over—and they had all come crashing home the first time she had accidentally caused a rose to sprout a new stem, then bud and bloom heartily in under a minute as she held and inspected the plant…to deadhead it, of all things, and understood what it meant.

Heaving a sigh, Elain finally reached the small vegetable garden at the side of the townhouse. It was her pet project, and really all she could manage now, given the current state of her waistline. She was nearing her eighth month of pregnancy, which was moving along nicely, according to the town healer she had been seeing throughout, but her rapidly expanding middle made digging and weeding and planting more than a wee bit difficult, and she still had over two months to go, if all went according to plan. She hadn't been without help, of course. Her sisters, Nuala and Cerridwen, and him, of course, had all made themselves useful in her garden over winter; even little Nyx had helped, though the latter was more in essence of spirit than function.

Elain wouldn't trade these days with her family, free from the shadows of impending doom, for the world.

Squatting in front of the broccoli, something she had developed a particular liking for over the course of her pregnancy, she knelt—as gracefully as she was able—and placed her hands on the ground, letting her fingers eagerly bury themselves in the loose layer of topsoil as her woolen shawl slipped down her arms. Quickly, she righted the garment, knowing that she would hear about it from her fussing husband if he saw her putting her health at risk; to his credit, it was cold outside, and she often neglected to remember the weather when she was intent on her garden. They worked well as a team, each looking out for the other and anticipating what they may need. This morning he had come up behind her as she had been braiding her hair out of the way and simply placed it over her shoulders with a gentle kiss to the top of her head—give a fae male a pregnant wife and they would dote and nest more than she had ever seen in humans; they truly were a different species. He had spent the previous afternoon weeding for her, knowing she could not spend as long on her knees as she would have before, and she rode the fresh wave of contentment the memory triggered, heart singing, as she sent fine tendrils of her power into the ground, gilding the surrounding roots with a little magical nourishment under the golden light of dawn.

Thankfully, she could manage to give the entire vegetable patch a boost from her current position at the side of the plot, otherwise she would certainly be exhausted before she'd made it inside for her morning tea, let alone begun the work in her apothecary. The spark in her veins was echoed by a fizzing thrum from the nearby plants as they took up the melody flowing from her hands, building to a crescendo backed by fluttering leaves and rustling stems. Feeling that the garden would benefit no more from her assistance, Elain sat back on her heels as she withdrew her power, and raised her eyes to the dormer that looked down upon the kitchen garden.

Noting movement in the shadows on the other side of the window, she beamed.

*

Click here to see the matching art for this fan fic, thanks to the brilliant @livlochan.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging. 💜

[quilna]

HI!!! I just found your tgs shadow/persona au and I love it!! Do you have any other content/info of it? My brain can't stop thinking about it, it's such a cool au!! Also love all the art you've made for the au/just your art in general! Your art style is so funky and I love the way you do shading and how theres so much emotion in the expressions you draw!

Aaaaaaaa Thanks so much!!!!

And also thank you for activating my trap card by asking about my daydream au because I have way too much information. This is about to get very long and not very proof-read.

Setup

The au starts with Jekyll doing his canon experiment to try to split himself into good and evil. He mixes together the concoction, he takes a deep breath, he drinks it and is wracked with the most terrible pains.

Yet, as the pains subside, nothing has changed except a lighter, more free sensation. He's happy again but with no explanation as to why or what truly happened to him.

Jekyll's only theory is that his experiment was a success but his evil has gone missing.

Meanwhile, in another world born from the sea of human unconsciousness, Jekyll's shadow, the manifestation of everything in himself that he's trying to ignore, the very thing he was trying to get rid of, becomes aware for the first time.

Looking around at the Palace surrounding him, Jekyll's shadow realizes that he doesn't need to stick around and ditches, running freely around the other world doing whatever he pleases.

On it’s own, this could have been fine but Jekyll’s experiments unsettled the delicate balance between worlds and, the longer it remains, the more dangerous it becomes. (Also, maybe it summoned a god or something because all the persona games I know end with the main characters fighting a god of some kind. It’s tradition by this point.)

A few years later, Frankenstein shows up, the exhibition is around the corner, and the ruined balance begins to show its effects.

As a result, people close to Jekyll one by one begin to experience the other world as a new 25th hour in the day, starting with the very closest people to Jekyll - Lanyon and Rachel.

As Jekyll’s closest and the person he has the most confusing feelings for, Lanyon is gifted with the power of the wildcard - the ability to use multiple persona.

The two of them wake up in the middle of the night to a changed world, filled with monsters and no other people to help. The pair latch onto each other as the only company in this strange new nightmare world and run for their lives.

However, they manage to stumble into a seeming safe zone - a strange garden filled with small animals.

And strangest of all, another Rachel.

-

Rachel’s Palace

Although the existence of a doppelganger is creepy, the pair are grateful for any kind of safety. The other Rachel is friendly and sweet. She offers them both a sanctuary from the monsters outside and promises to help them get back home however she can.

There is just one firm rule. The animals that she cares for are not to be touched and Lanyon and Rachel both quickly learn that she is violently protective over them.

Even if she’s sweet though, the original Rachel instinctively hates her guts. It’s not just the face-sharing either, it’s some far deeper discomfort running under the surface. Yet, the alternative is monsters so she’s willing to play nice for a while.

The pair explore around for a while and find out things about this garden. The animals, for instance? Each and every one of them is dressed like someone Rachel knows. Even shares a few of their mannerisms.

There are a group of animals that are bigger and scarier than the others like wolves, panthers, and lions protecting the smaller ones. Rachel recognizes their clothes look like members of the Forty Elephants, lead by Lucy, Patrin, and Elsie.

And then there’s the small bird cages, containing what the other Rachel calls painful memories. Please don’t open those.

During all of this, original Rachel gets more and more irritable until finally, she decides she’s had enough. She stands up and opens her mouth to say something.

But she doesn’t get the chance. Because other Rachel stiffens at that exact moment.

One of the animals has been hurt and her accusation quickly falls on Lanyon and Rachel, the only people there.

Lanyon insists that they didn’t touch the animals but Rachel is too ticked off with the other Rachel and quickly gets into a verbal fight with her about the accusations. At last, the other Rachel takes her away to speak with her, leaving Lanyon alone.

He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t go home without Rachel but whatever was going on between those two felt like more than a normal squabble. Worse, the garden has become aggressive towards him now. The larger animals that protected the garden have now turned on him and he doesn’t know what to do.

Until, out of nowhere, he awakens to his persona and is given a way to protect himself.

As he defeats the wave of animals attacking him and he’s trying to catch his breath, suddenly a strange new person appears, curious by his abilities.

Lanyon is instantly wary of this person. For one, he has the same yellow eyes as the fake Rachel. Secondly, the stranger admits that they were the one who accidentally hurt the animal. The stranger gets defensive about it, claiming that he only touched the animal and only because it looked like someone he knew. As it turns out, the animals aren’t only small but as fragile as glass - even the slightest touch cracks them.

The stranger introduces himself as shapeshifter known as Edward Hyde and explains to Lanyon how this world works. He tells him about shadows, explains that the world around them is how Rachel sees her world - as fragile and needing of her protection. Explains to him that shadows and their original hosts don’t tend to get along very well. (”Or maybe I’m just projecting.” Hyde hums to himself.) If they don’t save Rachel soon, her shadow might kill her.

So, off the pair of them go. Lanyon acts as offense with his new ability, Hyde acts as the information (and occasionally kicks shadows in the face. He doesn’t have a persona but he does have the power of kicking.)

They find Rachel and shadow Rachel. Rachel denies to her shadow that they’re the same person, shadow Rachel goes berserk, a boss fight ensues ending with Rachel finally accepting that the two of them are one and the same.

And so, Rachel gains her own persona.

Lanyon introduces her to Hyde and she instantly warms up to him.

Yet, they can’t stay, as Hyde explains. The hour is ending and, if they don’t leave the palace by the time the hour ends, they’ll be trapped there until the next 25th hour.

The two hurry out of the garden into the monster infested outside and, sure enough, the hour ticks over and they find themselves home at 1 in the morning.

However, to Rachel’s horror, Hyde didn’t come with them. He’s still in that monster infested other world.

-

Other palaces

I haven’t fully decided on the other palaces yet or which shadows they face but they definitely keep going through palaces, saving the new people who fall into the other world and get snatched up by their shadows. 

Frankenstein definitely has to be one of them though I haven’t fully decided what I want her palace to be. So far I’ve considered her palace being a disease-ridden prison because of how she views London and her treatment there. Though I’ve also considered an isolated icy castle.

Jekyll also gets a palace but his is later in.

-

Personas

Personas are another thing where I haven’t decided on them for everyone. The only ones I have so far are Lanyon having his persona be Sherlock (because of him investigating the truth in canon) and Jekyll having the persona of Romulus (Aka, a leader type character with a twin who he squabbled with)

Further than that, though, I have no ideas.

-

Jekyll’s Palace

Jekyll’s palace comes in a little later, after the group has already picked up a few people. It takes the form of a circus.

Over the course of the adventure, the group passes Jekyll’s palace a few times on the way to other palaces but they never go in. Partially to respect Jekyll’s privacy, partially to avoid fighting more shadows than they need to, and partially because Hyde is weirdly adverse to that particular palace. And, as someone who knows the other world very well, Hyde would know quite well which palaces are the dangerous ones.

Yet, as Jekyll’s health decays in the real world from Frankenstein, from the exhibition, from the secrets that everyone around him seems to be keeping, and a sudden new doubt in him about his old experiments with their complete lack of physical evidence that they worked, Robert gets worried and decides to sneak in alone for a peek.

However, he is surprised to find that Jekyll is missing. The place has fallen into disrepair without its leader, crawling with monsters with nobody keeping them in check.

He quickly leaves, perturbed by his findings.

It isn’t long after this that Jekyll finally falls into the 25th hour and the group have to go to save him from his own palace and, supposedly, from his own shadow. Hyde is violently against the idea, wanting to leave Jekyll alone there to die, but he’s quickly outvoted and the group venture inside.

The further they go in, the more the group starts to notice Hyde acting erratically. He starts to wander off on his own, muttering to himself about things, starting to act less like himself and more like... an actual shadow..?

At long last, the ball finally drops when they run into the cognitive version of Lanyon. Cognitive Lanyon has been searching hard for the circus’ missing ringleader and, as it turns out, took the real Jekyll temporarily as a replacement. After all, he’s close enough.

Yet, when he lays eyes on Hyde, he grabs Hyde immediately. Demands to know what he thought he was doing running away? He has a duty here, he can’t just ditch that.

“Oh, did you really think that little face-changing trick of yours could work on me?” Cognitive Lanyon asks, poking Hyde hard.

Before their eyes, everyone watches Hyde change shape in Lanyon’s grip, twisting and changing until, dangling there in Lanyon’s grip is no longer Hyde.

It’s Jekyll’s shadow.

“After all, I was the one who taught you that trick.”

With that, Cognitive Lanyon takes Hyde away to take his place in the circus, leaving the group confused and alarmed by this turn of events.

The group quickly hurry after, finding Jekyll and Hyde in the same place, both brought there by cognitive Lanyon.

In such close proximity to his original, Hyde goes full shadow, telling Jekyll exactly what sort of person he is, shapeshifting into his friends to taunt and torment him. Jekyll denies Hyde, Hyde goes berserk, the group fight, the group succeeds.

Then, like every single time before it, Jekyll accepts that Hyde is him.

Yet, Hyde proceeds to deny him.

He’s his own person now! He refuses to go back to being Jekyll!

The group is left in bewilderment. This has never happened before - now what?

But they don’t have time to figure things out because the 25th hour ends. The palace disappears around them and they all find themselves back in the real world.

After such an ordeal, people immediately jump to checking on Jekyll to see if he’s ok.

As a matter of fact, Jekyll’s actually acting really weirdly. He keeps looking around himself like he’s never seen the real world before, seeming shocked to be out.

Everyone puts it down to the weird experience he just had. He was in a really weird other world for a pretty long time, of course he would be surprised to be in the real world again.

Unbeknownst to them, what they’re looking at isn’t actually Jekyll but Hyde in Jekyll’s body. The real world is new and strange to him.

And free from the other world that he had been trapped in so long.

Yet, as the day goes by, people quickly notice Jekyll’s erratic behaviour and eventually put together the truth of the situation.

-

Further than that?

Honestly, I don’t have clear ideas after that. Eventually Hyde accepts Jekyll and becomes the most loud-mouthed persona in the history of personas, taking back on his own Hyde form whenever he’s not fighting for Jekyll and ignoring Jekyll’s instructions most of the time.

I have some older posts here with a bit of outdated information (and some information that’s still relevant) and some sadly old and terrible art from 2020. However, I haven’t redone the drawings and, therefore, they’re still the best (and only) references I have.

https://lifedrake.tumblr.com/post/615090651633156096/steps-up-to-podium-clears-throat-tgs-persona

https://lifedrake.tumblr.com/post/630636943447916544/persona-au-again-feat-hydes-shapeshifting

I should redraw some of it at some point.

[phoenixyfriend]

Rex and Anakin Raise a Family: Part Four

Part One, Part Two, Part Three – Chrono

Warnings: grief, resentment, lactation, animal death

----

For all that Anakin had said he could handle the twins, Rex still takes one in the sling as they go into town. They don't have a hoverpram yet, and neither of them could figure out a way to fold the fabric to securely hold the babies' heads up. Anakin takes Luke, and Rex takes Leia, and they ignore the whispers that still follow them.

The General keeps just behind his shoulder when they get to the hardware shop that carries the closest paint they can find in such a small town. It's not meant for armor, really, but speeder paint will do the trick for now. Rex's hands shake as he picks out the shades he needs, and the young Rodian at the register almost asks about it.

The issue isn't pressed.

They make their way back to the cottage, and Leia starts fussing fifteen minutes past the town's edge. Anakin looks like he wants to offer to take her back, but Rex is fine. He can comfort her. He can--

Anakin takes the paint, floating it along in the air before them, freeing Rex's hands to focus on the infant strapped to his chest.

"I'll feed her as soon as we get back," Anakin says, low and calm. "She's a little hungry."

Pacifier, then. They're only a few minutes out, by now. She can wait for them to get back to where exchanging the twins won't involve juggling.

Rex feels eyes on him, looks up and sees the soft, quiet smile on his General's face, and ducks his head back to Leia.

She glares up at him as well as a newborn can, sucking angrily on the paci in her mouth. Rex has no idea if she's actually upset or if her face just naturally follows such an expression, but it's adorable nonetheless. He hums to her, nonsense without words.

He's never learned lullabies; they picked up drinking songs in the field and from local soldiers, from their Jedi, war songs from their trainers, pop songs from the radio. A few learned lullabies, those who loved children and wanted their own, one day, brothers like Waxer who would have adopted Numa in a heartbeat if it had been an option.

He wants to learn lullabies. He wants to be able to sing children's songs to these tiny, helpless lives he holds in his hands, day in and day out. He wants to learn Mandalorian songs, real ones, not just battle chants and mourning melodies. He wants to be able to raise them with the childhood he didn't have.

"Rex? Door's open."

He looks up, and Anakin's standing on the porch, pulling the keys from the lock and gesturing in with his head. Rex hadn't even realized he'd stopped walking, subconsciously waiting for the blockage of the door to be handled. It's easier to focus on the children.

The paint gets sent to the backyard--trapped fumes wouldn’t be good for the children--and Rex lays Leia down in her crib. Anakin urges him to the backyard, says I’ll handle it about anything Rex uses to delay, and it’s only a few minutes later that Rex finds himself sitting on the grass, armor spread across a sheet of disposable flimsi, paints and brushes at the ready. He doesn’t quite remember setting it up, but he must have.

Anakin joins him, a twin in each arm and the Force laying out a picnic blanket. Leia’s nursing, swaddled up but content to suckle, and Luke seems happy to doze when Anakin sets him down on the cotton gingham. It’s a warm day, with a light breeze, and the babies are where the wind won’t carry the paint fumes.

“I’m here if you need me,” Anakin promises, though his attention drifts immediately to his daughter.

Rex begins to paint.

----

His remembrances are endless.

Every brother he’s ever known, every general he’s met, every small commander and random civilian, everyone he loved and knew. He lights a pyre, sings under his breath and tries not to break in a way that can’t be patched together. He mourns the tubies and cadets, the Jedi younglings, names he never learned and now never would.

Anakin gets Japor from somewhere, carves it whenever he’s too jittery to sleep and the twins are asleep. Rex recognizes a few symbols, like the open circle fleet, like Fives’ helmet eel, like Ahsoka’s markings. There are more, though, that are wholly unfamiliar, things he thinks are born of desert sands and binary suns, rough and painful and deeper in Anakin’s heart than even the Jedi.

He asks about the one for Fives, when he sees it.

He hides his anger.

Explanations, first.

“It’s an apology,” his General tells him, eyes distant. “I should have listened to him. I didn’t. The carvings are regrets, broken trust... that sort of thing. I’m part of why he died, and in that, part of why the rest is gone. He and his memory deserve a place of honor.”

Rex considers that, and accepts it.

Fives deserves an apology. The General recognizes that.

The General recognizes that he fucked up.

This is a good thing.

Rex lets go of his anger, still curled tight to his chest after months, as best he can.

He’s not very good at it, but he can try.

Luke starts crying, and Rex gets up to warm a bottle.

----

“I need to stay close to home until the twins are a little older,” Rex says. Teskarim, the woman at the childcare store, tilts her head to encourage him to continue. “I’m... I’ve never been anything but a soldier, and nobody here needs security services, but I can hunt. Do you know if there’s any kind of licenses required, or lists of which animals are legal hunt and which are endangered?”

“I... don’t,” she says, chewing her bottom lip. “But I think the butcher’s shop can probably point you in the right direction.”

Damn. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone new today.

“Thanks,” he sighs, and shells out some of the local currency for more formula.

----

The butcher has answers, and preferences. Rex isn’t much of a trapper, but he’s a hell of a shot, and decent enough scout and tracker. He listens to what there is to hear, and mentally takes all the notes he can. There aren’t any licenses needed in this hemisphere, but there are legally-defined hunting seasons for different creatures. The butcher knows when the optimal times of day are, which parts of the nearby forest and mountains are best to stake out, and so on.

Rex tells Anakin about his plan. He gets a slow blink in response, a cringe in what he thinks is guilt, and an offer to meditate for the best direction to take when he goes out. He accepts the offer in the spirit its meant, and sets out the next morning with the expectation that he may need to spend a few nights out under the leaves and stars.

The calm and quiet are their own kind of comfort. He’s loyal to Anakin, and he already loves the twins, but there’s a part of him that needs to be away from natborns right now. Anakin was a Jedi, a general, and fought in the metaphorical trenches with the rest of them, but he wasn’t a brother.

They grieve many of the same people, but they do not grieve the same way.

Rex needs the solitude. Not forever, not even for very long, but he needs it.

It takes two days, but he finds one of the in-season creatures, a creature shaped much like an Alderaan deer, but larger, and with longer fur. It’s darker in color, too, and he gives it a bit of time to wander about until he can be sure it’s a male, and he’s not about to leave some fawns without a mother. The shot is clean, and it doesn’t take him very long to tie it up and sling it over his shoulders to bring back to town.

The trek back takes hours, and the creature on his back is a pain to carry, but it’s almost worth the looks he gets from the civvies. Eyes bulge out the sockets at the sight of him, and he’s glad his helmet hides his smirk. He’s Kamino stock, hardened by over three years on the front lines, and there’s a pride in how easy the physical things are for him. It’s not impossible for a natborn to carry this kind of creature this far without help, but it’s uncommon.

He kind of likes the attention, now that it doesn’t come with the many prejudices that being a clone always had.

Anakin meets him at the butcher’s, one twin on his chest and the other on his back.

Seems he’s found a solution to that.

“Here to help me barter a fair payment?” Rex asks, and gets a too-charming grin in response.

“Well, I’ve been doing it most of my life,” Anakin says, cheery in a way that feels pasted on. “And I’ll have a trick to know if we’re being cheated.”

It’s a solid response, but Rex doesn’t like it. He takes note of the bags under Anakins eyes. “Have you been sleeping, sir?”

“Twins,” the man himself says. “And don’t call me ‘sir,’ Rex, we’ve been over this.”

“You need to sleep, General.”

Anakin pouts at him, probably because of the title. “I can handle two days alone, Captain.”

Rex rolls his eyes and sidles through the entrance of the butcher’s shop.

They’ve got this.

[dhruvxmehta]

"In a way, but not the only reason." Other reasons no longer mattered, made redundant by a mind made up. Dhruv felt the weight of the admission settle deep within him, understood that far too well. "People don’t stick around for me either," he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, a shared feeling that carried similar hurt. Why should they? He wasn't anyone worth staying for. He forced his mind away from stretching further into his memories. Those thoughts weren't for now, the present already carried its own quiet pain.

Words spilled out before he could reign them in, "Pretty broken around the edges...and everywhere else too. But..." He bit his lip before more fell. A worry ticked up as he felt the pressure of his emotions strain against the seams of his restraint, threatening to break free. Dhruv returned the sentiment with a nod, offering a small smile despite the ache thrumming in his chest. "I've enjoyed your company, even if we didn't start off on the right foot." He knew she wouldn't have cared about him if Kitty hadn't gone out searching, it was a truth he accepted it, but Kitty wasn't here anymore, and with Elif leaving, that meant one less person who might care. "I don’t think I'm special," he scoffed softly, but that needed no explanation. "That's it, innit? You're leaving because I didn't call you attractive, I see..." Eyes crinkled with the teasing words, "No promises on holding my tongue, love, stay and stop me." A foolish dare, but he was grasping at straws.

"Yeah, 'course 'course, keep in touch! You have my number. and...oh!" He held up a finger as he stood up and moved to his desk, scribbling an address on a piece of paper he handed it to her. "That's my new place. Moving at end off the month. It's in Shadow Lake, funny innit?" That motel still haunted him but a place was needed and he wasn't about to be picky. It wasn't a hasty decision, but one that cemented as a need especially after she said she was leaving. "You'll have a place if you're back in town." Of course, it probably was a last resort type of place, she had better friends that'd be better help. But as long as he was in town, he'd be there too. "I will. I'll find you after I've finished work here. Not a lot keeping me anymore. And hey if you think of hopping across the pond, tell me yeah? I still got mates in London, I'll give 'em a ring and sort you out."

Her gesture of placing the headphones over his ears now mirrored what he had done months ago and caused a softer smile to form across his lips. His heartbeat slowed, a little steadier, as kindness had found a place between them again amidst the chaos. "It'll be on repeat, telling you right now," he murmured. He'd never been much for music, not really, but now, more than ever, he was desperate to drown out the relentless noise in his mind. Even if it would remind him of her it didn't matter. The music would keep playing, non-stop, because everything was just too much all the fucking time, and sometimes silence wasn't a balm. The cold and unforgiving stillness he was subjected to only made things worse.

"I don't want anything bad to happen, just please..." His voice faltered, thick with exhaustion and worry. Not another person. Dhruv didn't think he could bear it. The weight of all this grief was already too much. But what could pleading with her accomplish now? This place wasn't any safer either. The knot in his chest tightened painfully, threatening to squeeze the breath from him. Would he ever truly have someone? Family, yes — but as unconditional as that was it was tangled with obligation. He had Kitty. Seo-Joon? Maybe. But he had other and better people to rely on and how long before his friend decided he wasn't worth it? Cracks were already forming. Taking a trembling breath, he pushed through the ache inside. "I get that. It's fucking tough," he admitted, "You shouldn't have gone to that auction. I avoided it. Didn't want to put myself through that headache." His eyes flickered with bitter truth. "He's wrong about that. A person can be reason enough to stay. But what do I know? The only reason I'm still around is to find whoever killed Mason. All my work now in figuring this out, it's for that bastard. Town's hate is aimed at me, but mine's directed somewhere else." For a moment, anger flickered, burning brightly and drowned the tumult of sadness that had momentarily overwhelmed him. It drained him too, leaving him hollow, but at least his hands no longer shook.

"You can say that again," he huffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips as he nodded in agreement. "Bunch'a selfish pricks. I don't know about community, they care some, sure, but this place never felt like home. I've always been on the outside, never belonged here." His voice was steady but heavy with unspoken pain. It wasn't the first time Dhruv voiced such sentiments, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

He looked to her with a flicker of genuine hope shining through the weariness. "You'll figure it out. I got faith in you," he said softly. "Sorry that no one here could give you that reason." Him included but then again no one depended on him. Without thinking, Dhruv wrapped her into a tight, trembling hug. "I'll miss you too, Dorothy. You take care out there, yeah?" Thick with emotion, a silent plea was woven into the words. He held her a moment longer, wishing, hoping, that this wouldn't be the last time he saw her, that somehow, fate would be kinder. "This ain't a goodbye, yeah? I'll see you again."

END?

"I don't know? Because you wanted to get out of your parents' place?" She guessed. "People don't typically stick around for me," She admitted quietly. A fact she had come to terms with as of recently, as much as she had been trying to convince herself otherwise up until now. "You're not that bad," The corner of her lips lifted ever so softly at the thought. "A little rough around the edges maybe, but I like you, Dhruv. You're honestly one of the few people here I'd want to stick around for. Maybe try not to call someone unattractive the next time you meet them, but I mean it. You're really special, so just maybe let some other people see it sometime, yeah? And keep in touch?" She asked hopeful that he would. "Come find me if you ever take a trip out of town?" She didn't what was in store for her. If she'd be able to make it on her own out there or if the hunters would find her like everyone seemed certain they would. But if she was still around and hadn't been offed by some arrow yet, she thought it would be really nice to get to hang out with him again.

"Hey," She found herself fighting back her own tears as she moved to rest her hand carefully on his arms, giving him a reassuring squeeze as if to let him know that she was here for him, no matter what. Carefully lifted the walkman she had gifted him out of his hands, she moved to place the headphones upon his ears, guiding his thumb to hover over the play button. "No, it can't be. You may just be one of the only people who actually consider leaving with me, but hey, whenever it gets to be too much you press play, okay? There are a whole bunch of songs in there, so you should be listen for hours without having to repeat any."

"Then, I guess something happens?" She shrugged, no longer afraid of what might happen. If it did, it did. But, either way, "The conversation with Nico partially. He's right. He always is. He didn't want to be the thing keeping me here, and I don't want be the thing holding him back. But the auction didn't help. I don't belong here, Dhruv. I think I've always known it, but I think that really sealed the deal. I think you can only be a cry for help for so long before you realize people aren't coming around. Maybe you'll have one person. I know Poppy really tried to be that person for me, but Nico said it himself. One person can't be my sole reason for sticking around. I've got to figure out what that is and, in truth," A small broken laugh escaped her lips as she moved to dab at her damp eyes with the back of her hand. "A lot of people here are really fucking selfish. There all so caught up in their own shit, they can hardly see whats right in front them and I mean, isn't a small town supposed to be where you move to find a community? But if there isn't a community here, then what's the point you know? Though," Her eyes softened as she gave his chin the smallest of nudges. "I think I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow," She quoted Wizard of Oz back to him. Her soft smile not once faltered, even through the tears.

[merakiui]

Apricity

yandere!albedo x (gender neutral) reader art credit - miHoYo cw: nsfw elements, yandere, captivity/restraints, unhealthy behaviors note - please come home to me and take care on the journey, albedo! :D also kindly heed the warnings. thank you!

His eyes are unnaturally pretty. Like twin crystals glittering in an expansive, dismal cave, searching for secrets unheard of within Mondstadt. Somehow you’re always in his peripheral, not too close and yet impossibly far at the same time. The distance is harrowing, terribly so, and Albedo knows it should be nothing short of a coincidence. When he shows up at your quaint stall with Sucrose, claiming to be in need of the exact wares you happen to sell, you pay it no mind. After all, you’ve met your fair share of regulars, and their support is what keeps you afloat. 

But there is more to those beautiful irises than he lets on. Whether it’s intentional or not, you can’t exactly say. You suppose you would rather run into someone as well-respected as Albedo as opposed to an unlikable stranger with ill intent. And it’s always great to see a familiar face, especially when he chooses to peruse your stall rather the others around you. It isn’t all that strange; you’ve even become friends with Sucrose during your short interactions. Albedo has indulged in stiff conversations with you before, but most of them were meaningless. Simple throwaway chatter between two acquaintances. 

Oddly enough, Albedo finds himself wanting more. He doesn’t want to talk about the weather or the transitioning seasons; he wants to listen to you explain how your day was and if you made more profit than the day before that. He wants to stand there and immerse himself in your pleasant voice, ignorant to the hustle and bustle of the people around him. And yet he just can’t. For a variety of reasons that pull him out of the haze of intrigue, you’ll always remain in the background. And he simply can’t bear the thought of that.

It’s rude to deteriorate a relationship that’s only just begun to blossom. If your meager acquaintanceship with him were to wither away into dust, he would feel obligated to keep it going—as if he were simply beating a dead cow with a stick. Although your hobbies differ from his, it’s nothing he can’t handle. A genius must familiarize himself with other areas of study if he intends to craft solutions that are outside of the box.

“Albedo?” 

Your tone is meek and small, tinged with the slightest shiver. Part of him feels bad for lying to you, but you were just so trusting. It’s almost comical how easily you fell into his trap. If he gets to see you in such a delicious way all the time, he’s more than willing to forsake the truth to meet his own desires. A selfish wish, yes, but it’s absolutely wonderful.

“What is it?” 

He eyes you from his spot behind the easel, and even though you can’t see him you can feel his piercing gaze. Like the sun shining brightly in a wintry afternoon, his eyes smolder with unbearable heat and yet his expression is cold with brilliant focus. 

“A-Are you almost done? It’s really cold.” Your bare back touches the wall and you flinch, an instinctual response that makes Albedo’s brow quirk. “And this is sort of...weird.”

“How so?” 

He says that in such a dismissive manner, acting as if your current position isn’t compromising. As if this was a normal exchange between friendly strangers. You have trouble finding your voice in this situation, especially since talking seems like such a chore. You’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing and then it’ll leave a false imprint of who you are on Albedo. But you’ve always been nice, unable to refuse those who are kind in return, and so you’re forced to endure the discomfort that comes with modeling nude for this peculiar alchemist. 

“Think about it.” You distract yourself with a ramble of an explanation—certainly more than what’s necessary, but Albedo doesn’t mind. He finds solace in your voice. “You’re looking at me and I’m...n-naked. And we don’t really know each other. I’m not trying to vilify you when I say this, but I don’t want you to do anything bad to me. N-Not that you would! It’s just—this is really weird. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Hm.”

“And do I have to be tied up like this?” You shuffle in your bindings, fingers scrabbling over the cuffs and chains that jingle like horrible sleigh bells. 

“You were moving too much earlier. I won’t be able to get your anatomy right if you’re constantly fidgeting.”

But it’s uncomfortable, you think, chewing on your lip out of habit.

“I guess I understand. It must be an artist thing, right?”

“You could say that.”

His work on the canvas offers a display that’s just as lewd as the real model, down to the way your nipples perk and harden in the cold. He’s not even close to finishing and that’s a blessing in itself. He could stare at your figure for hours on end, committing every inch of your flesh to memory, and he wouldn’t grow weary. 

“Do artists normally blindfold their models? I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but it’s okay if it helps with the process.”

“I find it to be interesting,” he answers, simple and vague as ever. “It adds a mysterious touch to the finished piece.”

“So you draw the model with the blindfold?” You’re used to gazing upon paintings of flowers and portraits of influential historical figures rather than blatant nudity. “Artists are definitely unique.”

Albedo hums in response, secretly reveling in your naïveté. At the end of the day, you’re just a normal citizen of Mondstadt, who stands behind a wooden stall every single day and happily chats with potential customers. You excel in business, but when it comes to the inner workings of art you’re at a loss. And that makes it all the more easier for Albedo to spin all sorts of wild tales. He fears that gullible nature will harm you in the future, yet there isn’t a threat in sight. Not when you’re here in front of him, no longer confined to his peripheral. And you’ll stay there for however long it takes him to finish this painting. 

It’s a twisted infatuation. Albedo knows he shouldn’t take too much of your time or else he’ll become addicted and it will be impossible to focus on his studies. But he can’t stop himself or his wandering gaze, which trails up your midriff. Higher and higher until he’s staring at your face, eyes obscured behind the soft fabric of a blindfold. Your body is a temple he wishes to worship, and perhaps that’s a sacrilegious thought that ought to have him consider the weight of his emotions. 

And yet you’re far too irresistible. His thoughts are dangerously potent, swirling within his brain like a maddening hurricane. Surely your missing presence in the market won’t be questioned if he were to keep you just a little longer. Longer than the boundaries of sanity will allow, that is. There are other vendors who sell the same things you boast; the economy won’t shatter if you’re not there to provide.

The paintbrush moves along the canvas in even strokes and suddenly Albedo’s mind is wandering between subjects. From art to alchemy, love to lust, and the wondrous crevices in your anatomy that call out to him. The brush stills in his hand. If he’s not mistaken, Sucrose will be stopping by to assist him and the last thing he needs is staining his appearance in a suspicious color. 

“Albedo?” His name rolls off of your tongue in such a delectable way; it’s almost sinful how his thoughts race and race in an endless track. “Are you almost done? My back is sore and the floor’s really uncomfortable.”

“Sorry. This will take longer than I thought.” He sets his brush and palette down, and you listen to his footsteps as they draw near. “Something has come up, but I promise I won’t be long.” 

“Wait. You’re not going to leave me, are you? I need to get back to the marketplace!”

Before you know what’s happening, the blindfold is coming off and you’re locking eyes with Albedo, who peers at you with intense scrutiny. Certainly the look of a genius studying a textbook. You grow flustered all at once, just now coming to terms with the fact that he looked at your body for longer than you’d like to admit. Shyly, you shut your legs to obscure your private parts, but it’s not like that will help the embarrassment that claws its way onto your expression like a persistent beast. 

“You’re better off waiting here.” He shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders as if that’ll keep the dreadful chill away. “As much as I would like to finish this now, I have other work that must be taken care of.”

“I get that, but you can’t just leave me here! That’s practically kidnapping!” you protest, hoping he’ll heed the desperation in your trembling vocals. “At least, that’s what this feels like.”

“I wouldn’t kidnap you,” he says, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re too funny.”

Yet he isn’t laughing and neither are you as you helplessly watch him depart. The floor is too cold for your liking and the idea of entrapment settles under your skin like a million maggots feasting on a decaying, chilled copse. Devoid of warmth and carrying an air of measured grace, Albedo doesn’t spare you another glance.

He doesn’t need to. He’ll have all the time in the world to study your body like it’s the finest artwork, and you’ll be powerless to object.

[novaiya]

Of Cigars and Delicate Flowers - Dutch x Reader

Summary: Based on this request for @fandomhoesworld ; heyyyyy, I love your works, they're amazing 🥰 could you do a Dutch X badass reader where he gets captured and she comes to save him? It's okay if you don't want to, thanks 🤍

Words: 2,888

Tags: GN!Reader, Canon Typical Violence

A/N: This was a good practice for me for writing literally anyone else but Arthur. I need to keep expanding my horizons 😩 AO3 Link.

There was a reason Dutch almost never went out alone, staying mostly in camp and commanding the gang from the porch of his tent; His likeness - the slick-back, black hair, the carefully cut mustache, the black hat - was plastered all over the country, posters hanging in post offices, general stores, train stations and sheriff’s offices. It would be no time before someone recognized him if he decided to take a stroll into town or visit the local saloon, so more often than not, he stayed in camp, and everything that he needed was brought to him, like his cigars.

When it came to cigars, Dutch had a very specific taste; the size had to be just right, not too slender so it burned too hot too fast, and not too thick either so it was heavy and harsh. The notes played an important role too; he preferred the spicy flavor of coffee mixed with toasted nuts, though he didn’t mind the notes of cedar and vanilla from time to time. Due to the specifics, finding the right pack of cigars could be a hassle and a headache, so whenever he did find the right one, he made sure to stack up on them.

This time, unfortunately, Dutch had found himself in a new place with no reliable cigar shop and his own supply dwindling down. He’d been puffing on the same cigar for a few days now, hoping to prolong it for as long as possible, though he could already see the end of it. He was hoping to send one of the boys into town to check for him, but everybody was busy; Arthur was on one of his monthly hunting trips, Hosea and John were working on a job, and the rest of the men were out, scouting for any leads. That left just one option; going himself. He knew it could be dangerous and risky, but his need for nicotine was stronger than his rational thought.

“What are you thinking about, Dutch?” you asked when you walked past his tent, noticing his absent minded gaze.

“Hello there,” he said, his gaze shifting towards you, a smile on his lips. “Just thinking about going out.”

Your brows shot up upon hearing his words. The gang had just fled from the previous town on the account of robbing it blind, so all of you were trying to lay low, hoping to make as little noise as possible for the time being. Having Dutch go out was the last thing you needed.

“Out?” you repeated his word, trying to hide the worry in your voice. “What for?”

Dutch brought the cigar to his lips, the usually long stick now reduced to less than a third of its previous length. You watched him as he brought the cigar to his mouth, his lips enveloping and puffing on it before exhaling the smoke. “Unfortunately, I’m down to my last cigar. Need to pick up some more in town,” he said, making you shift your eyes back to his, “Wouldn’t hurt to stretch my legs either. I’m feeling like a prisoner stuck here.”

“Are you sure, Dutch?” you said, not hiding the worry in your voice any longer. “Perhaps I could go for you. It’s not safe for you to go right now since we just-“

“Nonsense!” Dutch interrupted you. “I wouldn’t dream of putting a delicate flower such as yourself in harm's way for me.”

‘Delicate flower?!’ you thought. ‘Since when do delicate flowers rob, kill and steal?’

You opened your mouth, hoping to change Dutch’s mind but you barely parted your lips before he raised his hand, saying, “I won’t hear it” squashing any argument you could have had.

You deflated before nodding your head, leaving Dutch to himself and continuing on to where you were going originally. Worry filled you as you continued on with your day. You’d hate for anything to happen to him; not only was he your leader who you believed in and looked up to, he was also someone you liked. It was hard not to fall for him; well-read, mannered, strong and sinfully attractive, you’ve fallen for him and his promises of a better life right away. You didn’t act on your feelings though, considering he was the leader and you were just one of the members, and a new one at that. So you retorted to watching from afar, and now you were watching him as he left the camp, ready to make the trek for some puny cigars.

Dutch could be unbelievably stubborn and uncooperative sometimes; It was dangerous for him to go out, especially on his own and especially when you could still be followed from the town you just escaped. And for what? Cigars? You shook your head as you continued with what you were doing, trying to keep yourself calm. It was Dutch you were talking about after all, your fearless leader, he knew what he was doing, right?

Dutch didn’t know what he was doing. He decided to go out after supper, when the sun had already set, but the ground was still warm from the day’s heat. He made his way into town at a trotting, leisurely pace, having no reason to hurry. The weather was cooler now and he took big gulps of it, a welcomed change to inhaling the campfire smoke and the scent of Pearson’s stew. He arrived into the town with no hiccups and found the store almost right away. The selection was vast, with cigars from Cuba, Dominican Republic and Mexico among others. Dutch looked like a kid in a candy shop as he studied every cigar, wanting to take them all but in the end, settled on a pack from Jamaica, its promise of a mild and sweet taste piquing his interest.

With his purchase in his saddle bag, Dutch made his way back to the camp in the same way he did into town, slow and steady, taking in the scenery and the weather. It’s not everyday that he ventured out, so he made sure that he enjoyed it. It was not long after he passed the border of the town that he heard a faint sound of hoofbeats behind him, getting closer and closer and multiplying in numbers.

“Nice night, ain’t it?” said a man who came up to Dutch, riding next to him on his right side. Not a second later, another man came up, riding on Dutch’s left.

Dutch kept one of his hands on the reins, his other (which was previously hanging on his side), icing closer to his holster.

“Yes, it sure is,” he said.

“Say what, mister,” the man on his right began, “Are you Dutch Van Der Linde?”

Without missing a beat, Dutch laughed, saying, “You must be mistaken, sir. My name is Robert Carnegie.”

Neither of the men riding next to him laughed. They looked at each other, before looking behind them, presumingly to communicate with the other. Dutch’s hand was now on his revolver, the cool metal sticking to his sweaty skin. He gripped the handle, and as soon as he did, a hit landed on the back of his head, knocking him out cold.

Your worries kept you through the night, not letting you go to bed and making you sit by the campfire instead, waiting for Dutch’s return. Each time you heard a snap of twigs or what sounded like horse’s hoofbeats, your head would snap towards the entrance of the camp, hoping that it was Dutch coming in, but alas, it wasn’t.

It was long after everyone fell asleep when you finally saw Count trot into the camp, his platinum coat standing out against the dark trees.

You smiled, jumping up from the log you’ve been sitting at, ready to welcome Dutch back, but that smile quickly fell when you noticed that Dutch wasn’t with him.

“Where’s Dutch?” you said when you came up to stand next to Count, talking to the horse as if he could understand you, and perhaps, he did. He snickered, shaking his head and kicking around with his legs.

You placed your hand on him, running it up and down his neck to calm him down. Something went wrong, terribly wrong. Despite not wanting to think of the worst, you understood that there was no other explanation of what could’ve happened; Dutch got captured.

Time was of the essence, so without talking to anyone else or even taking time to make a plan, you mounted your own horse and made your way to Count. Dutch might’ve called you a “delicate flower”, but you were anything but that. You survived on your own for years before falling with the gang, and you were going to show him just what this “delicate flower” was capable of on their own.

“C’mon, show me where Dutch is.”

Upon hearing his owner’s name, Count sprung to action and bolted out of the camp, giving you almost no time to follow after him.

It didn’t take you long to arrive at where Dutch was held. The burning campfire and the sound of chatter could be seen and heard yards away. You hitched the horses to one of the trees before continuing the rest of the way on foot.

“Robert Carnegie, he said his name was,” you heard a man say. “What kind of idiots does he think we are?” A flood of laughter followed, drowning out any other sound in the bushy forest. You took out your binoculars, trying to see where Dutch were. There he was, tied to one of the trees not far from the campfire. His hair was a mess, and you could see traces of blood on his lip and nose. You could feel your blood boil at the sight, and quickly put away your binoculars before continuing your way forward.

“I’d say we turn him in first thing in the morning,” another man said. “No reason to drag this out.”

“Sounds good to me. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

The men continued on with their conversations when you finally approached them as close as you could without alerting them of your presence. You could feel your heart beat wildly against your ribcage as you gathered your thoughts, thinking of what to do next. It would’ve been nice to have someone else with you right now, you thought, to act as a distraction. Perhaps you should’ve thought this one over more before springing into action. Too late now.

You peeked your head from where you were hidden behind a tree, trying to get a look at Dutch. He was conscious, thought quite, tied to a tree, his head hanging low. It was weird seeing Dutch like this, helpless and vulnerable.

You picked up a small pebble before throwing it into his general direction. Nothing. He didn’t even raise his head. You picked up another one, debating whether to throw it right at his face, before deciding to throw it next to his shoes. That got his attention. Tentatively, as to not alert the men around him, he raised his head, his eyes searching the woods before finally landing on your face. Your eyes met, and you could see a hint of smile appear on his lips as soon as they did. A smile of your own made it to your lips for a moment, before turning serious again, your mind going back to the job at hand. There would be time for smiles and hugs and laughter later. Using your hands, you motioned around, pointing first to him and then to the bounty hunters, before pointing to yourself and to your gun. Dutch made a small, almost unnoticeable motion with his head, indicating that he understood your plan.

“Gentlemen,” Dutch said, stopping the men in their conversation and making all of them turn to him. “Are you sure you want to do this? If I was you, I’d walk away now.”

One of the men snickered, looking at his friends before turning his attention back to Dutch.

“That’s big talk, considering you’re the one tied to a tree.”

“I’m giving you a chance, my friend,” Dutch said, sincerity painting his words.

The man’s face grew dark and somber as did the atmosphere around. He didn’t appreciate Dutch’s words, so with a hand itching closer to his revolver, he said, “Listen here, friend. The poster said to bring you dead or alive, so don’t think for a minute-“

Dutch’s face was painted red as you shot the man in-front of him, blowing his brains out and making his blood spurt everywhere, Dutch included.

The other men sprung to action immediately, their hands going for their firearms and shooting blindly into the dark woods. For a while, all that was heard was the sound of gunshots and occasional cries and screams. You alternated between hiding behind the trees and rocks, occasionally peeking out to shoot one of the men. At last, the fire seized and the forest was once again quiet, the only sound heard being the crackling of the fire.

You peeked your head out, making sure that you’ve got all of the men before finally leaving your hiding spot and making your way to Dutch in long, powerful strides. With shaking hands, you cut down the rope that was tying him to the tree. As soon as he was freed, he massaged his wrists and the imprints that the ropes left on them. He was about to open his mouth to talk, but you began first, your voice loud enough to startle him.

“What were you thinking?!” you screamed, getting up in his face. “Getting captured because of some god forsaken cigars?!”

Dutch tried to speak again, almost got the first word of his sentence in but you continued, not letting him speak.

“What if I didn’t get here? What if I couldn’t find you? For God’s sake Dutch Van Der Linde, why did you have to put yourself in such danger, all for some cigars?!”

To say that he was shocked was to say nothing. He did not expect such a reaction from you, for as long as he’d known you you’ve been cool, calm and collected, always using logic instead of feelings, never speaking in bursts of fury. The fact that you were so riled up, because of him, shocked him and left him practically speechless.

“I…” he began,” I didn’t know you cared so much.”

At this point, you have calmed down somewhat, so you heaved a sigh at his words, shaking your head a little before saying, “Of course I care, Dutch.”

“Why?”

His question was sharp and quick, and you were caught off guard by it, not having a moment to think of an answer or a lie.

“Well, I…” you said, awkwardly glancing around. “I care about you, Dutch.”

“You do, huh?” he said with a smirk.

“Of course I do, all of us in the gang do!” you try to backtrack on your statement, but it was too late, Dutch caught on. You tried not to pay attention to his smug smirk as you whistled for the horses. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else shows up.”

You were up on your horse almost as soon as she arrived, and waited for Dutch to get on his before moving. He mounted Count with a grunt, the injuries he sustained while being held captive making themselves known.

For a moment, you let yourself forget that it was Dutch Van Der Linde you were talking to, and said, “Who’s the delicate flower now?” As soon as the words escaped your mouth, you placed your hand over it, shocked at your own boldness. A silence followed, and you braved yourself for whatever would follow next. A laugh from Dutch startled you as much as his wrath would, and you didn’t dare to say anything until he spoke up, saying, “Perhaps I underestimated you.”

You couldn’t help but relax and smile upon hearing his words, his praise nourishing your soul and making you sit up straighter in your saddle.

“Thank you, Dutch.”

As the two of you made your way out of the forest, Dutch slowed down the pace of Count so he could be riding next to you.

He cleared his throat to get your attention, and when you turned towards him he said, “I should probably apologize for misjudging your potential.” He was silent for a few moments after saying that, before adding, “Perhaps a night on the town and a dinner are in order to make up for my mistakes?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his offer, considering the situation he got himself in was directly caused by going into town.

“After everything that has happened,” you said, squinting your eyes at him, “you still want to go into town?”

“Well, of course! I got you by my side,” he said. “With a capable and clever person as you, I feel comfortable going anywhere.”

His statement made a blush appear on your cheeks, which you hoped he didn’t see in the dark night. Even beaten and bruised, Dutch never lost his famous charm.

“You are something else Mr. Van Der Linde,” you said with a smile, shaking your head.