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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months ago

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There Were Always Enshittifiers

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in DC TONIGHT (Mar 4), and in RICHMOND TOMORROW (Mar 5). More tour dates here. Mail-order signed copies from LA's Diesel Books.

My latest Locus column is "There Were Always Enshittifiers." It's a history of personal computing and networked communications that traces the earliest days of the battle for computers as tools of liberation and computers as tools for surveillance, control and extraction:

https://locusmag.com/2025/03/commentary-cory-doctorow-there-were-always-enshittifiers/

The occasion for this piece is the publication of my latest Martin Hench novel, a standalone book set in the early 1980s called "Picks and Shovels":

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865908/picksandshovels

The MacGuffin of Picks and Shovels is a "weird PC" company called Fidelity Computing, owned by a Mormon bishop, a Catholic priest, and an orthodox rabbi. It sounds like the setup for a joke, but the punchline is deadly serious: Fidelity Computing is a pyramid selling cult that preys on the trust and fellowship of faith groups to sell the dreadful Fidelity 3000 PC and its ghastly peripherals.

You see, Fidelity's products are booby-trapped. It's not merely that they ship with programs whose data-files can't be read by apps on any other system – that's just table stakes. Fidelity's got a whole bag of tricks up its sleeve – for example, it deliberately damages a specific sector on every floppy disk it ships. The drivers for its floppy drive initialize any read or write operation by checking to see if that sector can be read. If it can, the computer refuses to recognize the disk. This lets the Reverend Sirs (as Fidelity's owners style themselves) run a racket where they sell these deliberately damaged floppies at a 500% markup, because regular floppies won't work on the systems they lure their parishioners into buying.

Or take the Fidelity printer: it's just a rebadged Okidata ML-80, the workhorse tractor feed printer that led the market for years. But before Fidelity ships this printer to its customers, they fit it with new tractor feed sprockets whose pins are slightly more widely spaced than the standard 0.5" holes on the paper you can buy in any stationery store. That way, Fidelity can force its customers to buy the custom paper that they exclusively peddle – again, at a massive markup.

Needless to say, printing with these wider sprocket holes causes frequent jams and puts a serious strain on the printer's motors, causing them to burn out at a high rate. That's great news – for Fidelity Computing. It means they get to sell you more overpriced paper so you can reprint the jobs ruined by jams, and they can also sell you their high-priced, exclusive repair services when your printer's motors quit.

Perhaps you're thinking, "OK, but I can just buy a normal Okidata printer and use regular, cheap paper, right?" Sorry, the Reverend Sirs are way ahead of you: they've reversed the pinouts on their printers' serial ports, and a normal printer won't be able to talk to your Fidelity 3000.

If all of this sounds familiar, it's because these are the paleolithic ancestors of today's high-tech lock-in scams, from HP's $10,000/gallon ink to Apple and Google's mobile app stores, which cream a 30% commission off of every dollar collected by an app maker. What's more, these ancient, weird misfeatures have their origins in the true history of computing, which was obsessed with making the elusive, copy-proof floppy disk.

This Quixotic enterprise got started in earnest with Bill Gates' notorious 1976 "open letter to hobbyists" in which the young Gates furiously scolds the community of early computer hackers for its scientific ethic of publishing, sharing and improving the code that they all wrote:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/An_Open_Letter_to_Hobbyists

Gates had recently cloned the BASIC programming language for the popular Altair computer. For Gates, his act of copying was part of the legitimate progress of technology, while the copying of his colleagues, who duplicated Gates' Altair BASIC, was a shameless act of piracy, destined to destroy the nascent computing industry:

As the majority of hobbyists must be aware, most of you steal your software. Hardware must be paid for, but software is something to share. Who cares if the people who worked on it get paid?

Needless to say, Gates didn't offer a royalty to John Kemeny and Thomas Kurtz, the programmers who'd invented BASIC at Dartmouth College in 1963. For Gates – and his intellectual progeny – the formula was simple: "When I copy you, that's progress. When you copy me, that's piracy." Every pirate wants to be an admiral.

For would-be ex-pirate admirals, Gates's ideology was seductive. There was just one fly in the ointment: computers operate by copying. The only way a computer can run a program is to copy it into memory – just as the only way your phone can stream a video is to download it to its RAM ("streaming" is a consensus hallucination – every stream is a download, and it has to be, because the internet is a data-transmission network, not a cunning system of tubes and mirrors that can make a picture appear on your screen without transmitting the file that contains that image).

Gripped by this enshittificatory impulse, the computer industry threw itself headfirst into the project of creating copy-proof data, a project about as practical as making water that's not wet. That weird gimmick where Fidelity floppy disks were deliberately damaged at the factory so the OS could distinguish between its expensive disks and the generic ones you bought at the office supply place? It's a lightly fictionalized version of the copy-protection system deployed by Visicalc, a move that was later publicly repudiated by Visicalc co-founder Dan Bricklin, who lamented that it confounded his efforts to preserve his software on modern systems and recover the millions of data-files that Visicalc users created:

http://www.bricklin.com/robfuture.htm

The copy-protection industry ran on equal parts secrecy and overblown sales claims about its products' efficacy. As a result, much of the story of this doomed effort is lost to history. But back in 2017, a redditor called Vadermeer unearthed a key trove of documents from this era, in a Goodwill Outlet store in Seattle:

https://www.reddit.com/r/VintageApple/comments/5vjsow/found_internal_apple_memos_about_copy_protection/

Vaderrmeer find was a Apple Computer binder from 1979, documenting the company's doomed "Software Security from Apple's Friends and Enemies" (SSAFE) project, an effort to make a copy-proof floppy:

https://archive.org/details/AppleSSAFEProject

The SSAFE files are an incredible read. They consist of Apple's best engineers beavering away for days, cooking up a new copy-proof floppy, which they would then hand over to Apple co-founder and legendary hardware wizard Steve Wozniak. Wozniak would then promptly destroy the copy-protection system, usually in a matter of minutes or hours. Wozniak, of course, got the seed capital for Apple by defeating AT&T's security measures, building a "blue box" that let its user make toll-free calls and peddling it around the dorms at Berkeley:

https://512pixels.net/2018/03/woz-blue-box/

Woz has stated that without blue boxes, there would never have been an Apple. Today, Apple leads the charge to restrict how you use your devices, confining you to using its official app store so it can skim a 30% vig off every dollar you spend, and corralling you into using its expensive repair depots, who love to declare your device dead and force you to buy a new one. Every pirate wants to be an admiral!

https://www.vice.com/en/article/tim-cook-to-investors-people-bought-fewer-new-iphones-because-they-repaired-their-old-ones/

Revisiting the early PC years for Picks and Shovels isn't just an excuse to bust out some PC nostalgiacore set-dressing. Picks and Shovels isn't just a face-paced crime thriller: it's a reflection on the enshittificatory impulses that were present at the birth of the modern tech industry.

But there is a nostalgic streak in Picks and Shovels, of course, represented by the other weird PC company in the tale. Computing Freedom is a scrappy PC startup founded by three women who came up as sales managers for Fidelity, before their pangs of conscience caused them to repent of their sins in luring their co-religionists into the Reverend Sirs' trap.

These women – an orthodox lesbian whose family disowned her, a nun who left her order after discovering the liberation theology movement, and a Mormon woman who has quit the church over its opposition to the Equal Rights Amendment – have set about the wozniackian project of reverse-engineering every piece of Fidelity hardware and software, to make compatible products that set Fidelity's caged victims free.

They're making floppies that work with Fidelity drives, and drives that work with Fidelity's floppies. Printers that work with Fidelity computers, and adapters so Fidelity printers will work with other PCs (as well as resprocketing kits to retrofit those printers for standard paper). They're making file converters that allow Fidelity owners to read their data in Visicalc or Lotus 1-2-3, and vice-versa.

In other words, they're engaged in "adversarial interoperability" – hacking their own fire-exits into the burning building that Fidelity has locked its customers inside of:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

This was normal, back then! There were so many cool, interoperable products and services around then, from the Bell and Howell "Black Apple" clones:

https://forum.vcfed.org/index.php?threads%2Fbell-howell-apple-ii.64651%2F

to the amazing copy-protection cracking disks that traveled from hand to hand, so the people who shelled out for expensive software delivered on fragile floppies could make backups against the inevitable day that the disks stopped working:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bit_nibbler

Those were wild times, when engineers pitted their wits against one another in the spirit of Steve Wozniack and SSAFE. That era came to a close – but not because someone finally figured out how to make data that you couldn't copy. Rather, it ended because an unholy coalition of entertainment and tech industry lobbyists convinced Congress to pass the Digital Millennium Copyright Act in 1998, which made it a felony to "bypass an access control":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2016/07/section-1201-dmca-cannot-pass-constitutional-scrutiny

That's right: at the first hint of competition, the self-described libertarians who insisted that computers would make governments obsolete went running to the government, demanding a state-backed monopoly that would put their rivals in prison for daring to interfere with their business model. Plus ça change: today, their intellectual descendants are demanding that the US government bail out their "anti-state," "independent" cryptocurrency:

https://www.citationneeded.news/issue-78/

In truth, the politics of tech has always contained a faction of "anti-government" millionaires and billionaires who – more than anything – wanted to wield the power of the state, not abolish it. This was true in the mainframe days, when companies like IBM made billions on cushy defense contracts, and it's true today, when the self-described "Technoking" of Tesla has inserted himself into government in order to steer tens of billions' worth of no-bid contracts to his Beltway Bandit companies:

https://www.reuters.com/world/us/lawmakers-question-musk-influence-over-verizon-faa-contract-2025-02-28/

The American state has always had a cozy relationship with its tech sector, seeing it as a way to project American soft power into every corner of the globe. But Big Tech isn't the only – or the most important – US tech export. Far more important is the invisible web of IP laws that ban reverse-engineering, modding, independent repair, and other activities that defend American tech exports from competitors in its trading partners.

Countries that trade with the US were arm-twisted into enacting laws like the DMCA as a condition of free trade with the USA. These laws were wildly unpopular, and had to be crammed through other countries' legislatures:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/15/radical-extremists/#sex-pest

That's why Europeans who are appalled by Musk's Nazi salute have to confine their protests to being loudly angry at him, selling off their Teslas, and shining lights on Tesla factories:

https://www.malaymail.com/news/money/2025/01/24/heil-tesla-activists-protest-with-light-projection-on-germany-plant-after-musks-nazi-salute-video/164398

Musk is so attention-hungry that all this is as apt to please him as anger him. You know what would really hurt Musk? Jailbreaking every Tesla in Europe so that all its subscription features – which represent the highest-margin line-item on Tesla's balance-sheet – could be unlocked by any local mechanic for €25. That would really kick Musk in the dongle.

The only problem is that in 2001, the US Trade Rep got the EU to pass the EU Copyright Directive, whose Article 6 bans that kind of reverse-engineering. The European Parliament passed that law because doing so guaranteed tariff-free access for EU goods exported to US markets.

Enter Trump, promising a 25% tariff on European exports.

The EU could retaliate here by imposing tit-for-tat tariffs on US exports to the EU, which would make everything Europeans buy from America 25% more expensive. This is a very weird way to punish the USA.

On the other hand, not that Trump has announced that the terms of US free trade deals are optional (for the US, at least), there's no reason not to delete Article 6 of the EUCD, and all the other laws that prevent European companies from jailbreaking iPhones and making their own App Stores (minus Apple's 30% commission), as well as ad-blockers for Facebook and Instagram's apps (which would zero out EU revenue for Meta), and, of course, jailbreaking tools for Xboxes, Teslas, and every make and model of every American car, so European companies could offer service, parts, apps, and add-ons for them.

When Jeff Bezos launched Amazon, his war-cry was "your margin is my opportunity." US tech companies have built up insane margins based on the IP provisions required in the free trade treaties it signed with the rest of the world.

It's time to delete those IP provisions and throw open domestic competition that attacks the margins that created the fortunes of oligarchs who sat behind Trump on the inauguration dais. It's time to bring back the indomitable hacker spirit that the Bill Gateses of the world have been trying to extinguish since the days of the "open letter to hobbyists." The tech sector built a 10 foot high wall around its business, then the US government convinced the rest of the world to ban four-metre ladders. Lift the ban, unleash the ladders, free the world!

In the same way that futuristic sf is really about the present, Picks and Shovels, an sf novel set in the 1980s, is really about this moment.

I'm on tour with the book now – if you're reading this today (Mar 4) and you're in DC, come see me tonight with Matt Stoller at 6:30PM at the Cleveland Park Library:

https://www.loyaltybookstores.com/picksnshovels

And if you're in Richmond, VA, come down to Fountain Bookshop and catch me with Lee Vinsel tomorrow (Mar 5) at 7:30PM:

https://fountainbookstore.com/events/1795820250305

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/04/object-permanence/#picks-and-shovels

#pluralistic #picks and shovels #history #web theory #marty hench #martin hench #red team blues #locus magazine #drm #letter to computer hobbyists #bill gates #computer lib #science fiction #crime fiction #detective fiction

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carfuckerlynch · 22 days ago

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I think I need John darnielle to stop making music so specifically applicable to my life. that's a lie I never want it to stop but it can be a lot to be deal with when you've got "what will I do when I don't have you, when I finally get what I deserve?" and "I don't know why I'm so persuaded that, if I think things through, long enough and hard enough, I'll somehow get to you" and "now you see me, now you don't, now you say you love me, pretty soon you wont" and "I don't mean it when I tell you that I don't love you anymore" and "I am this great unstable mass of blood and foam and no one in her mind would make my home her home" and "lord send me a mechanic, if I'm not beyond repair" and "I am healthy, I am whole, but I have poor impulse control. and I want to go home, but I am home" and "there will goodbyes by the dozens, so practice being brave" and "god bless all my old friends, and God bless me, too; why pretend?" and "hold my hopes underwater, stand there and watch them drown" and "the most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it's you, and thar you're standing in the doorway" and "sad and angry, can't learn how to behave; still won't know how in the darkness of the grave" and "friends who don't have a clue, well meaning teachers. but down in your arms, in your arms, I am a wild creature" and "locking eyes, holding hands: twin high-maintenance machines" and "lean in close to my little record player on the floor— so this is what the volume knob is for" and "but one of these days I'm gonna wriggle up on dry land" and "I'm gonna get my perfect body back someday. if not by faith, then by the sword, I'm going to be restored" and "headed somewhere better if I have to crawl there on all fours. say your prayers to whomever you call out to in the night. keep the chains tight. make it through this year if it kills us outright" and "come on in, we haven't slept for weeks. drink some of this, it'll put color in your cheeks" and "I will bloom, here in my room, with a little water and a little bit of sunlight, and a little bit if tender mercy, tender mercy" and "stay till you can breathe like normal people do; I've got room in my house for you" and "no town more barren than our town, no haven safer than the one they tore down, no greater love than to lay my life down for a friend, no sweeter pleasure than to see the credits clear through to the end" and "save yourselves, save this town. save everything not nailed down" and "buzzing razor held aloft and just about to strike. I loved you before I even ever knew what love was like" and "and I feel guilty but I can't feel ashamed" and "break the lock on my own garden gate when I get home after dark" and "blood calls to blood as the hours draw down. invent my own family if it comes to that. hold them close, hold them near, tell them no one's ever going to hurt them here" and "and it was hard but you were brave, you are splendid" and "try, try your whole life to be righteous and be good; wind up on your own floor, choking on blood" and "and some days I don't miss my family, and some days I do. and some days I think I'd feel better if i tried harder, most days I know it's not true" and "and the world, in its cold way, started coming alive" and "I saw the mess you left up in the east bedroom: a tiger's never gonna change its stripes I guess, I guess, but Jesus, what a mess" and "set the table, those three extra places: one for me, one for your doubts, one for god" and "you've done something awful— I've done something worse" and and and a

#odhran.txt #i might have gotten carried away but in my defense its creeping up on 3 am and I'm going through it #the mountain goats

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thenerdykneazle · 2 years ago

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The Scriptorium

Summary: After a harrowing journey through Slytherin's Scriptorium, Ominis helps MC recover from being subjected to the torture curse. After all, he has personal experience dealing with its effects.

Ominis Gaunt x GN!MC

A/N: The fact that I haven't written and posted an Ominis one shot before this is a crime, honestly. Almost as much of a crime as it is that after the trauma that is the scriptorium, both boys just walk away at the end of the mission. So, I fixed it. Also, the first 2.4k of this is a description of the scriptorium mission. Most of the events/dialogue are straight from the game. So, feel free to skip ahead to the middle of this (once they're out of the scriptorium) if you don't need the refresher.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, talks of child abuse, descriptions of being crucio'd, awkward teenagerness in general, MC is naked for part of it but it's not sexual (they just needed a bath, okay?), Sebastian is a walking red flag in this mission but that's not my fault

Word count: 4880

You wound down the dark staircase, descending into Slytherin’s scriptorium. Sebastian entered in after you.

“Dark ominous corridors. My favourite,” he quipped.

“No comment,” Ominis replied coolly as he followed you both.

“Come on, that was a good one,” Sebastian said jovially.

You held back a snicker.

The ancient corridor at the bottom was littered with shattered stone and ended in a sealed door. You found a note left by Noctua Gaunt. She had been here. You repaired the stone into a relief, which Sebastian pointed out showed a person facing a snake.

Ominis shifted anxiously on his feet. He explained the sinister voice he heard telling him to speak to it. He told you how he was a Parselmouth – someone who could speak to snakes. He was certain that speaking to the door would open it, but he was hesitant.

“I’m hoping you’re having second thoughts,” he admitted.

“I see no reason we should stop now,” you replied, unaware of how much you’d come to regret those words.

Ominis breathed out a defeated sigh. “It’s ironic. When I left home, I vowed to leave the Dark Arts behind. And yet, here I am…Stand back.”

You took several steps backward, and Ominis turned to face the door. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered to himself.

You stared in awe as a low hissing came from your friend’s lips. The eyes of two of the snakes carved in the door illuminated with green light, and they slithered up around the frame. The door opened.

“It worked!” you said, stunned. “Ominis, you possess a rare ability indeed.”

“Between the two of you, I’m starting to feel left out,” Sebastian whinged light-heartedly.

Ominis’s brows drew together. “Between the two of us?”

“I – never mind,” Sebastian stuttered, realizing his slip.

You weren’t sure yet if you could trust Ominis with your secret. Professor Fig had asked you not to share details with anyone, and you’d already gone against that advice with Sebastian.

You entered into the next room and were met with a locked gate. Next to it was a dial with a statue of a snake atop it. Once you were all inside, the door you’d come through shut behind you. That was the first moment where you thought this might be a mistake. Sebastian pointed out another sealed gate. Ominis suggested inspecting them for clues on how to proceed forward.

You ducked through a half-opened gate and found another note from Noctua. Her description of feeling unwelcome in the scriptorium didn’t inspire confidence in you. Nearby was another dial. You lit the torch beside it and turned one of the large metal discs. A hissing emitted from the statue as it began to rotate. You flicked through the dial, studying the symbols. Both discs had the same pattern.

In a flash, the snake lunged at you, biting your jaw as you stumbled backwards.

“That didn’t sound good,” Ominis said.

“It’s fine,” you asserted, frustration edging into your voice as you wiped the blood from your face with your sleeve. You really should’ve expected something like that.

“Salazar Slytherin didn’t make this easy,” Sebastian observed.

Obviously, you thought as you rolled your eyes. You’d be more than happy to let him take a stab at the dial.

You returned to the other dial. The gate next to it had symbols carved into it, as well. You illuminated your wand and saw that they matched some from the dial. You wished you’d noted that earlier.

“I think matching the dial to the symbols on the gate will open it,” you said.

“It seems Slytherin liked to play games,” Ominis said thoughtfully.

“Must run in the family,” Sebastian quipped.

“Look in a mirror, Sebastian,” Ominis replied irritably.

You quickly aligned the symbols on the dial to the ones sealing the doorway next to it. The serpents on the metal gate shifted, and it raised automatically.

“Matching the symbols did open it,” you said, relieved. You had half expected to be bitten again.

“Was about to do that myself, but you got to it first,” Sebastian said.

You just shot him a waspish look.

He coughed awkwardly. “Nice work,” he said.

You shook your head before continuing forward. In a pit at the end of the corridor, you found a third dial along with another note from Noctua.

I failed the dial, and it struck my face as if it were a real serpent, she started. You scoffed to yourself. Yeah, thanks for the warning, you thought sarcastically as you dabbed at your stinging jaw. She continued on in her letter to decry the way their family forced dark magic on their children.

“Ominis, your aunt wanted to change your family’s traditions,” you said.

“She did,” he confirmed in a wistful voice. “And she was my favourite person in the world for it.”

You felt a pang of sorrow for your friend. He’d lost the only member of his family that had ever been decent to him. You hoped for his sake that this adventure would provide answers as to what happened to her.

You went back to the main room, checking the symbols on the other gate that was still sealed. You went back to the dial that’d bitten you. Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you shifted the discs. There were two dials and only one door. You couldn’t be certain which went with it. You were relieved when you heard the metal clanking of the gate opening, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“That sounded promising,” Ominis said.

“Another dial solved,” you replied gleefully as you searched for another door.

“Impressive. Nice work,” Ominis’s silky voice called out almost reverently from the dark.

You chuckled at how similar yet distinct the two Slytherins were, complimenting you with the same words but in entirely different ways.

You entered the newly opened archway. You read yet another note left behind by Noctua, warning of painful challenges but telling of rewards, as well. You relayed the information to your companions.

“Painful – that’s the part I’m wary of,” Ominis said, sounding nervous.

“All I heard was rewards. Keep going,” Sebastian replied with a flippant fort of confidence.

Sure enough, there was another gate at the back of the new room. You wound your way back to the remaining dial and shifted it to match the final gate. Once you aligned the discs, the gate opened with a hiss. You downed a wiggenweld to heal your gashed chin now that you weren’t likely to be bitten again. Hopefully.

“Excellent work,” Sebastian said brightly. “We’re another step closer to the scriptorium.”

Sebastian was just outside the archway when you made it back. “I spotted something ahead,” he said, fear edging into his voice for the first time. “Looks troubling.”

“This whole place is troubling, but, for my aunt’s sake, we cannot stop now,” Ominis replied.

You noted privately that you couldn’t really stop even if you had wanted to. Having only one way forward, the three of you crept into the newly revealed corridor. You had a sinking feeling in your stomach as you stepped inside.

Curiously, the torches lining the space were already lit. More clanking rang out behind you.

“The gate!” Sebastian said in a panicked tone. “I think we’re locked in. Again.”

“Then Salazar Slytherin is not yet finished with us,” Ominis said dismally.

You were inclined to agree. You couldn’t help but think that Noctua’s optimism about the Hogwarts founder was misplaced. You approached the door at the end of the corridor, feeling a cold wash over you like walking through a ghost.

Your heart dropped as you spotted the bones lying in front of the door, right next to the word ‘crucio’ in glowing letters. On the other side of the skeleton, you found another note. With shaking hands, you reread how to proceed. You looked again at the remains of Ominis’s aunt. You felt like you were about to be sick.

“Ominis. A skeleton…And Noctua’s last journal entry. She mentions being trapped here – blocked by an Unforgivable Curse,” you said, unable to bring yourself to put it more directly.

Ominis looked shattered. “This…is where she died,” he said in disbelief. He began pacing in anger. “This is where we’ll die. I shouldn’t have listened to either of you.”

His words struck harder than you would’ve expected.

“Ominis, I’m truly sorry about your aunt,” Sebastian said. “But, I know what to do. It’s going to be difficult.”

You raised an eyebrow at the brunet. You discussed the matter with him. He voiced aloud what you already knew. The only way out was casting the cruciatus curse. Something only one of you had done before. Sebastian implored you to talk to Ominis.

You had already convinced him to go into this despicable place. You couldn’t ask him to cast an unforgivable, too. Sebastian steeled himself to confront him.

“Ominis, I know this is the last thing you want to do–” Sebastian started.

“Yes! It is! I thought you knew me better!” Ominis spat back.

“But this is different,” Sebastian insisted. “Whoever you cast it upon will have agreed to it first. It wouldn’t be an innocent ‘victim.’ We have to open the door.”

“The spell won’t work unless you mean it,” Ominis said. “That’s true of all unforgivables. If it must be done, then one of you must cast it.”

“What do we do now?” you asked Sebastian. “Ominis is not going to cast the cruciatus curse again.”

“Ridiculous!” Sebastian groused. “As if dying in here is a better option than casting a damned spell.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s up to us. I can teach you crucio, or I can cast it on you.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait – you didn’t say you knew how to cast crucio,” you said.

Sebastian pursed his lips. “Because I’m not sure I do,” he replied. “Ominis knows that, yet he’s left us no choice. I don’t yearn to follow in Noctua Gaunt’s footsteps.” He glanced down at the remains. “I think I can cast it if I have to.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of casting the curse. The hatred required. “I don’t want to learn the curse, but I can handle the pain,” you said more confidently than you felt. “It’s fine. Cast it on me.”

“I shan’t forget this,” Sebastian vowed. He swallowed thickly. “Ready?”

You nodded. “I’m ready,” you said, though your trembling voice betrayed how untrue that was. How could you be ready for such a thing?

Sebastian raised his wand. “Crucio!” he said quickly, before he could lose his nerve.

A red bolt erupted from his wand and struck you. You crumpled to the floor as blinding pain flooded through your whole body. You cried out. It was like molten shrapnel had exploded out from within you, shredding your muscles, tearing apart your organs, and splintering your bones.

“Are you all right?” Sebastian asked, his voice was scared and distant.

You could barely make sense of the words as your senses were overtaken. The red jet arced from you to the door, and it melted away. Jolts of pain still crackled through you as you pushed yourself onto your feet. You struggled to pull air into your lungs.

“A-are you all right?” Ominis asked, clearly shaken.

“That pain,” you groaned. You looked at Ominis’s horrified expression and felt guilt stab into you at the trauma he must be relieving. You couldn’t imagine going through that so young. “It was excruciating, but I’ll survive. Let’s keep moving.”

You just wanted out of there.

Sebastian was enraptured as he entered the room – as if it were sodding Honeydukes and not the lair of a dark wizard. Ominis edged cautiously inside, as well. For once, the door didn’t slam behind you.

You found an old tome and informed Sebastian and Ominis.

“You found something?” Sebastian asked excitedly.

“You two go ahead – let me know what’s in it,” Ominis said, voice still quavering. “I’ll wander around a bit.”

You were about to check on him, but Sebastian appeared at your side. “May I have a look?” he asked, gesturing to the book in your grasp. You handed it over.

“What do you think?” you asked.

“Looks like a spellbook of some kind,” Sebastian replied eagerly. “This is incredible! A Hogwarts founder’s possession – what an honour.” He shook his head. “Still can’t believe Ominis never told me about his aunt and what she found.”

You could. In fact, you wished he’d never brought it up – and that you’d never pushed him on it. “What will you do with Slytherin’s spellbook?” you asked, aiming for a casual tone. Really, you were nervous about his intentions.

Sebastian gave you a playful grin. “What I do with every book – read it! Having professors as parents ingrained that habit early on,” he said lightly. “But I can do that later. For now, I say we explore this room. It’s breathtaking.”

You didn’t feel the same eagerness Sebastian showed – perhaps because he wasn’t the one who had just been tortured. Still, it was a bit shocking to see him so chipper after casting an unforgivable on you mere minutes ago.

“I’ve been getting an uneasy feeling about this place,” Ominis called anxiously up to you both. “We shouldn’t linger here. Let’s find a way out, please.”

Sebastian chuckled. “I don’t want to leave, but I owe you – both of you,” he said. “Without both of you, we’d never have made it this far.”

“We were lucky – we could have died!” Ominis said seriously. “We must swear never to do this again.”

You saw Sebastian roll his eyes. You picked up a note lying on the desk as you tried to shove down your irritation with the boy.

“I see a way out!” Sebastian announced.

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Ominis replied, breathing a sigh of relief as he climbed the stairs.

You all exited through the hidden doorway.

“Ominis, about your aunt–” Sebastian started as he emerged from the wall back into the dungeon corridor.

“Please, Sebastian,” Ominis cut him off. “I meant what I said before. We swear right now never to engage in anything to do with dark magic again!”

“Understood,” Sebastian replied immediately, much to your surprise. “I’m truly sorry about your aunt, Ominis.”

“I suppose, after all this, I am grateful to know what happened to her,” he said quietly. He turned to you. “Thank you.”

You didn’t know what to say. Sebastian hurried off, probably to go delve into the book. Ominis leaned against the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he tried to process the night’s events.

You chewed your lip. “Ominis, I’m so sorry I dragged you down there. I hadn’t imagined we’d end up trapped like that,” you said sincerely.

He pushed off the wall, stepping toward you. “Salazar Slytherin did,” he replied darkly. “He’s to blame for many unimaginable things.”

You felt a new wave of fear at Sebastian having his spellbook.

“I’m just glad we made it out of there,” he continued. “How are you doing? The cruciatus curse is pure torture – I would know.”

You nodded. “I’m fine. Sebastian told me a little of what happened when you were young,” you said. “Sounds as if you had no choice.”

Ominis sighed. “Should’ve known he would’ve told you,” he muttered. “And one always has a choice. I’m as guilty as the worst of my family. Like I said, unforgivable curses won’t work unless you really mean them. I had to want to cause pain, and for that I shall never forgive myself. I will regret casting it forever.”

You flinched as you thought of the pain that had surged through you less than half an hour ago. Sebastian had wanted you to feel it. You couldn’t imagine feeling that way toward him or Ominis, especially now that you knew what it was like.

Warm fingers slipped into your hand, and you looked up to see Ominis’s brow furrowed in concern. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should’ve insisted we found another way out. Really, I shouldn’t have told Sebastian about the scriptorium in the first place. I am glad to know what happened to my aunt, but…not at your expense.”

You swallow thickly as you stared up at his kind face. “I’m all right, really,” you said.

He arched a brow at you. “Don’t lie to me,” he said firmly. “I can feel your hand shaking.”

You realized he was right. Your muscles were twitching with aftershocks from the curse. You suspected they had been since Sebastian’s curse released. You were just so out of sorts that you hadn’t noticed. “Oh,” you said dimly.

Ominis laced his fingers with yours. “Let’s get you some tea and a blanket. You must be freezing,” he said.

You were freezing, you realized. Ominis led you into the Slytherin common room. You just followed him numbly. It was like your body had reacted to the pain by shutting off your senses. Your mind had been overwhelmed. You felt like you were moving through fog now.

Before you knew it, you had a hot cup of tea in your hands and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Ominis rubbed slow circles on your back. His touch grounded you, keeping you from slipping into the recesses of your mind.

“Is this how you felt after?” you asked, turning your glazed eyes toward Ominis.

He stiffened, his hand freezing in place, as his features contorted in a grimace. You could see his throat bob as he swallowed.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Ominis shook his head. “I expect so,” he said thoughtfully, answering your question. “I would have a tremor and feel a numbing cold. One of our elves tended to me after the first time. My mother locked me in my room, and he brought me tea and tucked me into bed with extra blankets even though she’d instructed them to leave me alone. He…He also knew how it felt.” His jaw tensed. “My family distributes their cruelty quite generously.” He spat out the last sentence like venom.

You felt tears prick your eyes. “I’m sorry you both went through that,” you said.

He just nodded.

“The numbness wears off after a while,” he said as he resumed the languid circles on back. “Then it’s like…your senses are frayed. Everything is just…too much. Noise. Scents. Everywhere is too hot or too cold. Even clothes are…Well, you get the idea.”

His cheeks were coloured pink.

“How long until that starts?” you asked. It sounded dreadful.

“Maybe an hour from now?” he said. He cleared his throat. “I found that a warm bath in a quiet room helps. Not hot but body temperature. It’s almost like floating in nothing. I expect you’d want the room dark, as well, but I really wouldn’t know.”

He chuckled, and you couldn’t help but laugh, as well. You sipped your tea, and you felt yourself relax slightly as the warm liquid slid down your throat. A shiver ran through you, and you tucked into Ominis’s side, resting your head on his shoulder.

He was caught by surprise, but he quickly wrapped his arm around you, holding you tightly to himself. He even rested his head on top of yours.

You stayed like that for a long time. Ominis traced his wand down a schoolbook with the hand not holding you. He checked in every once in a while to make sure you hadn’t run out of tea, casting a charm to refill your cup when needed. Slowly, your tremor subsided and your body warmed. The cold nothingness that had enveloped you was eventually replaced by a sort of static. It was barely noticeable at first, but it grew more and more grating. You felt stifled between the fire, blanket, and Ominis’s warm body next to you. You had to set your tea down because it was scalding. Your uniform scratched like sandpaper over every inch of your skin. The crackling of the flames and students speaking in low voices grew louder until the noises pounded in your ears. The dim common room seemed blindingly bright. Even the usually calming scent of Ominis’s cologne was an attack on your senses.

You groaned as you curled into yourself. Ominis scooted away from you, and you felt a pang of guilt at the relief it gave you.

“Let’s get you that bath,” Ominis said quietly as he tucked his book into his bag.

He grabbed your sleeve and tugged you to the lavatory. You cast a charm to block the windows. Only the faintest light filtered through. You sagged against one of the sinks, holding your frazzled head in your hands. Ominis filled a tub with a water-making charm, knowing the rush from the taps would be deafening. He heated the water with another spell, dipping his hand it to ensure it was the right temperature. He even set out a towel for you.

“All set,” he said gently. “I’ll relock the door on my way out so no one disturbs you.”

“Could you…stay?” you asked sheepishly.

You could just make out Ominis’s eyes as they widened. “Oh,” he squeaked. “Erm, yes, I suppose so. Are you sure you want me to?”

“I’d rather not be alone,” you admitted, wincing at your own voice as it seemed to boom out from you. “And, well, it’s not like you can see anything…right?”

He chuckled softly. “You’re correct,” he whispered.

He moved to a window seat on the far wall, and you slipped out of your robes. Despite the fact that he couldn’t see you, your cheeks flushed as you stood naked in a room with Ominis in it. The cold air was like ice on your skin. You quickly climbed into the bath. It was like applying a balm to a sunburn. You really did feel wrapped in nothing as you were surrounded by water exactly the same temperature as you. You closed your eyes, shutting out the last bit of light.

You felt the tension that had been mounting melt out of your body. The only sensations aside from the cool air on your face were the sound of your own breathing and occasional turn of a page as Ominis read. You couldn’t even hear his breaths from where he sat.

With time, your breathing stopped seeming so loud and you stopped noticing the temperature of the room as much. The water in your tub was exactly as warm as it’d been when you slipped inside. You realized Ominis must’ve charmed it to stay that way. He was quite a talented wizard.

You sat up a bit in the tub, leaning your head back on the edge of it, but you kept your eyes closed. You weren’t ready to take in visual stimuli again just yet. “Ominis?” you asked, pleased when the word didn’t ring in your ears.

“Yes, MC?” he replied quietly.

“Thank you. For helping me. It…it would’ve been awful to go through this alone,” you said.

There was a pause before he answered. “I’m sorry you have to go through it at all.”

You opened your eyes to look at him. “It’s not your fault,” you said. You turned, hooking your elbow over the side of the tub as you faced him. “I’m the one who convinced you to go down there.”

“Yes, but I should’ve known better,” he said sadly. “I just…I was so consumed by the need to know what happened to my aunt. I went against my better judgment. It won’t happen again.”

“Same here. I have no interest in investigating anything to do with Slytherin again,” you replied. “I hope Sebastian meant it when he said he’s done.”

“He’s never lied to me before,” Ominis said confidently. “But…if he does mention anything to you, tell me, okay?”

“I will,” you promised. To be honest, you felt like you could tell Ominis anything.

“Good,” Ominis said with a small smile, but it was quickly replaced with a look of concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” you said truthfully. “Is there another phase after this?”

Ominis pressed his mouth into a thin line. Even when upset, his features were as handsome as ever. It really wasn’t fair. “No, but this one tends to linger. You’ll feel on edge for a few days. Maybe a week, even. It tends to last longer the more times you’ve been cursed, so hopefully it’s just a few days for you,” he said, forcing a hopeful smile onto his lips.

You blinked rapidly as a thought struck you. “Did your family curse you multiple times?” you asked, aghast.

He turned his face back toward his book as he schooled his features. “Yes,” he said in a barely audible voice.

“Oh, Ominis, that’s awful!” you said. You wished you could give him a hug, but as you were naked and sopping wet, it wasn’t exactly an opportune time.

He gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s the Gaunts for you. We specialize in ‘awful.’”

“Not all of you,” you argued. “Not your aunt. Not you.”

“Recent evidence would suggest otherwise,” he said. He hung his head. “Not to mention my past mistakes.”

“But that’s just it. It was a mistake. It doesn’t define you, Ominis,” you insisted. “Do you think the rest of your family would’ve cared enough to help me?”

He scoffed. “Certainly not.”

You just waited, letting him consider the facts for himself.

He sighed as he turned back toward you. “I suppose you have a point.”

You smiled. “I know I do.”

Ominis chuckled, and it was a beautiful sound – if a bit loud at the moment.

You decided you’d soaked long enough and got out of the bath. You cringed as you patted yourself dry. The towel wasn’t quite sandpaper like your clothes had been before, but your skin still felt raw. “How long until clothes feel normal again?” you asked, hoping the answer was soon.

“It all progresses together, so it’ll take a few days,” Ominis said with an apologetic grimace.

You let out a groan. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

He held out his hand. “Here. Give me your clothes.”

You wrapped the towel around yourself before scooping up your uniform and padding over to him. You set the outfit in his open hand.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said. Standing so close now, you could see the blush spread over his cheeks.

Your face flushed, too, when you realized you could’ve just levitated the clothes over. You cringed again, but at yourself this time.

Ominis waved his wand as he uttered an unfamiliar incantation. He handed your outfit back to you. It was silky smooth against your skin. It took what was left of your good sense not to drop your scratchy towel and change immediately. You shuffled off to the other side of the room to get dressed.

“That’s so much better!” you gushed once you’d donned the silk ensembled. “Thank you, Ominis.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I’m happy to help you with anything. I mean, anytime! I’m happy to help anytime.”

As you walked back over to his window seat, you could tell he was still blushing. You couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ll help you with anything, too,” you replied.

“Yeah?” he asked with a hopeful expression.

You chewed your lip, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you looked down at him. You raised a hand to cup his cheek, and his chin tilted up slightly as his eyes drifted shut. You leaned down, brushing your lips softly against his. In your current state, his lips felt a bit rough but pleasantly warm on yours. Nevertheless, the tender kiss sent a jolt of excitement through you. “Yeah,” you replied.

His tongue flicked out over his lips, and he smirked up at you.

The door rattled as someone tried to enter the locked lavatory. The sudden noise made you jump back.

“Ugh! This is the second time this week!” a muffled but clearly frustrated voice grumbled from the other side.

“Come one, let’s use the one upstairs,” another, much more defeated, voice replied.

“We should probably get moving,” you said, unable to stop the grin that graced your lips.

Ominis chuckled. “Yes, I suppose we should,” he agreed.

You both made your way toward the door. Ominis was much more graceful in the dim lighting than you were, and you almost stumbled right into one of the empty tubs. Fortunately, Ominis either didn’t notice or politely pretended not to. He turned to you right in front of the door, his fingers resting on the handle. He shifted nervously between his feet.

“Once you’re feeling like yourself again, would you like to get dinner with me at the Three Broomsticks?” he asked with an endearingly anxious expression.

You beamed at him. “I’d like that very much.”

He grinned as he pulled the door open for you. “It’s a date, then.”

Of all the things you’d thought you might find in Slytherin’s Scriptorium, a budding romance hadn’t been one of them. Not that you were complaining. Not one bit.

#ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt x gn!mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #ominis gaunt fanfic #ominis gaunt fanfiction #scriptorium

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alloftheimaginesblog · 25 days ago

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at world's edge - chapter five

plot: Cassidy 'Cass' Vega is losing the fight with herself and with the Infected when Tommy Miller finds her and brings her back to safety. There she finds a new purpose; to live. Along the way, she makes friends and starts to find herself falling for a man almost thirty years older than her.

character: female!OC x Joel Miller

fandom: the last of us (tv show)

cast: joel miller - pedro pascal, cass vega - adria arjona, ryan winnick - brandon sklenar

The snow had crusted over with a hard frost by morning, and the air bit sharper than it had in days. Cass rubbed her hands together as she stood near the stables, watching her breath fog the air while a horse snorted and pawed at the frozen ground beside her. She’d expected another fence repair shift or maybe hauling supplies.

Not a patrol. Not this patrol.

"You're with Joel today," Maria told her flatly, handing over a rifle and a pack, "Routine perimeter sweep. Do not push each other's buttons."

Cass scoffed, "Think that depends on whose buttons are easier to push." Maria gave her a look. That sharp, knowing look that made it clear that she'd heard enough.

Now, Cass was adjusting the strap on her pack, eyes narrowed as she spotted Joel approaching. He walked with the same weighted stride as always — like the earth owed him something and he was here to collect.

He didn’t greet her. Didn’t even look at her.

“You know the route?” he asked, voice low and blunt.

“Maria gave me the map.”

“Don’t need the map. Just need you to keep up.”

Cass smirked dryly. “Don’t flatter yourself, old man.”

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

They mounted up, the silence between them a thing with claws. The gates creaked open. Snow crunched under hooves. The town fell behind.

Out on the trail, the cold made her fingers ache, but she didn’t complain. Neither did he. Trees stood bare and skeletal along the path, their limbs dusted in white. Birds were silent. The world felt hungover from too many tragedies.

“How long you been out here?” she asked eventually, voice just loud enough to carry over the wind. She didn't know why she was asking, she didn't really care if she was honest.

“Long enough,” Joel muttered.

“Helpful.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “Didn’t ask for conversation.”

“Didn’t ask for company.”

They rode on in silence, the tension between them a brittle wire. Eventually, they dismounted to check a trap line — Joel in the lead, Cass close behind.

He knelt to examine a sprung snare. Cass lingered behind, scanning the trees, her grip loose on the rifle but her stance alert.

“You always this much of a charm offensive?” she asked, her tone cool but not biting.

Joel stood slowly, brushing snow from his gloves. “You always this suspicious?”

Cass looked at him, really looked — the deep lines around his eyes, the way his fingers twitched near his holster even when there was no immediate threat.

“Yeah,” she said. “Turns out being cautious keeps you breathing.”

“Or alone.”

That one landed harder than she expected. She looked away, her jaw tightening.

“You think you’ve got me figured out already?” she said. “One meal and a patrol and suddenly you know me?”

Joel’s voice was flat. “I don’t need to know you. I just need to know you ain’t a danger to anyone inside that gate.”

Cass took a step closer, unafraid, her eyes locked on his. “I’ve bled to protect people, Miller. More than once. So if you’re still trying to paint me as the bad guy, you’ll have to try harder.”

He didn’t answer — not right away.

But something in his expression shifted. Just barely. Not softer. But less certain.

A wind swept through the trees then, interrupting whatever unspoken thought hovered between them.

“Let’s move,” Joel said shortly. Cass followed — but not before looking back once, just long enough to notice the faintest trace of hesitation in his step.

The woods grew quieter the deeper they rode.

Cass could feel the shift in the air — the kind of stillness that came before something cracked. She glanced to Joel, who’d slowed his horse just slightly. His eyes flicked toward the trees. The tension between them, still humming from their earlier exchange, dulled into something sharper.

“You feel that?” Cass asked.

Joel gave a short nod. “Yeah.”

They dismounted at the edge of a thicket, where snow clung thick to the ground and the old logging road dipped into low, brush-covered terrain. The horses snorted uneasily behind them, reins tied to a skeletal tree.

“We cut through here,” Joel said. “Then loop around. Be back by dark.”

Cass didn’t argue.

She didn’t need to — she saw it too. The signs of movement. Subtle. Wrong.

They crept forward, guns drawn. Joel took point, Cass flanking off to the left. The woods swallowed sound — even the wind was cautious now.

Then—

A snap.

Not a branch underfoot — too clean.

A trap wire.

Cass barely had time to shout.

“Joel—!”

The explosion was small but sharp — a concussive burst that threw snow and dirt skyward. Cass ducked, heart pounding, ears ringing. Joel was down, not hit, but rattled hard — knocked off his feet by the blast’s edge.

And then the shouting started.

Raiders.

Three of them, emerging fast from cover, guns drawn, screaming curses. Cass didn’t think — she moved. She fired first — clipped one in the leg. Another returned fire, missed her head by inches.

Joel was up by then, shaking it off, eyes furious. “Cover me!” he barked.

Cass dropped to a knee and laid down fire. Joel flanked right, silent and swift. A single shot — one down. Cass clipped the second in the shoulder — and then her rifle jammed. “Shit—!”

The last raider was coming fast, bloodied but still standing, barrelling toward her with a knife. Cass stumbled back, falling backwards as she fumbled for her sidearm, but the snow slowed her—

And then Joel was there.

A thunderous shot.

The raider dropped. Silence rushed in behind it, loud and brutal.

Cass stood frozen, panting, her ears ringing, hands trembling just slightly.

Joel turned to her, breathing hard. “You okay?" He gestured to her forehead where she'd caught the skin at her eyebrow by a branch, "Bleeding."

She nodded, a bit too fast. “Yeah, m'okay. Yeah—just—”

Her rifle was still in her hand, useless.

Joel stepped closer, eyeing her. His tone wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t cold either. “You moved fast. Kept calm.”

She met his gaze, surprised. That seemed to bring her back to herself. She blinked, “I’m not a damn rookie, Joel.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Joel’s jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t.

Cass looked away first. “You hit?”

“No. You?”

She shook her head.

They both knew it had been close.

“We should burn the bodies,” she muttered.

Joel nodded. “Then head back. No more detours today.”

They worked in silence, disposing of the bodies with practiced efficiency. But something had shifted — not spoken aloud, not acknowledged — but it sat heavy between them. Not trust. Not yet.

But something that looked like the start of it.

The warmth of the bar crept up slowly, like thawing fingers after too long in the cold. Cass sat near the corner, half-tucked into the shadows, nursing a whiskey she didn’t particularly like but kept sipping anyway. The place was quieter than usual tonight — a few murmurs of conversation, the occasional clink of glass, the creak of old floorboards beneath worn boots.

Jackson knew how to settle after a scare.

She’d heard the whispers earlier in the day. Word had spread fast about the ambush — about her and Joel. About how she’d held her own. How he’d saved her life. How maybe they made a good team, even if neither one would say it out loud. She didn’t feel like anyone’s teammate tonight.

The bruise on her hip was blooming ugly beneath her clothes. Her knuckles were scraped from diving for cover. Her ears were still ringing faintly. But it wasn’t any of that that bothered her.

It was him. Joel.

The look in his eyes after the shot. The way his jaw had tightened when she asked if he was okay. The flicker of something — not concern, not admiration, but maybe recognition. That they both knew what it meant to kill fast, to move first, to survive when others didn’t.

She hated that she’d felt seen.

Don’t get comfortable, she reminded herself. People like you don’t get comfort.

Someone slid into the seat next to her — Ryan, the guy from the fence line. Same easy grin, slightly less grime under his fingernails today.

“Didn’t take you for the drinking type,” he said, signalling to the bartender with a nod.

Cass raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you were into profiling.”

He let out a soft laugh. “Guess I had you pegged as more of a lone-wolf type. Scratch that. Lone-wolf with a rusty knife.”

She gave him a sideways glance, lips tugging into the smallest smile. “Not far off.”

The bartender slid him a dark drink. Ryan took a long sip, then leaned forward, elbows on the bar.

“Heard you and Joel had a rough run.”

Cass stiffened. “Town talks a lot for people who say they’re busy all day.”

“Small place. News travels fast when it sounds like a story.”

Cass turned her glass slowly in her hand. “Wasn’t a story. It was survival.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she could. She caught Joel’s name and her stomach had turned just enough to remind her that she was still strung tighter than she let on.

Ryan sat with her for a while, not pressing, not asking more. Just being there. It helped, in its own quiet way.

But later — when she walked home under the hush of falling snow, steps slow and deliberate — she felt the gaze again.

She glanced back once, saw a shadow move near the edge of the main hall, just for a moment.

Tall. Still.

Watching.

Joel.

She didn’t wave. Didn’t stop.

She just kept walking, her breath clouding in the cold, the burn of whiskey still lingering in her chest — like a memory she couldn’t swallow down.

Joel stood in the dark, tucked into the shadowed edge of the old church building across the street, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He hadn’t meant to follow her. Hell, he hadn’t even meant to leave the house again. But he couldn't sit still. Not after the day they’d had. Not after seeing her move like that — fast, instinctive, smart. Like she’d done it a thousand times before. Like she’d been born for it, just like he had. Like she’d survived things no one should’ve had to.

She’s dangerous, he’d told himself earlier. Too quick, too comfortable with chaos. And that should’ve been the end of it.

But when she hit the ground hard during the scuffle, something hot had bloomed in his chest — something ugly and immediate and primal. Not the panic he’d felt when Ellie was in trouble, but something more volatile. It had scared the hell out of him.

He watched Cass now, her silhouette framed against the glow of snow-dusted streetlamps, shoulders hunched in the cold, moving like someone who didn’t want to be followed but always expected to be.

She paused once, like she felt him.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then she kept walking.

Let her go. Let her stay distant. Safer that way.

He turned back toward his house but didn’t go inside. Instead, he ended up in the garage, alone with the clink of old tools and the smell of oil and pine. He stared at a half-repaired crossbow on the bench and tried not to picture the cut on her brow. The way she bit down the pain, didn’t ask for help, didn’t complain.

She reminded him too much of himself, and that was the damn problem.

She’s half your age, the voice in his head muttered. She’s got a whole life ahead of her. You’re just another man with too many ghosts and not enough future.

But still—he hadn’t stopped thinking about the way she’d looked at him after he’d fired that shot. Not scared. Not grateful.

Just seen. Like she knew what it cost.

And that look stayed with him all night, even when he shut the lights off and lay awake in a house that felt colder than usual.

#fanfic #tlou fanfiction #tlou fanfic #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #joel miller au #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller #cass vega x joel miller #cass vega #cassidy vega #ff #ellie williams #tommy miller

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ouroandar · 22 days ago

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May DWC 2025 Bonus Day - Armor, Snap

Follow-up to this story with @xylaes!

He didn’t even pretend to try to go home. He didn’t stop walking, didn’t care where the path took him, only that it led away from that apartment, from the city, from the heat still clinging to him like shame. Ouro moved past the last gilded spires of Silvermoon without glancing back. The gates were barely manned at this hour, and no one dared question him. He passed under the archway with coat clutched in one hand, bruises settling even deeper into his ribs with every breath.

The air outside was colder, crisper, and less perfumed here. He didn’t follow the road, instead, he slipped through one of the lesser-used trails that wove into the forest beyond the city. It was quieter here where the tall trees bent overhead to form a canopy, shielding the stars in patches.

There was no destination, just motion until he felt as if he were far enough from whatever those feelings had been. Eventually, he came to a stop near a small rise overlooking the river where he dropped down onto a flat stone at the edge and let the silence take him.

Ouro exhaled roughly through his nose. Everything about tonight had been a mistake. He should’ve stayed away, should’ve kept the pain locked where it belonged, buried under routines and smoke and distance. Instead, he showed up bleeding all over the threshold like some broken thing.

And Xylaes had opened the door.

The problem wasn’t just that he let him in, it was what followed. The words and the weight behind them. The moment when silence stretched too long and Ouro saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, something mirrored. Something a lot like recognition.

He closed his eyes. There were thoughts he couldn’t afford to have, feelings he didn’t trust, a growing pressure under his sternum that didn’t know how to define itself. He wasn’t wired for softness, he never had been. And tonight, whatever that was, it had rattled him. More than the bruises, more than the punch, more than the kiss he hadn’t seen coming, even though he initiated it.

He dragged his fingers over his face. What the fuck was he doing? Ouro didn’t need comfort, and he didn’t believe in healing, it was all a lie that made people soft. At least that was what he had always been taught. People patched themselves up just enough to function and called it recovery, it was bullshit. The world didn’t wait for anyone to get better, it didn’t care if you cracked or snapped in two. All it left you with were brittle repairs and the echo of what used to be whole.

He didn’t know why he'd kissed him, it wasn't a desire or the want for affection. If anything, it was a violent need to feel something that wasn’t the crushing spiral of a negative space, that cavernous pit he walked around every day pretending it wasn’t wide enough to swallow him whole.

Xylaes had just been there. Solid, still, and dangerous in ways Ouro didn’t quite understand. For one flickering moment, Ouro had wanted to demolish the quiet between them, he wanted to tear it down and see what was underneath. Now, all he had was silence again.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and stared at the smoke until his eyes watered from forgetting to blink. The weight in his chest hadn’t moved, the ache stayed sitting in wait behind his ribs like a thing coiled and ready to strike. Tomorrow he would put the armor back on and go back to work, back to the orders, and the calculated distance.

Tonight, he just sat with the quiet.

@xylaes @daily-writing-challenge

#story #ouro #xylaes #dwc2025 #maydwc2025

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ornii · 3 months ago

Text

RWBYBORNE: Part 1

1: “Good Hunter..”

Remnant, The Long Hunt

Beasts are not born—they are made. The scourge of the blood twists men into monsters, their minds consumed by madness, their bodies reshaped by hunger. They are not so different from the Grimm, those shadowed creatures of Remnant. Both are the spawn of darkness, bred to hunt, to kill, to destroy.

Grimm and Beasts are mindless tools, drawn by fear and despair, They are the reflection of man’s sins, the corruption that festers within the heart. The blood does not lie—it reveals. And when it reveals too much, man is undone, leaving behind only the beast.

Yharnam thought it could control the blood, harness it for power, for healing. But blood is a cruel master, and the price was paid in fire and ash. The city burned, the beasts contained—for a time. But darkness does not die; it spreads.

All of Yharnam was sealed away, its gates locked to humanity and all through remnant and stuck deep within the West of Vale. Only two had escaped Yharnam, Gehrman, the First Hunter and a single babe whose blood was of pure Yharnam. They left the burning city to a cottage in vale. And Gehrman trained the boy, as there are still beasts to slay.

Remnant is not a sanctuary. It is a battlefield, a place where the darkness takes many forms. And the blood… the blood ties it all together. For in the end, man’s greatest enemy is not the beast outside but the beast within.”

The Hunter’s Workshop lay silent under the pale glow of a moon that never waned. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestone floor, cast by the flickering fire of a dying lantern. Tools of the trade—saws, blades, and bloodstained cloth—were scattered across the room, remnants of countless hunts. Past the workshop was a small cottage, old and in need of repair, a boy stepped out of it. His eyes trailed along his clothing, the Garb of a hunters. He dusts himself off and tightens his gloves and stepped calmly towards the Workshop, and entered, walking past graveyards, etched with names of hunters lost to the war of beasts.

The Hunter stood at the center of the Workshop, his cloak hanging heavy with the weight of old blood. His hands rested on the hilt of his saw cleaver, the weapon worn but sharp.

A chair creaked as Gehrman leaned forward. The old man’s gaze bore into the boy he had raised. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of years.

“Your time here is over, boy,” Gherman said. “The hunt calls elsewhere.”

“You believe this school will test me? Test the strength I have gained?” He asks. “Yharnam is where I should return to—“

Gehrman shook his head, a weary smile crossing his face. “Yharnam is dead, lad. Its flames died long ago, yet the scourge lives on. The beasts are not bound to that place. They’ve spread, and the hunt must follow. It’s for your own good, killing beasts..”

The Hunter was silent, his head bowed. Gherman’s words hung heavy in the air, and though he wanted to argue, he could not. The Hunter shook his head and left to the front of the workshop, and as if they were waiting, one more figure stood before him, a.. Doll. But she looked, human, familiar.

The Doll stepped forward, her porcelain face expressionless yet kind. Her voice, soft and melodic, broke the silence.

“Good Hunter,” she said, her hands folding over her heart. “You have endured so much. You have given yourself to the hunt, to protect and to destroy. But this… this is a chance to find what was taken from you. Trust in yourself. Trust in others. You are not alone.”

The Hunter lowered himself to one knee, he removed his hat, and extended his hand, she placed her gently on his. Though her touch was cold, it comforted him. He felt a surge of power, his final surge. He rose and bowed, and she did in kind.

“I shall not forget our adage.” He said firmly.

“Farewell, Good Hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world.” The Doll gave her goodbye and the hunter turned and left.

The Hunter stood, his saw cleaver strapped to his back, his bag slung over one shoulder. Outside, a steed awaited—a creature of pale mist and moonlight, its body translucent yet solid enough to bear him.

He did not look back as he mounted the steed. The Workshop grew smaller in the distance, swallowed by the forest’s shadows and the encroaching mist. The moon lingered high above, watching him as he rode toward the unknown.

For the first time in his life, the Hunter felt something unfamiliar—a flicker of uncertainty, a world beyond the blood and the hunt.

And so, the Hunter’s journey began, not with the roar of a beast or the strike of a blade, but with the quiet resolve of a boy stepping out of the past and into the future.

The Hunter, after a long Journey reached beacon though the side forest and approached horseback to the main station, where these oddly flying machines descended with people exiting them. Such inventions were acts of powers beyond his comprehension.

His feet leapt off the ghostly mare as onlookers watched, he checked his saddlebags and saw everything was of collection. A lantern, clothing, his saw cleaver, hunters pistol with an array of silver bullets, even a notebook to log his thoughts, dreams, and progress of the scourge. He ruffled though them, and found something he did not put there. An old claw shaped badge, meant to wrap around the neck. An old hunters badge, The badge was a special privilege for the hunters of the past, and should not be dishonored. It should be left in peace, unless one is truly prepared to assume the will of those gone before. The Hunter removed his mask and hood, letting his slight neck length silver blonde hair aloof in the wind. He placed the badge around his neck, and put his hat back on. He gripped his saddlebags but a voice rang out nearby.

“What are you doing?!”

“Uh, sorry!”

“Sorry?! Do you have any idea of the damage you could have caused? What are you, brain-dead? This is Dust! Dust! Fire, water, lightning, energy!” The Hunter turned to see a Pale, Regal looking girl in all white, not very happy with another girl in Red and Black.

“Are you even listening to me? Is any of this sinking in? What do you have to say for yourself?!” The Snow White woman said, the girl in red, sneezed, and the dust collided into an explosion, causing soot all over her white dress, and she freaks out.

“This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about!” She screamed.,

“I'm really, really sorry!” The girl in red relented.

“Ugh, you complete dolt! What are you even doing here? Aren't you a little young to be attending Beacon?” She scoffed, dusting herself off. And leaving in fumes, the girl sat a bit sad. She fidgeted with Crescent Rose, Her mind wandered, and she sighed deeply.

“That went well…” she muttered to herself.

Suddenly, a voice cut through her thoughts,

“That was, uncomfortable” he says. Ruby looked up, surprised by the sound. There, standing with an almost eerie calm, was a tall figure. His dark coat swayed lightly with the breeze, and his wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his pale face, leaving his eyes as the only visible feature—cold, calculating, yet somehow distant.

“Uh… excuse me?” Ruby asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

The man’s lips barely moved as he spoke again. “She wronged you. But she cannot see it.”

Ruby blinked, not sure whether this person was speaking in riddles or just observing what happened. “You mean Weiss? Yeah… I broke her Dust vial and things kinda blew up after that. My bad…”

“No,” he said, his voice even. “Her reaction was unwarranted.”

“Yeah, well, I guess she’s… kinda like that sometimes…” Ruby muttered, looking down at the broken vial, still processing it all. He offered his hand, and the girl took it and helped her up.

“I’m Ruby, by the way! Ruby Rose, what’s your name?” she said, extending her hand.

He looked at her outstretched hand for a moment, as if unsure of the gesture’s meaning. Eventually, he took it with an almost deliberate coldness, shaking it briefly before releasing it.

“I.. i…I don’t have a name,” he said a bit conflicted, “or.. perhaps it’s forgotten it.”, his gaze drifting towards the nearby trees, as though lost in thought.

Ruby blinked in a bit of shock. “No name? Well… that’s kinda weird, but alright.” She smiled warmly at him. “You can be… (Y/n). You look like a (Y/n).”

He didn’t respond immediately, merely nodding once in acknowledgment, as if Ruby’s suggestion held some form of understanding.

“(Y/n), huh?” Ruby said, giggling a little. “I mean, I think it fits you. Kinda mysterious, cool… a little weird, though.”

(Y/n) looked at her, his face unsure. “Weird, is it?” Ruby shrugged, the smile never leaving her face. “Yeah, but in a good way! You’re definitely not like anyone else I’ve met. But you’re… pretty cool, too.”

“Cool? As in the cold?” He asked, Ruby tilts her head, “You’re.. not from around here, are you?” She smiled, the hunters clothing could tell. “I.. suppose one could make that inference.” He replied, the duo walk to Beacon Academy's giant auditorium, filled with people. Ruby looks over when she hears a voice.

“Ruby! Over here! I saved you a spot!” She yelled, Ruby turned turned to (Y/n).

“Oh! Hey, I-I gotta go! I'll see you after the ceremony!” Ruby ran off, leaving the hunter by himself. He was fine with this, as he’s had long hunts alone. Unfortunately, the worst person decided to speak to him.

“Hey, man! You’re new here, right? I’m Jaune Arc, rookie Hunter! But you can call me Jaune, no need for formalities.” He gave an awkward salute, trying to appear confident.

The Hunter didn’t respond right away, he folded his arms, and slowly turned to Jaune. After a long, heavy pause, he raised an eyebrow. “You… are the one they call a Hunter?” His tone was neutral, but there was an underlying question that made Jaune second-guess himself.

“Uh… yeah? I mean, I’m still learning a lot, but I’m totally up for anything!” Jaune puffed out his chest, trying his best to exude some form of bravado, to impress the oddly imposing (Y/n), who didn’t say anything. The tension could be cut with a knife as jaune awkwardly rubbed the back of his head.

Their “conversation” was ended when Professor Ozpin approaches the microphone upon the stage. readying the microphone, with Glynda beside him. He slowly leaned into the Mic.

“I'll... keep this brief. You have traveled here today in search of knowledge, to hone your craft and acquire new skills, and when you have finished, you plan to dedicate your life to the protection of the people. But I look amongst you, and all I see is wasted energy, in need of purpose, direction. You assume knowledge will free you of this, but your time at this school will prove that knowledge can only carry you so far. It is up to you to take the first step.” Ozpin left very, interesting advice, before departing. Letting Glynda take the microphone

“You will gather in the ballroom tonight; tomorrow, your initiation begins. Be ready. You are dismissed.” Glynda gave the order and the teenagers begin to shuffle out of the building.

The hunter sat in the corner, in sleepwear, mostly an open Pajama coat. He writes into his journal, his first of many entries, using a journal to press his thoughts into reality, keeping some, sanity.

“Today, I witnessed innocence in its purest form—students with unblemished dreams and hopes untainted by despair. I envy them. I no longer possess such luxury.

The girl named Ruby… idealistic, bright-eyed, I believe she is too eager for the dangers of the hunt. Her optimism is disarming, though perhaps I needed that. When she offered me a name, I accepted without hesitation. I wonder why? Human connection seems, offputting.

This Weiss Schnee is another matter. She is cold and sharp, her sense of pride is obvious but overwhelming, perhaps we cross paths, or blades in the future.

The blond fool, Jaune, tried to befriend me. His bravery borders on idiocy. Still, there’s something admirable in his persistence.

This place, Beacon, is nothing like the Workshop. No dim lanterns, no stench of blood, no haunts in the night. And yet, I feel as if this shall not last.

Tonight, I wonder if I made the right choice in coming here. Still, I cannot deny the flicker of something unfamiliar in my chest—hope. Strange. I thought I had long since abandoned such notions that this scourge should perish..

But for now, I remain vigilant. The old blood runs through my veins, and the hunt must go on.”

— (Y/n).

Note: Let me know if you want to read more, I have maybe 14 more chapters of this on my Wattpad I can bring here, thanks!

#male reader #reader insert #ornii #rwby #rwby fic #rwby au #rwby fanfiction #weiss schnee #rwby weiss #weiss X reader #rwby x reader

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itskindofidontknow · 1 year ago

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What dreams know about love?

Chapter 8

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

Elijah knew the Dreaming turned into a wasteland, but it didn’t hit him what a wasteland actually looked like. “ Lucienne, lock all doors, gates, windows. Any creation of my husband that is in the Dreaming must seek protection immediately. A dove will be sent when it is safe to leave.” ‘If it is ever safe to leave’ Love thought while marching through the hall straight to the throne room. The librarian followed the Queen’s fast pace, as Elijah stayed behind, analyzed his surroundings

He vaguely remembered the Dreaming. He didn’t think it was nearly as beautiful as the Garden, but it was alluring. Incohesive to his eyes, due to its ever-changing nature. Even if the Garden, like the Dreaming, was susceptible to its creator's mood and condition, the Garden kept his core unchanged, it was consistent, stable for the lovefolk. The same could not be said about the Dreaming. And Elijah could clearly understand why the Emissary was hesitant and why Eoster was running around giving urgent orders to Lucienne.

They could very realistically be on the verge of a disaster.

The Dreaming was collapsing, which means the King was weak. Lucifer has one of his prized possessions. Morningstar has the trap set and Dream walked right into it.

“Spells or anything against demons. Check Constantine book, maybe it has something. We need it. Now.” Enfatic saying to the librarian, she turned to the cupid “Elijah, find ink, prepare the doves” It didn’t occur to her that there weren't any doves in the Dreaming, nor ravens. Elijah would have to find a way to warn their allies. They would be easy to find. Only a few entities were not fond of her, especially since she had taken a vast number of protégés, blessed many unions and was a godmother of gods knew how many children from these unions.

“Allies? My lady, we are not at war.” Lucienne said it with a gasped nervous laugh of uncertainty. Hands slightly shaking and hesitant. In her eyes the need for something to hold to, something to believe in.

Love was skeptical about her husband’s return. He was Endless, but his state was frail, crumbling to pieces like his own realm. And Lightbringer would see that. An opportunity. Lucifer always sees an opportunity, and one as delicious as an Endless desperate to get his tools back? The fallen angel was going to make him risk it all. And Morpheus would have no alternative but to accept it.

She couldn’t lie to the librarian, saying that everything was fine. Lucienne saw the restlessness in the Garden. Elijah and the Emissary agitated, promptly abiding Love’s demands. If she tried to lie, the librarian would be skeptical of her word. At the same time, it was her duty to care for her husband's creations. She needed to give them hope. If Lucienne, his most loyal dream, gave up on him, there would be no one left to fight for.

“You are right. We are not at war, but it might be wise to prepare. Demons can be erratic.” Love answered promptly. This wasn’t the time to argue about the necessity of raising defenses.

“I believe in Lord Morpheus” Lucienne faced her queen, fixing her glasses. Lucienne’s tone questioning Love's faith in the Dream King. Eoster couldn’t blame her. She couldn’t convince herself of any different outcome than defeat on her husband’s part.

She was also furious with his recklessness, doing the same mistake that got him imprisoned in first place and led to the loss of his prized possessions. Acting before thinking, acting before having a proper conversation with his wife, without tracing a proper plan.

He may not respect her as a wife. He may not want to talk about their relationship. But, politically speaking, she was his queen, she was responsible for his realm in his absence. The bare minimum would’ve been to let her know that he planned to throw his freedom away and deliver it on a silver platter to Lucifer.

Love took a step forward, enterwinding her fingers pressing them against her corset. She kept her face neutral but her green eyes sparkled with authority. It occurred to her that Lucienne never had to take direct orders from Love. Usually Love’s requests were supported by a previous order from Dream. How strange it must be to have to blindly follow Love’s without the king’s approval.

Love took that into account when choosing her words. “As you should. Defying my husband was a mistake and Lucifer will learn it the hardest way. Morningstar is a sore loser and might not want to give in easily. We must be prepared. When he returns, My lord husband will be displeased if we let erratic demons creep into his realm.” Promises of a doubtful return that Love made as a certainty.

The librarian's eyes kept still on the Queen, as if looking for something of a doubt. But Love turned her back, dismissing her “ Protection spells might be enough,”

Lucienne bowed before leaving the throne room, going to the library.

Love waited until she was certain she was alone, taking a deep breath, as filling her lungs with air would somehow ease her mind. Losing the posture, dragging herself up to the throne, sitting under it, leaning her head in the seat. She couldn’t occupy his seat. It could send the wrong message, like a claim she didn’t want to state. Besides, even the thought of occupying his seat seemed like a bad omen, like she was already sealing Dream’s fate. Sitting at the thorne's feet seemed more appropriate. Always at Morpheus' feet, never at his side. A position quite too familiar.

She should’ve known that his sympathy last night was hiding something. His secrecy with Matthew, and the sudden stop when she arrived. He knew he was going. This was the type of thing he should discuss with her, not with his raven. And more importantly, he should not waste their last night together in poor attempts at flattering!

Did he think she was that naive? Or that superficial? That a praise here and there, a kind word, would thaw her frozen heart, so she could grieve for him? For his realm? Beg to Lightbringer for mercy?

Love was already imagining the mess of his loss. There would be two sides that would split entities and anthropomorphic manifestations. The mortal realm would be chaos for who knows how long. Some would probably lose their lives, realms could be destroyed. All would burden her shoulders, terrorize her nights.

One side would support the narrative of: Morpheus lost in the oldest game. Suppose Lucifer wants to enslave the Dream Lord. The angel gets control of the Dreaming. And since Lady Love is bonded by the Book Before Time under the laws of the True Marriage, to Morpheus, she carries half of his soul. Since the Dream King is enslaved and Eoster is also part of his essence, Lucifer has a claim of Eoster and the Garden. Not only the fallen angel would have two realms, but two powerful entities as playthings. That would be his claim. A very good, and logical one, in Eoster’s opinion. Easy to support.

The other side, the one that Love would try to persuade Lords and Ladies to abide, would be: Morpheus lost in the oldest game. Lady Love is bonded to Dream by the Book Before Time under the laws of True Marriage. Since Lady Love carries half of his soul, and The Dreaming is her husband’s essence, The Dreaming is hers, as it is Morpheus’. By ancient law, before the oldest game, The Dreaming and her husband’s creations are hers. And since she wasn’t the one who lost nor agreed to gamble her realms, Lucifer has no valid claims. Morpheus may be enslaved and unable to rule, but not his creations, since they are now Love’s.

It didn’t sound strong like the first one, but that would be what Love would have to claim, to stay in the Dreaming, deny and resist its take over. Protect her subjects. Her husband might be awful to her, but he created dreams, nightmares and stories, beyond her wildest imagination. They carry an important hole in the mortals' realm. To let it be destroyed and corrupted was unthinkable.

She remembered the night before, her husband’s soft touch, the way his gaze rested in her face, his words. It was a farewell. He knew that he might not come back from Hell. Love didn’t know how to feel. He was imprisoned before, but she was not aware of it, of any suffering, and he was imprisoned by a mortal. Now it’s different. Lucifer could, or better, he wil.condemn him to eternal servitude, there would be no escape, no hope. She would be deserted. Alone. Fighting for a realm that the King never made to be a home for his Queen. A realm she felt responsible for.

It wasn’t like before, when she didn’t know if he would be back. This time, if he didn’t, he wouldn’t. “My Lady, what do we do, now?” Elijah’s voice made her raise her head from her hand, putting the curls that covered her vision out of her face. “Pray, my cupid. Seal the palace against demons and pray.”

The minutes turned to what seemed hours. Love heard a clock that wasn’t around, in her heels clicking on the floor, in Lucienne turning the pages, even in Elijah’s careful watch over the symbols draw to keep away demons. Love tried to make herself useful after pacing around the throne room, double checking all the entrances. Love hesitated in entering her husband’s quarters, but shook the feeling away, doing what was needed.

The last bedroom to be checked was hers. Lucienne left it half opened, and Love stayed in the middle of the hallways looking at the double doors. She wasn’t ready to deal with the past that laid inside that room. No longer she was the queen that lived there. She missed who she was. Hoping for it all, believing in the future promised in those forged letters by someone who wasn’t the one laying beside her. A blissful life, like the mortal’s she blessed, full of passionate love making, whispers of sweet promises, not a need in the universe the other couldn’t fulfill.

Love heard from someone she couldn’t remember, that the King of Dreams was so infatuated by his lovers that mortals would often dream of them. Love was humble enough to not think that it would be her case, but she did blindly believe that he would love her.

The memories from inside her room begged to differ.

Eoster took a deep breath, deciding to check the windows of the balcony, and go back to the throne room, not staying longer than necessary.

As she stepped inside, a crunchy noise was heard. Broken glass. She couldn’t tell if the smell of the room persisted from all those years, or it was her imagination. Roses, jasmyne and wine. It took her back, centuries ago. Her bed was a mess. Stained and creased white linen, pillows ripped, two in the bed, one on the floor, swan feathers everywhere. There were dresses tossed aside in her chaise lounge, unmatching heels scattered through the bedroom. Her vanity had a broken mirror. It was a disaster. A perfect scenery of the lowest point in their marriage.

Flashes from that night came straight to her head, like cutted scenes from a movie. Love’s head burned from each memory. Disgusting pleas, mixed with sobs, she collapsed on the floor. Head down in defeat, incomprehensible mumbles and eyes filled with tears that made it impossible to see anything other than a blurred vision of the marble floor.

She could feel his eyes on her back, but she didn’t care. He needed to get away from her.

“Leave”. Eoster repeated the words he coldly said it. Love never understood how he could watch her defeated and broken at his feet and not do anything at all.

It didn’t bring tears to her face. It wasn’t a sad memory. It was sour and left a weird taste in her mouth, something she felt ashamed of. That night, she questioned her own nature, if she deserved to be Lady of the Four Loves. Both said awful despicable things to each other.

One thing Love never admitted to anyone was that his decision in banning her from the Dreaming was for the best. Distance saved their marriage, not exactly saved, but preserved it. It calmed their nerves. Steady their emotions. Both could do their work, focus on the mortal realm, attend to their creations. True Marriage requires half of a soul, but it doesn't require them to share a home, a bed or even talk to one another. They would be together in reunions, conferences, sitting side by side in official events. He would summon her, when needed, and she would abide by his requests.

Love finished crossing the room, leaving the past behind, checking her balcony window, and taking a seat. Resting her back against the wall, she felt the cold silent air brushing against her face and brought her knees to her chest hugging them. Early stars shining above the realm's silhouette. The same view she used to stare while waiting. For the maids to fix her up to some event. For the Seamstress while adjusting one of her dresses for the evening. For Elijah. For Lucienne. For Dream. Her bedroom was more of a waiting room than anything else. All her life all she seemed to do is to wait.

Maybe it would be a good thing Lucifer taking control of the Dreaming. Maybe she could present herself favorable, relief even. The fallen angel could destroy the palace, destroy the rooms that terrorize her memories. Maybe Love could suggest to Lucifer to make Morpheus relieved their marriage but in her point of view. A torture even the cruelest demons would applause. It was tempting.

“ Lady wife” Eoster’s heart skip a beat, shutting down those traisoning thoughts. For the first time she was relieved to hear that deep calm voice. Tears almost came to her eyes, and she let out a breath she didn’t know was holding since earlier. Without turning, she could feel his presence at the door. “ You’ve returned.” She said it without any hint of worry.

“You seemed surprised. Did you not believe in me?” Love could feel his vacillating steps, like approaching a cornered dangerous animal. He remembers. She turned defeated, tired. “Don’t. Please” He stood quietly. She turned to him, saying in a quiet voice“ Why didn’t you tell me?” He raised an eyebrow “ Would you care?”

“I am your queen.” He perfectly knew what that meant. It didn’t matter if she cared or not. She should’ve known.

“ I had to restore my helmet.” He said it was the most logical response in the world. A final answer that justifies his whole sequence of inconsequential decisions.

It sent Love over the edge. Was he that oblivious? Didn’t he stop for even a second and think? She was at her feet quickly. “ You had to think sensibly, not impulsively barging into Hell!” She screamed angrily pacing through the bedroom, her steps almost opening a hole on the floor.

“ I was sensible! I did what I had to do. How did you expect me to rule?!” He replied screaming back. It came back to the fighting. The only language they seemed to understand.

“ I don’t know! But you should’ve consulted me! Talked to me!” Love’s voice got weak, her hand holding the bridge of her nose, shaking her head in denial, trying to avoid the knot in her throat. Taking a few seconds to regroup herself. Avoid all those convoluted feelings.

“Since when the Lady of the Four Loves is an expert in challenges in Hell?“ Morpheus grinded his teeth, trying to shove his angriness away. Why couldn’t she understand? He was rebuilding his realm. That was the only way he had to restore his possessions, even if that meant to put himself at risk. The night before, she made it perfectly clear that she did not care. Why was she upset?

“ Since when the Lord of Dreams is?!” Love was shaking, she didn't know how she was even able to keep walking back and forth in the room, because every fiber in her body was trembling.

“ Do you have any idea what the last hours have been like for me?! Making promises I didn’t even know if they were real. Promises that even I didn’t believe! Your librarian was in shambles, so I had to pick it up. And I didn’t know what to do. Prepare for a war? Search for you? Sit in the Garden and do nothing?!”

He tried to argue between her rants. “ I was going to tell you, last night. But you left before I could even say anything. I was trying-”

“Don’t lie to yourself!You didn’t plan to tell me anything! You were trying to court me to bed!” Poorly, she wanted to add. She saw men do it for centuries over love stories after love stories, telling their muses whatever they want to hear, luring them away from their senses with pretty words and impossible promises. It is easy for an innocent heart to fall for it, but not a seasoned one.

“ I did this for me as I did for you! Don’t you think that I know what would happen if Lightbringer or any other knew about my wounded state? If I did nothing, and waited, they would’ve come. And The Dreaming and you, I might add-” Love knew he was being sincere but couldn’t keep away her anguish.

“I was scared, Morpheus!” She let it out, before realizing what she said. He was stunted, his deep blue eyes confused but kept quiet. And she dared to repeat. Even if every inch of her body was trying to keep her from vomiting all her feelings. She repeated quietly, like she didn't want him to listen. Like admitting it to him, was admitting defeat. Her pride wonded by the confession. “I was scared. I thought…” She spoke before any sense of regretness made her quiet “You barely returned, and you were gone. Again. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid. For me, for the Dreaming, for your subjects… for you”

Both dropped in silence, things were escalating. Both their chest going up and down, they could feel the thickness of the air, the bedroom seemed smaller, and their loud voices seemed to echo through the walls.

The raven haired king never, in centuries, saw his wife in such a state. He remembered her earlier years of being lovable and understanding. The later years of her melancholy and bitterness, and her recent coldness and passive aggressiveness. But, apart from one time, he never saw her distressed, arms and hands trembling, trying to hold herself. Love never showed any weakness in front of him. She silently cried, but every single inch of her always breath royalty, always a proper queen. Even in their fallouts.

He didn’t know why he made his way towards her. Last night, Dream saw that Eoster preferred to avoid his touch, recoiling from even the most lightly innocent brush of fingers. But he was taken aback by her sincerity. The confession of fear, obliviousness in face of a situation he didn’t prepare her to. He felt guilt. His wife knew nothing of the Dreaming. He never bothered to teach her.

Now trying to understand her place, he couldn’t contain himself, but to walk to her, close enough to touch her face, her elaborated hairstyle was semi-undone, her brown curls falling in her face. Dream put them behind her ear, making his queen look at him. At first, by impulse, she tried to get away from him, but concead mumbling again about being scared. “ I won’t ask for your forgiveness. I did what needed to be done. Still, it was never my intention to distress you. Leaving you in the dark, I thought…”

He didn’t, actually. The Dream King thought his wife wouldn’t worry. He never thought she would be terrified with his departure. He didn’t think about the burden he dropped inadvertently at her feet. Seeing her as only his unhappy wife, not his queen. Queen of the Dreaming. The Queen who would deal with the consequences if anything happened differently than his win. An entity with no experience in quarrels beyond the ones of a relationship.

Morpheus didn’t know his wife at all, that was clear by the shock of knowing she would try to defend his realm. Even after the suffering he inflicted on her.

Dream leaned in,letting his forehead rest against hers, as both of his hands secured her face, whipping the salty tears in her cheeks. Eoster let out a deep sigh, still listening, she didn’t try to wriggle out of his touch. Morpheus whispered to her, trying to calm her down, like an intimate prayer shared only between them. “ Hope made me victorious. It is what kept my strength, even when Morningstar had the upper hand. Laying on the ground, almost giving up. It was hope that upheld me. Hope for the Dreaming, for a new dawn… for us.”

Love’s voice was almost a whisper, and if he wasn’t close enough to see her lips move, he would’ve thought it was the whispers of the wind. She frowned, letting the best of her senses behind, ignoring the pain, the memories, nudging against his nose, looking for comfort even for a brief moment. Eyes closed, as if opening them meant to face reality. “Husband… You yearn for what lovers share, that only lovers long and grieve for. Only lovers hope.”

She taught that lesson a hundred times to protegées: When lovers are together, they can give each other everything that matters to the heart: Affection, romance, friendship, passion, fidelity, devotedness, but only if their hopes are in perfect harmony. Strangers that share a bed when the flesh craved for warmth, or that were tricked into marrying someone they thought they loved, are never in harmony. Their hopes are always somewhere else.

Only lovers hope. He knew what she meant. They weren’t lovers. Never were. Silence fell among them again, his thumb caressing her soft wet skin. Love didn’t remember if she ever felt such gentleness emanating through his body, calming her trembling self. She didn’t want to let go.

“My Lady, it is all I plead you ” He begged against her skin, their lips almost brushing against each other. Love felt the warmth of his hands against her cheek. She covered his hand with her own, slightly pending her head in his hand. She opened her green watery eyes, staring at him. Either they look brighter with tears, or Morpheus never really paid attention to them.

Eoster knew what he was asking from her. A vow of faith. To believe in his hope. To believe in his change. With all of her heart she wished she could. The words she so longed to hear. She once wished for his love, with all of her heart and self. Now he wanted her to believe in their future.

She wished she could, she wished her memory was feeble, obliviating all those painful recollections of their time together. His coldness, neglectfulness, disregard. The constant humiliations of being looked at with pity in reunions and having to pretend to not see it, having to endure with elegance, mistress after mistress. Having her intentions questioned constantly. Her devotion, inquisitioned by her own husband. Tossed aside, used for relief and discarded. A pretty accessory parading around in the Prince of Stories’ arm. A cruel joke that Desire could tell to amuse others.

“I want to believe, my lord. How I wish I could…” She let the words trail off, pressing her hands harder against his, as if she could make it happen by physically holding onto him, holding the moment.

She wished to forget the past, the truth and live in this ethereal parenthesis where her husband cared, where he looked at her with worry, sorrow, guilt, and he yearned for her. A parenthesis between the quests to find his belongings.

But the truth hovered between them. It was smothered by a brief second, but it was there, already reopening the drift between them. It was impossible to be ignored.

The truth was they were spouses.

Not lovers.

They never were

@secretdreamlandmentality @littlemoistcarrot @lokigirlszendaya

#THE SANDMAN #THE SANDMAN FANFIC #DREAM OF THE ENDLESS FANFIC #MORPHEUS X READER #MORPHEUS X WIFE #MORPHEUS X OFC #DREAM OF THE ENDLESS X READER #LORD MORPHEUS #EOSTER #QUEEN OF LOVE #SANDMAN NETFLIX #WHAT DREAMS KNOW ABOUT LOVE?#DREAM OF THE ENDLESS #TOM STURRIDGE #THE SANDMAN MASTERLIST

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tcustodisart · 1 year ago

Note

What are some cute moments that occur throughout the different acts that aren’t necessarily in the game but live in your head rent free?

Oh, this one is going to be a long answer, because there's a lot of squatters in my head and there's a lot to be unleashed. Let's start with this doodle with the boys playing lanceboard at camp and continue under the cut. Lots of cringe and brainrot incoming, so brace yourself.

Act 1:

Connie is constantly bickering with Astarion over him stealing his journal. Gale suggest to cast arcane lock on it, but Connie knows it won't stop that gremlin from reading it so why bother.

This sad pile of rugs is where I imagine Connie sleeps in Act 1. Additional Astarion line: "Damn darling, you live like this?"

During the first romance scene Connie tells Shart about his family, about how he and his brother know the city inside and out, about his parents and the tavern they run, about the trap incident. It's the most he talked to someone who wasn't his family or his crow in years. He wishes that night would never end.

Connie sends letters to his family via Faust, he stops after entering Underdark.

Act 2:

I mentioned it before that Connie is not taking the Shadow Curse very well. He misses the sun, misses the grass, he's unable to contact his family, Shart has distanced herself from him. Karlach notices it and tries to cheer him up. They end up having long talks almost every night. That's the moment their friendship evolves from just friends to besties.

When Connie finds the second warding bond ring, he wishes he could give the other one to Shadowheart, but finds the moment inappropriate. He ends up giving her the ring at the beginning of Act 3.

Act 3:

I have a lot of stuff for this act.

This is inspired by one of Jaheira's lines: "'The Cub and the Crow'- sounds like a cautionary tale. As it probably should." Connie draws her a mock up cover for a kids book. Jaheira sticks it to the traveling chest (I mostly store food there, so to me traveling chest = fridge).

Connie goes through a serious breakdown at the start of this act (after a companion is abducted), he ends up crying and saying that for the first time he doesn't believe they're going to make it, that he'll never hug his mom, never hear his brother sing again, won't be able to tell his step dad that he saw Darkmaw the Wicked. He's being comforted first by Jaheira and then by the rest of his party.

His favorite armor gets damaged one time, he's very upset about it. But the next morning he finds it magically repaired (Astarion fixed it, from the start of Act 3 they become besties).

This wip that I'm very slowly working on happens during act 3. Connie makes some flower crowns and talks about how his mom taught him to do that. I'm not going to say more, because I really want to finish that comic.

Connie has a deal with Popper that he'll pay him double for every night orchid he finds (I actually did that in game, I bantered him more money for the flower than he asked for, I love that little guy so much).

This one is more funny than cute but when Connecticut Tav was younger and still lived in Baldur's Gate he used to visit Sharess's Caress pretty regularly because it was the best way to practice drawing people. He really enjoyed talking with the workers there, he eventually convinced them that maybe creating an union isn't such a bad idea. He ended up being banned from entering the brothel because of that. So when the party approaches it to meet Voss, he's very nervous that the owner will remember him (she does). There's a dialogue in my head but it would work better with some visuals, so maybe one time I'm going to draw it.

In my head, the cottage they end up living in is Connie's old hunting hut. So after the conversation with Shadowheart about her plans for after defeating the brain, he suggest that it would be the perfect place to go. He then draws the house to show her how it looks like, tells her that it's surrounded by a forest, there's a lake nearby, a small stable that can be turned into a barn if needed, and that he's not sure about the quality of the soil, but he did grow some herbs there, so maybe it's going to be good enough to grow flowers.

At the end of the game Connie decides to stay in Baldur's Gate for a while to help his family fix their tavern (which was heavily damaged). He tells Shart to go the house I mentioned before, because he wants her to start her new life as soon as possible + because it would be better for her parents. He stealthily puts his journal in her stuff with a note attached to it saying that he finished it this morning and she can read it if she wants to. He also gives her Faust so she can write him letters whenever she wants to. After 2 tendays he arrives at the cottage with some gifts (night orchid bulbs and a pamphlet about how to take care of them, there was supposed to be another gift, but he wasn't able to find it just yet, but that's for another story).

Epilogue party (because I'm that insane):

It's been sitting in my wips for more than two months, so I don't know if I'll be able to finish it. But during the party Connie and Shadowheart take 10 minute brake to visit the place from the first romance scene. They have a very similar conversation like before, but their roles are reversed now - It's Connie asking questions about Shart's current life. "Tell me something about yourself, but no tadpoles, weird artifacts, petty goddesses. Something about you."

#ask me anything #bg3 #connecticut tav #oh oof this took some time #but know this annon I am giving you a kiss on the cheek and I'm paying for our imaginary kids' collage for asking this question

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cozzzynook · 1 year ago

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Rodimus has fallen in love and is about to bond with Getaway. When Ratchet and Drift sit him down and show him evidence of Getaway cheating and he's devastated.

Personally I can never see Rodimus ever liking Getaway in any capacity but I can see them using each other as a quick frag when they first meet.

Its one of the worst experiences Rodimus has in his life and he doesn’t even overload. Getaway asked and he made a face before standing up and just walking out of Getaway’s hab completely unsatisfied and going to meet up with one of his aft call bots that he knows will get him off.

That night he heads to join, Cyclonus, Tailgate and Whirl for a frag session because he needs three very well experienced and nasty mechs to get the horrible feeling and thought of Getaway out of his memory files and off his frame.

He’s feeling a lot more satisfied hours later when he leaves the trios hab with a nice limp in his gate and a tiredness only a good fragging can give a bot.

He doesn’t think of Getaway or their horrible time until he and his crew stop on a planet and he meets the con twins Skyquake and Dreadwing. He’s smiling so wide with his spoiler bouncing and valve twitching just itching for a fun time as he locks optics with the two.

Before he knows it he’s bent wide over with two huge spikes stuffing his port like the spike slut he is as they both thrust inside of him with a servo choking his neck cables just the way he likes it and another slapping his sensitive valve raw.

Its when they finish and carry him back to his ship for Magnus to take does he see Getaway glaring at him and he’s so confused as to why until he remembers the horrible time they had together and immediately pushes the thought aside with a shiver of disgust.

Really, there was no way the mech actually thought lasting less than five minutes was gonna sate him. He knows he’s a slut but even sluts need more than five minutes.

He purposely tries to never think on the encounter again only to have the same issue when he’s on the bridge.

Magnus and Megatron are standing on either side of him, servos gently caressing both his sides making his tanks flutter and his aft wiggle as he smiles giddy and leans into them.

He’s thinking of all the fun they’ll have together as they usher him towards the door where it opens to reveal Getsway glaring angrily at him making him confused all over again.

Its Magnus stepping forward asking what Getaway needs with a clipped tone that makes the other look away and walk off.

He feels himself shiver in pure disgust as he remembers once again, how terrible their time was and how pitiful his stroke game felt. He tells the two as much after Megatron stares down where Getaway was last seen. He doesn’t want the mech to get hurt but he does wish he’d stay away from him.

He gives Magnus a nice, long surprise under the desk gift after making sure Getaway had a completely different schedule than him. He helped the mech organize two book shelves after, he didn’t care at all for stuff like that, but it made Magnus smile and happy so he did it.

He was having his fun as usual with the conjunx pair and the conjunx trio along with a spike swirl for Rewind and Chromedome as a job well done on helping repair a part of the ship. Along with letting Nautica use her servo to spank him when her frustrations became too much. He allowed Skids to watch and couldn’t help giggling at how the mech got so nervous when he moaned looking his way.

Rodimus was, to put it frankly, a slut.

He was decepticon share ware when he was Hot rod and changing to Rodimus, even when he was Rodimus prime, did nothing to curb his need for spike. Sure it lowered his libido but that put it on the healthy high scale instead of beyond the high scale. His doc First aid was grateful while he worked it so he could enjoy the more deeply kinky intimate parts of fragging instead of going so rough he would break.

He’s been on berth leave multiple times for having his insides shifted and his valve sprained.

“Hey Roddy,” he felt his spoiler bounce and his tank soften, his optics felt softer at the sight of Drift coming towards him. But that changed when he noticed the mech looking unhappy.

“What’d I do?”

He never fragged Drift or Ratchet.

They never invited him to berth so he never flirted or did anything inappropriate.

He was a slut.

Not a creep or perv who couldn’t respect boundaries.

“Nothing Roddy, you haven’t done anything,” Drift reassured. The mech put an arm around his waist like he always did and led him back to his hab where Ratchet was sitting down waiting for them.

He sat between the two on the couch and felt an awkward tension resting heavily in the room.

He felt better having Ratchet shift him onto his lap but he still felt nervous.

“Okay, whats up guys? What’d I do?”

“Roddy,” Drift sighed his designation and he was quick to apologize, “Stop that. You didn’t do anything kid. We just wanted to talk.”

His optic ridges touched but he nodded.

“Its about you and Getaway,” Ratchet said after a moment silence, “the mechs been….”

“He’s been stalking you, even with your two different schedules,” Drift finished, his fangs poked out and his servos were tight.

“Stalking me? But..why? We aren’t a thing…I’ve never…”

“Aw damnit.”

“Kid?”

“The first few days in…I..um..well its cause of that. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it,” Rodimus sighed rubbing his face plate and going to stand when Ratchet and Drift held him in place on the medics lap.

“He harrassin ya cause he wants ya in berth again?”

The way both of them of them lock onto him, protective fields shrouding him making it hard to vent but so easy to melt against.

“No..I..I don’t know what he wants..I..well..I like to..explore my options..sometimes,” he blushed in a dazed.

“Kid ya like spike. We know. The crew knows. A lot of cybertron knows. It’s fine kid. I’m called the party ambulance for a reason.”

“We know your reputation Roddy. We don’t care.”

“Speak for yourself kid. I’m happy you’ve slowed down and haven’t caught any viruses. First aid used to have a mental breakdown when he had to out your valve back into place.”

“Ratchet!”

“What Kid? Its fine. I’ve popped mine back into place a few times myself,” Ratchet shrugged at Rodimus who looked…beyond shell shocked even if he shouldn’t. His reputation was very well known.

“I..how long have you two know?”

“Since we’ve known you,” Drift said easily, he was still angry but the digit he used to brush along Rodimus’s cheek was anything but. It was hard not to lean into it.

“Wait..if you knew I was share ware,” Drift’s servo gripping his face plate giving him a sharp look made him back track.

“I mean, used to be shareware,” he rushes. It still doesn’t loosen Drifts hold so he continues.

“Why are you always inviting me over and having me spend the night if you know I’m a spike slut?”

Maybe he should’ve put more thought into all the times they had him sit on their laps or would cuddle with him in berth and make sure he couldn’t leave. Or when he’d cook dinner and lunch every day and one of them always digit fed him with a now noticeably lame excuse of “we want to make sure you eat enough.”

“Told ya we’d have to spell it out,” Ratchet grouched, wrapping his arms around the speedster who felt weary but unafraid.

“We like you Roddy. More than what you think,” Drift interrupted his musings, thumb rubbing his cheek.

“We’ve been in love with you for a very long time now and we’re pretty sure you feel the same. Even if you don’t want to admit it,” Drift finished.

“Kid you run faster than Blurr from affection thats not a one night sexual conquest. So we figured it best to ease you into the idea of being with us. We don’t have any intent to change who you are. We know you love spike and we’re fine with it. We just want you to come home to us at the end of it.”

He felt his optics watering and he wanted to hide.

They were right of course.

He was afraid of romantic feelings, relationships, love.

But when it came to the two mechs holding him he couldn’t help but fall in love.

Subconsciously he lessened the amount of mechs he’d sleep with on a drastic scale the more time he spent with them intimately.

He didn’t want to give up his frag sessions with Megatron and Minimus or the wild rides with Cyclonus, Tailgate and Whirl, but he hadn’t really ventured out much aside from basic non penetration with Nautica, Chromedome and Rewind and letting Skids watch. Of course he had fun with Skyquake and Dreadwing, but he didn’t leave his comm number like he usually did for a second round.

“I don’t..please don’t..”

“Relax kid, we know. We know,” Ratchet let him curl up and hide.

It was embarrassing as it was needed.

“I’m not..you picked wrong. You shouldn’t want me.”

The engine rev from Ratchet was the first real warning and he kept silent.

“We know exactly who we picked Rodimus and we aren’t picking anyone else but the three of us.”

That was the second warning, hearing his designation from Drift was always serious and while his insecurities were tugging at him, he let Ratchets warm servo rubbing his thigh quiet the storm.

They stayed like that for a while.

Sitting on the couch until Rodimus felt Ratchet’s signs of stiffness.

He fell into rhythm without thinking much as he shifted and stood helping the mech up and using his outlier to warm the space between them.

Eventually they retired to berth where Ratchet and Drift locked Rodimus in a tangle of limbs.

He didn’t mind. It was grounding.

Helped him feel without panicking.

He looked down and let his digits curl loosely between theirs and day dreamed.

They didn’t say anything. Didn’t push or rush him.

They just enjoyed their time together and that made things feel..as easy as onlining.

Rodimus didn’t see or hear about Getaway after that but he did notice Drift cleaning energon off his sword and Ratchet wiping energon from his med kit.

He figured it best not to ask.

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mercurialmalcontent · 6 months ago

Text

My first Rook, Mimir!

He was a mysterious crypt baby raised communally by the Mourn Watchers. There's a long-running joke/rumor among them that he's a spirit that manifested itself a body somehow, born from how he was a quiet, serious child with a great affinity for spirits and the dead and eyes a shade of green most associated with the Fade. While this is highly unlikely, he was found in a part of the Necropolis that few but the Watchers and the undead had trodden and his parents were never identified.

While he never manifested any magical ability, he has an affinity for intricate work. Among his duties as a Watcher were maintenance and repair of the various mechanisms of the Necropolis -- from the mechanisms of the gates and locks to finer machinery, as well as seeing to the metalwork on the undead. He also dabbles in goldsmithing as a hobby, and gives gifts of grave-gold jewelry that he's made himself to those he cares most about.

Template by @arcandoria, get it here!

#dragon age #rook #rook ingellvar #mimir mourningstar #I alwasy get too caught up in things to think to take many screencaps so... that's the best one I have of him :')

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actuallyevilgay · 5 months ago

Note

This is a one-shot request/idea suggestion! I love the idea of Astarion and his consort redecorating the palace once the events of the game are finished. Obviously the city needs repairing, but what better place than to start with their home first? Cute things like picking out the color of the walls or deciding what rooms should be used for what. Maybe arguing over curtains or something.

Oneshot: What Remains

Ascended Astarion x male reader (tav = reader) DNI if you are a minor. Please read my about before replying. I'll upload this to my ao3 a bit later. Thank you for the request!

...................................................................................................................

You can’t tell how long you’ve been counting the hairs curling around Astarion’s ear, but it’s been some time. The light of sun down creeps through the construction site, getting more intense as it hits the paler aspects of his appearance.

He brushes and fidgets with it, tucking some strands away while he focuses on documents in his hands.

‘’The building’s barely there, and you’re pondering about.. Wallpaper?’’ You manage to get a glimpse of what he’s holding. They’re samples, in a variety of colors.

He appears startled for a second, realizing you’re not staying in the luxurious inn room you’ve been sharing for months, instead.. You’ve sneaked your way to the ruins of the crimson palace. It’s unsettling to the elf, since he’s usually fixated on your presence.

‘’The red one’s a bit too on the nose, don’t you think?’’ Astarion smiles as turns to you for a moment. His attention once more set on the remaining light in the sky.

You smirk, amused that you’ve caught him off guard.

‘’...I’m not judging, yet, but I don’t exactly see how you can be so fixated on wallpaper when the construction crew hasn’t even begun working on building a roof.’’ It’s just wood, materials, everything’s scattered about. A few lines drawn in the sand, a few holes dug. The crew itself is currently sharing a meal around a campfire.

‘’I’ve been mapping the layout in my mind, you can’t get a feel for it unless you’re walking here.’’ He gestures as he begins to trail around the markers. ‘’A nice long hallway, fitted.. Long glass windows, to let in light, but not too much.’’ He trails back towards you. ‘’Over there, a courtyard that leads to several sections of the palace itself.’’ He pauses, taking notes in his documents. ‘’Hmm, a fountain would fit the aesthetic.. But some guests might disagree with having running water so close to… Well, not that my spawn have to worry about that, it’s our estate.’’ He begins to mumble, returning to his thoughts before turning to you.

You ponder about it yourself for a moment, he keeps calling it a palace. A palace… You certainly had enough land for it to be a palace, Not a manor, not a mansion. The estate was a palace. The servants would call it their home, but its true owners would be you and Astarion. Heroes, nobility. Saviours of Baldur’s gate. Vampires.

‘’There’s a lot of land marked.. A lot more than I remember.’’

‘’Well, my treasure.. The duke was so kind as to reward us with some extra, seeing as the netherbrain blew up large portions of the city, including.. The.. Szarr estate.’’ Astarion briefly shudders at the mention of that name. ‘’Saves the trouble of taking it down myself, but now I get to be expensively creative.’’

He steps on what remains of the old office space. The elevator has been locked down and hidden with protective glamour. He traces the broken walls as he walks up to a very dusty desk. ‘’What a waste of all the champagne he had laying about.’’

He stress tests the wood before sitting down on it. The chair itself rests on the floor, missing a leg. Astarion’s fingers then glide towards the drawers as he peeks inside and pulls out a tiny bottle of alcohol. ‘’Unopened, too.’’ With a giddy expression he rips off the bottle’s lid and takes a whiff. ‘’My love, I think you might like this one.’’

You walk up to the desk, eyeing it with some concerns. It’s sturdy, but you don’t want to sit down and potentially ruin the moment in the event it breaks. The vampire lord gives you a playful look as you take the bottle and bring it to your lips.

‘’There’s blood in it.’’ The irony sweet flavour surprises you. You peer at the bottle, all it says is the name of what you assume is one of Cazador’s victims.. Or someone he had blood taken from. ‘’..Elven? It’s been well preserved with something..’’ You take another sip before you hand it back to Astarion.

‘’Not familiar at all? Hmm. Interesting.’’

It takes a moment for you to realise the bottle says ‘’ancuinin’’ Which is Astarion’s last name.

‘’..Did you just feed me your 200 year old own blood?’’

The vampire lord bursts out laughing.

‘’..I’ve always liked your wicked side, but this is a little..’’

‘’Oh darling, if anything, I’d want you to have the last reminder of my mortal days.. I drained you myself, it’s only fair.’’ He begins to stare off in the distance, possibly possessed by some old memory. His eyes lower to the ground, he lets out a sigh.

‘’He just kept yours..?’’

‘’I figure he kept it for a special occasion, one long since passed. It’s odd, the scent is different. Out of everything, you’d think I’d recognise my own perfume? But my taste changed.’’

You casually take a swig from the bottle. Astarion grins.

‘’It is two hundred years old.. Preserved like wine.’’ You reach out with it towards him. ‘’It may be the past, still, it is part of you.’’

He looks hesitant, The earlier comfort and confidence he bore on his pale face fades as the sun goes down. His red eyes glow with unclear intent. His fingers trace your hand as he takes it.

The silence is earth shattering, he rolls the bottle in his hand. ‘’First time I saw it was when we.. Went to take my revenge.’’ The tips of his fingers trace the writing on the label.

‘’Out of all the cruel things he’s done.. This one simply.. Strikes me as odd. It could’ve been for magic purposes, or.. The blood of a family member, but no.’’

‘’When could he have taken it? Before I was gutted..? Did he scrape it off the cold stone floor, or did he take it before..’’ Astarion sighs.

‘’He possibly tried to preserve the memory, the reason for his fixation on me. And with this gone, I’ll bury that too.’’ He pauses before taking a small sip. A smile comes over his face.

‘’..I can even taste the arrogance I once had. Curious.’’

‘’Luckily it’s been replaced by this bigger, better ego.’’ You chime in, placing a hand on his cheek.

Astarion turns his attention back to you, leaning in onto your touch, despite your reluctance to sit on the desk he pulls you onto his lap dexterously.

You audibly gasp, as the wood shakes and creaks for a moment.

Astarion doesn’t mind it though, he puts the bottle to your lips, and you take another swig.. Savoring every drop as it pours down your throat.

‘’Handsome little consort.’’ Astarion speaks in a cheeky tone, enjoying the expression on your face.

You picture the night he turned you again, climbing over you, draining you empty.. It’s almost as if your minds collide in that shared fantasy, your hands reach out to grab hold of his shoulders, he falls down with you as the table collapses under the shared weight.

He doesn’t cry out in pain, he welcomes the floor. Your lips are touching and he moans in harmony with you.

‘’..Tav..’’ He heaves, arms locking you in by the hips. He licks the blood off your lips.

You can hear the sound of the construction crew nearby, their chattering breaks you out of the moment.

Astarion lets you go and gets up on his own.

‘’Oh, no marble floors.’’

‘’..What?’’

‘’No marble floors, you heard me. Slippery, it stains, too.’’ You point to the blood on the carpet. ‘’It’s going to cost more to make servants clean it up or to replace it..’’

‘’What about black marble..?’’

‘’No! And I saw the note about white curtains.. That’s a no too.’’

‘’..Darling..’’

‘’Being rich doesn’t mean we should be wasteful. We should be resourceful! That’s the deal.’’

‘’A little waste is just what nobles do! And flaunt the wealth.. Like we’re-’’

‘’We’re better than that.’’

‘’What about a summer estate..? It would be-’’

‘’Astarion.’’

‘’Fine.. I��ll cut out the plans for being a spoiled nuisance for now, but you’ll change your mind soon enough.’’

You fold your arm into his as you begin to walk back towards the inn together. ‘’The silken sheets are an exception.’’ You stick out your tongue as he scoffs.

‘’Of course they are! What’s the point of them otherwise?’’ He begins to rant about different fabrics as your mind drifts towards the dusky night sky.

You’re looking forward to eternity together.

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