#ah. i need a name for this au for my organization purposes... well. subject to change but | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hugh-lauries-bald-spot · 6 months

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If Jooster met without the social and financial implication, i.e. they're both servants, or gentlemen, do you believe they would still fall in love or is their relationship at leas partially due to their circumstances?

anon im obsessed with you. im obsessed with this.

TLDR they'd fall in love in every universe with every set of circumstances.

girlfail 4 girlboss is true no matter what social status they hold

heres what im thinking... (in mini, first meeting fic form)

Both servants AU:

Bertie and the Knight

I like to think of myself as a man of many capabilities, an iron will, a strength of character, an indomitable whatsit, a certain affability, a certain wit, irrespective of my Aunt's remarks on that matter. I may not be the most organized chap, nor the most tidy or capable of ironing, but I hardly see folding socks as being the measure of a man, what?

My employers seemed to hold a different opinion on the subject, though they often relied upon me for my quick-thinkedness, not that I had proven myself to be entirely reliable when fishing one out of the soup... I'll admit I often found myself in the reverse position, my employer pulling me out of some scheme or another gone pear-shaped...

One occasion left my employer, a Mr. Halloway, relying on his manservant, that is to say myself, to preform a scheme of his own invention, and he made it clear as... well something that is really quite clear, that it is imperative that this remain top secret. And a dashed difficult secret to keep. You see the lieu of this scheme happened to be Lady Halloway's Manor, a family reunion was to take place on the premises at the same time as this plot and well... I rather quickly found myself in somewhat soupy waters...

I had found the teapot, an ironing board, a frying pan, a box of matches and a bed-sheet, but I must have been struck by the same affliction that makes my good friend Barmy the man that he is, well you see I forgot what to do with the blasted things!

Then, in my moment of hapless peril did a Knight in black and pinstripe offer rescue, seemingly materializing out of the air itself!

"Excuse me, Mr. Wooster, I couldn't help but observe that you seem to be having some trouble tying these sheets around this teapot. Should you be requiring assistance?" he inquired, voice low and smooth and eloquent as my ears have ever heard, and I have spent my years among the noblesse, I have heard eloquence!

"Ah! Er, I mean that is to say no! That is to say no thank you Mr..." I sputtered hopelessly. You see the man was quite tall, standing a few inches above my own head, which is, you'll note, some 6-and-something feet from the ground. I'll admit I felt rather dwarfed in that moment, not that I particularly disliked the hastened pumping feeling in my chest.

"Jeeves." said Jeeves.

"Jeeves, right, yes. You need not worry yourself, Mr. Jeeves, rest assured that the Wooster brain will be able to... wrap itself around this conundrum in some way or another, what?" I assured him, not so steely in my conviction as I would have hoped...

"Indeed, Mr. Wooster... Though may I inquire as to the purpose of this... endeavour?" he asked once more, taking a hesitant glance at the ensemble of disjunctive materials I had amassed for what purpose?

I must say, feeling this man, Jeeves, broad chested and fit as he was looming over myself... I'd be hard-pressed to remember my own name at a time like this.

"Ah... ha, right... er, no, thank you, I believe I'll just... oh, well you know how these things work themselves out, hey...?" I replied, more useless and brainless as I'd ever been, which, my Aunts would say, is quite impressive.

"Indeed, Mr. Wooster." he spoke, and I couldn't help but notice the slight upward twitch of his lips and the cool, all-knowing shimmer in his dark eyes.

----

Both gentleman AU:

Where words fail, music speaks

I perused the hall upon entering it, greeting those I knew with idle pleasantries, introducing myself to those I did not. I mingled, engaged in topics of conversation far below my cognitive abilities though entertaining enough to stave off the urge to fabricate an explanation to excuse my early departure.

After some considerable time spent in placid conversation with distant acquaintances, I took notice of a man consorting among his companions by the grand piano. He appeared to be of the noblesse, although his attire denoted a certain unfamiliarity with appropriate dress for such an occasion, this demarked him from his associates who, to their credit, were composed marginally more suitably.

I parted ways with the gentleman with whom I'd been engaged in lacking conversation, on the premise of greeting an old friend who had newly arrived to the banquet. The man, chattering animatedly, took no notice of my approach as his hair, seemingly soft and almost buoyant, bounced atop his head as he spoke. His friends appeared off-put by my presence, one of them nudging him until he turned to face me.

"What ho!" the man greeted, his cheeriness alarming me somewhat as his wide eyes, the color of resplendent aventurine, seemed to beam brightly from within. "Bertram- Well, no, Bertie- yes Bertie Wooster." he added with a broad grin.

"Mr. Wooster..." I replied, temporarily at a loss for words as I met the man's extended hand with my own. His were cool, nimble, slender. I noted his fingertips on my hand, slightly calloused. I understood now why his party was huddled by the piano. "My name is Sir Reginald Jeeves."

"Oh, yes, well, good to meet you, Mr. Jeeves, rather... I say... You wouldn't happen to know who's bally shindig this would be, would you Jeeves?" he asked, leaning on the side of the pianoforte with a furrowed brow.

"I do believe the invitations were sent out on the part of a Sir Halloway, Mr. Wooster." I answered.

"And this Halloway fellow, I haven't had the pleasure as of yet, is he a... well is he a musical sort of chap?" Mr. Wooster inquired further, momentarily eyeing the instrument.

"It is my understanding that such is the case, Mr. Wooster."

"Oh, that is good news, eh, Jeeves? What is it that that Andersen johnny said about music. Something about words failing and so forth?" he asked, cheeks rosier with burgeoning excitement as his fingers seemed to play the notes on the piano's lid.

“Where words fail, music speaks.” I answered as he looked upon me with a kind of joyous gratitude I felt entirely undeserving to receive but grateful to witness.

"Truer words, what?"

"Indeed, Mr. Wooster..."

#my fic #jooster #ask #anon #sorry for the long reply youve inspired me anon #jeeves and wooster #reginald jeeves #bertie wooster #gentleman au #servant au #first meeting au

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dreamingofaizawa · 3 years

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Powerful Ch. 3

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU*

Warnings: Misogyny (not from Shouta), a dagger, kinda fluffy

Word Count: 3k

Author's Note: This took too damn long but here we are. Definitely coming out with another part or two, but the next one is gonna start at a huge timeskip so yeah. That'll be fun.

Anywho, Enjoy~

For Reference, this is the dress I describe in here.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

For your second night with Shouta you find yourself lost in thought, staring out at the stars. The stress from before the meeting never disappeared, only delayed. Now it’s all catching up, and your brain is struggling to sort everything out.

Shouta could be on the receiving end of some very misogynistic and traditional clans’ anger very soon. You’re relieved that your future husband is nothing like them, but the backlash he could be getting just by bringing you to a meeting so soon after the announcement is frightening, not to mention some irrational clans may decide to split off and find a rival Yakuza to adopt them. Even so, that’s probably the worst of the outcomes. It’s unlikely you’ll have to worry about either of your safety, though there is still a small chance.

For the second time Shouta wraps his arms around you, surrounding you with his scent and body heat.

“I hope this won’t become a habit, little one.” He presses his cheek to the side of your head, kissing your temple gently. His presence is calming, helps your overactive brain slow down.

“I just needed space to think.” He hums, the sound reverberating through your body.

“What could you be thinking about so late at night?” You don’t really want to tell him, but you figured it’s better than keeping it all in.

“I just worry about the backlash you’ll be getting after the meeting today. This organization is a traditional one, and women have always been kept away from the violent and criminal side of it for centuries. To suddenly name an onna-oyabun, and a woman that previously held a low rank at that, you’re bound to feel some sort of repercussions.” He squeezes you gently, kisses your temple again.

“That’s what you’re worrying your pretty head about? I’ll be fine, little one. Let’s go to bed.” He’s right, you suppose. There isn’t a lot that can affect him or his position, so there isn’t a lot you need to worry about. You nod, taking your weight off of him to go back to the room. You’re a little surprised when he picks you up again, scoops you off your feet and carries you to bed. He tugs you into him just the same as the night before, and once again you fall asleep to the soft thrum of his heart.

The next morning you’re woken by Shouta again. This time you don’t immediately pull away, instead choosing to bask in his embrace a few moments longer. It feels like you’ve known Shouta for years rather than hours, having seen some of the most intimate and private parts of him, and all you want to do is dig deeper. But of course, there’s time for that later.

“Come on, little one. It’s time to wake up. We’re going to see your parents today, and then we’ve got another meeting to attend.” You hum lightly then push off of him, taking a glance at his handsome face before getting out of bed to prepare for the day. You choose a dress you hadn’t worn in a while, one that felt like it would fit today’s events, a flowing black sundress with a halter neckline. Simple black heels pair nicely with it, as well as a small black clutch purse.

You aren’t anxious about Shouta meeting your parents. They aren’t as traditional as most, ideals and views closer to Shouta’s. All parties involved gave their bows in greeting, even Shouta, and brunch went by without a hitch. It wasn’t the usual cringey romcom scene where the parents ask ‘why do you love our daughter’. In fact, they know that the marriage is strategic. Of course, Shouta had made his thoughts clear, that he intends to ensure the union is enjoyable for the both of you. His honesty made a small smile worm its way onto your face, though you managed to hide it well enough.

Soon you’re on the road again, en route to the second meeting. You aren’t too surprised that Shouta already has two scheduled meetings back-to-back after the gala, he is a busy man after all.

The venue is another restaurant, this one not quite as high-end but just as beautiful, the entire massive building shaped like a circle and a koi pond around the perimeter. A bridge is all that connects the sidewalk with the building. You and Shouta are guided through by a host, and out a back door where another bridge connects to a separate island in the extended pond, the structure enclosed with sheer beige curtains.

Again, conversation abruptly stops when you enter. You’ll have to get used to it, you suppose. You sit, and the meeting begins. The subject is mostly territory disputes, bargaining for territory extensions or swaps with the others, all of them trying to work out strategies that benefit not only themselves but other clans as well. You keep silent throughout, listening carefully and learning, taking information and analyzing it. There must be someone Shouta doesn’t like in the meeting, because when the most important details are worked through, he excuses himself to the restroom once again.

You wonder, briefly, why he’d choose to play the same trick a second time in a row. If he does it too often his plan would become transparent, though one could argue not doing it enough would be just as easy to read. You don’t know how often he excuses himself from these meetings, so you decide to leave it in his hands.

Fortunately for you, it would seem no man here is willing to speak about your presence. It’s been almost ten minutes and none of them has said a word to or about you, choosing instead to discuss territories a bit further. Though you were beginning to question why Shouta hadn’t yet returned. Surely one would get suspicious, and one did, glancing toward the main building. It was then you all shifted your attention to Shouta, who stood at the opposite end of the bridge speaking into his phone. So that’s why he’s taking so long.

And unfortunately, that meant these men were relatively safe.

“So what’s the woman doing here?” It was barely a whisper, but you could hear it even over the sounds of the pond. A glance up shows the blonde to your right had leaned over to the man next to him. He’s much younger than the man from yesterday, maybe in his mid-late twenties, his hair clearly not natural. The one he’d whispered to flicked his gaze up, catching your own, and shouldered the blonde who subsequently looked to you. He cracks a cheeky smile, a poor attempt to cover himself really.

“Ah, Onna-oyabun, it’s good to finally see the Black Dragon’s wife-to-be.” It would seem news travels fast, and the blonde is much less bold than the older man. You crack your own smile, a sickly sweet show of teeth that hid a venomous bite.

“The woman has a name. Please, do not be afraid to use it in discussion. And I will tell you exactly what I told the previous oyabun who questioned my presence. I am here because Shouta wants me to be.” His smile doesn’t falter, but his eye visibly twitches at your response. It’s almost amusing to see his composure slip. It’s less amusing when he glances back to where Shouta is still on the phone.

“With all due respect I’m not afraid, I simply do not feel the need. And my question was not directed at you, but at my associate here.” He loops an arm over the shoulder of the man he’d asked, the dark-haired man wide-eyed and nervous. You aren’t sure how to answer his quip without rising tension, but Shouta made it clear you’re to be commanding a room just as he does, so you choose to strike a nerve and stir the pot. For added effect you let your face drop into a deadpan, tilt your chin up just a hair and glare.

“Most would feel it necessary to use a person’s name or title when discussing anything regarding them, especially in their presence. Therefore I can’t help but feel you may not have any respect for me when you clearly should.” You could see the muscles in his jaw clench as he ground his teeth, his nostrils flaring with his anger. You nearly let a smile crawl onto your face at the satisfaction of knowing you’d angered an asshole like him with only your words.

“Maybe I don’t respect you. What are you going to do about it?” The man still under his arm stiffens, a hand slapping the blonde’s chest, his eyes locked on the entrance to the room. Shouta stands there, but the blonde seems to either not notice or not care. You aren’t given time to answer his rhetorical question.

“Nothing. You can’t do a thing about it, because you hold no power over me.” He’s elbowed this time, the dark-haired man trying harder to get the blonde’s attention off of you and onto the man he should be fearing right about now. To be fair, Shouta stands almost behind the blonde, who sits to your right, so it isn’t hard to believe he doesn’t see him. You just let him dig his own grave.

“And you hold no power over me because you’re a woman. A woman out of her place and on the wrong side of business, let alone holding a rank much lower than mine.” The man beneath the blonde’s arm had given up, choosing to bow his head down and stay silent. It’s Shouta who speaks next.

“I believe it’s you who holds a much lower rank than her.” The blonde’s face goes pale, his shit-eating grin dropping faster than a sinking stone.

“In case you hadn’t heard the news yet I’ve assigned her a title, and I expect you to use it. She may have asked you to use her name, but you should address her as Onna-oyabun any time she is brought up in discussion, regardless of whether or not either of us are present.” He strides up behind you and places a hand on your bare shoulder, just like yesterday. You can’t help but feel his positioning is on purpose, physically placing you in front of him.

“Are you ready to go, little one?” You nod, rising from your seat and taking a small bow signaling your leave. Shouta lets a hand rest on your lower back, guiding you out, but you overhear the same blonde whisper under his breath. You’re definitely not meant to hear it.

“The Dragon can’t always be around to save you, brat.” You both freeze in your tracks, Shouta’s eyes wide and nostrils flaring with anger. Before he can turn to react you lean in and whisper in his ear.

“My turn.” He raises an eyebrow at you, then nods, crossing his amrs and leaning against the beam at the entrance. You pivot, pinning the blonde in place with a glare. If looks could kill, he’d be in a casket. Slowly, you begin a steady pace around the table.

“I do not rely on Shouta to help me in these situations. In fact, I could just as easily take a piece of your tongue myself.” You’re on the opposite side of the table now, still taking long, slow strides and glaring down at the man.

“But it is so glaringly obvious that you lack the same level of intelligence I hold, and therefore I would feel guilty to rob you of a muscle that you clearly haven’t learned to use properly,” you stop, standing stock still behind the blonde, “However.” In one swift movement your dagger is stuck in the wooden table directly in front of the blonde, your manicured fingers curled around the handle delicately.

“Should I hear another demeaning or degrading word out of your mouth, I will not hesitate to stain my fingers with your blood.” He doesn’t seem to be reacting at all, whether he’s afraid or not you can’t tell, but you don’t let that affect your performance. You lean in, your lips nearly grazing the shell of his ear.

“You probably wouldn’t even get to taste my blade, but I don’t mind taking my time if you want to savor the tang of steel.” You yank the blade from the wood and sheath it, straightening your posture.

“Had Shouta chosen another woman for his wife you may have been able to actually hurt her feelings with your childish words.” You turn, striding back to where Shouta holds his hand for you to take.

“Unluckily for you, I’m just as volatile as my other half. Be grateful that either of us are merciful. You get to keep your tongue. For now.” It’s cathartic, letting out your anger like that. It’s unlikely that the threat will get you any sort of respect, but fear works just as well in your favor. Respect is something hard to find and even harder earned as a woman in a man’s world, but fear works better against an enemy that dreads change. You can’t help but smirk as you walk away from the chaos you left behind, and as you glance up you see the faintest smirk worming its way onto Shouta’s face.

____

His chest swells with something akin to pride as he waltzes away from the restaurant. He was wrong to assume you were averse to violence, had taken your level-headedness and cool temperament to mean you are not a violent individual. To assume you were either incapable of violence or unable to handle the intensity was obviously a mistake on his part. Watching the blonde freeze up and pale under your hard gaze was extremely satisfying, and he had to admit seeing such controlled rage and sharp words pour from you was enjoyable and, among other things, wildly attractive.

Shouta thinks he should let you handle these situations more often, let you have your fun, maybe even plot to have you purposely go just a little too far and have him reel you back in. Maybe then people may start to understand that you aren’t to be treated lightly, you aren’t just a means to an end, just a glorified housewife. No, you’re much more than that and if it takes bloodied words and bloodier actions to get it through some thick skulls, well, he’s sure you know he’s willing to go there and farther.

But for now, he’d settle with the occasional threat of taking a body part.

____

Once again you stare out at the stars, thinking about the day’s events. You’re almost bouncing on your feet, adrenaline still flowing through your veins. You feel light now, knowing you can take control of an escalating situation. Whether or not you can do it all on your own isn’t a real question. Of course you could do it without Shouta present. His existence alone is enough to ward off any violence directed at you. But it’s your own actions that determine how people will perceive you.

You let Shouta control the first meeting incident, mostly because you had no clue what was going on and no information to work from. Now that you know Shouta is listening and that there’s a purpose behind his absence, you can use it to your advantage and weed out the worst of the bad apples. With that information, and confidence that Shouta will not reprimand you--but will in fact support you--for getting mouthy with said bad apples, you could let loose some of the rage that made your blood boil. It’s freeing, taking entitled men off their precious pedestals and knocking them down a bit.

Shouta wraps his arms around you for the third time, burying his face in your neck and breathing in your scent. He kisses you lightly, feather light presses of his lips against your skin. It really does feel good, being so close to someone.

“I thought this wasn’t becoming a habit.” You sigh and lean into him.

“I’m not quite tired. Honestly I’m thinking about today. I’m still on an adrenaline high just replaying it in my head, the thrill, being able to finally get a word in.” He chuckles, squeezing you a bit tighter to him.

“I’m going to assume you’d never really been allowed to do that sort of thing before.” You nod, a small smile curling your lips. Up until now you lacked any sort of standing or power, and the rush is amazing, for lack of better words. Shouta hums then nips at the shell of your ear, his voice sultry and deep.

“Well if you’re looking to burn energy I think I could help you with that.” Your breath hitches, not prepared for such a suggestion. For a second you believe it, believe he’s really suggesting what you think he is, but you can feel his hands moving and before you can react he’s digging his fingers into your sides, making you giggle uncontrollably.

He’s laughing with you, enjoying watching you try to squirm from his grasp. He releases you, and you run over to the bedroom and duck under the blanket in an attempt to hide, but he only laughs.

“You silly girl, now you’re trapped!” He finds your waist through the thick blanket and doesn’t relent until you’re gasping for air and crying for mercy. He stops, finally, and pulls the blanket off your head. Your face is flushed, your hair splayed wild over the sheets and your chest heaving for oxygen. For a moment his mind drifts to dirtier thoughts of a similar expression he’d like to see. He pushes those thoughts away as you beam up at him, your smile reminding him of sunshine. Rough fingers brush away the hair that had fallen over your face.

“Are you ready to try sleeping now, little one?” You lean your head into his hand, nuzzling your cheek into his palm. The way he’s gazing down at you now, you know you’d never felt so adored in your life.

“Let’s sleep.” He lies down and you get comfortable on top of him, resting your head in the crook of his neck and wrapping your leg around his waist. His arms lock around you, holding you in place and he kisses the top of your head.

#shouta aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x fem reader #shouta aizawa bnha #shouta aizawa mha #shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shouta x fem reader #aizawa shouta bnha #aizawa shouta mha #mafia au

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an-ambivalent · 4 years

Text

Wrongly Convicted

This is my late post for day 2 for MadaSaku weekend hosted by @madasakuweek

Pairings: Madara & Sakura

Prompts: Yandere AU & “you belong to me.”

Word Count: 1.6K

Warnings: As this contains yandere themes, this work contains behaviours and actions that can be triggering and uncomfortable to read. Specifically, manipulating behaviour, death, and brief mentions of other dark themes. Read at your own risk. Lastly, I do not condone this behaviour.

If there are any other trigger warnings you think needs to be included, please let me know and I will change it. Also, fair warning, I’ve never written for MadaSaku before, and I usually don’t write character x character pairings so this might be kinda shitty?

Synopsis: For eons, souls who end up in the Bad Place get tortured for eternity through the classic old-fashioned ways: being burned, having tiny spiders crawl out of their eyes, maggots ingesting their internal organs, and so on. Madara, the devil who reigns at the top of the hierarchy of the Bad Place, decided to try a new way to torture few subject souls who end up in the Bad Place. His plan was to pose a facade of the Bad Place as the Good Place and let the foolish humans believe they had ended up in what they believed to be heaven, and then proceeding to torture them emotionally for the next one thousand years. What he did not expect was that one of his so foolish subjects had been placed in the Bad Place accidentally, and for her goodness to sweep him off his feet.

This work is inspired from the show The Good Place.

Soft jade hue eyes stared into a pair of onyx eyes, that offered a false sense of comfort and reassurance, and scrutinized her with a certain inkling, promising to deliver her personalised version of hell.

“Sakura Haruno,” he voiced louder than necessary, as he flicked through her file. As he did so, Sakura shifted nervously in her seat and gave him a strained smile.

“My name is Madara Uchiha, I’m your neighbourhood creator. Congratulations for being one of the saints on Earth, you’ve ended up in the Good Place,” Madara said, grinning at her.

Sakura took a few moments to ponder over the implication of his words while she examined him. Her gaze lingered on his canine teeth that were visible due to his wide grin; they appeared to be larger than what one would imagine on a heavenly being -- almost as if they were fangs and their purpose was to devour living beings. She felt goosebumps rise at the nape of her neck for a strange reason.

It suddenly dawned upon Sakura that she was in an unknown place, in front of an unknown being. So, she chose her words carefully, and opted to just question, rather than respond.

“The Good Place?”

“It’s where those who were good during their time on Earth end up. See, there’s a point system; each action of yours has a consequence. By the end of your time, if you get enough positive points you end up here, in the Good Place. If not, then you know you go to the bad place.” A pause, as Madara waited for Sakura to digest his explanation.

Sakura reflected on his words carefully, and realised that it did make sense. She never leaned strongly towards one religion’s belief, and as far as afterlife shenanigans went, she did not think about them often either. Sure, there was that once in a while curiousity of life after death, heaven vs hell, or just death itself being the ultimate end, but nothing more. She tended to focus in the present, and made decisions that aligned with her values. She had studied and worked hard to become a doctor because she wanted to save lives and help others as much as she could. She did have her mean moments, but overall, she knew she was a nice enough person who cared genuinely. So it was not that surprising she did end up in this Good Place.

She nodded to signal Madara to continue with what he was going to say.

“Do you remember how you died?”

“I recall the events briefly, but not much of it. Can you tell me?” That was a lie; she did recall, but she simply wanted to make sure.

Madara shrugged before he opened up her file to enlighten her.

“You were bitten by a Sydney funnel-web spider during your sleep, and since they couldn’t you get you to the hospital in time, you died,” he stated.

“Ah, I recall that,” Sakura replied, while in fact she did not recall that. She practically lived in the hospital, so how they did not get her to the hospital in the time was baffling. More so, that a spider was written to be the cause of her death, when spiders were not a threat in the area she had resided in.

“Yes, it’s a shame since you were so close to finally closing in on the deal for that $1 million house, and having a breakthrough in your real estate agent career,” Madara said in pity.

“It is,” Sakura agreed. The temptation for her eyebrow to twitch was strong, but she held back whatever expressions she wanted to make out of annoyance. Sakura was a doctor, one who worked in public services and volunteered more than what her body could handle at times; she was not a lying real estate agent who thieved people off their money, and each other, more than what they were worth.

And that was the first time Sakura realised that she had been mistaken for someone else who shared her same name, and she was in fact not, in the Good Place.

****

So far in regards to his experiment, Madara was having the time of his life. Posing the Bad Place as the Good Place, and leading his experimental human subjects to believe they were in heaven, when in fact, everything was going wrong for them which tormented and agonised them, was incredibly entertaining for him to experience. The distressful expressions, the anxiety and stress they radiated off as their mental health eventually deteriorated, it left a delicious taste of human misery lingering in his mouth.

Everything was going smoothly, except there was one enigma: Sakura Haruno.

Madara had taken extra caution to cultivate an environment that would lead the deceased humans to believe they were in their own heaven, but it would hold elements of things they absolutely despised and feared.

From Sakura’s profile, the real estate agent, she was claustrophobic, loathed reading and feared needles. So, he had made sure that in her dream small home, the rooms in the house would have less space -- almost with a suffocating feeling to it, by having many rows of shelves that held books. And not just any books, medical books to remind her of her failure of not becoming a doctor like her parents wanted her to be, and then they had ridiculed her for failures by cutting all ties with her. There were various sizes of needles displayed as a decorative piece across the walls of her living room.

Every time he visited her, he expected her to be breaking out in sweat, and feel the sensation of her nerves knotting her stomach and feeding on it, and relishing in whatever emotional turmoil she would be experiencing. Instead of that expected outcome, he was always greeted with the sight of the doctor Sakura grinning at him in genuine joy, and raving about all the medical books that surrounded her home. She would welcome him warmly and happily, with a little joyful jump in her step, while passionately ranting about new things she learned, and how it fit in with the knowledge she already had. And unlike the other humans, she always went out of her way to give him a sincere welcome that was not accompanied by a fake smile which concealed her true emotions. Whatever he did to try and make her miserable in regards to the information on her profile, it seemed to have the opposite effect. It was concerning for him because that was not supposed to happen; she was supposed to be suffering and beginning to lose her sanity, not greet him in excitement and thank him, and leave him feeling flustered due to her gratitude.

It was not long before Madara figured that something was wrong with the Sakura Haruno in his grasp. So, in order to appease his curiosity about her, and figure out how he could make her miserable, he began to spend more time with her, and watch her.

He wasn’t the only one.

On the days and nights, and the times in between, when Madara watched Sakura, he learned many things about her. One, she was opposite to what her personality was described as on her profile. Instead of being self-centred and greedy of her possessions, she was selfless and giving. She, unfortunately, reached out to the other suffering humans and listened to them, cared for them, and made them feel better. He learned that she was opposing him by lessening their suffering, instead of letting it worsen which was the purpose when someone ended up in the Bad Place. Second, rather than feeling uncomfortable with the little space in her home and being bothered by the needles and the books, she found comfort in them -- she found comfort in the home provided for her, which was not how it was meant to be. Third, he realised he wasn’t the only one who watched her.

After enough observation, it did not take a genius to realise that the Sakura he had come to claim as his soul to torture, was in fact the wrong Sakura. The one he was given, evidently belonged to the Good Place, because there was no chance that someone with her personality would end up as his. She was simply too pure, too beautiful, too perfect -- any filth from the Bad Place could easily taint her.

Madara was the only one who could protect her. And so, he did just that.

One of his other assigned humans had been a harassor. Each time a woman showed him an ounce of kindness, he would take that as a welcoming sign. Given the support he had received from his angel Sakura, it was no surprise he repeated his shitty behaviour. He had broken into her home in the middle of the night, except, instead of getting the chance to do something to Sakura, he was greeted by Madara. Instead of his usual appearance which consisted of shorter hair, more humane features, and in a tux that made him look -- well not the devil that he was to not scare humans, he had unleashed his authentic demon. His hair was messy and long, making him look bigger and more intimidating; his horns that sprouted out his head were visible and black. His eyes glistened a dangerous crimson in the darkness of the night. The last thing that the guy saw before he his inevitable demise, were Madara’s long claws that swiped down at him, and scooped out his soul from his body.

As Madara clutched the struggling and pathetic soul of the harassor in his hands tightly, he glanced back to see Sakura staring at him with wide eyes etched with fear, and trembling and gripping her sheets tightly. She was covering her mouth with her hand, feeling horrified due to the scene she had just witnessed, and how easily Madara had just killed someone.

He turned to her fully, and stared at her with a possessive gaze.

“You belong to me,” Madara voiced, as he loomed over her. “I won’t let anyone else hurt what belongs to me.”

#madasakuweekend2019 #madasaku #yandere naruto #yandere madara #naruto fanfiction #yandere akatsuki #madara x sakura #naruto imagines #naruto scenarios #dark themes #manupilation #character death #ambivalent writes #madara uchiha #sakura haruno #yandere #yandere imagines

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minyoongleschimjoongles · 5 years

Text

Preordained: Introductions V

When Zara Met Seokjin

Pairing(s):Poly!BTSxOC, Sub!BTSxOC,

Warnings: Implied sexual situations, Mentions of sexual situations, implications of Dom/sub relationships

Notes: This might have been the Introduction that I had the most trouble with, because it’s the chapter where the AU-ness of Preordained really starts to come in.

Intro: Taehyung, Jungkook, Yoongi, Namjoon

The addition of Namjoon immediately eased most of the tensions between the boys. He was a natural leader, excellent at talking things out, and his instinct to sort out the arguments to spare Zara the stress was strong.

He also expressed the need for the guys to get to know each other better outside of being Zara’s Soulmates, because that would help ease the friction between everyone.

Zara’s grades, which had suffered under the stress, quickly returned to normal, and Namjoon’s intelligence also inspired Zara to actually focus on school again instead of wasting all her time with her menagerie of beautiful boys.

At this moment, she sat in her painting class, wondering why, exactly, the film class that was normally the next room over was crowded in with the rest of them. The easels an stools had been pushed against one wall, leaving as much room as possible for people to stand. Zara, always early for class, had hoisted herself up onto the only fixed counter top in the room, crossing her legs under her.

When the teachers had done a mental headcount of their students and assured that most, if not all of them were there, they called for attention.

“Good morning, everyone,” Mr. Lee, the film professor, clapped his hands twice. “I know you’re all wondering what’s going on here today. Well, I’ll tell you. Ms. Do and I have always combined our classes when it’s time to start thinking of final projects.” He paused for the groans as the students realized what was happening. “Yes, that’s right, you’re going to have partners, but we’ll get into that later. Right now, we want to explain what the projects are. For my students, you’re going to be making a Youtube channel! You can do whatever you want for your channel, any subject at all. My only stipulation is that your partner must be included in some way. Your partner is your Muse, so to speak. This is why Ms. Do and I have lovingly named this The Muse Project. For my students, the final presentation of the Youtube channel is worth 30% of your grade, and the painting students will get extra credit on their own final projects.”

“Now,” Ms. Do took over, “the project for my students is, of course, an art show, though not a normal one. Instead of canvas paintings, the pieces displayed in the end-of-semester art show will be digital photographs of paintings done on your partner’s body. Your partner is your canvas, and your Muse. The art show is worth 30% of your grade, and the film students will get extra credit on their final, as well. We will now tell you who your partner is, so please listen carefully. Afterwards, you’re free to leave and get to know your partner.”

There was nervous chatter as people started looking around, wondering who exactly their partner would be. Zara sat up straighter in her spot, ears straining to hear the names being called over the talking.

“Underhill Zara and Kim Seokjin.”

A ridiculously handsome young man with an obscenely white, straight smile raised his head, scanning the crowd for the student with the obviously American name. When he caught Zara’s green eyes, she waved a hand in greeting and he started to make his way through the other students towards her. He held a Canon Powershot in his hands like it was a lifeline, already recording. Already, Zara’s mind was filled with ideas for the paintings she’d have to do on this Kim Seokjin.

When he stopped in front of her, his blinding smile widened.

“I got an American! That’ll be interesting for a video subject.”

Without missing a beat, Zara said, “Maybe I’m Canadian.”

His smile dropped a fraction, startled.

“Oh..”

Zara snorted and smiled at him. “I’m just kidding, Kim Seokjin.”

He let out a slow breath, the smile returning.

“That was mean, Underwood Zara.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You were recording and I couldn’t resist.”

Jin nodded, pointing the camera at her.

“Say hello to the world, Zara.”

“Hello to the world, Zara.”

Jin grinned and turned the camera on himself again.

“My partner Zara is apparently a comedy genius. So, Zara, how old are you?”

Zara hopped off the table, taking this question in stride. In America, people found it inappropriate to ask someone’s age, but in Korea, Zara found it was one of the first things people asked.

“I was born October 12, 1995.”

Jin’s face lit up, keeping stride with Zara as she left the classroom. “Ah, I’m your Oppa! I was born December 4, 1992.”

Zara nodded, “Don’t be surprised if I forget to use the Oppa title. Two of my Soulmates so far are older than me and I drop the title all the time.”

Jin almost fumbled the camera as he did his double take. “Did you say two Soulmates?”

Zara let a frustrated little sigh. “Yeah, I have Seven, but I’ve only found four so far. I know, I know, I’m a freak.”

“No, no! I don’t think you’re a freak! But...maybe we should cut this part out of the video, it’s so personal.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Jin nodded, and as the two of them continued to walk, Jin continued asking Zara questions. His intentions for this first video was a vlog-style, get-to-know-each-other kind of thing.

“So, I’m warning you right now, there might be a lot of boys in here.”

Zara and Jin stood outside her dorm room, Zara preparing to open the door.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Jin nodded, “Go ahead and open it, Zara.”

“Well, you can’t show everyone the passcode to my dorm, Seokjin-oppa,” She grabbed his wrist to turn the camera away from her keypad, and immediately felt the tug on her wrist. The angle she’d managed to get the camera to before realizing Kim Seokjin was one of the Seven showed both of their faces in the shot.

Upon editing that particular bit of footage, Jin would lament the way his handsome face reddened, eyes wide and jaw dropped. Though he’d file Zara’s face away in his memory, knowing her soft smile and twinkling green eyes would lift his spirits for the rest of his days.

“Oh.” Jin said. Zara released his wrist. “Well, this is an interesting plot twist to the video.”

xXx

The boys welcomed Jin in immediately, absorbing him into the group with no complaints. Several of Jin’s videos had already been posted, including the now viral first video, “Finding My Soulmate.”

People just loved watching Soulmates come together.

Zara was always the main focus of Jin’s videos, but the rest of Zara’s Soulmates were inevitably involved as well. Jin’s favorite videos to film were standard vlogs, chronicling his new life with Zara and her Soulmates. He’d even given Zara a camera of her own so that she could film when he was in his own class and Zara, ever the accommodating Soulmate, performed this task dutifully.

Of his classmates’ channels, Jin’s channel was the most popular. Zara had a feeling that it had something to do with the many handsome boys that were featured in it, but she never brought it up. Whatever the reason, Jin’s fan base saw a massive increase in the first month.

Today’s video was the first day that Zara would be painting on his body, so he lay on the floor of her dorm, his arms pillowing his head and his camera recording everything. Zara was already astride his legs, though she didn’t seem to know yet what she wanted to do yet. Her fingers were tracing along his spine, though, and it was starting to put him to sleep.

“Seokjin-oppa,” Zara leaned forward and pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses against his back, and a pleased, tired rumble vibrated through him.

“Zara,” he warned, though there was no actual bite to his voice, “We’re filming a painting video, not an accidental sex tape.”

She was still kissing him, and he felt her smile against his skin. The blatant flirtation between them was certainly on purpose, Jin having noticed subscribers reacted well to it. “Who said anything about accidental?”

Another rumble, and Zara laughed, sitting up and pulling the paints she’d set aside closer. She’d had to go out and buy a supply of body paints for this project, not willing to risk damaging Jin’s beautiful skin with her acrylics.

Without opening his eyes, Jin asked, “What did you decide on?”

“I was thinking we’d go right into the difficult stuff, oppa. A big galaxy, yeah?” She traced an image across the planes of his back with her pointer finger, relishing in the goosebumps that rose up.

“Mm-hmm,” Jin really was falling asleep under her ministrations.

She took the black paint and sketched out a few abstract shapes on his back, feeling him shiver once or twice at the temperature of it. Once that was done, she began to fill in the spaces, first with black, then with the many colors of space. Each stroke of the brush lulled Jin further into dream land. It wasn’t until he felt a hand squeezing his ass that he jolted into alertness.

“That,” he said, “doesn’t feel like paint.”

“You caught me,” Zara laughed, laying next to him and showing him the photo of his back. It looked like she had painlessly ripped his skin open to reveal not muscle and organs beneath, but an explosion of color, pinks and blues and purples stretching across his back.

Zara watched him as he stared at the photograph. His jaw was dropped in awe, his eyes soft.

“Well?”

“It’s beautiful, Zara.” Conscious of the still-wet paint on his back, Jin threw his left arm around Zara’s waist to tuck her into his side. “Anything you draw is beautiful.”

“It’s not hard to create something beautiful when works of art like you are sharing my bed at night.” She gestured to the still-rolling camera, “People worldwide call you handsome.”

“Well, obviously,” Jin gave her a smirk, “It was only a matter of time before people realized how truly beautiful I am.”

“You’re not at all conceited,” Zara teased, kissing his jaw. “Now turn off the camera, before we really do make an accidental sex tape.”

@babyboytae1 @snowythellama @bewitch3dforivar

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rosesisupposes · 6 years

Text

Destined, part 5

Modern fantasy AU meets Coffeeshop AU

Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ; Remy/Sleep ; Dante/Deceit

Chapter Pairings: none

Chapter Warnings: Major Character Death

Reader Tags: @residentanchor @royallyanxious

Summary: After centuries of acting as an oracle to heroes, quest-seekers, and villains alike, Virgil just wants to live as a normal, modern human. For someone who can see infinite probabilities, you’d think he’d know better.

<<Chapter 4 | Masterlist | Chapter 6>>

Read on Ao3

Flashback: Naverre, in southwest Europe, 300 CE

Prince Colan of Naverre was frustrated. It was not a pleasant feeling, but it had become all too familiar recently. Nothing was working as he wanted it to.

It had started with his eldest brother’s wedding plans. Alric and his fiancée, Maria, were due to be wed in just two month’s time. Inspiration had struck when it was first announced - this was Colan’s chance to prove how well he could organize such a grand event. The heir to the throne and a daughter of the oldest noble house of a neighboring country? It would take careful knowledge of deportment and politics, of logistics and timing. Colan was sure he could do it, and do it well.

But Alric and their mother, Queen Lelina, had brushed him off. “There’s no need, my sweet son,” she’d told him kindly, brushing his hair with a soft hand. “The steward and master of ceremonies have the matter well in hand. You need only be your handsome self and support your brother.”

Colan couldn’t help but pout ever so slightly. “Can I at least bear the rings?”

The Queen had laughed. “Oh Colan, you know the role of ringbearer is too important to waste. We must save it for a noble we wish to mollify, or an ally we wish to flatter. Don’t trouble yourself, dear. Why don’t you take Duchess Maria for a ride through the royal forest?”

Colan had sighed, and gone off to be a good host to his future sister-in-law. That, at least, everyone could agree he excelled in.

He knew he shouldn’t feel so rejected, it was just that… how was he ever going to be taken seriously if he was never allowed to do anything serious on his own? He loved his brothers dearly and only wanted them to succeed, but they both succeeded so much that there was no role left for him except to smile and wave.

Alric, the named heir, was already a beloved highness throughout Naverre. He had a working relationship with the nobles’ council already, sitting in with and without King Henri overseeing. The nobles gave and received counsel with mutual respect. And the people loved him too. Alric took biweekly rides through the capital city to mingle with his future subjects. Wizened grandmothers sighed happily that he looked a true king as he dismounted to listen to a shopkeeper’s opinion on proposed taxes. Colan had experienced it first-hand, too. There was no one better than Alric to vent to. His eyes would be earnest, his reactions kind. He made you feel heard.

If only Colan could talk to him about his current problem.

His second-eldest brother was Prince Bryant. Bryant didn’t have the same ease with people as his brothers did, nor was he skilled in the intricacies of policy like Alric. But he was a skilled knight and general, already making a name for himself outside their borders. His training master had once said that Bryant had the unique talent to see a battle from the eagle’s eyes as easily as the mouse’s, and simultaneously too. He could be locked in combat with an enemy knight or renegade ogre while maneuvering to defend the soldiers around him and filling in gaps in the army’s line - all without hesitating a moment or losing a second’s advantage. On his eighteenth birthday, he had been named an officer in the nation’s army. Three years later, he was second-in-command. It was widely rumored that when Alric ascended to the throne, Bryant would ascend to Commander General, and Colan had confirmed the rumors through industrious eavesdropping. In the meantime, the King and Queen had begun negotiations with neighboring kingdoms and duchies for Bryant’s betrothal.

And that left Colan. Left behind, leftover Colan. The public loved him, true, but he was continuously greeted as “the young prince” or “our dear little Colan.” He wasn’t loved the way a future monarch like Alric was, but like a child. He was a decent warrior, but his spatial awareness was lacking. He was an excellent host to foreign dignitaries and local nobles, and he kept dinner conversations lively. But that role was the purview of queens and hostesses, and besides, both his mother and sister-in-law were just as talented as he. In fact, the only sphere where he felt unparalleled in his peerless family was during the evening entertainment, those rare times he was permitted to sing, or play the lute or piano. But a prince couldn’t very well become a wandering bard.

There were days where he wished he could leave Naverre. Not because he did not love his homeland, but because he knew that surely, some other kingdom had a vacant role that would fit his talents perfectly. But the children of kings only left the land of their fathers by marrying into foreign lines, and even then, few nobles would risk losing their child to distant lands for anything less than a prince. Colan gazed out his tower window. I wish I could marry another prince, he thought, before catching himself. That kind of thinking was… discouraged, at least in noble houses. Marriages between two men or two women could produce no children and thus no heirs. Bloodlines must be preserved. “You must take care that your lady is not neglected,” his tutor in royal lineages had explained.. “She will be your partner, and mother to your children. Any dalliances must not supersede what you owe to them and to her.”

Sitting up from his window seat, Colan groaned. He had to stop having the same ruminations over and over. Sitting here pondering his inadequacies was no way to fix them. There must be some way he could be useful to Naverre, and to its future. Surely he wasn’t destined for a life of fluff and unneeded support to his brothers.

Destined. Destiny. That was it!

His history tutor had mentioned the Sage his great-grandfather had consulted, the one whose words pointed old King Jonathan to the land that became Naverre. If Colan could seek out that Sage, he would be able to seek his Fate. He could bring glory to Naverre, to his line, and to his name!

Inspired, he began to plan all he would need. The journey would be long and likely dangerous, journeying north and east to the White Mountain. He couldn’t disrupt or derail the wedding, so he must wait to leave until after. And his family mustn’t seek to bring him back, so he would need an official reason. What could he… ah, he knew. Maguelone. The province traded frequently with his sister-to-be’s home country, but personality clashes continued to cause bumps in the road. He would offer to bring new of the wedding to the rulers of Maguelone, aiding both Naverre and Aquitana. And then he would continue north and east until he reached the snowy slopes of White Mountain and the Sage’s refuge.

Pallas awoke from a deep meditation to the sounds of hallooing from outside his hut. He’d completely lock track of time, so it must have been at least a decade since the last Seeker found him. He stood easily, not a trace of stiffness in his joints despite his appearance as grey-bearded man of at least seventy. He opened the door to see a young man, energetic despite the cold winds and snow. Frost had coated parts of the boy’s auburn hair, but his eyes blazed with excitement.

“Greetings, revered Sage! I have journeyed far to reach you!”

“Welcome, Seeker. Enter, rest, and warm yourself.”

The young man’s look of determination faltered. “Revered Sage, I must know my destiny! I cannot delay!”

The Sage smiled kindly. “And so you shall, brave Seeker. But you have already done battle with the winds of this mountain, and must refresh your spirit. Once you have prepared, your destiny will be revealed.”

The boy hesitated, but stepped inside the hut, shedding his heavy cloak, traveling pack, sword, and shield.. He revealed garments clearly not meant for mountaineering. A tight-fitting jacket that had once been white was decorated in faded gold cords and a no-longer-brilliant red sash. Pallas frowned internally, and guided his guest to the fire.

“Young Seeker, while you rest, please, tell me why you seek your destiny.”

“My name is Prince Colan, of Naverre, and I am the youngest son of my father King Henri,” he started, staring into the flames. “My brothers will serve our homeland honorably and well. But I know that I can, too, if only I knew how. Once I know my destiny I will fulfill it for the glory of Naverre.”

Pallas frowned, staring at the prince’s determined profile. To be so adamant in what his future must hold meant likely disappointment.

“Seeker Colan, you must know that destiny is not biddable, nor can it be defied. Your destiny may not be what you desire it to be - but once you have been told, it cannot be changed,” he cautioned. “I tell you this not because I believe you are ignorant, but because I do not wish to remove the possibilities you dream of for yourself.”

Colan looked up, defiant. “I know I will be bound. And I know you cannot guarantee that I will found my own kingdom or find a cure for blight. But I know that there is a role for me in the world, where I will thrive the same way my brothers thrive. I just need to know what directions there are. I need to know I will have a purpose.”

Pallas gazed into the Prince’s eyes. He could see that he would not be deterred, and it would be foolish to try. “Very well. Are you recovered?”

“I am.”

“Then we may begin as you wish.”

Colan took a deep breath and stood, moving to kneel in front of Pallas’ carved wooden chair.

“Sage, I entreat you, tell me my destiny,” the prince said. Pallas knew he’d been rehearsing this line over and over in his head, wanting his moment of revelation to be perfect.

“Seeker, to know your destiny is to be bound by it. Are you prepared to risk your future?”

“I am.”

“Then give me your hands, and prepare to be bound.” Though his form was old, the age did not show on the Pallas’ hands, imbued as they were with the ancient magic of Sages. He clasped Colan’s offered hands, and closed his eyes.

Pallas had never seen such a thing. Colan had just one possible future. He would marry a princess from the north. He would help the future Queen Maria entertain the Court. He would serve in ceremonial posts, knighting citizens and presiding over new buildings. He would have no children of his own, but be a doting uncle to his nieces and nephews. No choices or factors that Pallas saw would change this. There was no adventure, no glorious purpose, nor even a glimmer of one. It would be a plain and unexciting existence for the rest of his days.

Without letting his expression change, Pallas shifted his magical focus towards one question: would Colan be happy?

He would consider himself contented. He would feel neither excitement nor passion. He would never be entirely bored, but also never stimulated. But he would be happy enough.

Pallas recoiled at the idea of giving a single fortune, with no meaningful variation. Hadn’t he seen how badly that went at Delphi? If just one outcome was decreed, there was only one way to avoid it - to die before living out its entirety. Evasion in life was impossible. Just look at poor Oedipus.

Desperate to not condemn such a passionate boy to such a disappointing future, Pallas shifted the focus of his power to look backwards. Such a thing was unorthodox, and frowned upon, to be sure, but if he could just find a past pivotal moment, perhaps there will be a way to alter the future, even if he can’t see the future effects. This was what Pallas told himself, anyway.

His vision became filled with vignettes of Colan’s life, moments that remain foremost in the prince’s memory, whether conscious or unconsciously. Unlike searching through potential futures, looking through the past is constrained to the first-person view of the Seeker. Pallas lived the prince’s struggles, felt the weight of expectation and the shadow of his brothers.

Colan is three, chasing after Alric at 8 and Bryant at 6 as they race to the duckpond. He almost reaches their heels when an unseen root catches his foot. His knees smart as he struggles to regain his footing and continue. Silk and linen rustles as Mother appears from behind to pull him into her arms. “Oh my poor sweet Colan, are you alright? Don’t worry, you don’t need to catch up with them.”

Colan is nine and at long last has reported to the training master to learn to be a knight. The training master is a huge man from the far North, six feet tall, every inch chiseled with hard-earned muscle. A broadsword that he wields with ease hangs at his belt. Colan is bursting with excitement, ready to show how well and quickly he will learn. The master looks down at him. “Ach, what wee lad you are. Are you ready to train?” “Yessir, I am! I want to be a great warrior!” The giant laughs. “Weel, we’ve already got Bryant as our warrior. We’ll do the best we can with ye though, dontcha worrit yerself none.”

Colan is thirteen and Duke Rogero, his mother’s distant cousin from the South, is visiting Naverre. Rogero has dark hair and cobalt eyes, and tawny golden skin that contrasts beautifully with the bright white of his entrancing smile. When Rogero makes his first bow to the family, he catches Colan’s eye as he straightens, and winks. Colan feels his heart stutter in his chest. The healer had explained to him that at his age, he might begin feeling odd urges, and his body may react without his knowledge. But these reactions were supposed to be around young women, not beautiful dukes. Throughout his state visit, Colan seeks out Rogero, asking about his life and his journeys. He asks if he is married. “Not yet,” the Duke replies. Colan asks how old would someone have to be to marry him. “I’ve no real preference, as long as she’s close enough to my age to not be bored by me. Why, do you know any noble ladies here I might like?” A guard present guffaws. “You ask me, sounds like our little princey wants you to marry him!” Rogero throws back his head and laughs along with him. The echos chase Colan as he flees, tears of confusion and hurt leaking out of his eyes.

Pallas’ eyes stung with Colan’s constant need to be better, to be enough, to be more than what he was.

How could he tell this prince that his one overriding need with never be fulfilled? Was that his role here, as Sage? To destroy Colan’s hope of purpose, to crush his spirit so that he would be able to be “content?”

In that moment, Pallas rebelled. He steadied himself, making sure no tears would be visible. He opened his eyes, and pretended to be channeling the ancient magic.

“A split path within a tangled wood will lead you to your true purpose.”

There was technically such a path on the way back home, where the road split five ways at the border to enter Naverre and continued all the way to the King’s castle. But there was no true choice, no purpose waiting for the young man along any other path but the road home. It was an exaggeration, of sorts. Nothing more.

No - he’d lied. Pallas knew he’d lied. But the look of relief and determination on Colan’s face justified the act. If it preserves his hope, surely it’s a white lie, he thought. Destinies weren’t certain, the prince knew that, right? There was still a chance that the future he’d seen would come to pass. And… maybe it would work out. Maybe the sheer act of believing in another outcome would force one into being.

Colan stood quickly, a new fire burning in his eyes. Not one of desperation, nor of fear of failure. But one of determination.

“Sage Pallas, I thank you for the gift of my destiny. I will commend you to my father, and throughout my travels, the way my forefather King Jonathan did. I hope you will hear of my exploits.”

He clipped his sword to his belt, donned his cloak, and hung his shield from his pack. He bowed deeply to the Sage, and exited the hut.

Pallas left the mountain often after Colan’s departure, seeking news. Nothing surfaced for month, then months, and then a year.

Two years later, he finally heard news from Naverre. The country was in mourning.

One month after his descent from White Mountain, Prince Colan had successfully picked up the trail of a band of renegades orges. He’d correctly determined that they were heading towards his homeland. Instead of taken the road to Naverre to warn the army, he’d rode after the band himself, sure that this was the purpose that had been foretold.

The prince had thrown himself into a battle against ogres, outnumbered nearly twenty to one. If he’d succeeded in taking any down with him, no one could say how many. What was known was that the remaining band joined with many others to attack village after Naverran village, and Prince Bryant had led the army to defeat them. It took them months to round up the last of the monsters.

It would be at least a year after his death that Colan’s body was recovered by Naverran scouts, mauled almost beyond recognition by ogres. Only fragments of his clothes and the royal crest on his sword hilt led his body to be returned to his heartbroken parents.

Colan had died in obscurity, alone, with no effect on the ogres’ subsequent attack. His family and country mourned, but recovered and prospered under the rule of King Alric and Commander General Bryant. Prince Colan of Naverre became a footnote in the nation’s history, a neglected branch of the family tree, frozen at eighteen.

It was Pallas’ - now Virgil’s - greatest shame. And it was all because he’d lied. He refused to ever do so again, no matter the emotional toil on the Seeker. It just made him feel… slimy.

Chapter Notes: Alric - from German: “Rules All” Bryant - from Celtic: “Strong” Colan - from English: “ Triumphant, Young”

I swear, I love them, I really do.

#destined #sanders sides #writing #fanfic #virgil sanders #roman sanders #modern fantasy au #coffee shop au

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