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improbable-outset · 7 months

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📂 𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐎’𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭.𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞

I think it’s about time I post the SFW version of this HC collection. Just like the NSFW version, I’m going to try and make this as accurate to his character as possible while putting my own input too. I wrote the NSFW back in September so there might be some HC that will be slightly different. My interpretation on Miguel’s character will evolve.

Also since the NSFW alphabet was written with a gn Reader, it’s only fair I do the same here too. Fair warning, going through these head cannons is NOT going to be a walk in the park 😭 just a heads up

𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

📄 𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.𝐝𝐨𝐜

There’s a lot to cover here but I’m going to try my best to summarise this headcanon. Given the fact that Miguel has experienced a complex family dynamic in the comic books, especially from his mother ridiculing him, I think he’ll have a hard time expressing affection

And on top of that, he’s been isolating himself to keep the multiverse in balance. So having receiving affection like that will be foreign to him since it’s not something he grew up with

I mean you could point out that he showed Gabriella devotion and affection as a father because he didn’t want her to experience the same shitty childhood he did growing up

After the dimension collapse, he’s more closed off and reserved. It’ll take a lot of effort to build that trust in someone again and openly express his emotions

Going back to his background now, even after Miguel tried to fix his relationship with his mother, he was always brushed off and was seen as self-centered. This would definitely reflect in his relationship having grown up being misunderstood

📄 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I think this depends heavily on the timeline on when you actually meet him. We’ve all seen the post credit scene in the first movie when he was testing out the gizmo for the first time

I know we've only seen a glimpse of his character but I can’t imagine him being as cold and bleak back then as he is now, after he broke the canon

That being said, I think it would’ve been easier to be friends with him back then. Sure, he would’ve been a sarcastic asshole sometimes (affectionate) but at least he wasn’t closed off and easily irritated as he is now during ATSV

But if you’ve met him after the incident of Gabriellas’s dimensions collapse, let’s just say it’ll be a rocky road. It’ll take a while for him to break that outer shell (do not underestimate when I say a while). I think Jess is probably the only person that could get through to him, possibly Peter too.

It’ll take time. It’ll always take time… you can understand why he’s angry and stressed

📄 𝐂𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬.𝐝𝐨𝐜

We can collectively agree that this man is touch starved and I don’t just mean sexually. As much as he hates to admit it

Once you both made your relationship official, it’ll be you that would rest on his chest first whenever you would need comforting. He’s used to being relied on— whether it’s serving his partner or when leading the Spider Society— not the other way around. He can’t bring himself to be dependable on someone just yet

But later on, when he does break down that barrier and swallow his pride for once, you’ll get him to rest on you. Initially he does deny that he needs such comfort but if you coax him enough, he’ll give in

He’ll be stiff at first with his head on your chest and your arms wrapped around him, but with each passing second he slowly relaxes his muscles under your embrace

Sooner or later, he’s melted under you and if you're lucky, he’ll fall asleep. Poor guy needs a break

📄 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Deep down, underneath that hard exterior he secretly desires to settle down with someone. He yearns to come home to someone that will be excited to see him and just be present in his life. I haven’t read the comics yet so I’m basing this off ATSV Miguel but, he hasn’t experienced anything like that. I feel like he has fantasised to be in Peter B Parker’s shoes a few times where he can go home to a family

He’s grown accustomed to coming home to an empty apartment with nothing but his AI assistant to keep him company. But just because he’s used to it, doesn’t mean he likes it that way

After he lost Gabriella, the gravity of his loneliness really hit him. Especially given the fact that it wasn’t his official family, it was his variant’s and he was just replacing him

The grief still stayed though. He knows he’s never going to have that family again and now he’s back to everything being hollow

Once he does finally get to settle down I can imagine him struggling to adjust to his new lifestyle, now that he’s living with his partner

At first he’s barely home, always in HQ and busting his ass keeping everything in order because that’s what he’s used to

But after he realises his old habits, he tries to amend himself. He’ll try and put more effort in domestic tasks just to be around you more. Sure, he still has that underlying stress and he’s still getting used to not being cooped up in his office. But that feeling will subside once his habits change

📄 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I think this depends on who’s at fault here, the reason why your relationship has ended. But it’ll highly likely be because of Miguel’s overworking habits and not putting priority on the people he cares about

Sure the multiverse is important but he can get another Spider Person like Jess or Peter to take care of it while he takes a break. But he doesn’t

Throughout your relationship, you try to help him change his habits and his routine so he can live a healthy and more fulfilling life. Even grow a family together if that’s what you want. Unfortunately there’s only so much you can do and everything just feels like one step forward, two steps back— even after you communicate that with him and give him so many chances

He’s probably too blinded by his stress to even realise the harm he’s causing in your relationship. He finally gets that wake up call when he comes home to see you pack your bags

It’s up to you where you want to go from there…

📄 𝐅𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I know in the comics, he did propose to Dana and as much as I’d love to see him as a husband and be his pretty little housewife, he can’t make that sort of commitment unless he heals from his past

If he wants something solid with a healthy and long lasting marriage, he needs to sort himself out otherwise there will be consequences later on down the line. Unresolved emotional baggage can lead to him being emotionally distant and unexpected outbursts

Even if he doesn’t mean to hurt you, there’s still a part of him that’s still wounded and he’ll bleed onto people that don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his heated outlet. He needs to be able to be open with his partner if he wants to commit to them

Didn’t expect this sort of turn lol. It will take time but I think Miguel might want to settle down and if he truly wants it to happen, he’ll put in the effort

📄 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Miguel knows that he is a big man and he’s aware of his strength which is why he’s always careful with you. Obviously the last thing he wants is to hurt you physically

However, when it comes to emotional, I think he’s the one that needs to be handled with care. Like I mentioned before, he’s living a post tragedy so it will be hard for him to be vulnerable at first

There are times where he’ll have outbursts but he’ll never in a million years resort to hurting you. He’ll regret even reaching his tipping point afterward though. You don’t deserve that when all you’ve been doing was looking out for him

📄 𝐇𝐮𝐠𝐬.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I wouldn’t say he’s much of a hugger. Not openly anyways. He’s not good with PDA and would rather show his affection, both physical and emotional, privately

But if you do initiate the hug, he wouldn’t refuse. He probably needs it anyways. He would slowly wrap his arms around you and gently embrace you. I think he does squeeze a little after

With his big broad arms, he can easily wrap around your body. His hugs are warm and they always make you feel secure in his arms. His height makes it easy to envelope you too

📄 𝐈 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Oh boy….I could see this go either two ways.

One: he’ll either have a barrier around himself that will prevent himself from being emotionally vulnerable to avoid getting hurt. So he would have a hard time expressing his love vocally but will show you through other ways like act of service or being protective over you. He won’t directly say I love you unless you initiate it first.

Or two: he’s so distraught from his grief that the fear of loss still lingers. So he’ll take every chance he can get to remind you that he loves you with all his heart

“Te amo mucho.” “Te quiero.” “Eres el amor de mi vida.”

There’s that underlying fear that he’ll lose you, either by being snatched away from him like Gabriella or you’ll leave him one day. But at least you’ll know how much you mean to him while you were together. That will give him a sense of ease

Either way, both situations are driven by his tragic past. Though personally, I’d prefer the latter

📄 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I think Miguel’s jealousy will stem from the fear of loss again and the desire for stability in the relationship. Sure, he has support from his colleagues from the Society but that’s not the same as receiving devotion and love from a romantic partner

And because of that, he’ll be more vigilant about perceived threats to your relationship, driven by the fear of losing you. The vigilance could exhibit as jealousy if it means preserving that special emotional connection you both share and a tinge possessive over you too. It’s possible that this could be a defence mechanism for him after everything he’s been through

Not saying that he doesn’t trust you or anything, but I know that he will give anybody a death glare if they even look at you the wrong way. He knows his height and physique can be intimidating. This does go hand in hand with security that we will cover more on later

📄 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Awhh my absolute favourite prompt. I know Miguel loves kissing his partner on the forehead, giving his height and all. It’s just so sweet and tender and he’ll probably do it throughout the day when he can’t vocally express his love

He loves watching you try kiss his cheek especially if you’re shorter and stuggling to reach. He just finds it so endearing. He’ll bend a little so you could reach his face and peck his cheek of course. He loves your kisses too

The first time you both shared your first kiss was after the third or forth date. He bent over to reach your eye level while you lifted your head up

He held your face gently and titled his head before he leaned in. God bless Kris Anka for giving this man such smoochable lips by the way

📄 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬.𝐝𝐨𝐜

You would think that after he lost his daughter, Miguel would be eager to be a father again. He would love to have children of his own.

Yeah…think again. I don’t think he’ll agree that easily. You can’t tell me that the idea of having children again wouldn’t trigger some sort of relapse. He’ll either think he wouldn’t be a good father or he wouldn’t want to replace Gabriella.

Call me bleak, but he just watched his daughter disappear in his arms (and committed omnicide) and is left emotionally traumatised.

Even if we all know he’s not at fault and he was unaware of the consequences at the time, that’s not going to stop him from blaming himself.

Initially he would probably abstain from having children until you came into his life. Seeing your character, not only as a partner but your personality in general, will probably shift his perspective a little

The thought of being the father to your children will probably motivate him into being better for your sake. He can’t imagine having children with anyone else now especially seeing the way you interact with other babies like Mayday

An added bonus if you’re carrying his child. He will place his hand on your bump to feel the baby kick and I think that momentary bond with his unborn baby will resonate with him.

📄 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Morning routines can be pretty peaceful, especially with you around now. Waking up next to you makes everything better for him ten folds

He’s usually the first to wake up (no surprise) and goes to the bathroom to get ready for the day

By the time you’re up he’s already in the kitchen. Unless you’re an early riser too. Before you got together, he’s breakfast would consist of instant coffee and maybe a toast if he’s lucky

But now with you around, you make sure he has a proper meal before he starts his day. And he has noticed that he’s more alert and aware after a nutritional breakfast. He’ll always be grateful for that

📄 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Night routines aren’t as blissful though. There are some nights where he wouldn’t be home, probably in another dimension tackling an anomaly again. It comes to no surprise being in a relationship with a superhero

But that doesn’t make it any less lonely for you. Your heart does ache for him and you’re always worried about his safety. Some missions take days and it’s hard to predict when he’ll be back home

But when you finally do get to share a night together, things are more content. You would either spend the evening cooking together or watching a movie. Either way, you’re grateful that he’s safe at home

📄 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Initially, Miguel was reluctant on expressing himself with you. He doesn’t want to put his burden on you even though he constantly remind him that you’re his partner. You’re there to support him, yet he still insists that he’s fine

And because he bottles everything in, his behaviour is effected whenever you’re together. Easily irritated, uncharacteristically quiet and only giving one word answers

He quickly realises that keeping everything in is doing your relationship more harm than good and you’re only getting hurt in the process

Slowly but surely, he eventually opens up, revealing layers of himself to you overtime. This could include sharing his past, his fears and his dreams which builds a deeper connection between the two of you

📄 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜

You know, the first time I was introduced to Miguel, I saw him as a ticking time bomb. Ready to burst any second. But it didn’t take long to realise his perspective on things

The only reason he was pissed off in the movie was because he was challenged. Imagine busting your ass trying to keep the multiverse in order so you wouldn’t have to repeat one of the biggest mistakes you’ve done and then someone comes in and puts it at risk

Sure, the way he acted out was uncalled for but like I mentioned before, unresolved emotional baggage

However, when if comes to his partner, he’ll put more effort into being more patient with things. Building that trust and intimacy will take time but it’ll be worth it. When it comes to your relationship, he’ll avoid rushing into expectations and let things happen organically

I know he’ll be good when it comes to respecting boundaries, especially the fact that there will be moments where he would want to be alone to collect himself. He will know you would follow through and it’s only fair that he would respect any of your wishes too

📄 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐞𝐬.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I think he’s pretty good when it comes to remembering what you like. I know that later on in the relationship, he’d love to learn more, what makes you tick, the good and the bad, and what will instantly boost your mood. I wouldn’t say he would remember the nitty gritty details about you but he will remember the important things.

It’s the least he can do after everything you’ve done for him and giving him the safe space he needs

However, he’s not very good when it comes to keeping up to date with special events. I’ll get into more details later on so you can understand where I’m coming from

📄 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫.𝐝𝐨𝐜

This is going to sound a little corny but Miguel’s favourite memory with you is when he finally built the courage to be emotionally vulnerable with you for the first time

You can imagine how this was a massive step since it’s all foreign to him. He was hesitant when he was venting to you for the first time, with his head resting on your lap and your hands running through his hair

That was when he felt the weight being lifted from his shoulder. Being a leader and having people rely on him for everything was draining but you saw past all of that. You managed to see the man inside him after unravelling the hard exterior. A momentary bliss in his blaring background noise of his life

That was the first time he realised he had found his person. Someone who saw the gray instead of seeing things as black and white

📄 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Being a superhero and a leader of an elite force, Miguel will naturally be protective over you. His commitment to you also means keeping you safe from any danger not just as a civilian but as a devoted lover too

This also ties in to his fear of loss just as I mentioned earlier about his jealousy. Except this extends beyond mere jealousy with a genuine desire to shield you from harm

There are different ways he will express his protective nature such as creating a safe space for you or anticipating potential threats that could put you at risk before it could even happen

📄 𝐓𝐫𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Does this man put effort into your relationship…

You guys might hate me for making him look like a terrible partner. I’m just trying to be realistic here… but I think he won’t be best when it comes to remembering special events like anniversaries, birthdays and whatnot. It’s not that he doesn’t try

This guy is literally dimension hopping throughout his daily routine at work as well as keeping the Spider Society together.

I know that going to different dimensions is probably gonna fuck up with his internal clock and he’ll lose track of the days very easily

I’m not trying to make excuses for him or anything. He’s a busy man and overworked (like I didn’t reiterate that enough). But if it really upsets you, I think you should really communicate with him. Remind him of those special days because I know it’ll probably slip his mind. If he cares about you he should try to make time for you, right?

But on the other hand, he might even surprise you when you least expect it. You’ll probably assume that he’ll be in another dimension that special day and you come home to see him surprise you with gifts and such. I can imagine that happening too

📄 𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Wouldn’t really call this ugly but this is a huge flaw that isn’t talked about enough

After the broken canon incident we already know he’s left traumatised but I think he has some untreated PTSD too and he refuses to get the help he needs

He doesn’t want to be seen as a ‘broken leader’ (his words maybe) when he has so many people from the Society relying on him (toxic perfectionism?)

Unfortunately for him, if he doesn’t tackle these issues now, it will affect his relationship in the long run

📄 𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I think we can all agree that Miguel naturally does put effort in his look, whether he’s single or not. He’s clean shaven and his hair is slick back everyday. So I can imagine a morning routine with him making himself look good. And I think he knows he looks good too

But when it comes to going out on dates and stuff, he will definitely put more effort in his appearance

I can see him asking Lyla for advice on what to do on the first date and how to make himself look more presentable, especially if you’re someone he wants to take seriously. He’s a little rusty with these things but he’s a quick learner too

📄 𝐖𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I can’t see Miguel having the whole “my partner is my other half” belief. I think it’s an overstatement to him.

But if you’re both compatible enough, he will be aware that you bring out the best in him. Whenever he’s on the verge of overworking or overly stressed out, you’re always there to keep him grounded and give him the pep talk he needs to hear. He’s never been supported and loved while simultaneously reprimanded for his bad habits like this

Without you he realises that he’s a mess but now that you’re here, he has that drive to be better not just for the sake of your relationship, but for himself too. He has somebody special to look forward to seeing after work now

So sure, his partner doesn’t make him ‘whole’ but you do make him a better man and that’s all he needs

📄 𝐗𝐭𝐫𝐚.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Finally, I can say something wholesome about this man. So I know that he has a personal gym near HQ where he would train and keep in shape.

I have a strong feeling that he enjoys it when his partner watches him work out. It’s a serious ego booster for him. At first he was a little weirded out that you would just stare, it wasn’t something he wasnt used to, but now he loves it when you admire him from afar.

It gives him that extra motivational boost to do better. He loves it when you steal quick kisses between each sets too.

Speaking of which, you can’t tell me that one scene in the movie when he flawlessly destroyed those grenades from the vulture that he didn’t do it with a smirk under his mask. He knew he ate that.

📄 𝐘𝐮𝐜𝐤.𝐝𝐨𝐜

Something that he wouldn’t like in his partner. I can’t lie, it was pretty hard to pinpoint with this one but after brainstorming, I think I know what he wouldn’t like

This might be controversial since this trope is pretty popular but I don’t think the whole sunshine x grumpy trope will work with him

Maybe in a different universe where he’s not responsible for the stability of the multiverse, something that is a life and death situation, while leading the Spider Society and already has a lot on his plate. But unfortunately that’s his life now. He’s given up too much to stop now

The last thing he needs is a partner who’s overly optimistic and doesn’t see from his perspective. The fate of the multiverse is in his hands after all

He’s been misunderstood his whole life. He needs his partner to just be present and listen to him and not tell him to keep his chin up when he’s not in the right state of mind for it. He needs someone who understands the gravity of his responsibilities

📄 𝐙𝐳𝐳.𝐝𝐨𝐜

I’ve mentioned this before but I’ll say it again. Miguel suffers from insomnia and gets repetitive nightmares of the multiverse collapsing one day. Sometimes his mind constantly relives the moment of his daughter fading away in his arms.

He just can’t get a rest from that.

But after being with you, they do eventually calm down. Listening to your steady breathing as you sleep, nestling in his arms or on his chest really helps calm his nerves.

Call me Miguel’s psychologist the way I yap about his fucked up mental state. I wanna write Miguel having some sort of melt down while reader comforts him but I know no one wants to read that 💀 properly will post it on ao3

Here’s the NSFW version if you’re interested

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @patchesofwork @monarchberrysblog @miguelbaby @swiftyangx12 @tarjapearce @smokeywhalee @lazyjellyfish300 @ghost-lantern @jadeloverxd @scaleniusrm @wandasfifthwife @ultravioletrayz @theorphicangel

Anyways, I’m logging off and going to bed

- Ayrus xox

490 notes · View notes

strlingsav · 1 year

Note

I’m simply in love with your portrayal of Simon/Ghost. This fandom has so many incredibly talented writers, I am glad I stumbled upon your work! Your interpretation of his character is among my favourites 🥰 if it interests you, I would like to request a comfort fic w a femme reader who is perhaps not active on the field herself, but more on the intelligence/IT side of the operations (you can totally change this if you want, it’s up for your interpretation!) who is capable but suffers from insecurity and imposters sydrome (yep I am totally projecting🤫🤐) and during a mental breakdown bc of the stress from work, Ghost of all people, who she previously has only seen during a few briefings and never has approached bc of his intimidating reputation, finds her. Cue to the stoic scary big man who has previously only stared her down turning out to be actually very supportive and appreciative of her work because he always has noticed her. It’s up to you if want to keep it sfw or not! But a dash of softdom/service top sprinkled w some praise kink wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world🥴 I would love to see your take on this if this idea interests you, and it’s totally fine if it doesn’t 🥰 it’s always a pleasure to read your work regardless! Have a good one! ✌🏻💕

Thank you very much!! I appreciate that very much 🥹🫶🏻 I can definitely do this!

Support

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— Ghost stumbles upon you, after-hours, during a breakdown.

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

It was approaching two in the morning. You were running solely on caffeine and nicotine- neither of which were helping your dry eyes or headache. The light of your monitors was the only source in the room, completely enshrouded by darkness as you stared blankly at the screens. You'd hoped it would help you focus, think more clearly, but so far it had only isolated you further, brought nothing but pressure and stress.

It wasn't supposed to be difficult, it was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be easy for you. You'd studied computer technology and engineering for years- built and coded programs for organizations all over the world. You'd worked within the military for nearly a decade, providing the most proficient and reliable support among your similarly-rated peers. You were quite literally an expert, but you didn't feel like it. Not with the unfinished assignment sitting before you.

Laswell, Price, the entirety of 141- they relied on you. They relied heavily on your abilities to guide them through their fieldwork, to do the digging they couldn't reach while on location. Though, as you leaned back in your chair, your lip red and raw with irritation, your back aching, you didn't feel reliable. You felt the familiar sting of failure, of total disappointment.

It bubbled up in your throat, escaping in a series of curses, shoving yourself away from the desk before you wound up damaging thousands of dollars of equipment. You paced, stared, and paced. Your mind swimming with questions, re-thinking every sequence, every key, every exhaustive search you could possibly pull- and still hadn't decrypted the data.

Your hand slammed down on the desk, scattering the pens and piles of paperwork you'd accumulated over the many hours you'd spent stewing in front of the code screen. The cursor blinked at you- waiting, taunting you, filling you with dread.

"Y'alright in here?"

A gruff voice pulled you from your anxious stupor, and you yanked your hand from the desk, gasping sharply. You looked up, finding Ghost at the doorway.

In the dark, you could hardly make out his silhouette, but the outline of his mask was a stark contrast against the pitch-black room.

"Didn't mean t'scare you," He said, taking a few steps forward. "Heard somethin' in here."

You let out a sigh, your heartbeat relaxing back into its regular rhythm.

You'd heard his voice before, usually over the comms, and seen him during briefings, but you'd never spoken in person. You knew he had a reputation for being tough and commanding; it put you on edge watching his looming figure in the darkness. He was undeniably intimidating, especially as he stalked toward you.

You stepped back, letting him around the desk to see your monitors.

"You're up late," He said, examining the screen.

"Trying to decode this shit," You huffed, forgetting about his domineering presence once you refocused on your failure. "It's taking me longer than it should."

"Looks complicated," He replied, his eyes meeting yours briefly.

"It is. It shouldn't be, but it is," You sighed again, sitting down as he looked over your shoulder.

"How long you been at this?"

You ignored his question, leaning in to further examine the code screen.

"It's late. You should sleep, get back to it in the mornin'."

You furrowed your brows, looking over your shoulder to find him closer than expected.

"I don't need sleep," You shook your head. "I need to figure this out. I'm close."

An epiphany sparked in your head- a brute force attack you hadn't yet tried. You quickly typed in the keys, waiting with baited breath as the screen paused.

A flickering script reading 'denied' came across your screen, typed out in front of you for confirmation. Validation that you'd failed, again.

"Fuck!" You shouted, cradling your head in your hands. "I-I can't figure this shit out, I can't do it." Your voice broke, hoarse with strain.

You looked up at him, your eyes now watery with frustration and anger.

"'Ey," He said, leaning forward. "Relax. I dunno much about this shite, but seems you're doin' alright."

You tilted your head. "Laswell needs these documents for Shepherd tomorrow, and I've got nothing to show for it. It'll be my ass getting dismissed. It's not alright."

"Shepherd can wait," He said. "You've saved our arses more than a few times."

"It's not enough."

"It's more than enough. Relax, you're givin' me a bloody headache."

"I can't relax," You looked up at him with blood-shot eyes.

"If anyone can do it, 't's you. Seen you handle worse than this." He gestured to the screen, a flippant motion.

You sucked in a deep breath, nodding slowly. You were more than shocked to hear the comforting words from Ghost. A man revered for his deadly hands, ferocity. The irony made you giggle, short and quiet, though he heard it.

"What's funny?" He asked, moving to lean against the desk.

"Just didn't expect you to be so supportive. Appreciative."

"I see what you do," His gaze was unwavering as he stared you down. "Couldn't do it m'self. Owe you my life, if not more."

"Not quite," You quirked up a brow.

"Yeah- quite. Raid in Las Almas, no other escape routes, Price called you in and we were on the way out in minutes."

You bit your cheek, nodding slowly, your eyes shutting as you digested his words. He was right- you'd done your fair share of evac and location support, never losing a soldier. Regardless of how horribly the assignment was going, you couldn't deny only you had the capacity to complete it.

"Thanks," You nodded, looking up at him. "I'm just in my head, stressed out."

He cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter.

You leaned back, grabbing a cigarette from the nearly-empty pack on the desk, and lighting it up.

"You want one?" You asked, offering him the package.

He took one, offering a quiet, "Cheers."

He lifted the cover of his mask up above his nose- it took every ounce of strength not to immediately watch his lips as he stuck the cigarette between them. Even then, your eyes glanced at the newly-discovered flesh, diverting your gaze when he locked eyes with you.

You inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine coat your lungs, before exhaling into the monitors before you.

"Should get some sleep," He said, standing up.

"Yeah," You nodded, shifting to lean forward. "Yeah, I will. Just a bit longer."

He sighed, bringing his gloved hand down on the keyboard.

"I'll break it in half if I need to," He said, his voice low and threatening.

You swallowed, raising your brows at the unexpected reaction.

"Alright," You huffed.

You stood to your feet, putting your cigarette out on the ashtray beside your mouse. He did the same, arms folding over his chest as he waited for you to leave your station.

His adamant opposition to letting you continue was admirable. Attractive, even. You hadn't anticipated feeling grateful, or happy to have had him find you.

You'd kept your distance from him, though you'd always find your eyes gravitating toward his. He'd already be staring, watching you from across the briefing room. At first, you'd been terrified, wondering if you'd done something to piss him off, but nothing ever came of it. Instead, he'd lift his head to find you, check over his shoulder to look at you.

He found you intriguing, attractive. A brilliant woman; smart, educated, someone he was glad to have on his team. He'd seen the countless hours you put in, the calm tone of your voice every time there was a stress signal from one of the men. You held it together for them- the least he could do was the same for you.

He liked the way your eyes studied the screen, the way you'd chew your lip raw. Though it wasn't in your best interest, he found it alluring. His mind wandered when he'd see you, nothing appropriate at all- only to satisfy the heat that curled itself inside his intestines when he laid his eyes on you.

He remembered seeing you for the first time, wondering who you were: laptop on the desk, pen in hand, bright-eyed and eager to please. Immediately, he'd fabricated images of you in his mind- images that he'd play through during the lonely hours of the night.

"Why are you up?" You asked suddenly.

"Couldn't sleep. Don't sleep much."

You shook your head, "And yet, you're lecturing me." A small smile lifted your lips.

"For your own good," He answered.

"That's interesting," You mumbled.

"Why's that?"

You breathed in, "You've only ever stared me down, don't think we've had a conversation before."

"Y'can say a lot without talkin'," He retorted.

"I wasn't sure whether you wanted to fuck me or kill me," You grinned.

"What's the consensus?"

"Still not sure," You held back a grin.

"Would've killed you by now."

You laughed, "That's not very comforting."

"Should be. Only leaves the former."

He moved closer, standing up straight as he unhooked his legs.

You were pleasantly surprised, though your nerves had been roused from their short slumber. Heat washed over your cheeks, climbing up your spine before returning to the crest of your thighs.

"Think y'could use some stress relief," He said. "Y'seem pent-up."

You pulled your lip between your teeth, your eyes shifting between his. It was tempting, more than your mortal being could possibly resist.

"Maybe," You uttered, your hands twitching with anxiety as he neared you.

He cocked his head, "Maybe ain't an answer."

"Yes," You blurted. "I could. But not if you're taking pity on me."

He chuckled, a sound you'd never heard before from him, though it was somewhat deformed. Amusement and disbelief rather than enjoyment.

"Sweetheart," He cooed, his chest nearly pressed against yours. "It ain't pity. Y'should know better."

"We'll, you're not exactly approachable," You said, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Haven't had the pleasure of speaking with you before."

He nodded, "S'alright," He said. "Had enough o' watchin' from afar, though."

You breathed out, long and cathartic as it passed your lips. Releasing every worry and anxiety, relieved to be able to focus solely on him- on Ghost.

His hand reached your waist, softly pulling you into him, finally connecting your bodies. You let out a quiet grunt, your hands raised at your sides as you took in the feeling of his body against yours.

"Y'can touch me," He grinned. "I won't bite 'less you ask."

As if you weren't already aroused, soaking your panties, he only made it worse. The heat of his hands on your waist had drawn out any thoughts in your head, his voice so close- so clear in front of you was mesmerizing.

You apprehensively moved your hands to rest on his shoulders, your palms gliding against the taught muscles, another extended sigh as you tried to ignore the burning in your gut. He liked the contact, your small hands searing a brand into his skin.

He stared at you for a few moments, his eyes raking over your face, the face he'd seen in his dreams more than anywhere else. He must've made a pact with the devil, something sacrificed to have you in his hands- finally.

He leaned in, soft lips touching yours. It was fleeting, the softness, before he backed you against the desk with no regard for the equipment on it. Still, his lips held your attention, his tongue gliding between your lips to clash against yours. It was open-mouthed, messy, especially as he lifted you to the desk and bullied himself between your thighs.

You moaned faintly when his hand slid down your side, taking a handful of your ass and squeezing harshly. His other hand worked your shirt off your torso, parting only for a moment when the fabric passed your neck. His hands on your bare skin created a feeling of tightness in your gut- especially as he squeezed and grabbed at you, truly appreciating the curves of your body against him.

To your chagrin, he was still fully clothed, in his fatigues, like he lived in them. Even at two A.M., the man never quit. You weren't complaining; you rather liked the sight of his fitted uniform, especially as it squeezed his forearms and thighs, showing the bulk of muscle and veins beneath tattooed skin.

You were antsy, however, to feel him. All of him, against you.

"Take it off," You whispered against his lips, tugging at his jacket with clenched fists.

"Bossy woman you are," He teased, pulling away as he unbuttoned the shirt.

"I know what I want," You shot back, your eyes now narrowed in on him.

He hummed, satisfied with your answer. "That so?"

You nodded, smug and prideful, a sense of power- you had complete control. Your hands supported your weight behind you, leaning back, watching the show as he stripped from the shirt. It fell off his torso, revealing the toned muscles beneath, and he yanked the other sleeve off with impatience.

Your jaw was slack, looking over him as he neared again. This time, his hand slid up your throat, gripping the delicate area with a firm hold. He forced your eyes to meet his, a noticeable grin on his lips.

"You listen to me, sweetheart," He said, in your face. "And I'll take care o'you. Spread your legs."

You shivered, an audible gasp leaving your lips. The things you'd have done to hear filthy words leave his mouth- the voice that rung in your ears at night, made your pussy flutter. Now, he'd offered his services to you, rather enthusiastically, too, admitting he'd wanted it for a long time. If nothing else made you feel better about your shit progress, he surely could.

He kept eye contact while his hand worked open your pants, pulling them and your panties down your legs with speed and precision. He wasted no time pressing your thighs to your chest, tucking you into an uncomfortable position before kneeling in front of you.

"No thinkin'," He warned. "'Less it's about cummin' on my face."

Your head fell back, groaning softly, lifting back up again only when he pressed his lips to your pussy. Then, you watched with anticipation building in your gut, trembling in your limbs and a heavy ache settling in your womb.

He slid a warm tongue between your folds, a gentle touch you hadn't expected from the brute of a man. He watched you the entire time, took in the sight of your lips parting, sucking in a long breath, shutting your eyes as you basked in the pleasure. He couldn't help but form a grin, his lips engulfing your pussy in an open-mouthed kiss.

His attention moved to your clit, faint licks crossing the sensitive area that coaxed quick jolts from your body. He settled into a rhythm, and your body adjusted accordingly, leaning into the new and overwhelming feeling.

"Yeah, right there," You said, a hushed tone, like you were speaking to yourself.

He grunted in response, another warning.

"Sorry," You said again. "Feels so good." It was a quiet whine.

You wanted to run your fingers through his hair, grab at something, anything that would connect you to him, so you settled for his forearms. Your palm gripped the flesh of his arm, squeezing, just as he did to your thighs.

His tongue expertly traced your clit, circles and delicate licks that made your back arch, opening yourself up for him to taste.

"That's it," He uttered, muffled by your pussy. Even speaking against you made you clench, stare down at him with lust on your face. "There's a good girl."

You exhaled, nodding in agreement, submission to his mouth as he returned to his rhythm, falling in tandem with the heavy breathing leaving your chest. His eyes hadn't left you, watching and studying your expression for every hint of pleasure. He was intent on learning exactly what you like, though it was difficult to discern through the flurry of expressions on your face.

Your brows drawn together, jaw open as you choked down a gasp, breathing heavily into the dark room. He could make out your face, but your silhouette was blackened against the light of the monitors. He could see the swell of your breasts, your thighs, the curve of your waist against the backlight. He could even see your eyes, when you'd drop your head to watch him devour you.

You began to shake, tensing against his mouth when he continued at a consistent pace. He was thorough in every aspect of life- this was no exception. He didn't let up, even when your pussy drooled with cum, instead, he licked it up with his tongue, moaning softly against you at your taste.

He stood to his feet, unbuckling his belt as he stared at you. Your chest heaved, toes curled, leaning back as you watched him. The light danced on his abdomen, highlighting every hill and dip on his torso, the scars that scattered the skin. It was a sight that had your brain resetting, recovering as though you hadn't been covered in a layer of sweat and left breathless from your orgasm.

His cock stood erect when he yanked his trousers down, and he didn't stall any longer. He stalked forward, leaning into you, his hand on the desk behind you as he pushed his cock through the tight barrier of your hymen. He was absorbed, swallowed by soft inner-muscles and velvety walls, slick with your cum and arousal.

He pressed his lips to yours again, not allowing for much deliberation or accommodation- he was far too aroused to wait. You planted your heels against the desk as he thrusted his entire length into you, quickly meeting your cervix with a gentle graze. It made you suck in a sharp breath, and move away from his lips.

You saw his eyes, the look of possession and pure lust in them. You merely stared at each other, a nauseating intimacy while he thrusted inside you, further disturbing your lower stomach with a tightness.

"Oh God," You choked, your hands reaching around his shoulders, clinging to him. "Don't stop- don't fucking stop."

His hand reached around you, holding you against him, the other gripping your thigh with a bruising constraint.

"Fuckin' Christ, you're tight, sweetheart," He breathed in your ear. "You all wet for me?"

You nodded, breathing an enthusiastic yes into his ear, clenching at his back with your fingers. Your nails dug into the slick flesh, feeling his muscles move as his hips tilted back and forth into you.

All you could smell, hear was him. The scent of his heavy body soap, like pine, mixed with the cigarette you'd offered him earlier. His breathing in your ear, heavy pants as he relished in the tightness of you- the slippery walls encroaching on his cock.

"Such a good fuckin' girl," He mumbled against your neck, his lips dragging against your skin. "Say you're a good girl," His voice rumbled through his chest. "Fuck me- all for me."

It was haze-inducing, incoherent mumbles, quiet gasps and sobs as you clung to him. It worsened when his fingers played your clit, sliding between your bodies to rub over the sensitive spot.

"I'm a good girl," You gasped. "I'm your good girl."

"'At's right, sweetheart- takin' me nice and deep."

It didn't take long to clench around his cock, another wave of nauseating pleasure that rendered you absolutely useless as he drove into you.

"Fuckin' hell," He stuttered.

You'd constricted his cock, pulsating around him with every contraction, nearly sobbing into his shoulder when he continued with his thrusts.

He finally pulled out, tugging on his cock as he released his cum over your stomach. He exhaled sharply, before gathering his composure.

You grimaced as you stood to your feet, trying to clean yourself off as best you could.

You watched him shrug his jacket back on.

"Get some rest," He nodded once, gesturing to the doorway. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

"Is 'check on me' an innuendo? Should I wear my good underwear?" You grinned, pulling your pants back over your backside.

"I'd shag you if y'had on a bin bag, sweetheart."

"You're sweeter than you let on," You teased, laughing.

"Not for most," He cocked his head. "Guess you're lucky."

"Well, thank you," You smiled.

It was genuine. A distraction, however unexpected and unusual, that did make you almost forget about the assignment.

"I'll be around," He paused. "If you're feelin' like takin' your frustrations out."

"Goodnight, Lieutenant."

He walked off with a short nod. You paused for a moment; the temptation to curl yourself up at your desk and continue your assignment was gnawing at you. You clenched your jaw, took a deep breath in when you recalled Ghost's words, and finally decided to turn off the monitors.

#cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod mwii #mwii #simon riley #strlingsavwrites #ghost x you

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cmdrfupa · 13 days

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Tend to me

Barkeep!Nanami x Salarywomxn!Reader

“That's what I do. I drink and I know things.”

a/n did this come from talking in a server about how post college Nanami needs a job and simping over how hot he’d be with his sleeves rolled up? You bet your ass it did. Thank you Court and Nana for your beautiful brains 🩵💜

MDNI +19

Five rejection emails, no callbacks, and his interview today turned into a scene from a novela after the receptionist barged into the boss's office, exclaiming that she was pregnant. All in the span of one week.

Kento pressed his forehead to the linoleum. table as he groaned.

“Don't give up! It's like, 10,000 other bank jobs! You'll get one.” Haibara squeezed Kento’s shoulder as he watched his form slump into itself.

"Yu, it seems like I’ve been turned down for 10,000 jobs. At this rate, I’ll have better luck getting a job as a cab driver.”

“But you don't have a car—”

“Shhhhhh.” Kento turned his head to the side, still keeping it on the table and looking at Yu.

He knew Yu was trying to help, but it’d be more helpful if he didn't speak.

"Look, Ken. If nothing else comes up, I can talk to my boss to get you hired.” Yu stuffed the last of his tuna onigiri in his mouth, smiling as he attempted to cheer his roommate up. “You won't have my role as a trainer, but you could be one of the guys who clean off the sweaty machines! Pays pretty decent.”

Clearing his throat, Kento sat up, eyes still closed before he spoke up.

“Yu.”

“Yeah?” His big brown eyes were only filled with genuine care; Kento looked over at him and sighed.

“Thank you. I'll let you know if I need you to do that.

Yu gave a toothy grin as he gave Kento a swift pat on the back. “It's all gonna be okay! Just breathe.”

Kento stood with a wry smile. “Thanks. I'm gonna go for a walk. Clear my mind a bit. See you tonight.”

The stroll served its purpose. It reminded Kento he wasn't a poor interviewer, nor did he lack the gusto. The job market was over-saturated and relied heavily on personal connections; Kento did not know a soul in the finance world.

He stopped; a ‘Now hiring, Inquire within’ sign on a heavily tinted window caught his eye while Gojo watched him from the other end of the FaceTime call.

“Where does that leave you now?”

“Well, I’ll get some experience in the meantime, become a math teacher or tutor while I look for something more sustainable.”

"You? A teacher? Nanamin, don’t make me laugh.” Gojo propped his phone up, “You’ll have the students' brains bleeding out if you do that. Think of the children, Ken-doll.”

Kento rolled his eyes and watched Gojo clean his desk. Literary motifs littered the wall behind Gojo. A large poster of Yevgeny Zamyatin hung in the center. “Math isn't supposed to be fun anyway. It's not teaching Dr. Seuss. It teaches objective truths and concepts.”

Gojo feigned a yawn. “Wherever there is objective truth, there is satire.”

“That’s not how Wyndham Lewis meant it.”

“You don't know that! He's dead. It's all about interpretation.”

“I’m hanging up now. Gojo. Goodbye.”

Gojo smiled. “I can pull some strings and see if Yaga has a spot in the math department.” he nabbed his phone, seemingly prepping to leave his classroom.

“And remember dinner this weekend! See you Nanamin!” he blew a kiss into the phone pushing Kento to immediately hang up.

Kento looked back at the building. The 3-story building had hints of older Japanese architecture with European accents.

"The Zenith" was carved into a wooden pillar adjacent to the entry, with a simple design.

“I can just see what they're hiring for. No harm in that.”

The bar inside was the epitome of luxury and sophistication, designed to impress the city’s most discerning clientele. In the hotel's heart, Kento felt out of place. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed breathtaking views of the Tokyo skyline. He waited for the hiring manager to end her dumbfounded stare.

“So no previous barkeeping history, no customer service work, and no idea how to run a till.” The dark-haired woman named Utahime looked up at Kento. “What qualifications do you have?”

Smoothing his hair back to think of what he could say to seem qualified, he looked around the room. Older individuals who appear established. Business-minded.

An older woman, in a meeting, smiling at the blonde-haired man. An older man was on a call. His younger companion crossed her legs and batted her lashes as Kento scanned.

"I could boost revenue and upsell your best bottles to those who don't care about the price."

“Mr. Nanami. How could you do that? Most of our clientele just order one drink and maybe a listening ear.”

There were a lot of things Kento lacked but looks were never one of them. The gift of having the perfect genetics made academics a breeze. But, it was now time to use his good looks and gift of gab, inherited from his grandfather.

“I learn quick. Hire me today and I’ll have every stool filled and the register overfilled in 7 days. I guarantee.”

Polished, calm, and precise. Nanami excelled behind the bar, his steady hands mixing drinks for the city’s elite. With his sleeves rolled, he perfected the craft of keeping up with mundane conversations mid-shake. His bulging veins, as he held the shaker, made every woman calculate their tip before he served their martinis. Muscles flexed when he noticed some of the older men who could care less about the young women in cocktail dresses attempting to be mysterious and wanted to know if the blonde keep could do more than be heavy-handed on the gin.

He was the bar's eye candy, something they should've thought about hiring months ago.

It's a world where he realized he can control every variable, crafting experiences one cocktail at a time.

After his first week, they offered him a permanent position. Working midday during the week to keep businessmen and women pleased and one Saturday evening shift a month to keep the younger crowd in.

The low hum of conversation and soft jazz music filled the dimly lit bar as Kento worked behind the sleek marble counter, expertly mixing another round of drinks for the evening's guests. He wore his usual stoic expression, with the usual white button-down shirt and well-fitting slacks to match.

He placed a completed cocktail on the bar top, and wiped his hands while checking what needed to be refilled. “Utahime? Could I get some more ice and a few more lowball glasses, please?” he spoke into the earpiece he donned on his left ear. “They seem to be disappearing, and Choso isn't back from his break."

"Yeah. Give me 20. I'm running tables for catering. I'll send it by Takuma.”

“Thanks.”

He wiped down the bar top; a figure slid onto one of the high-backed leather stools in his peripheral with an aura that turned heads without needing to demand attention.

“What can I get started for you this afternoon?”

“I’ll have a French 75, please. Thank you.” Smooth and assured, your voice rang like a hymnal in his ears.

Kento gave you a nod, his ability to indulge in small talk temporarily taken from him by your presence. He set to work, measuring gin and fresh lemon juice with his usual care, topped with a flourish of champagne. The drink landed before you in a delicate, chilled glass.

You took a sip, eyes never leaving his. Your nude-colored lips curved into a small but telling smile. "Not bad... but not quite perfect either."

Kento raised an eyebrow, subtly intrigued but keeping his expression neutral. “I take it you have high standards.”

You chuckled, low and sultry. “I’m a person who knows what she wants, and I don’t settle for anything less.”

Nanami leaned in slightly, his tone dry yet teasing. “Perfection is subjective. Some people might call that 'almost' drinkable."

"Almost isn't in my vocabulary," you replied, eyes gleaming with challenge. You pursed your lips. “Not in business, not in life... and definitely not in drinks.”

He smirked, just enough for you to notice. “I’ll keep that in mind for your next order.”

You swirled the drink in your glass, the fizz of champagne catching the low light as you appraised him. “A man who can admit he’s not perfect? You must have been raised well. Refreshing.”

Nanami met your gaze, unruffled by your attempt to throw him off his game. “I prefer precision over perfection. Perfection tends to make people complacent.”

Your eyes narrowed but with a hint of amusement. “Interesting perspective, coming from someone who works behind a bar.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Someone has to remind people that the best things in life have room for improvement. Even when they think they’ve already got it all.”

Tilting your head, glancing at the way the simple silver chain rested against his collar. You were impressed but clearly enjoying the game. “You might be onto something. What’s your name?”

“Nanami Kento,” he said simply, as he wiped down the bar.

“Well, Nanami,” your voice is softer but no less commanding, "next time, why don’t you make me a drink that I can’t critique?”

He gave you a rare, almost imperceptible smile. “Challenge accepted.”

Your eyes lingered on each other, the tension electric. You raised your glass, with a smile so poised and self-assured, before taking another sip.

"Looking forward to it," you murmured, low and teasing. Then, you stood and left a 50-dollar tip with your card. You walked away, your perfume lingering in the air.

Kento read your name on the card. His curiosity ran wild with every possible scenario as he watched your backend disappear into the lobby

A few days later, the bar's golden lights glowed softly. They reflected off the dark marble counter as Nanami wiped down glasses. His thoughts drifted to the usual routine. He’d swapped shifts, which resulted in watching the evening crowd trickle in, primarily corporate types and high-society guests, and Nanami managed the situation with his typical efficiency and calm demeanor.

But as he adjusted a bottle of whiskey on the back shelf, a familiar presence caught his eye.

You were back.

You entered with the same quiet confidence, this time fitted with a far more casual, sleek outfit paired with heels that clacked against the polished floor.

Moving with ease, you slipped into the same seat as last time, your gaze meeting his immediately. Your lips curled into a slow smile, almost as if you knew he’d be expecting you.

“Good evening," Kento greeted, his voice calm with a slight edge of anticipation.

"Nanami," you replied, leaning forward. Your self-assured energy was hard to ignore. “It's a pleasure to see you tonight. I think I’m in the mood for something a bit more... complex.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his tone dry but with an undertone of curiosity. “What are we talking about? A Negroni? Maybe a Vieux Carré?”

You smiled a glint of challenge in your eye. “Surprise me.”

Kento studied you for a moment, then nodded and began his work.

His movements were precise but fluid as he grabbed a bottle of mezcal and began crafting a Smoky Margarita, layering complex flavors—mezcal for smokiness, lime for sharpness, and a touch of agave to round it out, all topped off with a rim of chili salt. The drink was bold and nuanced, like the woman before him.

He placed the glass in front of you with hushed confidence, waiting for your reaction.

With a slow sip, your lips brushed against the glass as your tongue sampled the salted rim. Eyes closed momentarily to savor the taste.

When you opened them, your gaze locked onto his.

“Now this,” you leaned forward, "is much better.”

Kento leaned on the counter slightly, his smirk more visible this time. “Glad to hear it. Looks like I’m learning.”

“Seems like you’re a quick study.”

You held each other’s gaze, the air between thick with tension that had only grown since your last encounter. Your voice dropped to an intimate murmur, barely audible over the ambient music. “So, Nanami... what do you do when you’re not making perfect drinks?”

He raised an eyebrow, amused by the shift in your tone. “I don’t get much free time. I like structure with very little change. But I do have a break coming up.”

Your smile widened, and there was a glint of mischief in your eyes. “Is that so? And what do you usually do on these breaks?”

Kento straightened, glancing around the bar. The crowd was calm tonight, his usuals with a small group of beer drinkers. He certainly wasn’t going to be missed if he disappeared a little earlier than usual. “Not very much. But there’s a private spot upstairs. Quiet.”

“Lead the way.”

Kento signaled for one of the other bartenders, wordlessly handing off duties as he made his way around the bar and approached you. You stood and walked alongside him through the bar.

Turning the corner without paying attention, an inattentive passerby bumped into Kento, a glass of what he could guess was whiskey now soaking the front of his shirt. “Holy shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You pressed your lips together, smiling as Kento didn’t let the incident interrupt your determined ascent up the stairs.

You didn’t speak as you made your way to a barrier, secluded alcove on the mezzanine floor—a quiet corner with a view of the city through tall windows, framed by rich drapes. The world outside was glittering and alive, but here, away from prying eyes, it felt like their own little escape.

Kento stopped near the window, turning to face you as the ambient glow of the city lights bathed them both in soft light. You stepped closer, the subtle scent of your perfume mixing with the full scent of whiskey that stuck to him. He unbuttoned his shirt, uncovering his lean torso and square pecs.

“You have a talent for choosing the right spot.” You said, your voice lower now.

“I don’t waste time.” He replied, his eyes locked on yours.

You smirked, stepping even closer until the space between you was nearly nonexistent. “Efficient. I like that.”

Kento’s pulse quickened though his exterior remained composed. The heat of your presence never wavering as he watched your every move.

You lightly brushed his arm, a deliberate move to see his reaction.

“I knew you’d be interesting,” you uttered, your voice soft, teasing, but laced with something deeper. “I just didn’t know how interesting.”

Kento’s lips quirked into a small smile, one that carried more weight than any words he could say at that moment. “You’re not so predictable yourself.”

Your eyes locked. The city lights flickered around you, but neither of you noticed, too caught up in the magnetic pull of something new, something charged.

You reached up, your hand brushing his collarbone. You licked his whiskey-flavored chest. You languidly licked up to his neck as he sucked in a sharp breath. "Hmm." You whispered while your lips hovered close to his. “I like a man who can keep up."

Nanami’s voice was steady, but there was a rough edge to it now. “I don’t plan on slowing down.”

With a final, knowing smile, he closed the gap between you. His lips brushed yours in a kiss more electric than the city lights below.

“Nanami Kento.”

“Yes ma'am.”

“When you clock out, my room happens to be on the floor above this one.” You slid your room card into his pants pocket as his hand slid down, pressing you into him.

Kento pushed you to the wall with a quick yet gentle motion, nudging his knee between your thighs. "You've surprised me."

“How so?" The sudden closeness brought a surge of anticipation bursting in your chest.

"I didn't take you for someone who would enjoy a bit of public play."

You rubbed your wetness on his knee, lost in thought. A simpering moan escaped you. "I don't know what you're talking about, Nanami."

Amused by your attempt to keep it together, he moved his knee forward to elicit another moan from you. "The dampness of my slacks says otherwise." He drowned out the sounds of the late-night rush with the pants he pulled from you.

"Tell me how to please you with precision and I'll follow every direction."

Thank you @/saradika-graphics for the dividers ✨

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami smut #nanami kento x y/n #nanami x reader #jjk smut #lounge.logs #lu.logs

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slowd1ving · 17 days

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✦ III. OH, HOW TRAGIC IS HE

'It was an accident. “I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I’ll stay with you, alright?” Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end. The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above.' • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is) wc: 11.9k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

‘If man’s hour were to come, no one could escape it: not the brave, nor the cowardly. In the case of the city-state of Metis—referred to by romantics as the ‘Eroded Kingdom’—its collapse was widely regarded as inevitable. Frankly, as al-Ghazali pointed out in his ‘Fall of Empires’, Metis was inherently doomed to fail from its intrinsic characteristics: military hubris (relying on the susceptible and corrupt polemarch Aetos in the final decade of the kingdom’s existence); economic failure (due to the recessions Aha created and failed to mitigate); the subsequent loss of capital, and perhaps, most poignantly, its alienation of alchemists and increasingly alarming anti-heretical laws which provoked regional rebellions that soon spiralled into the so-called ‘Scholar’s March’ of 786 of the Attican Calendar, or year 352 of the Amber Age¹.

Who could’ve predicted that the citizens could grow so united in the face of such tyranny? For years the Metisians had endured the brutal taxation, the reforms in education, and the yokes of the cult-like Elation—the catalyst could only be the mass executions and disappearances that occurred the year prior the March. Of course, scholars like Ignis the Argumentative would insist it was the sudden disappearance of capable officials that set the cataclysm into motion—but further examination by other contemporaries reproached this interpretation as there was no real policy difference between the lawmakers in terms of addressing both long- and short-term triggers that led to the fall of Old Metis, as Antiquus the Elder points out in his ‘Treatises of the Archipelago’².

Now, a millennium later, New Metis continues to repeat its historical mistakes from a bygone age—continuing legislation to heavily restrict and outright ban certain schools of thought. For most of the New Metis citizens, this isn’t an issue; but this begs the question, when will it be a problem? Tyranny has not been redefined—it’s still hiding in New Metis today, under the smiling masks of your politicians! Wake up, New Metis!’

— Inana, P. (1433 2AA). Civilisation: Modeling Metis as a continuation of a failed empire. Journal Politik, 47 (3), 101-110

. 　⁺ ✦

Like all days, the pills were particularly hard to swallow. Chalky, bitter—a tepid medley of medicine that neither made you more energetic nor erased the hangover of the liquor still remaining in your system. It was an unfortunate cocktail: vitamins and painkillers tossed from a drugstore shelf with no regard for its expiry date but rather the price and time you were running out of.

It was a tepid day, that day was. Humid streams of vapour clung to the asphalt as you stumbled out of the store with a plastic, rustling bag slung onto your wrist hurriedly—reusable coffee cup grasped tight in one hand, the dose of tablets clutched painstakingly in the other. It felt like a rush to work, and perhaps it was; this day was like all others, in hindsight. For others, the routine mundanity of your life might’ve been hellish; for you, however, the brimstone and fire had long faded into a tired cliché, where all the impact of your suffering trickled into a steady background hum.

There was a sort of beauty in the aches and pains of your life—not in the pretentious way, not in the nihilistic way—but rather in the sense that one might feel a brow raise at the sight of a pattern embroidered delicately into cloth. If you were to give a less quixotic analogy, it would be the satisfaction of a computer programme doing its job: lines upon lines of code melding seamlessly into a never ending loop with no errors.

Yes. Comfort came in the shape of these grey roads, these monochromatic buildings, and the stink of pollution on your way to your monotonous job. Comfort came in the ritualistic bread (drugstore painkillers) and wine (bitter, cheap coffee) that you partook in each morning after Friday. Comfort came in the perfunctory, solid thump of sole against pavement; the cat you’d passed by for the past month; and the worn earbuds that were slowly reaching the limits with their tinny quality and exposed wire.

It was a painful life. It was a painless life.

Tragedy seeped in through the sterile nitrile of your gloves. Tragedy ghosted its fingers over your polyester lab coat, and tapped on the clear plastic of your goggles. Tragedy weaved through the tired yawns as you spun on your stool and waited for the centrifuge to settle to a halt. Maybe if you crossed your fingers enough, the seconds would pass by quicker, and maybe there’d be something decent in the cafeteria. Well. It was never worth the money, but then again, there was nothing to save for. No occasions to buy nice clothes for. No particular want or need for holidays.

No one to treat, either, not even the nice old lady in the apartment next to yours. Not anymore, at least.

You sighed, and the matter in the Petri dish sighed with you.

And thus, a sense of purpose continued eluding you—but so did any profound pain. This was ordinary, as an achromatic existence like this didn’t stand out in the grand machine, and you didn’t think it ever would. That was fine. That was expected. In fact, it was downright comforting that you wouldn’t particularly matter in the long run.

(Is it truly an anodyne, like you make it seem? Where is the solace, when your teeth worry at your lips as you gaze at human connexion?)

You lied. You lied, but who would persecute you for your sin, when the sin was merely doubt about your reality?

Like all other days, it began with a healthy dosage of denial, and perhaps that is what led to the events that transpired.

. 　⁺ ✦

In retrospect, it was practically expected that your tired life would beget yet another tired cliché.

There was something completely unoriginal in the series of misfortunes that befell the proletariat salaryman (read: you). In novels, movies, and the occasional game, the most ordinary of souls stumbled across a situation that chose them. For once, someone in their weary lives had need of them; not as a pushover, nor a lackey, but someone courageous and brave who became a hero. Forums and comments oft scorned these overused plotlines—and you agreed, of course—but it was an interesting premise to think about.

“There’s a survivor on the third floor—”

Still, no matter how intriguing the promise of escape from the mundane was, it was pointless. It wouldn’t happen.

“Hey— can you get up? Blink if you can hear me, alright?

The accident in the lab was almost poetic. Of course, when a protagonist encountered an explosion in their place of work, there was always an accompanying montage that indicated something was wrong. Whether it be the change in key in the background chords, or a close up of cracking machinery, the audience got some sort of closure as to why. Was it fate? Was it the cruel machinations of man? Was it just an unfortunate accident?

“We need oxygen here—he’s going into shock! Help—you—get a gurney immediately!”

But actually, there was none of that fanfare for you. Just a sluggish warmth that crawled from your limbs and back into your heart, from limbs far too cold to move. No, not cold. You simply couldn’t feel them—much like when a body part suddenly fell asleep on you.

If you scrunched your face a bit, you could smell the acrid wisps of rubble: paint chips and stone all congealing into an antiquated scent. You couldn’t exactly see, but maybe that was for the better.

“What’s happen—” Your tongue felt leaden in your mouth: heavy and contorted as you awkwardly sounded out your question. An explosion? A gas leak? A mine that somehow went off? There was something wet dribbling from your mouth; tasting like white hot iron, seeping past your aching lips. A hero would know. A hero would have that information playing out panel by panel while they bled out, farewells and anguish for their loved ones already melding into the fabric of existence.

Ow.

“Shh, don’t talk, okay? We’ll get you out of here, alright?” There weren’t any reassurances for your state. No ‘you’ll be okay’, no ‘stay with me, alright?’. You weren’t stupid. You weren’t, but it was in that moment when you wished you were—dropping out before doing your degree and doctorate, keeping far from the lab, and holding on to your life with blissful ignorance on your side.

You opened your mouth.

“No, you don’t need to say anything, alright?” The voice was kind, you noted drowsily. If not a little clumsy, swaddling you in a foil blanket like some overgrown child. Well. You couldn’t see it, and neither could you feel its texture, but you could feel your limbs lolling this way and that way at the movements—like some grotesque, decommissioned marionette.

At least it didn’t hurt.

“Thank you,” you whispered. There was nothing outrageous about your last words. Like the rest of your life, the syllables were as ordinary as they came. A quiet beginning. A quiet end. There was nobody to say goodbye to, nobody to wait for past the veil.

It was an accident.

“I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I’ll stay with you, alright?”

Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end.

The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above.

. 　⁺ ✦

“Hey, wake up.”

Death came in the gentle touch of a rolling breeze; riding on its coattails was the disembodied laughter of a child, alongside the kiss of three words that stirred your sleep-crusted lashes. Death seeped into the loamy scent of petrichor: soaked past the balmy fragrance of wildflowers and grass, against the clean soap of freshly-laundered linen. Death trailed its sepulchral fingers past the damp ground cradling your slumbering body—rustling and tugging at the jewel-toned robe draping your limbs that rose and fell with your chest.

“How peaceful,” you murmured, and the mouthfeel of the words was as crisp as water straight from a burbling brook. Copper no longer defiled your lips, and neither did the burning heat of your dying syllables. Rather, cool air replaced the oily blood that slid across your tongue mere moments ago.

Had you trespassed the veil warding life from death?

Peeking at the haze hanging over your head, something had clearly gone wrong with your passage to the afterlife. No, was it even an afterlife? Clumsily, like a foal stumbling on its hooves for the first time, you sat up shakily—to find your limbs sprightly and healthy, with none of the gelid quality you’d felt before you woke up. In fact, your head was clearer than ever: not a hint of any throbbing in your temples.

Even the very breeze felt different: fuller, yet decidedly more empty.

In hindsight, it was likely shock that delayed your registration of the very obvious problem at hand. Rolling, verdant fields aside, the firmament stretching from horizon to horizon shone bright with two heavenly bodies. Were you seeing double?

“Two suns,” you muttered, squinting at the brilliant sky. Brilliant, though it wasn’t blue like you’d expected—but a more melancholy array of hues, even with the twin bodies illuminating the vast canvas. Two suns, an unfamiliar sky, and alien constellations littering it. “Where the fuck am I?”

Great. Wonderful. A new headache had presented itself, because clearly you were no longer on Earth—which now begged the question, where were you?

Or, more poignantly, who were you?

The first law of thermodynamics proposed energy was neither created nor destroyed, simply transferred from one form to another. In turn, perhaps it was less surprising that you’d reawakened in another form—rather, the puzzling element was how this new vessel came to be. Its movements were familiar, its shape and flow of limbs, too, was an exact replica of your Earthbound form, but far less bone-weary than you had been.

You died. This you accepted.

You… reawoke. Passed on? Ended up in a coma? Got stuck in limbo? That was something far more difficult to fathom: flung into a world far removed from your own, it was hard to suppress the epistemic needs of a human.

Would it have been easier, being reborn into this otherworldly place, without any memories of before your death? Was it… normal, continuing existence like this? Were there any precedents?

What the hell was going on?

It was perhaps on a whim that you finally looked down, gazing at the lush field and your vivid clothes. Staring at the garb that adorned you, you neither recognised the cut of the material nor the rich dye that stained it—but you supposed that was par for the course when not even the sky looked familiar to you. That was expected.

The translucent, almost glass-like window that popped up over in your line of vision was decidedly not. Immediately, your focus snapped from the delicate embroidery right on to the rolling script appearing; a series of whorls and lines that somehow resonated with your tired brain.

“Rida mis vizenia,” you murmured as the syllables made themselves known to you, something you didn’t even need to translate manually. Your breath caught in your throat when the mechanical pronunciation loosened your fumbling tongue—like speaking your mother tongue after decades of disuse.

You squinted at the block of text, alongside the tiny mannequin depicting what you wore.

[Robes of Ambiguity (◼◼◼◼◼ Robes): a style of clothing popular among New Metis officials wishing to keep their exact station unknown. Neither this colourful palette nor this traditional embroidery belongs to any particular rank nor department, ◼◼ning those wishing to stay obscure typically favour these well-made garments; ◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼ ◼◼◼. There’s more to the wearer than meets the eye, you know? ◼◼◼◼ limited to those of high rank, thus regular civilians also enjoy wearing these for more special occasions.]

What was this, a game? An exasperated groan left your mouth at the new possibility—furious due to that, but also the lack of any helpful information given by these garments. No clue about your identity, only that these clothes were from New Metis. New Metis. There was nothing—no sudden recognition, no extra-heavy thump of your heart, and certainly not any memories from this new body that could point you in any direction.

The only thing that was truly helpful was the appearance of this floating, rectangular entity: two valuable clues had sprung from it, after all.

One: this interface could be the light that would guide you, providing its information was reliable. Game or not, it could very well be that this apparent saviour was some sick ploy, for whatever reason. It was a welcome sight regardless; you’d seen it countless times in various media, whether it be in novels or video games.

Still, you eyed the screen sceptically. Who was behind it, anyway?

Two: it appeared there was still information you weren’t privy to, judging by the error marks against the azure window. Or maybe this information was never intended for you in the first place; the screen blurred and glitched like it couldn’t wait to escape your view. Like cotton candy, its shape dissolved and formed just as capriciously in the rolling breeze: melting and undulating with virtual strands of data.

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as ◼◼◼◼◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

“That’s it?” you muttered incredulously. That was your face displayed on the pixelated screen, your name that kept ebbing and flowing from existence like an evasive childhood song. Even the damn clothing you donned had a more detailed log of information—and the important part was erased from existence.

It was the latter part that intrigued you most, unknown occupation aside. Common tongue. It felt right when describing the syllables leaving your mouth, even if you hadn’t realised you’d been talking to yourself in it for the past however many minutes.

With a long-winded sigh, you unfocused your gaze and it seemed the window sighed with relief too: fading out with nary a blip. If this was a game, clearly you weren’t the protagonist; no cutscene greeted you, not even an introduction to the error-laden system it seemed to have anomalously assigned you.

Honey tongue.

Tongue of thought.

They were important enough to mention, important enough that they were present in your profile without regard for anything else. But in a way, the lack of expectations was nice. A simple blank resumé, waiting to develop into a ‘you’. ‘You’ weren’t assuming someone else’s identity. ‘You’ were freshly dumped anew, without the ties to burden you to an overused plot and allegiance.

But that wasn’t a tangent to mull over at the moment. There were far more pressing matters to contend with.

Think. You were in the vast open country, with neither food, water, nor a map. Neither horizon boasted any traces of civilisation, which made your situation slightly more dire. No landmarks. No forests. No creatures either, but the abundance of flora called for pollination, right? Unless, of course, the rules of biology and physics have all been messed up… what’s the gravitational field strength on this planet…. is this even the same universe as Earth… does this follow video game mechanics or is it its own world… what does an atom look like….

Needless to say, the post-rebirth clarity hit you hard.

“Useless,” you muttered in common tongue—turned to a long string of foreign-yet-familiar profanity as you tried to switch back to your mother tongue. It was only after a tense concentration that the word ‘fuck’ breached your stumbling lips; though, by the reverence and relief in your voice, nobody would ever think you were letting loose imprecations in this serene landscape.

But that begged the question: to what were you saying useless to?

As it turned out, the hand rummaging through the luxurious fabric draped across you came back barren—utterly empty as you stared at the flesh, haggard.

There was no map, and you could forget about a compass.

There was no sustenance.

There wasn’t even a fly to pitifully leave your vacuous pocket.

Instead, the pulling and tugging of these sumptuous clothes revealed elaborate lines inking your roughened skin—colours melded into labyrinthine formulae you instinctively understood. Somehow, the intricate tattoos that wove against your dermis and shimmered expectantly—just like the window that faded in and out of view capriciously—resembled the long strings of formulae you’d derived and memorised for your degree and doctorate, to the point where blood dribbled from your nose each night. Metallic letters, meaningless without the painstaking effort behind them.

But…

Your brows furrowed. Inked upon your arms and torso, and likely extending to your very legs, were shifting chromatic designs that visually could not be the same formulae you knew. That was what anyone from Earth would say, but something in your gut told you to decipher and understand these complex designs on you—like the most delicate of embroideries on a magnificent tapestry, your body was covered in the most exquisite of patterns.

On your wrist, the characters grew incandescent as you clumsily sounded out the tongue of thought. This was neither the familiar shape of Earth languages, nor was it the common tongue you’d grown accustomed to—but something far more ancient, something far more unconstrained. It was guttural, it was refined: it was everything in between and outside of it as you mouthed the patterns on you aloud.

“◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼.” Equivalent exchange, you finally read out—and something rose within as collateral. It was neither your soul nor your life, but a warm, pulsing energy: enough to make you drowsy with its absence.

A prayer fluttered in the wind, just like the slow blink of your lashes as they fought to keep awake—heavy as they were from the price offered for your request.

“Want… answers,” you slurred, unintelligible to all but the concentric circles forming beneath you and seeping into your flesh. “Humans.”

And the world whispered back, hearing your supplication.

. 　⁺ ✦

It was with a dazed (though quite refreshed, you had to say) sort of stupor that you woke to the sound of light footsteps. Senses that had somehow been honed to a fine, sharp point now served you well as you stirred at the slightest tremors in the ground. In fact, the smallest of changes in air flow had already put you on high alert—but something was telling you to wait it out.

People.

Your plea had altered a predestined course.

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an a◼che◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

A◼che◼◼.

Change was good. Change would free you from stagnancy, even if you weren’t aware of its shift.

. 　⁺ ✦

She gave a sweeping bow: complete with the elegant curl of her hand and not a strand of fiery hair out of place. It was perfect in all its points—though you didn’t quite know why it registered as such. A perfunctory standard greeting… complete with, but not limited to, the hand gesture that typically denotes merchants or nomadic ones… The thoughts whirled incoherently alongside the fragmented cerulean window that intermittently, though no information of the woman before you appeared.

“Himeko, of house Murata, greets thee.” She spoke with the polite dialect of common tongue—the specific intonation in her words carried a query in return for her civility: who are you? Why are you here? Behind her was a sizable procession of wagons—or at least, what you thought were wagons. Their elegant shape was utterly unlike any of the crude wooden ones you’d seen; rather, colourful cars of various forms were interlinked. Almost like a train, if a train was pulled by beasts the size of a small hut: complete with a steely carapace and long, floppy ears that were scarily like a rabbit’s.

You swallowed. No longer could Earth be considered your point of reference.

This was not Earth. This was not Earth, so you gave the most basic of bows back—a hand placed gently on your chest sincerely, eyes fluttering closed—and hoped she didn’t take affront. This was not Earth, thus you didn’t quite know whether the abrupt guffaw she gave at your awkward greeting was positive or not. This was not Earth, therefore her continued introduction of being a caravan master meant little to you. Navigator and caravan master of the Blazing Trail, she’d summarised, though you were distracted by the glitching window that appeared promptly in the moment she spoke.

[Himeko Mura◼◼a. Navigator and caravan master of the Blazing Trail, a renowned nomadic force known for its astute inter- and intra-continental diplomacy. Its ◼◼◼ makes it almost like a private army, though none can ◼◼ hire it. ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼ she is utterly astute and a brilliant engineer.]

It was a name you didn’t recognise. Maybe if you looked through your games library on your old laptop, or pulled up each and every novel you’d read, maybe there’d be something similar—but at the moment, none of the information resembled anything you knew.

The caravan master was kind, if not a little eccentric. Her kindness came in the form of a seat round the elegant burner—the two suns had long since winked past the horizon, after all, and in their place shone a lonely moon.

It’s warm, you thought.

Her kindness also came in the round shape of a bowl of stew: handed unceremoniously into your fumbling hands by a hare-like creature who seemed all too accustomed to Miss Himeko bringing along strange things with her. The stares you received were curious, but not hostile—though one dark-haired man with frigid irises seemed to gaze at you as if saying ‘another one?’. And as unreliable as your system was, there were no introductions afforded to the other few nomads.

“Could you tell me about New Metis?” The meat was salty and gamey as you chewed and swallowed, accompanied by the flatbread that needed no ingredients save coarse flour and a clear liquid that was likely this planet’s form of water. In fact, the bread’s unexpected soft texture distracted you enough that you almost didn’t see Miss Himeko’s eyes pause right on your clothes.

Her blood-hued lips opened and closed, quite incredulously at that. From the cut of clearly Metisian garb, to the Metisian style of greeting, would you not have been the better authority than a nomad who flitted from place to place?

“Don’t get me wrong,” you continued in a more informal dialect, as did she after she invited you to sit with her round the small, contained fire. It flickered green in the engraved metal bowl, then a blazing azure. “I woke up and couldn’t remember anything, except my name and the name New Metis.”

Without an ounce of shame, it was far better to simply confess your shortcomings, rather than masquerade as something you were not.

“Better off than me,” the girl with cotton candy-pink hair sighed in solidarity. The tips of your fingers burned at the sudden acknowledgement—unused to any attention on you for prolonged lengths of time. “I didn’t remember anything after I awoke and Himeko found me, not even my name. I got called March 7th after the day I was dislodged from ice—funny how life works, huh?”

Does she make a habit of picking up amnesiacs or something? The fire crackled with your silent query. But before that, there was something in the girl’s words that gave you pause: lodged glaringly in her very name.

March 7th. March 7th. Spoken with the common tongue accent, but undeniably the same system of dates as Earth—why? Unless this place shared ties to your former planet, it was nigh impossible for the calendar to be the exact same.

Unless this really is a game. That would make more sense if this world was a creation of your past one; if small details were to match up with what you knew from Earth, then the evidence would no doubt point to this world being present in Earthen media.

Nonetheless, you couldn’t take this place lightly, even if it wasn’t real. After all, there were books that took place on Earth—and that alone didn’t make the planet fictional.

Nothing was out of the question anymore.

“March 7th?” you muttered, half to yourself, half-probing. “What does the calendar currently look like?”

The cost of figuring out whether Earth played a part in the formation of this place was a mere question and a few scraps of your dignity.

“Worldwide, the Amber Calendar is currently used—twelve months, three hundred and sixty five and a quarter days,” the man with those frigid eyes answered in a clipped, but not unfriendly tone. It was as if he was used to patiently explaining information to people, over and over—and for that he immediately became more useful than the stupid system windows.

Thank you, March 8th, you replied, silently.

“Split into twelve months? January, February and so forth?” you probed. The month names felt awkward to insert into the smooth flow of the common tongue, but there were no looks of confusion thrown your way. Well, shit.

“Yes, that’s correct,” he affirmed quietly—gaze turning slightly less guarded in the face of what appeared to be an idiot. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

Three hundred and sixty five days and a quarter. What an oddly specific number to assign, even arbitrarily. It seemed the developers had unconsciously used Earth as a point of reference, once more. Or maybe this world used the same metric to assign ‘years’, with the exact same length of time it took to orbit the binary pair in the sky. In that case, it would truly be an amazing coincidence, would it not, that the angular frequency of orbit and the distance travelled by this new planet was exactly the same?

“How long is a day?” It was your final question, one so earnest he had to scrap the thought of you purposefully asking stupid questions. In actuality, the passion in your voice was a very final verification.

“Twenty-four hours, with an hour being sixty minutes and a minute being sixty seconds.” Prompt and curt, in that melodious voice.

“Thank you.” And there was a smile on your face this time, so mellow and warm that he couldn’t help but duck his head back to his bowl at your sincerity. “Looks like I won’t have to relearn as much as I thought.”

“Ah— right,” he murmured, but the crack in his voice went unnoticed by all but his dinner. That, and the countless stars dotting the ever-changing sky.

“But New Metis still eludes me,” you sighed, dipping the spoon back into the broth. The utensil was weirder than the ones on earth—deeper and more cone-like in the centre, like a miniature ladle. It made savouring the complex flavours far easier; both piquante broth and the salty game were eagerly wolfed down by your hungry mouth.

“We’re pretty close to it now, actually, only around ten ro away.” The set of Himeko’s mouth was thoughtful as she unstoppered the carafe at her side, taking a large swig from it. Then, from an ornate tube hanging from her belt, she slid out a scroll of what appeared to be expensive parchment—revealing an intricate map of what appeared to be the side of a continent alongside a large archipelago. “New Metis is located—here, on that central island—and past the straits, the mountains on the continent signal the Borderlands. Well, it would be more accurate to say that these islands are all technically part of Metis—but the capital, New Metis, is located on the central one specifically. We’re currently on the northern isles.”

“I see.” You used the remaining carb to mop up the last of the stew in your bowl, scooping up what appeared to be aromatics—onion-equivalents, maybe?—and the last of the umami broth. “I think I’ll get more answers if I go there myself. Is there anything I should be wary of while I’m there?”

Ding! Something chimed, but you paid it no heed.

“Well, if you’re not a scholar, then regulations are a bit more lax. Uh, new legislation was passed quite recently, but it’s mostly just caution for nomads and merchants. If you’re completely new to the city—that is, if your memories of New Metis are completely gone, then the anti-heretical laws are pretty tough,” the man with inky curls rambled, causing your eyes to snap from Miss Himeko to his face in slight incredulity at his sudden talkativeness.

Ding! Ding!

“Anti-heretical?” you questioned, already feeling a headache form at the sudden onslaught of religion. “Could you expand on that?”

Ding!

“Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat, setting his bowl down by his side with an awkward clunk. “Um, strictly speaking, they’re colloquially dubbed anti-heresy—since the legislation condemns it based on more fraudulent grounds than religious, but everyone who’s ever stepped foot in New Metis—”

Ding! You subconsciously swatted the window away as you stared right at him.

“Dan Heng, get to the point before he falls asleep,” March 7th interrupted: looking at the man completely askance, as if asking ‘can you believe this guy?’.

“Uh, sorry,” he said sheepishly, with a self-conscious smile. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. The name was no more familiar than any other, but it was pleasant to sound out. “They’ve banned most magical arts in the city and the wider span of islands for several centuries now, actually—”

Ding!

Irritatedly, you glanced at your hand, only to find an updated profile shining against the back of your wrist. What—you squinted, feeling a tad bit more sleepy, before the rolling script faded into focus.

“—Heng, don’t just say magical arts without explaining what those entail.”

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an a◼che◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

But… the section in the middle was glitching particularly furiously, as though it were urgently trying to tell you something. You furrowed your brow. What?

Ding!

“Stuff like subverting from typical paths and orthodox elements—instead gaining power through sorcery, witchcraft and—”

Ding! Ding!

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

“—alchemy.”

You paused. You stared. The headache you’d been anticipating finally had its advent.

(Equivalent exchange.)

“I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about,” March 7th smiled reassuringly, but her beaming face felt more like a threat. “Do you remember what your job was?”

“I’m a sculptor,” you deadpanned, working your jaw. It was said on a whim, but who knew the wavering between an art or a chemistry doctorate would finally come in handy today?

Ding!

What… did that mean?

“Life price,” you murmured in concentration. Was that related to your death? Not only that, the sudden influx of knowledge made you dizzy. It seemed you’d go undetected as an alchemist for the foreseeable future, but what were the limits?

“Sorry, did you say something?” Himeko glanced to her left, but you only shook your head in defeat.

Was that what you did earlier? Summoned help by offering your energy as collateral? Was it also your life that you were offering in exchange? More importantly, what did it mean by life price? Did your meaningless death coalesce into boundless regrets?

Your heart throbbed.

“Here.” An elegant silver chalice nudged the delicate patterns on the back of your hands, and you startled—all with what you could only assume was a very stupid expression on your face. Dan Heng looked equally taken aback, fumbling a hurried apology on his lips in his lilting common tongue (“Ack, sorry—you just looked out of it so I thought you needed something to slake your thirst.”). A crescent smile formed briefly on your face as you stared at his honest face; far less world-weary than yours, far more eager. You accepted the goblet, running your fingers across its intricate engravings.

“Thank you,” you replied warmly, taking a sip of the sweet liquid within—some saccharine nectar that had a similar tartness to cherry. “It’s delicious.”

His fingers touched yours as he settled on your other side by the flames. He’s shivering slightly, you noted—a slight trembling that was out of character on this warm night. Well, you washed down the observation with drink thoughtfully, you always did run on the hotter side.

To business—you instead prioritised, which was to figure out what game you’d landed in exactly.

“Um,” you turned to Dan Heng as you munched on the fresh fruit set out, juice dripping down your fingers. Its flesh was orange and tender, seeping sweet across your skin as you tore into its fragrant body. Yum. Licking your fingers clean, it was perhaps for the best that you didn’t witness the rosy flush that spread across his face. After all, you were preoccupied with the equations that now heated the inside of your mouth—squiggling formulae now taking root on your tongue, all warm and fuzzy. “Have there been any heroes lately?”

“Hmm?” he started, fingers fidgeting against his own, well-crafted robes. “You’d… uh… need to be more specific than that.”

“People we look up to? People who’ve contributed to developing their nations? People who’ve made leaps and progressions in their industries?” Himeko interjected, and the three questions made you realise that this wasn’t a two-dimensional pixelated world, but a real one. Numbskull, you criticised yourself—of course something as ambiguous as ‘hero’ was wholly open to interpretation.

“Like…” you paused. How the fuck would you describe it? A protagonist? Someone who saved the world? This looked like an open-world RPG, so maybe— “...a travelling hero who took care of threats to the world? Alongside companions? Defeated evil entities? Was extremely well-known globally?”

Your questions were as unsure as Himeko’s face was.

“That’s not my expertise,” she answered hesitantly. “There are quite a few who fit the description, but perhaps you’re thinking of Akivili, the late founder of the Blazing Trail?”

Akivili. That name didn’t ring a bell either, but it couldn’t hurt to probe. “When… was the Blazing Trail established?”

“Ah… about a millennium ago,” she replied, somewhat abashed. Your brows furrowed—of course, transmigrating into a game didn’t necessarily mean you’d get into the same timeline as the hero, but a thousand years…

“Any prophesied heroes?” you questioned desperately.

“Hold on,” Dan Heng murmured beside you thoughtfully—tapping his fingers against his knee. “There’s a more recent one that makes more sense.”

“How recent is recent?” you deadpanned.

“Three hundred years ago, this time,” he furrowed his brows. Okay, but there was still hope if this still wasn’t the protagonist. “This ‘hero’ got rid of the Stellarons, the countless seeds of destruction from which spawned countless monsters, with his companions. Then, after his glory, he abruptly disappeared.”

It sounded like a classic conclusion—a hero returning back to their homeworld after the game reached its end. Of course, had you not died back on Earth, maybe you would have despaired more; this protagonist might’ve held the key to allowing you to go back home. But as it stood, his existence would only serve to inform you exactly where you were stuck.

“And this hero’s name?” you prompted. A slight foreboding trickled down your spine as you waited.

“Odysseus.”

Odysseus. Odysseus. Odysseus. It sounded unpleasantly familiar, not just because it was the name of a classical hero, but also—

“What’s the name of this planet, again?” You prayed it wasn’t so. With a head bowed in supplication, and fingers ardently crossed, you were the picture of devout want.

“Ouroboros,” he concluded, and it was then that a tear slipped down your face.

. 　⁺ ✦

Lament of Ouroboros. As the title suggested, the indie, open-world RPG narrated the woes of the planet and the hero come to save it—a format popular among most, if not all, adventure-themed video games. It was on a whim you downloaded it: clicking on the surprisingly well-drawn icon and quickly skimming the synopsis to escape your boring life for a bit. On forums it was well-known enough to be frequently discussed, but it didn’t have the widespread recognition to garner severe criticisms.

With a large mug of tea and an abandoned pack of sweets, you’d booted up that game one August afternoon—worn keys clacking smoothly against your fingers as you tapped out your name. It was a nice interface, you acknowledged while erasing all traces of ‘Odysseus’. The graphics may have been the standard open world fields, but there was something charming about the two cheery suns and pretty backdrop of the sky.

Your mouse selected the specialisation generator randomly, though you hadn’t paid attention enough to the animation apart from noting what appeared to be a sword, then a staff at one frame in particular. A warrior, and a mage, you observed in slight interest, but ultimately it didn’t matter what it picked.

Although, neither warrior nor mage appeared as your final selection: rather, a pair of ornate scales floated into view from the tranquil lake.

{Alchemist (S-Class) (hidden).]

“Cool,” you’d said at the time, clicking past the opening animation and into the story. Your brief fascination was just that—brief. The story was somewhat engaging, yet the plotline was saturated with tropes you’d seen time and time again in various games. A protagonist chosen to save the world, a home to return to, and companions that were pushy at best, and completely irritating at worst.

Maybe if you hadn’t played through and seen countless media like this, the plotline might’ve been more engaging—but for your tired, exhausted mind, this clichéd game was not unlike your clichéd, boring life.

It took the span of one afternoon for you to promptly delete Lament from your laptop, staring at the dregs of your tea in defeat. In any case, only the hero’s name and the actual title was retained in your disinterested memory: no lore, no plotline apart from what you could easily piece together based on context, and absolutely zero clue of the ending of the story.

“Are you alright?” March 7th’s shoulder bumped yours on the large landbeast. The carapace was surprisingly comfortable to ride on, if you ignored the large tusks coming from that furry thing’s mouth, and the perpetual death stare in its red eyes. “I know it’s hard waking up and not knowing anything.”

“Yeah,” you replied quietly, resisting the urge to bash your head in. “It is hard.”

Seriously, what the hell did you do to reincarnate into this shitty RPG?

. 　⁺ ✦

“Do you think he’s grateful for the new opportunity?” In HER deft palms, the distaff continued to spin as the maiden began the conversation. Everything started with HER—the youngest, the most rash, but also the most creative. As it were, the threads SHE spun were of highest quality; mixed with the most tragic emotions and the most joyful, but humans would never appreciate the work SHE did for them. “His life was rather miserable, was it not?”

“He should be,” the matron scorned. HER own fingers unravelled the spool, pressing HER rod to measure adequate life spans fairly—for SHE was nothing if not just. “He’ll never grasp just how much probability we had to sacrifice to tamper with his string of fate.”

“You know mortals. They’re never grateful, Lachesis.” The hag’s shears didn’t hesitate to cut the string where marked—HER blinded eyes needed not to see in order to precisely locate where the matron had allotted an end. After all, THEIR habits were known to each other from the very beginning of time, when the universe was still in its cradle.

“I was against this from the start, you hear?” Lachesis complained. SHE was the most cynical out of the three, or as SHE liked to describe: the most pragmatic.

“Yes, yes, yet you were the one who opened up communications to find a suitable vessel for his rebirth,” the maiden scoffed. HER words were callous and sharp, but they parsed directly into the heart of the matter: the Moirai were far more soft-hearted than they appeared,

“If I hadn’t, then I would’ve missed the opportunity for Atropos to owe me a favour,” Lachesis returned, turning back to HER ruler. Those who knew HER saw the abashedness in her bowed head and clenched fists.

“Ha. As if you weren’t also rooting for the prince still entrapped in stone,” Atropos cackled. HER gnarled hands were the only ones that paused in their duties as SHE wheezed with laughter; even as tears ran down HER wrinkled cheeks.

“He’s paid too much already. Who else will settle the balance of fate if not us?” Lachesis rationalised, waving HER rod against the cosmos in frustration. “I do not pity mortals.”

THEY were quiet, for once. Only the sound of thread against thread, the whish of a rod, and the snip of scissors seeped into the silence.

“This one too. He has also paid the life-price. He is entitled to lesser sacrifices to fulfil his whims,” the youngest commented for the final time, for Clotho enjoyed making the balance too. Both the beginning and end were HERS for this conversation.

The three watched on.

. 　⁺ ✦

In accordance with your propensity to live a quiet life, there were three things you came to accept: one, it was impossible to get your old life back, not just because of your death, but Odysseus and his irritating cast were long gone; two, venturing into the city of New Metis for anything prolonged was probably the stupidest move you could do, even if your status as an alchemist wasn’t obvious at all; and three, to live a new quiet life as a sculptor, your new priority was finding a place to live.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” the caravan master worried, golden eyes surveying you up and down. Her arms crossed over her loose white robes, sharpened nails tapping right against her skin—a dead giveaway for her thoughts that clearly questioned your capacity to fend for yourself. Honestly, you couldn’t blame her; finding someone fast asleep in the middle of nowhere was sure to cast doubt into their capability to stay safe. “There’s always open spots if you wish to travel with us.”

A quiet life. Awkwardly, you scratched the side of your neck, and the chromatic patterns on your fingers pressed warmly into your flesh. A quiet life, unlike the suffering of your past one. There was no debt to pay off this time, no shitty apartment nor landlord, and nothing to tie you to one place any longer. A quiet life, more idealistic and stable than the previous one. It was far past time to take a rest—in a peaceful paradise that you’d create.

A truly serene life. Were you to tread on the fiery path they did, you would not find the future you wanted. This you deduced not from the unreliable system, but the careful observations you’d made over the past day.

A quiet beginning, and a quiet end. You’d accept that. Thus, you bade the woman who’d rescued you a sincere goodbye filled with well wishes.

“Stay safe.” It was Dan Heng who spoke to you last, pressing a talisman with his cool fingers against your own, heated palm. The spherical, intricately carved bauble resembled glassy jade—a soft green just like his robes. Corded through the middle was a length of twine that formed a loop, one that you slid over your head. Coldly, it lay against the dip of your chest, peeking out from your exquisite garb and shining right against the almost-incandescent equations etched into your body.

The immediate acceptance of his gift made him flush—as did the evident trust you held in him. “I— this contains around ten minae, or about a thousand drachma. Breaking it down further, it’s around six-thousand obols, enough to get you board and food in New Metis for around two months if you’re frugal. Here—”

His thumb pressed into a specific etching on the jade: a snake that appeared to wriggle somewhat in invitation as you stared at it. Just like that, a shadow around a handspan wide appeared in front of you, then vanished just as quickly when he pressed it once more. This close, you couldn’t help but stare wonderingly at his face as he explained how to reach in and grab the exact sum of Metisian currency, how six obols were one drachma, a hundred drachma were one mina, six hundred minae were one talent, how a loaf of bread cost only one obol and so forth. He smelled faintly of mint.

“—and that’s how it works. You can store other objects in there as well. If you get in trouble or change your mind, go to the local bank and let them guide you to the designated vault when you show them this key; there’s a way to contact us from there…” he rambled, trailing off when you clasped his hand in yours.

“Thank you.” Perfunctorily, you performed the appropriate gesture of profound gratefulness—a kiss on a merchant’s index knuckle for his generosity—and watched his composed face melt into a stupid little smile.

A wolf whistle pierced the air from where a certain pink-haired nomad sat. “The rich young master’s got moves!” she cackled gleefully, and you laughed for the first time in months: so bright it was hard to imagine it came from you.

Your own face donned a drowsy grin—offering energy as a collateral once more. There were no flowers by the docks, after all, thus the bloom in your hands seemed to have been conjured from thin air. “One last thanks, Dan Heng.”

Thus, there was only one thing you left behind on the isle of Thasos: a flower, pinned against a robe fluttering wildly in the salty breeze.

. 　⁺ ✦

New Metis was cold, in the same way your parents were cold—one buried and frigid, the other gone with only debts left behind.

Objectively, the city was stunning. Ancient architecture entwined itself with more modern innovation, blending into captivating citadels that held the essence of the past and the painstaking strides towards the future. Everywhere you looked, massive structures housed scholars and extensive collections of books, while the public buildings and amphitheatres were bursting with symposia and teeming discussions.

This really is the scholar capital, you thought. Though, as you bit into the soft sesame ring you’d purchased at the toss of an obol, it seemed… stagnant. In comparison to the warm bread in your mouth, the metropolis could not be considered friendly.

“No wonder, if what Dan Heng said was true.” You licked the remainder of the sesame from your lips, washing them down with an orange-like sort of juice that had the rich sweetness of honey and the sharpness of carbonation. If the city truly was as restrictive as claimed, there was little surprise as to why the scholars and every other citizen seemed a bit standoffish. Though, you couldn’t deny that the students that you observed in their element seemed to be in the throes of joy (and pain) as they buried themselves in their work and studying—the quality of teaching in Metis clearly was a cut above the rest, even with the restrictions in place. “Corruption really is everywhere, huh.”

In the places of reading, the students crammed on tables with books piled as tall as them reminded you sorely of your own days of youth. Your degrees were displayed proudly in your tiny apartment, alongside a small plaque you’d bought on a whim that simply read doctor’s office.

The sudden thought made your heart ache. Where were those certificates now?

There was nobody you were close enough to, nobody to carefully place your belongings into a cardboard box—then stow it away in some corner of their hearts. Nobody would miss you, not even your estranged mother.

With a sombre expression, you thumbed through the tomes on the dark shelves. Synthetic methods and reaction mechanisms. Industrial and environmental chemistry. Inorganic and organometallic molecules. How far was this a creation of another? How far had the humans here developed on their own, outside the limits of a game?

Bitterly, you left the library and walked back out into the stifling streets: past the agora, past the bustling market stalls, past a scholar earnestly discussing philosophy with passersby. The streets were paved with achromatic stones that appeared to have centuries-worth of wear on them, yet still seemed as pristine as if they’d just been laid yesterday—thus your shoes remained clean and unscuffed, though your heart certainly wasn’t.

You… couldn’t stay in this city. Even if you put up a front and became an artisan, even if you assimilated into New Metis with your local clothing and perfectly accented common tongue, even if you decided to take back your chemistry certification in this world too, the sheer crowds and constant reminders that this was not Earth made you sick to your stomach.

Bile spilled over your tongue and tainted the honey-sweet remainders of your drink.

More accurately, it was the stares you garnered with the intricate formulae marking your skin. Though you wore their garb and spoke their dialect with native fluency, there was something clearly ‘other’ about you—enough that you didn’t even bother checking into a hotel, but asked around for an estate agent instead. Master of houses, etched carefully into the marble-like stone, was a welcome sight in comparison to the looks you’d received throughout the day. They weren’t overtly hostile. They weren’t, but the inherently elitist atmosphere and cold you’d felt in this arid climate answered for you.

Would you like to see the rooms in the synoikia near the plaza? A firm diagonal slant of your hand signalled no: the quick, but also local way of traders and merchants communicating in busy environments. How about a townhouse? In the end, you flatly asked the housemaster if there were any remote houses for sale—to which a hologram from a recording stone showed a house nestled right in the Borderlands, surrounded by forests with mountains cradling the structure. House was too modest; the architecture, like all the buildings here, was practically a work of art in itself.

Tense location at the Borderlands… remote location… universities located on the central island and concentrated in New Metis…

You suppressed the devilish smile on your face as you smelled a bargain. It was a triad of real estate woes: poor location, low demand, and even more poor location.

“Four hundred drachma is the asking price,” he offered with a tentative smile—less than half the market price for a box apartment in the metropolis. After even more haggling (in between maintaining a look of disinterest), the property was sold with twelve percent shaved off the already-bargain.

Score for the penny-pinchers.

In the end, you made one final purchase from New Metis. Two technically, bought for only one drachma and one obol.

The first was a set of chisels and a hammer. The second was a small wooden piece of wood. It was not a plank, nor an offcut, but had the perfect size for a plaque. A new doctor’s office, to carve in with painstaking effort and calloused hands.

It was crude, and somewhat ugly—etched first in English, then below in the curling script of the common tongue (which was wholly unsuitable for this type of woodwork)—but looking at it made your bleeding heart ache slightly less.

After all, it was your last piece of Earth.

. 　⁺ ✦

Retrospectively, it would’ve been wiser to spend several nights in the city and send necessities to your new home by courier. More pragmatic, if you would—easing into your life in a new world rather than jumping headlong into it. But unfortunately, it seemed you’d become more lax as you crossed the boundaries between lives: electing instead to take the high-speed rail right across the sea and into the Borderlands, with nothing but the clothes on your back, a money dimension pocket, and a crudely made plaque. And your hammer and chisels, naturally, as well as some Metisian street food that vanished far too quickly.

In fact, it was downright foolish to come to the Borderlands on your first day. Even the conductor stared at you in disbelief—though your clothing and your accent was purposefully as Metisian as they came—so you got the gist that it was even more fucking stupid to go as a complete newcomer.

Borderlands, remnants of monsters from the Stellarons, highly volatile region, most travellers typically make the journey in groups, you nodded as you pieced together the rough state of the area whilst watching the sea and land speed by. Was it recklessness that endowed you with the guts to arm yourself with only a map and your wits? Were you perhaps… turning into an imbecile?

Actually, it was neither. The combination of brimming energy (from the street foods you gorged yourself on) and the updated character profile had ignited a chilling sort of passion for experimentation that was hard to extinguish, even as you crossed into this life.

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought. Although practising alchemists typically require various apparatuses to perform transmutation and practise the law of equivalent exchange, ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ is a bit unique in that his body is the medium for the price instead—rather than formulae in common tongue on paper, the tattoos he’s earned in the tongue of thought are far more effective. After all, he is the only alchemist to have survived the life ‘price’. The law of equivalent exchange for ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ specifically calls for energy, in return granting a ‘wish’. The larger the desire, the more energy will be depleted; but the most efficient ‘wishes’ involve transmuting one type of energy into another. Of course, a longer incantation—a more accurate incantation—will make the conversion less burdensome as well.]

So, quite literally, as long as you stayed fed and watered, you could transfer that chemical energy into explosive kinetic energy, or imbue weapons with heat or charge with the right ‘equation’. The Borderlands were yours for lab rat exploitation, essentially.

But the question remained—what were the limits?

And more importantly, how were the limits of these ‘wishes’ enforced?

You didn’t actually have to wait all that long to test out your abilities as an alchemist, though perhaps not in the way you’d expected. The journey to the house—with its own garden and goddamn pillars and stunning architecture—was far more uneventful than you’d anticipated (read: hoped), thus in a last ditch attempt, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

It really wasn’t on a whim, though. Seeing the sparse rooms, as well as a profound lack of a bed to sleep on—the binary suns had begun their slumber too, after all—it was perhaps pragmatic rather than foolish that you built up the long chant in the tongue of thought. More accurate, more accurate, you sweated, tracing the length of the equations up your arms and on your chest by using the small looking-glass attached to your belt.

“◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼,” you finished the incantation, feeling warmth seep from your limbs as the payment. “Refurbish.”

It wasn’t the wisest move, not at all. But who could blame you, when the materialised gauzy fabrics against stone walls, as well as the jewel-hued rugs, looked so darn nice?

Well, before you collapsed, of course—with a dopey grin on your face nonetheless. Those two things were all you could appreciate before you got totally knocked out.

Thus, the limits were deduced to be large-scale summonings, enforced by a good night's sleep—noted cheerfully by the alchemist who peeled his face off a brand new ornate rug in the morning, rather than the bed he’d sacrificed his consciousness for.

. 　⁺ ✦

When you unstuck yourself off the fastidiously complex rug (skin imprinted with its thread patterns, since you slept corpse-like in a single position), you almost didn’t recognise the once sparse house. To be more accurate, the intricate tapestries and glitzy trinkets, vases and decorations were familiar to what you pictured; but placed in conjunction with the stone walls, delicately carved pillars, and spacious, airy rooms took them to a completely new level.

The wish was thorough, you had to admit. With your feel pattering against the almost-glassy, colourful tiles, you took in the area where you woke up: the kitchen. Dried bundles of herbs hung from copper-hued rafters, perfuming the air with aromatic fragrances and balsamic scents. Past sage cupboards were conjured utensils that gleamed with a disused sort of enthusiasm that made your brows raise. I didn’t even think of these, you noted, flinging open the cupboards by the elegant cooker to reveal stacks upon stacks of charming ceramics and everything else you might possibly need to exist in the kitchen. Even the icebox, a large storeroom imbued with enchantments above its doorway (the Metisian equivalent of a modern refrigerator) was packed with meats and vegetables that looked visually dissimilar to Earth’s, but were somehow familiar to your mind.

It raised a question—if you ate food you conjured, would it not just be an endless loop of energy?

More importantly, would you even need the money still stored in the jade bead around your neck?

On the other side of the open-plan ground floor was the living area, strewn with various oddities and memorabilia. Two bookshelves stood proudly in a rich walnut colour, creaking under the weight of various books you’d skimmed in those reading-places back in the city. There were also titles you’d never come across before, but were sure to read on the plushy couches strewn with soft, patterned blankets and jewel-toned cushions. It was cosier than anything you might’ve desired, especially with the dim amber lamps perched on the dark-stained low table and the vibrant, low-hanging mosaic ceiling lights that looked like delicate baubles dropping from the heavens.

You ignored the stairs that spiralled to the top floor—to where there were a few rooms still detailed on the floor plan—since they were likely to contain the same levels of decoration both the kitchen and salon had. Rather, you tiptoed through the sunny corridor leading to the eastern part of the sprawling home: gauzy, rich-hued curtains brushing lightly past your skin. There, past the stunning mahogany door was a bright, vast studio—complete with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the extensive gardens and the distant mountains, as well as all the tools you could possibly need for sculpting, alongside the hammer and chisels you’d purchased just yesterday.

For a while you simply stared at the scenic landscape—nothing you’d ever seen on Earth, not when every day consisted of grey asphalt and ash-coloured buildings. There was a damn pond in your backyard, with a delicately wrought table and chair set at the edge. Had you imagined this too?

In any case, it was in a slight daze that you finally checked out the rooms upstairs; two guest rooms with large beds, desks and wardrobes; a large bathroom with picturesque views of the distant horizon and forests, as well as a massive tub; and finally, your room.

How did you know it was your room?

It looked lived in. Just like downstairs, a massive bookshelf lined the wall adjacent to the large windows: gauzy curtains fluttered over the tomes and let in the cool, fresh breeze. A large rug decorated the panels on the floor and slipped beneath your bed: a massive, round thing that looked like a jewel-bright, appetising cloud to simply dive into. And past the bed, an imposing armoire was stuffed to its seams in outfits both similar to the ones you were wearing (intricate, soft garments with detailed embroidery and vibrant palettes) as well as simpler, yet extraordinarily well-crafted, garments.

In essence, you were set for life. This space was an ideal, permanent vacation home: even if it were in no-man’s territory, with monsters sullying its landscape. You intended to sequester yourself until you died once more—with a book laid on your chest, a mug of tea still on the table, and a fat bee bumbling past as you closed your eyes in peaceful, eternal slumber. That was the ignorant bliss you would afford yourself: the you who got a break in this idyllic game after you passed on.

Perhaps this form of living would’ve been considered lamentable back on Earth. You, with the laurels of being a doctor in your profession, now spent the afternoon languidly draped over a soft couch simply reading. There were no samples to analyse, no reports to check, no research to work on. In fact, it was only a week later that you finally ventured out the sprawling gardens and into the forests. It wasn’t to check out the academic fruits of the bustling metropolis, nor was it to analyse the chemical makeup of the soil and flora—the most you’d done for that was conjuring some compost to make your new vegetable garden more acidic.

No, setting out into the forest was more to idly take inspiration from these pulchritudinous sights, and maybe fight a few monsters to learn how real combat worked in this open-world, combat-based RPG.

Maybe you’d get lucky and find some clay to practise sculpting before you found stone to work on. It was a forgiving medium, after all—soft and supple under your hands, rather than cold and flawless. Any mistakes could be worked away, any blunders would fade in the face of the cool, wet earth, and if you polished your rusty skills, you could make it into a job—it was a solid cover to disguise your use of alchemy.

As the grass with no apparent paths was trodden on (for the first time in perhaps decades), the loamy scent of petrichor and foliage quickly filled your senses; it was so tranquil, in fact, that your hold on your metal pail grew more absent-minded as you swept a large stick this way and that to brush longer plants aside. If you unfurled the slightly-outdated map you’d paid a sesame ring for, there was… a river nearby, right?

You squinted at the parchment, still unheeding of the warnings you’d received about this forest. With a full belly and over twelve hours of sleep, there was a dormant energy that was somewhat overshadowed by a bumbling drowsiness: only dispelling when you heard the sound of running water.

Clay—your eyes lit up like beacons, and the formulae on your body seemed to glow as you rolled the sleeves of your loose cream shirt up, as well as the soft material of your navy trousers. It was casual, to the point of being somewhat scandalous—nothing like the classy drapes of fabric that constituted every day in New Metis.

Well, you thought with a smug sort of vehemence. This is the Borderlands. Thus, there was an unseemly sort of flippancy to your gait as you trod in the direction of what you hoped was the river, pail and stick in hand as your shield and sword.

It was, perhaps, far too easy to find the softer clay deposits on the bank of the river; prying into the earth above to reveal the slick medium beneath and depositing it into your bucket. In fact, life had been going so smoothly in the past few days that you were lulled into a sense of false security.

Had you forgotten how your life was prior to your death?

You’d gotten complacent as you dusted yourself off—shirt and pants plastered with a gorgeous mauve, though you paid it little mind. It would be hell to clean out, unless you simply dubbed these the ‘work clothes’. In any case, your biggest worry currently was the staining of your conjured clothes—a far cry from the life and death you’d experienced.

It couldn’t simply be attributed to accustomising yourself to mundanity—no, maybe you were a bit of a reckless idiot as you strolled along the banks, sunning yourself with the binary stars in the heavens. There was not a care in the world as you closed your eyes to the Borderlands in favour of merely existing. Listening to the clear sounds of water cascading over riverstones. Feeling the clean breeze wash over your bare forearms and wet legs. Tasting the powdery, thick scent of clay after practically burying your face in it as you dug the mauve medium up.

But like all good things, they eventually had to end.

You weren’t foolish enough to keep turning a blind eye when you sensed danger.

The leaves stirred. The waters vacillated—equilibrium was no longer an option. The forest, like a stricken pulse, seemed to constrict around you; the very wind took shallow breaths against your skin.

Please, the Borderlands seemed to whisper. Get out while you can.

Your stick tapped a rhythm against the soft mud—partly passively sinking, partly actively getting dragged into what was quickly becoming quicksand.

For a brief moment, everything stilled—before you heard rapidly approaching footsteps coming right your way. Mentally, you began the long chant… tongue of thought for strengthening…. equation for charge… Coulomb’s law….

From the water too, came a sudden rush of volume flung to the skies—though the fleeting steps reached you first. A flash of blond. Your eyes met widened, almost-neon coloured irises. The stench of blood, too, filled the banks—before he crashed right into you, barrelling you against the rough bark of a tree whilst desperately clasping a hand over your mouth.

“Niedra; ćhiho tu, albo ka arakhel,” he breathed, panic so thick in each syllable that you could only stare. It wasn’t the common tongue, but you instinctively got the message from his hushed cadence. No, wait.

Don’t panic, the words had ghosted over your dampened flesh. Quiet, or it’ll find us.

In a language so smooth that it sounded like song, like an intricate tapestry woven from gossamer, he’d conveyed to you panic, fear, and a camaraderie so primal that this partnership was instinctual.

“Don’t speak, and hold your breath,” he then urgently translated into common tongue, when you merely looked at him, unblinking. “The Borderlands are very dangerous.”

The sudden switch allowed you to figure out why exactly you could parse together the clear meaning in his silvery syllables.

“Xatarav,” you murmured. ‘I understand’, for it was not in a language you didn’t know. The language that had not seen use—the tongue of honey—had finally encountered one of its own.

But the surprise in his face—the questions imbibed on insatiable lips—went unnoticed by you, for ‘it’ had finally found you.

Water splashed against the tree where the two of you were pressed against—soaking into the bark, and seeping cold into the fabric of your shirt. You couldn’t see ‘it’ from your position, but you could see the behemoth reflected in those captivating eyes—towering in his sclera as the leviathan uncoiled from the depths of the now-raging river. It shook its mane out—webbed tendrils fanning out angrily as it swung its massive head this way and that.

A frigid sort of fear washed over you, leeching any sort of warmth that had remained in your limbs.

Well over forty-metres high, it was only its poor eyesight that prevented it from slithering round this tree and snapping the two of you up in its deadly snapping jaws—reminding you acutely of the thrumming iron that pumped deep in your veins, and just how easy it was to spill.

You were painfully aware of the fact your only emergency ally was covered in gashes and wounds, bleeding into the already-purple mess of your clothes. His breathing was unsteady and his pulse was arrhythmic, but his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that seemed to ask ‘what will you do?’.

Would you run? Would you sling his arm over your shoulders and somehow evade the lightning-quick serpent? Would you leave him behind?

Your grip tightened around the stick—interrupted equations leaving it with a slight prickly sensation, rather than the full extent of charge. He noticed the muscles of your arm clench in response to your urgent grasp, and he frantically slanted his hand diagonally in an abject ‘no’.

“Na ka umire,” you muttered, making sure he understood exactly what you were saying in his mother tongue. ‘I won’t die.’

And you wouldn’t.

Not today, not tomorrow.

You wouldn’t die in vain a second time.

. 　⁺ ✦

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windvexer · 10 months

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Cartomancy After 101: Developing your own sets of card meanings that you swap out depending on your needs [concepts & tips]

My hypothesis for this post is that most forms of cartomancy heavily rely on the context of the question or situation being read on.

As context shifts, so do the specific interpretations that readers pluck out of a pool of general meaning.

By leaning into the idea of context and building extremely contextual meaning sets, readers can elevate their skills and more reliably produce very specific readings within contexts they have studied and prepared for.

This is going to be a long one, so I'm making sections for readability.

1. Cartomancy Relies On Context

Most "little white books" that come with tarot and oracle decks, and cartomancy websites and published resources, divide card meanings into the general and contextual.

E.g., a tarot card's general meaning usually includes key words such as heartbreak, betrayal, and backstabbing. Then, contextual meanings might be provided:

Interpersonal relationships: Is a relationship about to end?

Business: Make sure any new business deals won't screw you over.

Spiritual: How can you use your spirituality to help with heartbreak?

While these contextual meanings stem from the base source of the card, they aren't interchangeable. Imagine if a querent asks you about their small business, and you reply, "well, have you tried using your spirituality to deal with interpersonal heartbreak?"

Therefore, a major role of the reader is defining the appropriate context of a question.

In order to practice their skills, many diviners offer to do "blind" readings for others. This means that the reader doesn't want any background information about the question at all - but even so, a reader may still ask for the context of a question.

E.g., a reader may say, "don't even tell me your actual question, but just tell me what kind of question it is - if it's about employment, a relationship, etc. Otherwise I won't know how to frame the answer."

[I don't mean to say that all readers always require context in this manner. Many readers do not, especially very practiced ones. But I don't think that means that context is irrelevant, even to very experienced readers who can obtain context on their own.]

2. Developing Meanings for a Specific Context Results in More Specific Readings

The Complete Lenormand Oracle Handbook by Caitlín Matthews begins by introducing the typical meanings of Lenormand cards. Later, she provides a custom set of meanings she personally developed related to her years spent in live theater.

Because of her time spent performing readings for theater workers, and about theater, she had developed a complex and unique system of meaning for Lenormand which, for the purposes of reading about live theater, was immensely more accurate and specific than the general Lenormand system.

While the general meanings of Lenormand informed her custom system, the custom system was not interchangeable with general meanings and was only applicable to a specific context and its related themes.

I discovered the same phenomenon by accident years ago, when I was frustrated with how general and nonspecific my readings had become.

I wanted to be able to use tarot to read accurately for everyday situations. So, over the course of several months, I worked with my primary divinatory ally to develop my own set of notes for the tarot, specifically for reading everyday, mundane situations.

The meanings given for the cards don't work very well at all for mystical, spiritual, or meditative self-exploratory readings. The meanings are things like, "you're the only one putting energy into this relationship," or, "don't go to the party if you didn't receive an invitation."

I use this set of meanings when I want very plain and straightforward readings on everyday situations, which it's very good at. I got what I wanted: accurate and specific readings on day-to-day questions with the tarot.

The meaning set fails at every other kind of question.

Recently, in my ongoing experiments with a custom oracle mashup of playing cards and tarot, I decided I wanted a meaning set that was useful for troubleshooting creative writing projects.

This deck has general meanings like, air/movement/exchange, water/observation/stagnant, and earth/categories/planning.

I developed contextual meanings like, "the dialogue in this scene is doing what it needs to do," "the character's motivations aren't clearly explained," and "the external goals of the character don't match what's already been explained about them."

By focusing on a specific context, readers can get very good at reading certain types of questions.

3. Exploring Specific Contexts Improves Overall Reading Ability in Any Context

By taking the general meanings of a card and developing them in new, unique ways that are still true to that card's roots, you create a huge learning opportunity to connect more deeply with that card.

Not only can you explore the unique evolutions of each card as it intersects with your interests and life, but your understanding of the deck as a whole can evolve.

When I was working with my original set of "everyday" meanings for the tarot, I discovered that many times I developed card meanings that really overlapped each other, making some cards redundant. When I decided to sort this out, my understanding of - and relationship to - tarot rapidly changed. I'm at a new level of understanding that I hadn't been able to achieve just by using general meanings for the 15 or so years of reading I had been doing before that.

The elements are currently a major part in my practice of witchcraft. As silly or abstract as it may seem, exploring how an oracle card that generally means water/observation/stagnant could apply to a specific type of fiction writing deepened my relationship not only with that experimental deck, but also to my craft as a whole.

As I've explored custom meaning sets in general, my ability to rapidly link abstract symbols has improved. Even if a specific meaning set doesn't apply, just having explored that makes my readings stronger.

For example, if I draw a card and I don't know how to apply it to a certain situation, having different sets of meaning floating around in my head is a little like having three or four helpful aunties shouting suggestions. None of them may be completely accurate, but it's a far better starting place than having no aunties at all.

By investing in very specific sets of meaning that only apply to certain contexts, readers can gain insight and skills that assist them in all types of readings throughout all contexts.

4. Sundry Suggestions for Those Convinced

Here are a handful of tips and tricks I've collected throughout the years. Take or leave them as you desire.

Choose very specific contexts. The more specific, the better!

Well, I'm sure this one is more down to personal preference, but don't be afraid to choose extremely specific contexts.

In my examples above about the creative fiction meaning set, the context wasn't "literary analysis" or "creative writing." The context was, "troubleshooting commercial fiction manuscripts and outlines to be more in line with modern commercial standards."

That isn't great at brainstorming, coming up with story ideas, dealing with literary fiction, grappling with major artistic themes, etc. It does one thing great: helping you workshop a commercial manuscript that you'd like to send to a publisher.

Put thought into what deck(s) you're using.

Even when using general meanings, many readers identify that certain decks are just better at certain kinds of readings. If you have multiple decks, try swapping them out as you experiment and see which ones work best.

Develop not only individual cards, but the deck as a whole.

Depending on your preferences, you may find value in not only developing individual cards, but also groupings of cards.

By taking entire sections of cards (say, all of the wands cards) and linking them to an important concept within your context (say, the behaviors of all the dogs you train), you can make large leaps of progress.

The same could be done for all the kings cards (your mentors in the dog training world), all the #3 cards (they're all going to relate to, say, small change or progress), and you can end up quickly mashing up new meaning sets:

Today's dog training business reading suggests that a Youtuber who's information you rely on is going to release a video about the importance of small behavioral changes.

Assigning broad meanings to different sections of cards is a good way to start exploring specific contexts.

Let card meanings evolve as you explore.

As you take notes, there's no need to settle one one meaning for the card as it is and then avoid changing it.

If your original idea for a card is "stubborn dogs who are not motivated by treats," and you perform multiple readings on it where the card only really makes sense if it means, "this dog will show up super tired and just want to nap," then it's fine to modify notes as you go.

I find that over time, modifications actually end up being multiple possible interpretations, once again deepening my understanding of the card as a whole (this card refers to difficulty inspiring action and engagement).

Often, card meanings come to me very vaguely and are practically stand-ins until I can figure something out for them.

Be mindful of spreads.

I can apply some meaning sets to literally any spread and it'll come out just fine.

Other meaning sets I have don't play great with tons of spreads, and may only work well with small spreads, using signifiers, and so forth.

There's no need to avoid highly contradictory meanings.

If you've got two ideas for a card (the dog is well-adjusted and friendly, or, he's very reactive and dangerous) and you aren't sure which fits, keep both meanings and use a combination of readings and real-world verification to experiment.

Your unique context sets don't need to be congruent with each other.

While I believe it's a good idea to seek fidelity to the original/general meanings of a card, this doesn't imply that the unique contexts you develop have to coincide with each other.

Maybe you have a meaning set specifically for energy work, and a separate one for religious spirit work.

In your energy working set, the wands cards could always relate to fire energy and only ever refer to a spirit if drawn in conjunction with a court card.

But, in your religious spirit work set, the 4/wands might always refer to the spirit of a home, regardless of elemental alignment.

The meanings you develop for one context don't need to adhere to the rules you create for other contexts.

Playing card decks can really simplify the process.

Tarot cards, with their intrusive little pictures, can often impose their own meanings on a context whether you like it or not. Even if horrendous betrayal makes zero sense for your context, sometimes it's impossible to get those ideas of the 3/Swords out of our heads.

If you're finding tarot to be too confining, try experimenting with playing card decks. They're smaller, draw less attention, and most importantly, do away with the art that can anchor our minds to the wrong concepts.

(Split the difference by working with a tarot deck that just uses suit symbols for the pips, but has full art for the major arcana.)

5. Hey! Thanks for reading.

I hope you're having a good day ^-^

#divination #tarot #cartomancy #witchcraft #witchblr #beyond 101 #psychism #readings

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uplatterme · 2 years

Text

a/n: im putting the warnings first this time because the writing style is a bit different. also, it really isn’t clear what actually happened to sohreh so this whole thing is just a fun interpretation is all.

cw: violence, murder, dark content (this is insane, like actually. please read with caution) | sub!zandik, zandik!dottore, gender-neutral terms and pronouns but reader has a cock, exhibitionism, semi-public sex

———

Journal Entry No. XX (Recorded on: ??-??-??)

—Written By: (Dastur Sohreh)

These reports seemed to have been stained heavily with bodily fluids. Certain words are unreadable.

—The team consisted of renowned students of the Akademiya, including; Sohreh, Zandik, XXXX, and XXXX. This team was led by Sage Shanarma and Senior ▇▇.

Each one had brought something new to the plate, despite not getting along at first due to different views on the decisions that the team followed. Notably, from Zandik, whose suggestions seemed to be far too dangerous to even try, that was immediately shut down without even a second thought.

However, Senior ▇▇ always heard him out and always stood by his side whenever there were arguments. Rumors spread throughout the team about their supposed relationship.

Being scholars of the Akademiya meant that we should always rely on facts rather than meaningless accusations. Once I told them of this, the gossip was never brought up.

▇▇ was kind to everyone, even to me. They would always assist me whenever I had trouble walking because of the heat.

I had an ominous feeling that someone was glaring at me from behind whenever I was helped, but when I turned around, there was no one but the forest itself.

Perhaps, it was just my anxiety acting up from feeling as if I wasn’t contributing much to the group. ▇▇ reassured me I was doing just fine.

—I trusted ▇▇’s words about Zandik. I once found myself exploring the jungle with him and even though the start of our expedition proved that we had nothing in common, he opened up interesting topics to discuss, ranging from plants and animals to the current evolution models.

I found myself being taken aback by him, the way he spoke showed off his clearly high intellect. His appearance is also quite attractive. I sometimes matched my gaze with him intentionally and he would return it with a smile that made my heart flutter.

Unfortunately, I grew distant from Senior as I relied on this information to them. They said encouraging words about Zandik and I’s relationship but their eyes looked saddened, almost empty the longer I observed them.

They never approached me after that and the only time they would talk to me is if I approached them first.

Maybe it was true that there was a past relationship between Zandik and Senior ▇▇? If there was, it didn’t seem to matter to Zandik anymore as he agreed when I suggested that we should go on a picnic tonight.

The picnic was lovely but I couldn’t get the feeling off my back that someone was watching us together.

———

The next writings are written with blood, the writing is shaky and incomprehensible as if it was written with pure desperation.

You let out an amused sigh, taking your pen out from the drawer under your stable.

“Such a shame, Sohreh. You didn’t even get to finish this note. Should I help you out?”

You tapped the pen on the table, wondering where to start.

———

You commended your patience at the time. Seeing Zandik with someone else and not doing anything about it? You honestly couldn’t believe it.

It was obvious that he didn’t like the attention he was receiving. That’s what you told yourself, at least. You couldn’t figure out what it was that he was using Sohreh for.

Then again, he was never the one to just simply spit out answers without a price.

There wasn’t exactly a label between you two. So perhaps you shouldn’t even be jealous to begin with.

Oh, please.

The expedition was going far too smooth for your liking anyways.

The violent and loud mechanic noises rang in your ears. There were screams all coming from the team, wondering what it is that they should do.

Yet, out of all the horrified faces on each of them, one stood out.

A face of shock that soon turned into a gleeful one, excited for something new. Knowledge, that would soon quench his thirst at the moment.

He was truly an eccentric one.

You smiled as he took a step forward, and eventually, those slow steps hastened, running to the ruin guard instead of backing away.

The scholar beside you, however, still hadn’t reacted. Sohreh’s shaking. The poor thing was terrified, legs giving up and failing to notice the ruin guard eyeing her way.

You could pull her away in time if you wanted to. There was enough time to keep her out of harm’s way.

If only she listened to those rumors.

The ruin guard had attacked Sohreh, her body flopping to the floor. The sound of bones breaking stood out from the screaming and metallic noises.

You clap your hands together, gaining the attention of everyone.

“Zandik’s trying to fix the problem right now. Everyone, focus on your surroundings, don’t make unnecessary movements that’ll trigger more reactions.” You directed, ignoring the groaning of the woman below your knees.

Suffice to say, each one was horrified. There were minor injuries that the others had gotten but nothing severe. You could see how grateful they were that they didn’t end up like Sohreh, who was now laying on the ground, in dire need of medical treatment.

In the end, these scholars only valued themselves.

“Senior? What should we do?” One of them had asked, bearing a pathetic look on their face, avoiding the gruesome state of the body placed on a picnic blanket that somebody had found.

“We will return at once.”

Zandik stepped in front of you, not agreeing with that choice.

“Should we not bring this machine back to the Akademiya? I can guarantee that this can prove to be useful in different ways! It’s the first we’ve seen of this kind.” He enthusiastically said.

The others did not appeal to that thought.

It seemed that these scholars did not value the life that was slowly withering away next to them, choosing to argue instead of seeking the medical attention that Sohreh clearly needed.

“Are you insane? That thing cannot be brought back to the Akademiya! It will spur chaos with the sages!”

“And you have seen my prowess, have you not? I was the only one with the slightest clue on how to keep it dormant while you stood there like cowards!” Zandik angrily shouted back, biting his teeth together.

This silenced the arguing. He was right and everyone knew that. Without his help, who knew what else could have happened instead?

You sighed at the useless bickering. The priorities of these people were laughable.

“We’ll have to hear from the Sages, Zandik,” You reassured.

“Meanwhile, as Sohreh cannot travel. I’m requesting everyone to seek help from the Akademiya, a healer preferably, or anyone that you could reach out to as quickly as you can.”

“Well, aren’t you just as mischievous as before?” Zandik stated, no longer keeping his thoughts as everyone besides you two had left to get assistance.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Is that how you want to take this conversation?” He huffed, walking towards you—no, walking towards Sohreh.

He examined her body, guts almost slipping out of her torso, her right leg dislocated. Her blood seeped to the picinic blanket that they had used during their date.

It was honestly a miracle that she was still breathing at this point.

And almost as if she could hear your thoughts. Sohreh’s eyes opened, directly facing Zandik.

“Z-Zandik?” She mustered out, coughing and spitting out blood from her throat.

“It’s alright, I’ve taken care of the ruin guard.”

“Of course, you would have… You’re the only capable one here.” She joked.

You stayed quiet, listening in on the conversation. You doubted she even knew that you were here.

“Are you…going to help me out?” She asked and Zandik only answered with that picture-perfect smile that he always wore when he wanted something.

The man fixed her hair, moving them away from her eyes.

“Show me.” He said.

“Wha—?!”

Zandik’s right hand went for her throat, pressing deep. Her vocal cords getting too damaged for her to even scream.

She flailed her arms around, trying to escape the scholar’s grip. Sohreh was confused by the man’s new behavior. She was mouthing out several words that fell silent.

Her reactions were quite beautiful. Sohreh had always been expressive, putting everything on her sleeve. It would make sense that he wanted a better view when he finally ended this whole thing.

It was then that she decided that she couldn’t escape from this man alone. She needed someone, anyone to help her. Her eyes scouted the empty forest when she saw a familiar hair color.

“S-Senior!” She choked out, her voice hoarse and ruined.

“Zandik.” Once he heard his name being called out, he stopped.

He stared at you, those eyes that only focused on him. Oh, how grateful he was that you two were the only ones here.

Zandik dropped the woman without a care, her whole body trembling from barely escaping death. She was glad that you had intervened before it was too late.

“You shouldn’t use your dainty hands for something like this, Zandik.” You cooed and got up from your seat, approaching him.

You took his hands, bringing them to your lips, kissing them softly.

Sohreh couldn’t believe what was happening right in front of her eyes. Dainty? He had almost killed her and yet you were treating him as if he was porcelain?

“I missed this. Don’t you also?” You tilted your head as you asked him, Zandik blushing deep from your affection.

“Of course.”

“Why don’t you prove it?”

Sohreh watched in pure agony, she could barely move and even if she did, she wouldn’t get far. The pain was too much to bear to even try. Her wounds grinded against the rocky and dirty ground whenever she breathed too hard.

She could hear her organs slushing as if they were jelly. She didn’t know if it was because the whole thing made her senses more aware or if it was like that in reality.

The worse part was that you and Zandik didn’t pay any attention to her. As if you two were already set that she would die in her state, as if she was a dying cockroach that lay beneath your feet.

“You don’t know how insufferable it was holding myself back, Zandik.” You said, trailing kisses on his chest.

“To think you’d be so touchy with someone else. You really are a slut, aren’t you?” You spat out before biting his skin, your teeth going so deep that blood dripped down to his stomach.

God, Zandik could have finished right then and there.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to.” He apologized, face pouting as he said.

You chuckled at his expression. “You liar, I know you liked the attention.”

“I only like attention when it’s coming from you.” He refuted, snugging his head to your chest.

“Yeah? How could I be sure about that?”

He unbuttoned his pants, showing off everything to you. “Look at what you’ve done. Already so wet for you. I’m your slut, not anybody else’s.”

“Ah, Zandik. You know just the right words to say.” You laughed.

He grinded himself on your leg, rubbing his groin as he stared into your eyes. Lewd noises slipped out of his throat, missing how you took care of him. You pat his head and immediately, you received a whimper from Zandik.

You enjoyed the noises that Zandik made, huffs and breaths of your name as he pleasured himself with your body, begging for more.

Unfortunately, that was hindered by a scream from Sohreh whose throat you were sure would render her to never speak again. Not that it mattered, since there was no way she would be coming out of this forest alive.

You held onto Zandik’s thigh, stilling him in disappointment. “As much as I do love hearing you scream for mercy, I’m busy right now.”

She glared at you, obviously wanting to curse you out.

“However, you do remember that we’re not the only ones in this forest. I hear tigers have pretty good hearing. Ah, but you probably already knew that, being a student of Amurta and all.”

Once you reminded her, you could see fear strike in her eyes. To think she would be afraid of tigers more than you. How stupid really.

Zandik placed his ass on your lap, wanting your eyes on him.

“Need you.” He said.

“I’m sure you can do it by yourself now, no?” You answered, a flustered Zandik coughed, remembering the last time he tried to ride you.

Carefully and slowly, Zandik placed the tip of your cock near his entrance. He grit his teeth together, already feeling your warmth inside him when you’re still not all the way in.

An idea formed in your head.

“Love, can you face the other way?” You asked him.

Zandik couldn’t believe that you’d only tell him this right now when he’s almost done taking in your whole length.

Well, he could, being mean to him was your forte and he enjoyed every part of it.

He rolled his eyes back from taking you out, feeling empty.

Zandik’s back is now faced against you. You could see his hole open up as he inserted your cock inside of him.

“I’m feeling nice, Sohreh. So, I’ll give you a lesson on how to properly use Zandik.”

Zandik bounced against your thighs, moaning each time he slapped skin with you. “Haah~”

“I’ve rammed into him so many times and he’s still just as sensitive. Isn’t he great?”

Zandik whined in agreement, hearing you praise and show him off to someone else extremely turning him on.

Sohreh could only look in horror, seeing the man he admired of, moving like an animal in heat, desperate for his senior’s cock.

“See here, if you give him a slight spank.” You continued, slapping the side of his ass as gently as you were able to.

Zandik yelped, cum leaking out of his cock.

He faced down lower, gasping for air as he could feel another orgasm coming.

“P-Please–! Let me–ah!”! He pleaded your name asking for permission, which you were proud to give.

His entire body shuddered as he came, cum splattering everywhere, even to the half-dead person on the ground.

“You did so good, Zandik.”

“T-Thank you…!” He squeaked out.

Sohreh wanted to vomit, you two were insane. If the Akademiya had access to this information then—!

Her hands searched for the notepad in her pockets. With no other option, she used the blood leaking out excessively from her body.

“What are you doing?”

Sohreh tried to hide away the evidence but it was stolen quickly.

“You really are amazing. To think you’re still alive right now, even when I purposely let you get hit by that ruin guard.”

She stared in confusion. This whole thing…was your fault?

“Oh, don’t blame this on me. You were the one who went after Zandik. I’d say this makes us even, doesn’t it?”

Your hand reached for her neck, matching the bruises that Zandik had left earlier.

You squeezed hard, Sohreh losing the strength to even fight back.

Realizing that you had gone too far, you snapped out of your daze, quickly apologizing to Zandik.

“Sorry! Did you have business with her still?”

Zandik swallowed the lump in his throat, amazed at how your muscles flexed when you strangled the body.

He could feel himself getting hard again, everything you do really, sent a rushing thrill to his spine.

“C-Could you do that to me?”

You slammed yourself into Zandik’s walls, the scholar moaning in pleasure as his back laid down on the corpse which was now used as a cushion as he pleasantly received your thrusts.

The body turned into a mess as you continued pounding in him roughly and as quickly as you can, knowing that you two had only so much time before someone else got here.

“M-More! More!” Zandik begged, his head rolling back from the intense sensations.

“As you wish, love.”

#sub genshin impact #sub genshin #sub dottore #sub!dottore #dom reader #dom!reader #genshin impact smut #dottore x reader #plattered writings #il dottore x reader

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amywritesthings · 1 year

Text

silver underground. / chapter 13.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 6.7K

Summary: flashback three - a look at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, then finally - your eighteenth birthday, when everything changes

Warnings: depictions of violence, sparring, furlan is my baby boy, isabel is my light, alcohol, partying, mention of vomiting (doesn't happen), hurt/comfort, pinning, sensual themes, levi's in deep shit now

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 13 - FLASHBACK: THREE

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. they are my interpretations of the material. please watch those episode first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.

“All those years of street fighting and that’s the best you got?”

“Oh shut up, Ackerman.”

You’re getting pretty sick of tasting an invasion of dirt in your mouth every time Levi Ackerman harshly slams you into the ground, demanding surrender. Forget seeing stars — you’re mapping constellations every time you go toe-to-toe in his sparring sessions.

Whether it’s from a sweep of your legs, an arm popping behind your back, a head-butt out of a grapple, this hurts.

Yet you still show up during downtime anyway.

Maybe the years of running recklessly with Furlan’s crew has helped you lose a couple of brain cells along the way.

Fifteen comes and goes in a flash.

That first night, the choice to escape the clutches of your adoptive keeper, was met with little to no thought.

Levi held out his hand to you, and you chose to never look back.

When you arrived at Levi's apartment, you're surprised to find an unassuming apartment with a set of stairs leading to the second floor where he lives with Furlan Church. You carried burdensome baggage through the building’s threshold, as the only things you had to your name were the clothes on your back and the bruising on your skin.

Eventually the bruises lightened, and Levi keeps his promise:

No one comes after you.

No one dares — not when you were under his wing.

Much to your surprise, Furlan Church was excited for your arrival. Thrilled, even, that Levi could get you to agree to joining their budding heist team.

When you first stepped into the apartment, you were greeted with the presence of a lanky boy sporting a lopsided smile and soft, spiky ash-blonde still wet from an evening shower. He wore similar clothes to Levi: a button-down hung wide open to display his chest and slacks a little too big for his frame.

Furlan was so much different than what the streets claimed he was: most suggested he was cunning and angry, a force to be reckoned with, but what stood in front of you that night was simply a teenager just like you looking to change the hand that starves him.

While bringing someone else into the mix meant the apartment lost a little space, it was more comfortable than anything you had ever experienced in your life.

They gave you your own room. A bed to sleep on. A small dresser for the possessions you don’t own. Towels. Food in your belly.

Given his smaller frame, you were forced to rely on Levi’s old clothes until you were able to find — more like steal — threads of your own. The only gotcha was the promise to keep them clean, neat, pressed and folded.

He wouldn’t let you abuse what little he owned, and you learned quickly just how much of a clean freak this mirage of a boy really was.

Spotless. Pristine. Scrubbing here, sweeping there—

Every day and every night.

And you were expected to contribute, so you did.

For weeks the three of you coexisted under the same roof.

Furlan was funny. Levi won every card game.

It felt like your own version of family.

(Something that wasn’t twisted, gnarled, from darkness.)

After some time had passed, the boys would finally let you in on their most precious secret:

The reason Levi Ackerman and Furlan Church were so successful in comparison to the other gangs floating around this godforsaken city.

“So it’s true.”

You sit on the dilapidated couch while you watch Levi clean the nooks and crannies of the boxy silver gear lying on the table.

Furlan beams on the opposite end of the table, arm lazily draped against its surface.

“Ch’yeah. Kind of amazing, isn’t it?”

Omni-directional Mobile Gear.

The shit you can only get from the military.

Your brows knit with curiosity. “How’d you manage that?”

“Ha — it wasn’t easy,” Furlan tells you, re-crossing his legs. “Took weeks to plan.”

“And you know how to use it?” you ask, but it’s not to him.

Levi never pauses his motions, but his eyes flicker up when he detects your vocal direction. “Well enough,” the dark-haired boy provides. “If the pigs can learn how to use it on the surface, then it wouldn’t be so hard to teach ourselves.”

“Damn…”

Leaning over, your forearms press hard into the tops of your thighs.

“When people said they thought they saw some of our own zipping around the Underground, I thought they were maybe drinking from sewage.”

“Sorry we couldn’t tell you sooner,” Furlan laments, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s nothing against you—”

“But it’s a big secret,” you finish for him, nodding in understanding. “I get it. It was smart.”

“And now we’ll teach you.”

Furlan glances to his left when Levi speaks with certainty.

Levi takes a minute longer to linger his eyes on you before going back to the gear. He continues to address you.

“We needed a fighter who knows how to stay on their feet.”

“Ah, so that’s why you got the shit beat out of me — to see if I can handle ODM gear?” you ask sarcastically, directing your gaze to Furlan. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“What? It was only fair, code is code. I couldn’t give you special treatment!” Furlan yelps. “C’mon, just because Levi endorsed you—”

“Oi,” Levi interrupts, narrowing his eyes to the other boy.

You slowly grin. “Endorsed? This is news to me.”

“Drop it,” Levi warns.

“Dropped,” Furlan promises.

You want to keep pushing, but instead you stand to your feet and walk to the table where the stolen ODM gear lay.

You run a finger over a metallic edge, noting just how hefty the equipment must actually be.

“What’s so tough about this shit, anyway?”

“Well, it’s…” Furlan starts to speak up, but he grimaces with an unspoken apology. The two exchange looks, both in the know — and you’ll soon be, too. “A little jerky.”

“In what way?”

“As in you have to use your core and keep your balance. It’s harder than it looks.”

Furlan’s not fucking kidding.

Your first attempt at harnessing into ODM gear is rough. Wall into wall into wall — the recovering shiner on your forehead now sports fresh purples and blues in the second try; the third, the fourth.

Levi uses the equipment seamlessly, flying around the cavernous walls of this hellscape like it’s a natural gift.

Furlan’s just about as good, consistently leaving you in the dust.

Day in and day out you follow their instructions and practice until every muscle is sore in your body; until the feel of the equipment on your hips, in your hands is an extension of yourself; until things just click.

Zipping from buildings, increasing velocity, landing on your two feet.

It brings you that much closer to a power so few Underground City citizens possess.

Little by little, you learn about the mirage of a boy with your life in his hands. Levi Ackerman is a fully actualized person, with quirks and aspirations and feelings — though you’d be hard pressed to know them yourself, as he keeps everything close to the vest.

He is stoic, calm in even the worst situations, and particular. He fights with clean brutality. You eventually find out that the man who trained Levi wasn’t his father, but Kenny the Ripper — a boogeyman you and your siblings had heard about in passing without fully realizing you’d ever crossed paths.

None of the scary stories about Kenny the Ripper involved a ward in his possession, so Levi is just as much of a ghost as you are.

Although the story of his upbringing passes through blurred lines and inferred details, you come to learn that most — if not all — of Levi’s swift tricks are passed down through meticulous training and trials by Kenny himself.

(No wonder he’s so ruthless.)

After a few weeks, Levi’s willing to show you some of his best hand-to-hand tricks himself.

Although you two possess completely different fighting styles — one erratic, the other calculated — it culminates and meshes somewhere in the middle, where ferocity and strategy marry.

Fighting becomes fun, whether either of you admit it or not.

A stress release after a long day.

A constant in an eternal night.

You never ask how Kenny taking him under his wing came to pass, but he never asks about your history with Mother, either.

It’s better that way. Not talking about it dissolves the impact Mother had on your life.

It lessens both of your former guardians authority.

(As for Mother, she never tries to find you. Even when you walk the old paths where street fights continue, you never see her face in passing. Rumors spread that her drinking problem got the best of her. You imagine Levi has something to do with her expiration, whether he'll ever admit it or not.)

Petty theft, money heists, intimidation — you rack up the offenses against your name and double the notoriety of your trio.

The citizens of the Underground look twice when you walk by. They never once try to touch or attack you again.

Church, Ackerman, James.

Always together. Always in sync.

It’s paradise.

Sixteen is a slow burn.

Complicated heists mean complicated teams, and Furlan puts himself in charge of divvying up the goods while Levi investigates potential candidates. A team of two turns into three, three turns into four, and soon enough there is a network of reliable bodies willing to lay their lives on the line for a chance to work with the three of you.

Sometimes the job requires Levi to leave for days, but he makes it a point to come back to this cramped apartment with bags full of food and goodies for your hard-working gang.

(You’ve noticed he is particular about smuggling tea back home, particularly the leaves only available to purchase on the surface. It’s ballsy, but he gets it done.)

In a strange way, you miss when he’s away.

And when he's away, it's usually just you and Furlan — until it isn't.

Because Isabel Magnolia, a short and spunky ginger-haired menace, becomes an unexpected fourth addition in the leadership squad.

In a testosterone-fueled household, the younger woman is a breath of fresh air for you. Idealistic, brave, and bold above all else — Levi and Furlan stumbled into her while she was in the midst of an escape from Military Police.

Something about making unauthorized trips to the city stairwell, illegally ignoring the tolls to do some of the most ludicrous shit that only a teenager would do.

Like save baby birds from the surface, as if they’d somehow survive down in the Underground.

(That bird did. Furlan swears it’s the magic of Isabel’s optimism.)

Isabel ends up sleeping in your room in a makeshift cot on the floor, squawking your ear off in excitement to the point of a headache.

Still, it’s nice to have company, especially when the boys are recruiting or completing deals.

The four of you as a unit feels right. By now you’ve come to appreciate Furlan’s jokes, admire Levi’s seriousness, partake in Isabel’s dreams; they’ve each played a part in cracking your own hardened shell, shaping you into this —

Not the James your Mother created, but the James your friends accepted.

You’ve even told them your first name, the real name you were born with. They keep that name like a sacred oath, something special those three (and only those three) can say. It becomes something of a last name for you, something to be respected. The rest of the gang know you solely as James, yet you've grown to no longer loathe being called such.

(Not when it’s on their lips.)

And you like her — this person named James.

You like that she’s capable of being reliable to a team of people with their own strengths.

You like that Isabel gives her hope in the middle of her babbles at the stroke of midnight.

You like that Furlan discovers what her real laugh sounds like — straight from her belly and up to her chest — and it’s loud and obnoxious and genuine.

The sound even gets Levi to crack, if only for a twitch at the corner of his lips.

Shit.

Levi.

You like that he’s particular with his teas and trusts you enough to share the reasons why.

You like that he puts his hands on your hips when you’re practicing ODM gear.

You like that he isn’t afraid to touch your sweat-matted hair after a spar to tuck it behind your ear, like you’re nothing dirty to him.

And you realize the James you’re becoming will do just about anything Levi Ackerman asks.

Seventeen is complicated.

Messy is a better word — Yinter’s massive fuck-up on the South Region heist puts a halt on any and all jobs for the rest of the year.

One of the newest recruits, Yinter, panicked in the midst of his attempt at robbery, causing the rest of his squad to almost get caught by meandering Military Police.

Cleaning up the tracks of an inexperienced team took several weeks of tireless labor and moving supplies around, but the gang managed.

What once ran as a worried whisper in the Underground is now loud and on the tips of the MPs tongues, placing a target on the backs of four cocky teenagers leading the charge.

All of you should have known navigating the crime world by the skin of your teeth was risky.

At the beginning, the idea of a lawless gang was beautiful.

However, Furlan’s a little more of a dreamer in the sense that he sees the unattainable and runs with it. Sometimes his head is so far up his ass that he thinks none of this will blow back onto any of you.

Maybe it can damage some of the runts, sure, but he thinks leadership’s plans and aspirations are fool proof.

You disagree. Loudly.

Now you’re certain Furlan’s sometimes pissed that Levi ever suggested they recruit you with your constant pushback of his ideas. Levi never seems to express any doubt towards you, but that doesn’t stop him from being the Devil’s Advocate thorn in your side.

Sometimes you and Levi Ackerman bicker.

Sometimes it's a lot of bickering — about the little things like team preferences and heist plans, times and locations.

Yet more often than not, the two of you always land in the same archaic loop: fist-to-fist sparring, taking out your frustrations in the most natural way you know how. Ducking and dodging until your tempers simmer and you run out steam.

Until frustration turns into playful, heated banter.

A secret language for two.

(You'll never stop fighting, you realize too little too late, but neither will he.)

You kick and you punch and you watch Levi slam you into the ground again and again and again — the scrawny teenager always ends up on top of you, wrists pinned to your head, declaring your surrender.

Glare to glare, out of breath and spent, the fight ends when you burst into laughter from how scrunched his nose gets when he’s hell bent on winning.

It used to be funny.

Yet with each passing week, each dying month, warmth surges through your belly when he pins you down.

It would be easy, you think, to do something stupid.

You can’t afford to be the stupid one of the group.

Last week marked your eighteenth birthday.

A party is reckless, but Furlan wants to celebrate something after the Yinter accident with the spoils of the last successful heist: booze, food, rationed cigarettes, the works.

You aren’t naïve to what partying means, even if you’ve never partaken in the act yourself. The Underground is full of red-light districts if you know where to look: people piss away their money to eliminate their troubles in the arms of others, in the bottle of a stolen vintage whiskey, in the spices that can ascend far past the surface into somewhere better.

Levi is sorely against the idea.

Furlan, for once, pulls seniority.

Which leads to why Levi’s so damn determined to kick your ass right now — if he can’t vocalize how annoyed he is, then he sure as hell will exert enough energy to pass out before the event even starts.

“All those years of street fighting and that’s the best you got?”

“Oh shut up, Ackerman.”

A nonchalant boot digs into your side, bringing you back to the Underground.

“Get up.”

You grit your teeth, counting down the seconds. “Actually, I kinda dig it down here.”

“Seriously—?”

It’s enough of a distraction to earn yourself much-needed time to reset and win.

Pulling as hard as you possibly can, you use your core and sweep his leg. Levi makes a noise of surprise as he’s airborne, only to crash beside you in a nasty thud.

You crawl up the young man's body to press your arm into his windpipe, daring him to fight back. Your knees cradle his hips, trapping him beneath.

“Dirty trick,” he spits, gritting his teeth, but it doesn’t feel as if he’s trying to escape very fast.

(A phrase he's picked up from you like a bad habit.)

You shrug a shoulder, pressing harder onto his windpipe. He sputters, but his face remains just as neutral as ever.

“What’s got you so pissy today?”

“What?” Levi asks from beneath you. His hands curl around your elbow and fist, but he doesn’t push your forearm away just yet.

“You’re particularly moody.”

“I’m not.”

“Are too.”

He narrows his eyes. “And I’m letting you win.”

“Are not.”

“Wanna bet?”

Easing up on his windpipe, you crawl off of him and extend a hand to help pull him up to a seated position.

Levi begrudgingly takes it, hoisting himself up on the flat of his palm. "Thought we didn’t do draws."

“I don’t wanna look like shit before the party, so I’m calling a draw.”

“So you’re admitting I was winning?”

You roll your eyes into the back of your head, swatting his hand from yours. Levi uses the momentum to prop himself up with his palms behind him, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. You stay with your legs folded like a pretzel, hands idle in your lap.

“I’ve never drank before,” you murmur with an excited melody to your tone.

Levi grimaces. “It’s disgusting.”

“I won’t know until I try, right?”

“Can’t you take my word for it?”

“But your taste is so awful.”

It’s a lie, but the immediate scowl sent your way is worth the dramatics. You smile it off.

“I mean, Furlan seems to think it’s fun.”

“Furlan is a dumbass,” Levi replies. “I thought you already knew that.”

“I do, but I still want to at least try it. If I hate it, then you can tell me I told you so. Deal?”

“And if you love it, then that means I’m on babysitting duty.”

"Babysitting?”

“Yeah. I don’t need your drunk ass fighting new recruits.” His scowl deepens. “Or ruining the fucking furniture if you get sick.”

“So pessimistic,” you tease. “Levi, you don’t have to take care of me.”

The conversation dissipates.

Levi keeps his eyes on you for a second longer before turning a chin to stare straight ahead.

You continue to watch him, taking in the sharpness of his nose on his profile.

At nineteen years old, he’s grown into his once sullen face with high cheekbones and a sharp chin. His thin arms are toned under the white button-up he sports, torso cinched by the auburn vest. His fingers have small cuts, but they’re slender. Strong.

You see the way girls look at him when he passes.

He never seems to notice.

“Ja-haaaames!”

A shrill and slurred attempt at your last name brings you back to the rowdiness of the room.

Despite Levi’s best efforts, the party goes without a hitch. A dozen, maybe two, have shown up to enjoy the spoils stolen by the Military Police: at least a crate of wine, a few half-polished bottles of whiskey, and a multitude of cigarette cartons pass through the hands of the hard-working legion that made it happen.

The lack of food in this area makes it easy for people to get sloppy on next to nothing. Within a shot or two — cheered to your name, as if eighteen years of your life in the Underground mean anything at all — half of the crew is loud and rowdy.

Laughing.

Horsing around.

Kissing.

You don’t remember when it is you dissociated from the noise, but it’s Isabel’s voice that guides you back to this cramped little apartment full of people.

“Hello, welcome back,” she greets with a giggle, handing over a tiny medicine cup of a clear liquid. “You’re out, and I need you to be on my level.”

Except you are on her level — where Isabel gets louder and more rambunctious on alcohol, you’ve become quiet, contemplative. You haven’t been able to feel your nose in at least an hour. Everything is warm, deliciously so, and your muscles don’t ache like they usually do.

“Should you even be drinking that stuff, Isa?”

“What, this? Yeah, I’m good.”

“But you’re only—”

“What do ya think about the party so far? Here.” Interrupting her own question, she places the tiny cup in your hand and taps it with her own. “Cheers to you, oh fearless one.”

“Oh stop,” you moan, taking the tiny shot with ease.

The first shot almost made you spit up the drink before it could pass down your throat. The second you forced down, clenching your teeth to air out the burn on your tongue.

Furlan was right: it gets easier every time.

“How many is that?” Isabel asks, flopping back at the wall you lean against.

“Four. Five. I don’t know, I lost count,” you answer honestly, peering down at the empty cup with scrutiny. “I feel like this is going to bite me in the ass.”

Isabel cackles, bumping her shoulder with yours. “That day is not today! C’mon, sis, don’t hide. We already have a party pooper, so you can not join Levi.”

“Levi?” you ask, blinking over to her. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Exactly. Bro’s avoiding everyone like a scaredy cat. God… Levi and James. James and Levi.” Isabel groans into her cup, sipping in contemplation. You already hate where this might be going. “That’s a topic I have wanted to—” She hiccups, taking your medicine cup. “—bring up for a while now.”

If you weren’t so preoccupied at the sound of Levi’s name, then perhaps you’d have sobered up from the neon red sign telling you to avoid this conversation at all costs.

Isabel talks over the volume of the room.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” you repeat.

“You’re going to make me say it?” For a second, your blood returns to your body. It’s spiked with an anxiety you cannot verbalize. “You two were gone for pret-ty long time this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” you quickly solve. “It was sparring hour. We always do that.”

“Not usually for that long, though.” Under a curtain of eyelashes, the redhead blinks up at you with a hope that seizes your head. “So….?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“We’re friends,” you blurt. “Colleagues, actually, which is a step below friends.”

Isabel blows disappointed raspberries. “Furlan said you two go way back.”

“We do, but—”

“Levi hand-picked you to join the gang.”

“Not really, he—”

“All he ever does is hang out with you.”

“That is not true,” you snip, itching to run. “I mean — okay, some of it is true, but I’m not the only person he talks to. Shit, Isa, I’ve known him since I was a kid. He pulled me out of a bad situation and we — no, it’s nothing like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Isabel mimes zipping her lips closed with her thumb and index finger, only to toss the invisible key somewhere in the crowd.

“Isabel.” You turn towards her, eyes widening in a desperation that even surprises your drunken state. “Get the — get that fucking key back, we aren’t—”

“We aren’t what?”

A deeper voice breaks the moment of insanity, causing Isabel to stare behind you with rounded eyes and a dropped jaw.

You stare back at her, cursing her stupid ginger mop of a head with every crude word under the sun.

Then she does about the worst thing she could do at a time like this.

“Hi, bro! Gotta go!”

“Isa—!”

Too late.

She piles in with the rest of the sloppiness, leaving you to deal with the man over your shoulder.

When you turn, Levi is there — eye-level in height and frowning, brow quirked with mild interest. The shirt he usually has so neatly aligned is popped at the collar and buttoned down to his sternum.

“You’re drunk,” is all he greets with, and the tinge of red on your face only increases.

“A little,” you admit.

To your horror, you see it: the way his lips part while he waits for an explanation, the fall of black strands over his eyes, his expanse of his naked chest—

You’re friends. You are two people who found each other in one fucked up place. You work together, live together, survive together.

So why would Isabel feel the need to open a door that you had no clue was unlocked?

“Oi.” Squinting, Levi leans in to study the drain of color from your face. “Are you—”

“I don’t feel so good.”

You don’t wait for Levi to register your interruption, instead curving past him towards the open door leading to the dead air of the Underground City.

Walking until there aren’t any bodies to stifle your next breath, you round the corner for a sense of privacy and breathe in deep through your nose.

Drunk. That’s all Isabel is — babbling and silly and drunk.

“Maybe pull your hair out of your face if you’re going to puke.”

Shit, did he—

Craning your chin over your shoulder, your worst nightmare is confirmed: Levi Ackerman stands a mere few feet from where you’ve hidden yourself, facial expression dripping with annoyance.

His arms cross over his chest once your eyes connect.

“I’m not doing it for you,” he adds when you say nothing.

The nausea dissolves in an instant, leaving you with a very heavy weight on your shoulders.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I just…”

Unable to find the right words to explain yourself, you twirl and smack into the cobblestone wall. Inch by inch you drop in height, dragging down its cold surface until you’re seated on the ground. Levi’s brows fly high, but he doesn’t move.

“This is all really surreal right now.”

Levi bites. “In what way?”

“As in I never thought I’d make it to my tenth birthday, much less my eighteenth birthday, and here we are celebrating it. No one in our house actually knows it’s a real accomplishment,” you admit in the haze of the liquor. “Everyone is happy to have us, and I’m happy to have us, but I feel this… this butterfly anxiety in my stomach every time someone says 'to many more years' like we have guaranteed years and it’s—”

The sound of his boots gently tap closer until something presses against your arm. When you lull your head to look in the direction of the sound, it’s Levi sitting beside you.

In the dirt.

A beat passes.

“You’re gonna get dirty,” you mumble.

“Don’t remind me.”

Drawing your knees to your chest, the two of you sit in silence for what feels like an hour.

You can’t pretend to know what’s going through his head — if he heard an ounce of what Isabel said, if he can hear your heart beating wildly in your chest, if he even understands the gravity of what he did.

What he’s done through these last few years.

“Why did you do it?”

The question is barely audible, but you feel Levi shift to watch you.

Head bowed to your knees, you catch your wrist between your thumb and finger and squeeze.

“Do what?”

“You gave me a second chance, Levi.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” you argue firmly, “and I never understood why. I’m glad you did, because I thought— I didn’t even see myself ever getting out of that hell, but it—”

“James.” You quiet at the soft snip of your name. “Don’t spiral. It’s the alcohol talking.”

“It’s me talking, Levi,” you argue firmly. “We always skirt around this shit. We… fight it out or whatever so we never have to bring it up. Someone has to finally say something.”

“If I give you your present early, then will you knock it off?”

You perk, chin lifting from its perch on your arm to stare at the other boy like he’s grown a second head.

He scowls, hand buried deep in his trouser pocket.

“My what?” you softly ask, and for the first time, Levi deflates.

At first it’s physical: inch by inch his body lessens its typical intensity, from shoulders to chest, arms to legs. He slumps beside you, head bowed with cascading black bangs covering his eyes.

He continues to fish around in his pocket before producing his open palm to you.

In the center lay an unassuming box, brown and thin, without labels or bows.

“Your present,” he reiterates like it’s painful.

“You got me a…”

“It’s your birthday.”

“I know it is, but you didn’t have to—”

When your eyes connect, you see it: the nerves that settle in his eyes, at the corners of his lips, as he waits with this damn box in his hand.

“What?” he asks, flat.

The walls start to build brick by cautious brick.

The window of vulnerability is closing.

Abruptly you lean forward, grabbing his hand to keep him from retreating.

Levi sways with the sudden movement, breath hitching at the way your other hand closes on top of your joined hands, trapping it.

“Don’t.”

Don’t run, is what you want to say.

Don’t hide, when you know it’s what he wants to do.

Levi stills at your command, and you slowly slip the box from his palm.

“What is it?”

“Isn’t the point of a shitty gift to open it as a surprise?” he rhetorically snaps, throat bobbing with a swallow.

Eventually you loosen your grip and free his hand. He draws it back into his lap before his hand can touch the dirt below.

You sit straighter, mindful of the way you remove the lid of the rectangular container.

Fragile, because you have no idea what Levi could possibly—

“Oh.”

Silver.

Dainty and small but more beautiful than anything you’ve ever witnessed in the Underground, you stare slack-jawed at the silver necklace nestled in a blanket of tissue paper.

Even in the forever night of the city, the jewelry gleams — and at its sloped apex sits a gemstone, smokey and small —

“If you hate it—”

“Hate it?” you interrupt in a gasped bark, stunned Levi would suggest anything of the sort.

For once, emotion shows: his eyes widen, lips parted with an apology he cannot find as you rip the necklace out of the box to hold it to your chest in a balled fist.

“How could I hate it?”

“I didn’t know if you liked silver,” he admits lamely, caught off guard.

“How the hell did you get this?”

“Bought it.”

Now it’s your turn to stare like a deer caught in a lantern’s light.

“I knocked the guy’s lights out after, so don’t look at me like I’m some fucking saint.”

He didn’t steal this.

With his own earnings, he bought this — for you?

“Why go through that trouble? This is… it has to be surface made, right?”

“A while back, you said you don’t own anything,” Levi explains, the tips of his ears turning a shade of pink. He reaches to smooth rogue baby hairs away from his face and settles his elbow on a raised knee. “Nothing proper, anyway. Now you do.”

You don’t own anything.

He’s right. You hold the necklace like stardust in the palm of your hand, studying every centimeter of its gleam.

It’s such a thoughtful idea, such a beautiful gift, that your throat closes up with budding emotion.

All of this trouble — for you.

“I might cry,” you tease, but it isn’t entirely untrue.

Levi groans like he saw that inconvenience coming.

“For fuck’s sake, do not cry.”

Then something otherworldly happens.

You both stare at the other and smile.

Although his is microscopic, it’s there: upturned corners and a crinkle in his eye, face exposed with his hair out of the way. You bite your lower lip to avoid grinning too hard, enamored with the sight before you.

The party feels so far away when Levi’s looking at you like this.

All you hear — all you see — is him.

“I might need help,” you murmur, pinching the chain between your thumb and index finger to hold out the small piece of jewelry to him.

“You think I know how these things work?”

“You’re smart. Figure it out, Ackerman.”

You hold your hair higher and turn your back to him, mimicking the things you’ve seen women do in the illustrated books Isabel’s smuggled from the surface people.

It feels right, especially when his fingertips brush along the slope of your neck.

Before you can stop yourself, a small gasp bursts from your lips. Levi either doesn’t hear or ignore it, because he’s reaching around to lay the necklace lightly on your collarbone without comment.

His fingers continue to touch the nape of your neck, careful not to pinch or scratch.

(To think hands like his can be soft.)

“That okay?” he asks behind you, his hot breath peppering your skin.

You glance down at your chest, touching the tiny gemstone with adoration.

“Perfect,” you say.

It really is.

(And it's yours. It's all yours.)

When you turn your chin to look at him, you don’t expect the proximity of his face — Levi’s nose is so close that you can see the gentle faded freckles that would have thrived with the sun.

He doesn’t slink away, doesn’t move a muscle, and you’re trapped staring at his mouth expecting an insult, a name, anything.

Nothing comes.

Instead you both remain here in the heat of two beating hearts, too afraid to run.

(Too afraid to ruin.)

Furlan said you two go way back.

“We should go inside.”

Levi, albeit strained, murmurs between you. His breath tickles your lips.

The silver around your neck shifts when your head gently shakes.

“It’s too crowded in there,” you argue without much fire.

From this angle, you can’t see his eyes. He’s too busy staring down at your mouth.

“It’s cold.”

“I’m not cold,” you tell him honestly.

“No?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Must be the alcohol,” he surmises.

“It isn’t.” You’ve never been so serious in your life. “I feel sober now. Just…”

“Just what?” he asks a little too quickly.

You miss his gaze a second too late — when his eyes raise, yours drop to his lips.

His boots become one with the ground beneath you, stuck in place. You swear you hear his breath grow heavier, contemplative, and you know — know that you’re about to do that one stupid thing you’ve thought about for years.

“Tell me."

He whispers, and it shatters the glass barrier between you.

You bridge the gap and press your lips softly to his.

Levi's stiff as a board, as if his brain realizes what you've done before his body has. Eventually his chin dips forward, his lips fluttering across yours as he finds his breath.

Then he moves like a starving man that’s found his oasis.

His knee knocks into yours when he pushes, deepening his mouth’s position on yours. You fumble backwards, shoulder blades hitting the wall with a gasp. Both of your limbs fumble to grab the other’s face first, but his reflexes outshine yours.

Slow and deliberate, experimenting with the sensation, Levi kisses you. He kisses you.

You match his exploration, trembling with your hand curled around the back of his neck. He inhales sharply when your nails scratch gently against his skin, causing him to push against you more.

Like he’s drowning.

Like he doesn’t care if he ever breathes again.

Your body burns when his left hand drops from your cheek to lightly run along the gemstone at the cusp of that glittering silver necklace.

You gasp for air as your noses knock together, both silently eager to find a rhythm you can both sing to. A whimper escapes your throat when something wet runs along your lower lip. His hot breath mingles with your tongue, the sensation shooting straight to your lower belly.

Then Levi pulls away like he’s somehow hurt you, gray eyes wide and — scared.

Fearful, like he’s crossed a line.

Delirious from the high, you shake your head and run your hand through the buzzed undercut at the nape of his neck. “I wanna keep doing that.”

As if his eyes could get any wider.

Levi looks wrecked. He opens his mouth to say something, as if to find any good reason to dispute your request but closes it.

He simply nods.

Inching forward, Levi captures your lips with a tenderness you’ve never considered he could possess. He’s careful, caging your head in with both of his hands now and thumbs lazily stroking your cheeks.

You hate that you must taste like the very thing he despises.

Except Levi groans, body shuddering, and when he shifts you feel something hard against your hip. It’s fleeting, but it snaps your eyes open in surprise.

Levi’s eyes are squeezed shut. Focused.

(He doesn’t even look this determined when he’s flying around on stolen ODM gear.)

You sigh when he presses further into you, eliminating the space between, and kiss back with feverish intent. Levi drops a hand to steady your hip — whether to keep you still or to keep himself from suffocating you, you’re not sure.

Then your tongues accidentally touch again, and you can’t help but moan. “Levi.”

He grits his teeth, pulling away. “Don’t say it like that.”

Your heart seizes with uncertainty. “Say what?”

He must be in pain. His eyes are screwed shut. Then he shifts again, gliding his thigh between yours, and you know now.

Levi Ackerman is rock hard, fighting every demon in his body.

“My name,” he croaks, finally opening his eyes. His pupils are practically blown black.

“But I like your name,” you reason innocently, and he drops his forehead onto your shoulder.

“Fucking shit…” He must feel you expand your lungs to ask a question, because he stops you before you can start. “I’m fine. Just… give me a second.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, hand still buried in his hair.

His head instantly picks up, searching for your face. Studying. “For what?”

“That.” His brows move a microscopic fraction higher. “If you didn’t… I mean, I haven’t…”

“I haven’t either,” he confesses without ever explaining what he means.

Now it’s your turn to widen your stare.

Your first kiss was his first kiss, too.

Something giddy floods your system. Something stronger than any hard liquor can conjure.

“Do you regret it?” he asks under a murmur.

You adamantly shake your head. “Do you?”

It takes a breath, but he shakes his head back.

Your mouth burst into a bright smile, high on the adrenaline of the point of no return you’ve both crossed in the midnight.

Cheeks tinged with a pink hue, all Levi can do is stare — then he chuckles, breathless and bewildered.

His hand drops to take yours, tugging the both away from the wall. You follow with little resistance, squeezing his palm.

You both linger in the dark for a second longer.

Then he lets go, taking the lead back to the apartment.

You follow.

(Door, now and forever, unlocked.)

author's note: imagine sitting on this exact chapter since march 2023. i have been dying to post this shit. chapter 14 is taking a lil longer to write so i'll keep you posted if itll be next week or in 2 weeks.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @vigilancio

#aot #levi ackerman #snk #attack on titan fanfic #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #shingeki no kyoujin #shingeki no kyojin fanfic #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman fic #levi ackerman fanfic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman smut #silver underground #amywritesthings #fic: silver underground

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leahsfiction · 1 year

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i find word-by-word glosses of classical chinese poetry to be incredibly useful sometimes as a learning aid:[1] to indicate a proper noun,[2] an archaic meaning, a literary device, or linguistic feature not immediately obvious in a poetic translation. also in the case of regulated verse, it's a great visual way to appreciate the technical beauties of parallelism.

however i don't usually write & post them, for a few reasons:

it's extremely easy for them to look like "broken" english -- something i'm sensitive to as a second-gen [diaspora/person of hyphenated experience/etc.]. like i grew up in an area that was like 40% asian and still managed to hear "me love you long time", random gibberish syllables, etc.

that aside. there's a tradition of western readers of classical chinese poetry coming away with all sorts of overgeneralizations about how each character is a world unto itself, etc., etc., how the poet is not present in the poem because they never use the word "I",[3] etc.

also, they look like a "bridge" or intermediate step in the translation process when that is not the case for me.[4] creating a word-by-word gloss is kinda an entire translation process of its own, with different objectives & priorities!

so yeah! my (extremely amateur) translations are trying to be poetic more than scholarly translations, but at the same time i yearn for people to engage with them as translations and talk to me about the process (which i am terminally lazy about writing up). word-level glosses would probably help, but those are my reasons for not writing them.

my fav resources for learning classical chinese poetry as a beginner both make extensive use of individual word glosses: the East Asia Student blog and How to Read Chinese Poetry: A Guided Anthology, ed. Zong-qi Cai

a lot of times, with brevity being prized in classical chinese, names (and thus entire careers, moral lessons, eidolons) get abbreviated to a single character

obviously there are lots of instances of ancient poets using the word "I" or referring to themselves in general, but also. just in my limited experience. SO many poems are autobiographical or have a specific voice???

i do rely heavily on dictionaries and annotations, but also on my accumulated experience with reading and discussing poetry, my knowledge of the language, my personal tastes/interpretations/goals/mood when it comes to composing a specific translation... you know, things that are less tangible & easy to point to. most of the time i don't know exactly why i've made a specific choice until @/garden-ghoul asks me about it.

#translation #tlblogging #xposted from cohost - i hope the tumblr markdown processor doesn't mangle this too much

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cheesus-doodles · 7 months

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Hello, it's been a while since I visited your blog, as the end of school and the beginning of adulthood have taken up more of my time recently. Nevertheless, I'm glad to revisit your blog and see new posts. It brings back memories of the old days when I was in the tokyo revengers fandom, spending weekends reading the manga and some fanfics on tumblr.

I don't think this question has been asked before, but I've always been curious about the personality of the author. I know there are descriptions in your posts, but I'd love to hear more about it in your own words. It seems more intriguing to me.

I'm not sure when you'll read this or what time it is, but I hope you continue to be as creative as you've been. Your posts motivated me to return to writing and develop my talent in that. ♡︎

hello again anon! welcome back to this little corner of the internet, I'm glad to you thought of here enough to return ^^ ahh the transition from school to workplace is definitely not easy, remember to be kind to yourself! super nice ask, yes I most definitely will keep writing as and when I have time, and I'm super happy to hear that my rants into the abyss have motivated you :) take care of yourself anon!

Also if I'm interpreting this correctly, I think you're asking about the personality of the reader? Do let me know if I'm wrong though, I'll be more than happy to answer any questions you have!

Masterlist

A Friend in Me: Chapters 1 | 2‎ | 3

‎

I have done the personality of Boss from the Red Dragonflies AU here previously, so I'll talk more about the nameless reader from A Friend In Me/Going Home here!

I always imagined reader to be this rather socially awkward and emotionally sensitive individual, yet very friendly and easygoing person. Its not like you don't want to have friends - its not easy being the outcast in school, having to be the one looking in all the time and knowing that you weren't going to be picked for teams during physical education class, having to eat lunch alone. Not because the rest of your classmates and schoolmates hate you per se(before the arrival of your Toman boys and their interferrence, at least), but rather because barely anyone knows you exist.

You have never been very good at putting yourself out there despite wanting to know people and make friends, and when you do, you're always nervous and anxious. And this would lead to you believing that even the mere act of reaching out to others makes you a burden. You can't quite trust others on their word even when they were happy to make friends with you, continuing to think that they're putting on an act out of sympathy for you, and at the end of the day, you're simply troubling them.

Of course your confidence increases by leaps and bounds after meeting your Toman boys and seeing that you are actually capable of being sociable and putting yourself out there, and even after the same delinquents you called friends stripped you of your newfound confidence around your schoolmates, this doesn't deter you from attempting to find your own way in the world, much to the boys' chagrin.

In general, you would also be a pretty carefree and easygoing for the most part, happy to just be included in whatever that is going on. The reader I have in my mind when writing is always up for anything that her boys suggest, and despite your rather quiet nature, your sense of adventure hasn't been lost. Be it motorcycle rides in the middle of the night, or something more gut-sinking like watching the boys spar, you never really said no. And though you said you were okay with it, the Toman founders would try never to pick a fight in front of you - god only knows how you would react and they wouldn't want to have to deal with that.

Most definitely an easily manipulated person, you rely heavily on the emotions of the people around you to try and tell if you are being a good friend and if they liked you enough to keep you around. Which makes you susceptible to being influenced by the merest suggestion of unhappiness or anger at your actions, falling over yourself to correct yourself in a bid to stop that friend from leaving you. Even when you do eventually start to stand up for yourself - e.g. when you have someone to defend - enough pressure usually can still get you to fold like a wet paper towel, and it would be interesting to find out when you will finally draw the line.

It is pretty unfortunate that being the pushover you are is part of the reason why the yandere Toman boys like you so much (because you do whatever they want without complaint and pamper them in return for the bare minimum), so it will be a balancing game to try and prevent temper flaring; these are delinquents that you are dealing with at the end of the day, and even if they would hesitate to turn their fists directly at you, the darling of their world, everyone else around you is free real estate the moment you start misbehaving in their eyes. And boy, it'll be a matter of whether you give in first, or someone dies first.

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hayatheauthor · 1 year

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The Rejection Checklist: Manuscript Pitfalls to Avoid

The literary industry’s writing standard can be hard to meet, especially when you’re a debut author querying your first manuscript. Even with a flawless query letter and a captivating storyline, authors often find themselves facing rejection due to subtle shortcomings in their writing. What seems like an insignificant writing quirk to an author can be the reason for an agent’s rejection.

As an #amquerying author, I have received personalised feedback from agents and editors alike that has helped me curate the best version of my manuscript. If you’re an author looking to get traditionally published, here is my rejection checklist of things to look out for before querying.

Passive Voice

The use of passive voice in your manuscript can be a stumbling block on your journey to securing an agent. This seemingly innocuous writing quirk, if left unaddressed, can lead to rejection. Passive voice occurs when the subject of a sentence receives the action rather than performing it. It often involves the use of auxiliary verbs like "is," "was," or "has been," which can make sentences sound less direct.

Passive voice can introduce ambiguity and make sentences less engaging. It tends to slow down the narrative flow and may distance readers from the action. Agents and publishers often frown upon its excessive use. Consider the following examples to better understand passive voice: "The book was read by Jane" (passive) versus "Jane read the book" (active).

Agents are looking for manuscripts that grip readers from the start. Passive voice can weaken the impact of your prose and hinder reader immersion. Agents may interpret it as a sign of weak writing, leading to rejection. To spot passive voice in your writing, pay attention to the use of passive verbs and phrases. Look for sentences where the subject isn't the primary "doer" of the action. Reading your manuscript aloud can often help identify passive constructions.

Over Description

In your quest to paint a vivid picture with words, it's easy to fall into the trap of over-describing every detail. While rich descriptions can enhance your storytelling, an excess of it can lead to manuscript rejection. Agents and publishers often seek balance in narrative description.

Over description can slow down the pace of your story and, ironically, detract from reader engagement. When every element is meticulously detailed, readers may become overwhelmed, losing sight of the plot's core. Agents may see this as a sign that the narrative lacks focus and that the pacing is sluggish.

Finding the right balance is key. Instead of inundating your readers with exhaustive descriptions, consider focusing on elements that contribute significantly to the scene or character development. Encourage readers to use their imagination, allowing them to fill in some details, which can create a more immersive reading experience.

An easy way to distinguish over description is by considering whether your passage helps set the scene or is distracting from the actual plot. For example, if your character was kidnapped and in a dark room with a blindfold on their eyes describing what they can hear or the harsh ropes on their wrists would be adequate description.

However, if you go too much into it and start writing winding paragraphs about the way the chair feels, the smell of moss in the air, etc. you risk ruining immersion. Are these details interesting? Yes. But do you need them to help set the scene? Not really.

Show, Don't Tell

One of the golden rules of effective storytelling is to "show, don't tell." Agents and publishers look for manuscripts that immerse readers in the narrative by allowing them to experience the story rather than being told about it.

When writers rely too heavily on telling, the narrative can become flat and unengaging. Readers want to see and feel the story unfold through vivid scenes, actions, and dialogue, rather than being handed a summary of events. Agents recognize the power of showing and may be quick to reject manuscripts that fail to employ this technique effectively.

Consider the difference between these two approaches:

Telling: "Sarah felt incredibly nervous about the job interview."

Showing: "As Sarah sat in the waiting room, her palms grew sweaty, and her heart raced. She fidgeted with her resume, her eyes darting around the room as she rehearsed her answers."

The second example allows readers to experience Sarah's nervousness rather than being told she's nervous. To address this issue in your manuscript, focus on crafting scenes that engage the senses, evoke emotions, and enable readers to draw their conclusions.

An important thing to remember is that simply adding a couple of words can also help you show the scene, you don’t have to add new paragraphs to fix every ‘tell’.

Lack of Atmospheric Detail

Creating a rich and immersive story world is essential for drawing readers into your manuscript. When a manuscript lacks atmospheric detail, it can lead to disengagement and ultimately result in agent rejection.

Agents and publishers seek manuscripts that transport readers to unique and vivid settings. Without atmospheric detail, the story may feel flat and fail to capture the reader's imagination. Agents understand the importance of world-building and its impact on reader immersion.

To address this issue in your manuscript, focus on incorporating sensory descriptions and setting elements that bring your world to life. Consider the mood, sounds, smells, and visual cues that define your story's environment. By painting a detailed and evocative picture, you'll enhance reader engagement.

During the editing process, review your narrative for places where atmospheric detail is lacking. Are there scenes where you can infuse more sensory descriptions or highlight unique aspects of the setting?

Remember that we have five senses for a reason and it isn’t good to solely rely on your characters’ sight.

Character Connections

One of the key elements that agents and publishers look for in a manuscript is the ability to create a deep and meaningful connection between readers and the characters. When you’re researching agents you will often see this listed on their MSWL or website pages.

Agents understand that relatable, well-developed characters are the heart of a compelling story. Without this connection, readers may struggle to empathize or invest emotionally in the characters' journeys. Agents often consider character development as a critical factor in manuscript evaluation.

To address this issue in your manuscript, focus on crafting characters with depth, complexity, and relatability. Consider their motivations, flaws, and unique qualities that make them stand out. Encourage readers to form emotional bonds with the characters by weaving their personal stories, struggles, and growth into the narrative.

During the revision process, evaluate your characters. Are they multi-dimensional and relatable? Do readers have a reason to care about their fates? By enhancing character development and forging emotional connections, your manuscript becomes more appealing to agents and readers alike.

Dialogue and Authenticity

Authentic and engaging dialogue is a crucial element in creating relatable characters and advancing the plot. When dialogue feels forced or unrealistic, it can lead to a rejection from agents.

Agents and publishers recognize that authentic dialogue not only brings characters to life but also deepens reader engagement. Dialogue that lacks realism can disrupt the reader's immersion in the story. Agents may view this as a sign of weak character development or storytelling.

To address this issue in your manuscript, focus on crafting dialogue that reflects the unique voices, personalities, and motivations of your characters. Avoid excessive exposition through dialogue and prioritize the use of conversation to reveal character traits, conflicts, and plot progression.

A good way to edit your dialogue is by reading it out loud or pasting only the dialogue in a new document and see whether it flows well. You can also add certain quirks or words into your characters’ vocabulary to help you make the dialogue authentic to that character.

Pacing and Tension

Pacing is the heartbeat of your story, and it plays a vital role in maintaining reader engagement. When the pacing is off or the tension doesn't build effectively, it can lead to manuscript rejection.

Agents and publishers are attuned to the rhythm of storytelling. They understand that pacing and tension are critical to keeping readers turning the pages. Manuscripts that lack well-managed pacing can lose reader interest quickly. Agents may view this as a sign that the narrative lacks direction or fails to hold their attention.

To address this issue in your manuscript, focus on managing pacing effectively. Consider the balance between action, description, and dialogue. Use pacing as a tool to control the reader's experience, speeding up during action-packed scenes and slowing down for character development or crucial moments. Tension should steadily rise as the story progresses, keeping readers on edge and eager to find out what happens next.

Author Notes

Finally, I would like to remind all querying authors this is an unpredictable and highly subjective industry. Rejection is an inevitable part of the process, and it's important not to let it deter you from pursuing your dreams.

An agent can think you have a great book and love your writing but still reject it because of external reasons like marketability. And that's perfectly alright because as an author you deserve to find an agent who can help you reach your full potential.

Accept feedback with an open mind but also with a grain of salt, as not all agents share the same viewpoint. I've had two agents reject the same sample pages because one thought there was too much description and the other thought there wasn't enough. This goes to show there really isn't a one-size-fits-all formula for securing an agent.

This blog post is a way for me to share knowledge and help fellow querying authors, but it's not a strict guideline you must follow. As you embark on your querying journey, I wish all of you the best of luck in your querying process and remember, one no is never the end of the journey!

I hope this blog on The Rejection Checklist: Manuscript Pitfalls to Avoid will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment any tips of your own to help your fellow authors prosper, and follow my blog for new blog updates every Monday and Thursday.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Haya’s book blog where I post writing and publishing tips for authors every Monday and Thursday! And don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey!

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coven-of-genesis · 1 year

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Tarot Basics

Tarot card reading is a form of divination that uses a deck of 78 cards to gain insight into the past, present, and future. The cards are typically divided into two groups: the Major Arcana and the Minor Arcana.

The Major Arcana consists of 22 cards that represent major life events or themes, such as The Fool, The Magician, The Empress, The Hanged Man, The Tower, and The World. These cards typically have strong symbolic imagery that is meant to convey deeper meanings and insights.

The Minor Arcana consists of 56 cards that are divided into four suits: Cups, Swords, Wands, and Pentacles. Each suit represents a different aspect of life: emotions (Cups), intellect (Swords), creativity (Wands), and material possessions (Pentacles). Each suit contains ten numbered cards and four court cards (Page, Knight, Queen, and King).

During a tarot reading, the reader shuffles the deck and asks the person receiving the reading (known as the querent) to focus on a question or area of their life they would like insight on. The reader then lays out a specific number of cards in a pattern (known as a spread) and interprets their meanings based on their position in the spread, their symbolism, and their relationship to each other.

Tarot card readings are often used as a tool for self-discovery and personal growth. They can help individuals gain deeper insight into their own thoughts, emotions, and behavior patterns. Additionally, tarot readings can provide guidance and support during times of change or uncertainty.

There are many different types of tarot spreads that can be used during a reading. Some spreads are designed to provide insight into specific areas of a person's life, such as relationships, career, or finances. Other spreads are more general and can provide a more comprehensive overview of a person's current situation and potential outcomes.

There are many different approaches to tarot card reading, and different readers may have different interpretations of the cards. Some readers may use intuition and personal experience to guide their interpretations, while others may rely more heavily on traditional meanings and symbolism. Ultimately, the goal of a tarot reading is to provide the querent with insight and guidance that can help them navigate their life's journey.

It is important to note that tarot readings are not necessarily predictive. While they can provide insight into future possibilities, they do not guarantee a specific outcome. The cards are simply a tool for gaining insight and understanding, and it is ultimately up to the querent to use that information to make decisions and take action.

#tarot #tarot basics #tarot tips #witchblr #witchcore #witchcraft #witchlife #white witch #beginner witch #witch tips #grimoire #spirituality #book of shadows #tarot witch #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #tarot reading #tarot deck #tarot cards

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demeterdefence · 7 months

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is there anything about lore you do like?

oh ... honey

i genuinely believe this was sent in earnest and i get that being this caught up on the series and still reading is kind of counter to "i hate this series" so genuinely: no, right now there is nothing of the series proper that i like. there is a lot i like in the potential.

the problems with lo are evident right from the start and i won't pretend otherwise; the lolita aspects, the imbalance, the casual disregard for the cultural influences and narratives of the myths and where they came from. i will also say there were some genuinely compelling plotlines and connections! i thoroughly enjoyed eros and his protectiveness of his friends, hera and her grief at being so often maligned and insulted, demeter and her everything. there were a lot of narrative choices i didn't like, but rachel was able to put some basic structures and characters in place that i, and many readers, could enjoy and often build off of ourselves.

but that's the problem. rachel sketched out some bare bone characteristics and narratives - she laid out some shoddy foundations, and the fanbase and the readers are the ones who built anything of substance on them. if you take a look at any character within the narrative proper, their entire personality and choices fall apart: they exist to prop up persephone and her romance with hades, and their own choices and decisions ultimately mean nothing otherwise. most of the story relies on fandom interpretation, and as it's been pointed out numerous times, rachel relies heavily on her fanbase to give her ideas and plotlines for future chapters. it is absurd how little characterization the story actually has, and how often it contradicts itself to bolster whatever plotline is going.

if we use hera, for example (and i'm guilty of genuinely liking hera, despite her shitty choices and actions): hera is a rape victim. she has been abused and used by men her entire life and genuinely resents herself for simply bolstering up those men, rather than exist on her own. when hera finds out persephone has been assaulted, she shows nothing but kindness and compassion - she is someone who, as the narrative tries to point out, understands the nature of assault and wants to see the perpetrators brought to justice.

but - and here's the frustration - although hera promises persephone not to tell anyone what happened, she has a moral and royal duty to bring apollo to justice. when apollo becomes a prince of olympus, she has every reason to come forward. persephone is banished, and apollo is reaping benefits he does not deserve - by becoming royal, hera knows it's going to be harder to bring him down. she has nothing to lose coming forward. moreover, she knows other people know what apollo did! the narrative has made it clear hera wants to defend persephone, but all her decisions are just left lying on the floor to keep the suspense of apollo's assault and whether he'll ever be brought to task for it.

most of the characters within lore olympus are given shallow, surface-level characteristics that they pick up and abandon to suit the storyline. we don't necessarily see them grow - they really just change to fit whatever is expected of them. persephone and hades get the highest focus, but the only actual change we see from them is for the worse; they double down on their negative traits and the narrative tries to sell them as positives, as them being "girlboss" and "king goals." a lot of the characters are flanderized to contrast them to persephone - ares goes from being genuinely cunning and incredibly insightful, if brutal and temperamental, to just some random horndog who wants to bang persephone. hermes is energetic and loving and silly and secretly cunning, to just. present? occasionally? maybe sometimes a comedic figure? hecate might be the most consistent in that she really roots for hades throughout, but she also becomes his yes-man, his frequent approver in whatever idiot plot he wants to engage in. she was able to actively stop hades from interrogating kronos after the great divide, but now she can't even convince him to think of a better plan than a risky sleep dive they already know won't work. and the only reason they're doing the sleep dive is rachel cannot figure out any other way to get the story moving!

so in incredibly long answer to your question, no, there's really nothing i enjoy per say about lore olympus, except for the select fandom circles i involve myself in - the critique of it, basically. i enjoy seeing people take these lukewarm sketches and breathe actual life into them. i enjoy random interactions in the comic that don't add up to the narrative whole but are objectively cute or funny in their singular scene (ares and hermes u will always be my babes.) and yeah, arguably i could spend my time on something productive, and i certainly have hobbies and enjoyments i genuinely like and spend time on! i'm still reading this comic because i would like to see the trainwreck, so to speak, and i love to see how the fans fix whatever mess rachel puts out. and yes i will stan for demeter until my dying breath.

#answered #anti lo #anti lore olympus #abuse ment /#long post /#oh this got very long sorry anon #and the dash in general #it's kind of like a car wreck in that yeah u know u SHOULDN'T be looking but damn it's hard not to #this is a nine car pileup on the freeway #this is a full shutdown of the highway and all exits #if nothing else i can admit that

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emerald-polaris · 2 months

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Sasakoi Chapter 50

Based on Sasakoi chapter 50, I wanna dive into Miki's character a little bit and analyse how her arc might turn out, as well as the possibilities behind her current feelings.

What left most readers (including myself) confused after chapter 49 was when Miki stormed off in a rage after Ayaka confessed to her, and then, later that night, she's seen ignoring Aki and crying.

Although this is given a little bit of an explanation in chapter 50:

... it doesn't explain the rest of the chapter very much.

Miki may have genuinely gotten into a fight with Aki, causing her sudden outburst, but she most likely said that to give Ayaka an excuse for her outburst. Next, we bring up these panels:

It's very obvious that Miki does highly struggle with romance based on the reveal of her backstory with her previous unnamed romantic partner. It was clear that this heartbreak heavily affected Miki emotionally, and that Aki was the one to help her get through it.

From the way chapter 49 ended, I had assumed that Miki might've been upset with Ayaka for confessing in such an open and public vicinity, instead of doing it in private. Or, she may've been upset with Aki and the others for jumping at her before she could even properly give her answer; it was still unclear.

However, on the last two pages, it is clear that she is upset with Aki, but the most confusing part is this:

Here, I'm assuming that Aki wants to support Ayaka's love for Miki, when she says "I want to support her too", because of the fact that she's now dating Shiho; she wants to help others in having their love come true.

But, because of the way Miki reacted, it wasn't surprising that most people assumed that this was going down the path of inc*st, as it seems Miki was upset because Aki, by trying to get Ayaka and Miki together, doesn't "understand how she feels", aka implying that Miki likes Aki romantically.

HOWEVER, I beg to differ for a few reasons:

sasakoi is one of my favourite mangas and I'm just praying that it doesn't end up going down the path of inc*st like what happened with Oshi no Ko.

what's happening in these pages specifically:

Prior to these, we see Miki's reaction to when Aki tells her that she and Shiho are dating. And, we can tell that she doesn't seem pleased; she's clearly shocked and upset. She then states that she wouldn't think about it too much and that she would continue acting normal.

With this, I assume that Miki may have felt as if Aki was leaving her behind; the fact that Miki continues to struggle in finding a romantic partner, but now Aki has found herself one. Or, she's jealous that Aki is now in a romantic relationship.

Moving on, the panel of Ayaka confessing to Miki comes next, and the panel of Aki supporting her also appears. This is where I theorise what I think Miki might be thinking, and that she's upset with Aki for:

forgetting about her previous heartbreak which clearly made her visibly upset.

forgetting that she continues to struggle with romance and tends to panic at the idea that people around her were getting into romantic relationships left and right (also mentioned in chapter 50)

Hence, when Miki finds out that Aki was giving Ayaka romance advice in order for the two of them to get together, it is plausible that this is why she was so upset; because Aki completely forgot or disregarded how distressing romance is for her due to that one heartbreak.

And, because Aki was the person who helped her get through these difficult times, Miki may have just felt betrayed, which is why Aki supposedly "doesn't care" about how she feels.

Additionally, we have these panels:

"if I go out with Senpai, I would finally have a lover of my own and be able to give up on Nee-chan."

I don't blame people for assuming that this is going down the inc*st path, because I did as well.

But, based on what I said previously, I also interpret this scene as Miki "giving up on" Aki's emotional support. She's been relying on Aki as her older sister and as her emotional support through her whole romance life, and she even said that dating Ayaka to forget about Aki would just be being dishonest.

"Dishonest" as in she still hasn't moved on from Aki's emotional support when getting over her heartbreak. And, finding a lover of her own would mean that Aki would no longer hold the place of being the most important person to her.

It's all very confusing as romance is a difficult concept to grasp, so this is all just speculation, hence we just have to wait for Takeshima to release more chapters!

The only thing that is 100% apparent is that romance clearly causes Miki distress, and that she does struggle in coping with her previous failed romantic relationship. However, Aki was the one to support and help her overcome this, which is why Miki ends up being so emotionally attached to Aki.

Overall...

Idk if any of what I said made sense, and I'm sorry that everything is all over the place 😭

I really love Miki and I hope her character doesn't end up going on the path of inc*st, but I have faith in Takeshima that she won't do that, but only time will tell.

#whisper me a love song #whispering you a love song #sasayaku you ni koi wo utau #sasakoi #mizuguchi miki #miki mizuguchi #mizuguchi aki #aki mizuguchi #sasakoi analysis #sasakoi meta #mizuguchi miki analysis #manga analysis #kohara ayaka #ayaka kohara #sasakoi 50 #lgbtqia+#lesbian #queer

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boundinparchment · 2 years

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Dream a Little Dream of Me - XXV

Celestia has a cruel sense of humor. He’s always known this, ever since his days as a student. But a soulmate? Really? Dottore/Female Reader Soulmate AU. Lore speculation, interpretations, etc. Chapters to be added as they come out. On AO3 here. Warning: this chapter contains references to previous ab*se (read as s*xual), as well as general vague hints at s*xual activity. If you find yourself uncomfortable, skip this chapter and come back when Chapter 26 is out.

Your mind was a little less pliable now that he had given a counter-drug to the anesthesia. Memories and thoughts were labyrinthine in both contents and the way they presented themselves. A natural defense mechanism. Some were shattered, reflecting and refracting Zandik's own visage rather than the scenes they should have been playing. Were these modified, purposefully broken?

Zandik trekked through the maze of crystalline surfaces easily enough, despite your mind's attempts to protect itself. Was it your shared bond that allowed him to walk through your memories as though he was simply hiking through the Avidiya Forest? Or were you worn down, too busy protecting other parts of yourself? Had Omega simply left all of the channels open, confident he would be the sole occupant of the space?

All were possible. What a shame it could not be isolated.

Perhaps there would be a time and a place for such a thing. After all of this.

He was getting ahead of himself, though. It would be best to ensure your mind was, relatively, in one piece first.

Omega said he could make better use of the soulmate bond, or so he arrogantly claimed. Zandik relied so heavily on himself and only himself that of course his best Segment would hold the same sentiment about its own existence and brilliance. Only his perspective was correct, and inevitably, everyone else would see that truth. That his own experiences were, in fact, universal.

Even you knew the cruelty of this world, the way it preyed upon those who were weaker, who did not seek to understand, to know, who did not dare to change. The way you spoke of your patron in your last shared dream came back to him with haunting clarity. Your comparison of talented individuals kept and shown off almost like prized livestock was strikingly different to your initial mention of private patronage.

Zandik reached out a gloved hand and brushed the smooth surface. A scene played out for a split second and then disappeared. The same occurred with another fragment, although instead it displayed a moment that was different than the one before.

Each fragment held only a portion of the whole picture. It stood to reason, then…

The Harbinger arranged the shards back into what seemed to be their full vision but it remained incomplete. Several parts were missing and yet there were no remnants nearby, no remainders to attempt to slide into place. Now that enough data was assembled, the memory played on a loop.

He saw you, young and vibrant and naive, left behind during a game of hide and seek. The landscape was familiar, the grass a little more blue than green; Fontaine’s countryside across the river from Sumeru. He’d been there before.

You were alone, wandering until you finally returned to the chateau just around dinner, berated for worrying everyone.

It skipped in portions, jumping from one part to the next with no context. But clearly, those nonexistent sections were important. The entire afternoon was missing.

As Zandik continued on, he noticed only some of the memories were fractured, which only further emphasized the missing portions. Either the whole memories were of no great significance or they hadn't been found. And it soon became crystal clear from the other memories he skimmed his fingers over, as one did to a dusty surface uncovering the smooth lacquer beneath, that it was much more the latter.

When it came to your actual foundational education, you surpassed everyone. Friendships were shallow, partnerships on compositions at best, and you filled the space with skill, with drive. Nights he would have spent pouring over books and diagrams and mechanical parts, you spent teaching yourself difficult pieces, drafting your own compositions. Musical notation and the echoes of your strings were your constant companions.

He could feel his pulse race at your playing, mere echoes to what you would eventually be able to do. Even then, you were capable of drawing reactions from audiences. Not even fully fledged in your passion and skills and already it was as though your cello was made of his (almost non-existent) heartstrings.

As you grew older, you learned titles and flattery, as expected of you. You needed to win over potential sponsors and Fontaine’s social structure was, at best, nothing but a game on the surface.

At its worst, it made his own experiments look tame.

Such a world was Pantalone’s realm more than his own. Zandik, by comparison, preferred the neutral ground of knowledge and the power that came with it. Power over people was intriguing only insofar as it achieved beneficial results. Zandik cared little for the ego and position of others.

He found some of his best subjects from situations born of a corrupted power structure. People that were so desperate to be free that his presence, that of the Second Harbinger known for nothing more than his disregard for humanity itself, was a blessing.

Just because he knew did not mean the rest of your subconscious was tame to experience, however.

Zandik swallowed, willing away the sickeningly tight tug from his chest down to his stomach. Your patron was a poor actor, his efforts barely disguised, and his servants more than willing to turn a blind eye. Your passion was interrupted, practices ruined when your concentration was broken from wandering hands pretending to play at flattery. If you did not do as he asked, you played for hours non-stop, fingers cracked and joints locking up. More than once, you found your instrument in ruins only to have to bring it to the very person who broke it and beg for an advance on your stipend to get it fixed.

Of all the things you did mention…

But why would you have said anything about such experiences? He certainly never mentioned the stonings, the pitchforks, the beatings, let alone his own status and the power he held now (although you'd forced his hand on the latter). None of it mattered, anyway.

Why would you ever have wanted to think about any of this again?

Not to mention, these memories were whole, completely untouched and unbroken. Omega likely hadn't seen them. But given how long you'd been under, it was only a matter of time.

In another scene, he watched you, toes in the tide, your gaze far off in the distance. In one hand, a letter that held your freedom; at your feet, a glimmer of gold shining in the sparkling water. You bent down to pick it up and only seemed more resolved, knuckles white as you gripped the golden stone housed in Fontaine's signature swirls of raging waves.

A Vision wasn't required for a soulmate bond. That much he knew. Plenty of people who weren't allogenes received a soulmate. The supposed Blessing was not mutual exclusive.

You stood up to your patron, carved your own path, all without raising a weapon or using your Vision beyond absolute necessity. You sold your compositions but continued in the orchestra, part of a group and yet never truly assimilated. An ache, dull and familiar, sat in his chest. The passionate and the driven were doomed to always be just on the outside, never truly part of the world that they poured themselves into. Even now, within a group that was, ideally, as close to home as one such as either of you could have, it was almost impossible to truly belong.

All of this did beg the question of when, for you, the Celestial bond began. For surely if this had happened after you began dream-sharing, you would have mentioned it. He would have noticed. His observation skills were second to none.

Dreams were unheard of in Sumeru, for those who hailed from the nation post-Cataclysm. He'd never experienced such a thing, not until you. Which meant the conditions needed to be right for both of the individuals involved, not just one. He'd long been Second Harbinger, created Segments of himself to preserve his perspectives, set up dominos in a game that no one else could begin to comprehend.

It stood to reason that it was only when you'd begun to start your own path that Celestia saw fit to intervene. The Divine was cruel that way.

The shattered memories began to create a pattern as Zandik kept going; they were innocuous points in your timeline but imperative nonetheless. Omega was nowhere to be found in your memory banks.

But he'd been here.

Splicing together memories, leaving holes in others. He was applying a technique used with pruning branches of Irminsul and splicing them into different timelines; an experiment that had been done simply to see if it could be done at all. That technique was, of course, from before Zandik realized there was a better way that preserved the past path and provided more opportunity. Forking was far more beneficial, although to some extent he did refine as he went.

Strong-willed through you were, there was only one of you and you were not a strong combatant by any means. Zandik clenched his fist, remember how poorly his first few Segments had gone, how he'd overloaded his own being and his own memory banks and—

His feet walked a path of their own accord and it wasn't long before he found the augmented memories, found you. Or rather, found the dreams in which you were confined. Omega had woven a tapestry of a life together, started as children (founded on a lie; he was centuries too old for this to be the truth), based on what seemed to be coincidence.

Green eyes as verdant as the fauna he so often hid behind as a child watched you, took advantage of stolen time. Cryptic hints that nudged the parts of your brain to remember. Such interference cracked the foundation of the dream as you noticed subtle but true differences.

Of course, you would. You were detail-oriented, incredibly so. You had no use for the youngest Archon; you were the one who barely touched your own Vision, who made something of yourself without the help of the Gods. If anything, the little sapling should fear you.

It was no surprise to see Omega attempt and fail to wear a guise that didn't suit him. In no time, his faults (Zandik's own faults, the original reminded himself), slipped through the seams. Zandik felt the tremors in his fingers long before he recognized the expressions you began to wear again as Omega's selfishness took root. You bore the bruises, the touches, the supposed ecstasy, with a fractured bliss that never reached your eyes.

What did he care? Why should he care for you?

You, who were the secondary reminder of the shackles he wore, were far greater than any pitiful Archon. Especially the one who would never be acknowledged by her own Nation.

You, who did not think twice about following a Harbinger despite the shock his presence brought to the library. It was you that demanded to know where you stood and what position he held, understanding the bigger picture of the role thrust upon you. You lacked physical strength, you lacked almost everything that made a good warrior and fighter, but you never wanted to be one, did you?

You, who plucked and placed and played notes that meant nothing and yet somehow managed to make them filled with everything all at once.

You, you, you…

The sight of you, cradled—no, smothered—by Omega, faded as he pulled himself out of the neural network and the small Akademiya space came back into focus again. He couldn't afford to cause an emotional anomaly for you that would present itself on the scans and he couldn't stand the way his body reacted to Omega's treatment of you.

Funny, how he could so easily push this aside usually for anything else. But you were a thorn in his side, a presence he could never be rid of, a soothing melody that quieted all parts of him…

Zandik reached out and unclasped his mask, placing it on the table with all the other paraphernalia he no longer needed. The bottles and needles were as pointless as the face covering. The tiny part of him that held out hope, a consistency across every single fork of himself he ever created, burned in agony as it reminded him that you were stronger than anyone gave you credit for. That did not mean you deserved any part of this or that you should have had to endure it again (let alone once).

There was no going back to before. He could not undo this. He could not fix this, not easily, and certainly not in an instant.

But if someone like him had to be given a soulmate, it would not be someone with a weak will or weak heart. You were neither.

Between the drug he'd given you and the blasted Archon's interference, you had the tools and the knowledge you needed. You would wake of your own accord. It was only a matter of time.

_____________________

Perhaps you aren’t so useless after all, Zandik…

Omega chuckled to himself as he redirected a tiny amount of processing power while ensuring he maintained and occupied the dream. The wonderful part of being mostly machine was, in fact, the almost limitless capacity to accomplish numerous tasks at once. As long as he diverted resources appropriately, he could make the most efficient use of his faculties and manage a maintenance schedule that wasn’t disastrous. Something the younger Segments had no concept of.

Something that Prime had perfected himself.

Did you know, perhaps, that your beloved was no longer entirely human? Few did. Omega doubted that you knew at all, considering you never knew his true name before now.

His master thought he was being stealthy and if Omega had been occupied with the Sages, he likely wouldn’t have noticed the crawling sensation at all. He could always feel the other Segments and Prime himself, whether in the form of a thought that wasn’t necessarily his own or akin to a limb that was no longer there. Prime experienced something similar on the other end, or so Omega knew, given he was the closest to Prime in both likeness, mentality, and memory.

Nothing about the strange wave of emotion that passed through the private Akasha network was stealthy. His chest constricted and his stomach twisted itself in a way that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Such sensations were foreign to a person, to a machine, such as himself. They weren’t his to experience but they rippled through him all the same.

Prime hadn’t started with his emotions first; in fact, his memories and emotions were the two things he never augmented despite the anguish they seemed to bring. A poor decision.

Almost as poor as not taking what Celestia laid out for him in both power and connection.

#fic: dream a little dream of me #genshin impact dottore #dottore #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #soulmate au #tw: dark #cw: dark content

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