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hestiacrow · 1 year

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The Wild Travels of Jackal and Fennec

Not exactly an example of a commission per se, but this is the quality you could expect when asking me to write a one-shot for you, though it will be far shorter than this. I wrote this as a Christmas present in 2022, and it focuses on two of my current favourite NPCs, tabaxi siblings Jackal and Fennec, with guest appearances of the characters of some of my players: Firana, Eleftheria, Willow, Romunn and Yennalie.

Jackal wrenched his sister from the crumbling entrance of the cavern they had barely escaped from with all their limbs intact. The collapse threw up one last wave of dust and sand, sending it rushing towards them like a tsunami, and he barely had time to close his eyes so the tiny grains wouldn’t scratch him so badly he would lose his sight. They tangled in his hair, flooded his ears with an uncomfortable pricking feeling, danced around his cloak as it flapped behind him. Choked air rushed past his face and he hunched himself over Fennec, holding her close to protect her once again. The rush felt like it lasted forever, and when the silence finally came he didn’t know whether he had gone deaf or if it was over. Fennec shifted a little against him, claws digging into his cloak.

“Is he gone…?”

Nervous, tail swaying wildly over the sand, Jackal raised his head, squinting against the sun. Coils of dust spiralled up into the air, slowly floating down to the ground, sparkling harshly in the baking heat of the desert. A rock tumbled down from the cliff above them, clacking and clattering over the boulders that now blocked the labyrinth entrance, rolling to a stop right at their feet. The mad demon within the cave was still shrieking, scratching at the walls and trying to tear its way out of its underground prison, but he was certain he had cut off its connection to whatever was fuelling its magic. That thing wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Jackal slowly loosened his grip on Fennec’s shoulders, letting her sit up and look back at the death trap they had just outrun.

“I think so.”

A breathless laugh fell from Fennec’s mouth and she flopped back onto the sand, cackling up at the sky. Her brother watched her for a moment, worried she had lost her mind while trapped with the monster, but his ears twitched, picking up soft, slightly garbled whispers of ‘it’s over’. Jackal couldn’t help but crack a smile of his own. He had his sister back. She was safe. She opened one eye and watched him breaking into laughter in spite of himself, exhausted and too relieved to hold back. They did it. They got out.

Oh, did it feel good.

However, somehow they both knew that the collapsed cave behind them wouldn’t be enough. If they really wanted to be safe, Roguerock couldn’t stay their home. They had to leave. Go somewhere, far away, as far as they could go, to get away from the Mouth of the Reverse, as the nickname went.

And neither of them could speak of what happened here in the desert for a long, long time.

The vast expanses of sand and tumbleweed and a bipolar climate depending on the time of day had long been left far behind the siblings, bustling market tents and quick tongues traded for dark grey buildings piercing the sky and glares for anyone who didn’t belong. The horse they had traded almost a quarter of their wares for in the last town tossed its head as they approached the gates, agitated. Jackal couldn’t blame it. This place was anything but welcoming. If anything looked evil, Darkstrand City fit the bill perfectly. Buildings like spears, streets where those living there walked in silence and refused to look anyone in the eye, alleys where those who would make the most unsavoury of desert tricksters shudder.

This was not the place he had hoped for.

While Darkstrand City had a reputation for being home to one of the most infamous gangs in all of Oskaria, and almost nothing good came out of those streets glistening with the wrong thing, Jackal had hoped that it would at least be a decent starting point for him and Fennec. They had nothing but the clothes on their backs, their weapons and the spices in their cart, no home, no shelter and very little money. The past few months had been very rough; it had been almost two years since they had left Roguerock, stopping in town after village after town in desperation, searching for something, somewhere they could be safe. Surely there had to be something here that could help. The city was huge, there had to be something they could take advantage of.

Unfortunately, they quickly found that this was not the case. No inn would take them, or didn’t have space for the cart, or didn’t have room, so Jackal tied up the horse in a more or less hidden location, wrapped himself and Fennec in thick blankets to stave off the cold night air and huddled up with her in the wagon. It wasn’t long before his ears pricked up and shook him out of his half-asleep state, and he went straight for his dagger. Shapes of people he didn’t recognise stalked at the edges of his vision, just far enough away for them to be out of his sight save for their movements. He had been in enough fights and ambushes in the desert to know exactly what they were up to. He didn’t know what they wanted, but he was certain it was not good.

“Strange travellers… we don’t get your kind around here,” one of them spoke, startling Fennec awake, and she instinctively grabbed Jackal’s crossbow, something they kept close just in case. The strangers just laughed, one coming close enough for Jackal to finally make out what they looked him. A dragonborn, a green one, poisonous and slouching like some kind of hunchback, his right eye milky white and disfigured by scars. While he had never seen a green dragonborn before, Jackal had heard of their kind, nasty pieces of work that they were. Sure, the desert had several dragonborns, primarily brass, gold and red ones, and very rarely the places they had stopped in might have a black or bronze dragonborn, but he had never seen one that was green before.

“What is it you want…?”

Scales shifted and creaked as the dragonborn cackled, tossing his sword from one hand to the other, “Everything you have.”

Jackal’s ears flattened against his head, “Is this the welcome Darkstrand offers? No shelter on the first night just to be attacked by some unorganised group of bandits?”

“Oh, we are plenty organised…” another of their potential assailants moved close enough for Jackal to see, a female human, hair half shaved and covered in tattoos, a club in her hand, “More organised than you, that’s for sure.”

Fennec leaned closer to Jackal, the crossbow in her hands trembling, “Jackal… what do we do…?”

“Stay close. They won’t get a thing from us,” her brother carefully drew his dagger from beneath the cloak he wore, hand wrapped tightly around the hilt. Dragonborn snarled, pointing his blade at the siblings.

“Then your life will be your payment. Get them.”

What happened next was barely more than a blur. Human was the first to lunge, and Jackal dodged her club easily, burying his dagger deep into her shoulder. Fennec panicked, her finger twitching on the trigger of the crossbow and launching the loaded bolt through the air. It pierced the head of an approaching orc with a sickening squelchy thud, sending him flopping gracelessly to the ground. Dragonborn sent a wave of poison breath straight for the wagon, and Fennec dragged her brother down, almost crying out in panic as the green smoke flew over their heads.

“What the-“ a shocked cry from Dragonborn was cut off abruptly, followed by outraged shouts from the other bandits, which swiftly became surprised cries of pain. Terrified, Fennec huddled as close to Jackal as she could, burying her face in his shoulder. Silence fell all too quickly. Jackal really didn’t like how suddenly it happened. Either they had just been saved or something worse had stepped in, crushing the bandits in the process, and he was willing to bet his life that it was the latter-

“Get up. You’re safe now, they’re gone.”

Well. Either way there goes his life.

“Get up.”

Nervous, Jackal cracked open one eye, ears still flattened and a defensive snarl on his face. His claws curled into Fennec’s hair lightly, his dagger held so tightly in his hand his knuckles turned white. The man standing over them was an elf, or at least he looked like one. He had the same ears and the same strange elegance of the elves he had seen before, but his skin was dark grey and his hair stark white, something Jackal had never seen an elf to have. He looked down at the siblings over the wagon’s rail.

“Get up and go. I will let you live this time. You are innocent outsiders caught up in the nightmare that is this city. Go, and you will be safe.”

Fennec barely moved, keeping herself hidden and staring up at the stranger, “W-who are you?”

“Nobody.”

‘Nobody’ slowly moved away from the wagon, untying their horse. He began guiding it back towards the entrance to the back alley they had hidden in, back out onto Tower’s streets. Releasing Fennec from his arms, Jackal surged forward, leaping over the side of their transport and snatched the reins from this strange elf.

“What in hell are you doing? We’re safer here than we are out there! We’ll be a bigger target in an open area, it’s like painting a target on our backs!”

“Enough. You are far safer out of the city altogether,” ‘Nobody’ stared him down, unblinking, “Leave. Before anyone else changes their mind.”

Fennec leant over the side of the wagon, still shaken, “Jackal. We should go,” she urged softly, “I think he’s right. We aren’t safe here.”

It took a moment for Jackal to break eye contact with ‘Nobody’, but he couldn’t deny they were probably right, especially if Fennec agreed with him. This city was far more dangerous than he had anticipated, especially to those unfamiliar with it. If he and Fennec stayed… he was starting to doubt they would last more than a day here. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew they had to keep going. Where they would go, he had no clue. Neither him, nor Fennec knew many of the nearby towns, if any of them at all, but any of them at all had to be safer than here.

“Where do you suggest we go?”

‘Nobody’ looked thoughtful for a moment, a hand moving to rest on his chin, “I would suggest, if you are seeking shelter, Mythcairn. Take the eastern road, it is a long route but it is the safest. You should reach it in three months if you keep a steady pace. I have heard there is someone there who will gladly give you shelter.”

“Who are they?”

“I do not know their name, only that they reside in Mythcairn’s chapel. Seek them out there, and do not tell them how you found out about them.”

Suspicious, Jackal watched ‘Nobody’ closely. He still wasn’t certain whether they could trust this strange elf, but what choice did they have? Fennec was terrified, the city wasn’t safe and anywhere else would most likely be better. He breathed a soft sigh and adjusted his grip on the horse’s harness.

By the time the sun rose, Jackal and Fennec were long gone from Darkstrand City.

Mythcairn… Jackal wasn’t entirely sure how to describe it. It was a nice little town, certainly, nothing more than a small group of houses, shops and a chapel at the middle of it. It didn’t look like much, no more than a smudge on the horizon as they approached, but if ‘Nobody’ was right then there had to be someone who could help them. Jackal was starting to run out of hope. They had been traveling for so long now he was starting to wonder whether leaving Roguerock had been a good idea after all.

When they finally entered the village, neither sibling knew what to expect. The locals stared at them, clearly not used to seeing desert tabaxis in a countryside village like theirs, but they were far friendlier than those in Darkstrand City, and were certainly less crafty than some types Jackal knew back in the desert. He couldn’t help but be grateful for that at least. Mythcairn didn’t have a tavern, strangely enough, so they stopped in at the local blacksmiths. The man working there, a tall warforged made of blackened metal, greeted them with a little bit of wariness, which Jackal could understand. They were complete strangers after all.

The warforged introduced himself as Witraph, a former alchemist turned artificer who had found his home in Mythcairn after fleeing his former research partner. He claimed that what they had heard about the strange person in the chapel was true, and he himself had been helped by them. Witraph explained that he had been stuck running from his ex-partner and had stumbled into Mythcairn completely by accident. The first person to find him was that person, a goliath warlock by the name of Rudzbar. According to the chapel’s acolytes, his patron was also the patron of the whole town, Sarvella, and she had gifted him with the ability to see whether someone was telling the truth or not. Witraph had explained to him briefly what he had been through, and Rudzbar had chosen to believe him, convincing Mythcairn’s council to allow the warforged to stay. Witraph had then used his knowledge of explosive reactions and metal in general to teach himself blacksmithing, which led him up to now, gladly providing for the home he had been given. The chapel itself wasn’t too far from his shop, and he gladly pointed them towards it.

Jackal and Fennec had heard tales about warlocks before. Having never come across one before, since magic was so scarce in this world, they had no idea what to expect. Jackal had heard tell that some warlocks had traded their first born for magical abilities, or had given their soul to eternal damnation to gain something they didn’t really have a right to. This Rudzbar character… he didn’t know what he may be like. Could he be some terrifying vessel for some kind of dark force? A slave to something he didn’t understand?

…Could he be completely normal and Jackal was just jumping the crossbow?

Fennec thanked Witraph for his help while Jackal was lost in thought, and carefully led her brother outside, back to the wagon. She patted his shoulder in reassurance, sensing his worry.

“Steady now, brother. Let’s go see this Rudzbar, alright?”

Jackal could only nod, and led their horse towards the chapel, trying to focus on the soft clicking of hooves on the packed dirt of the road. Right foot, left foot, right, left, right, left, one foot in front of the other. Dirt splattered against the stone doorstep of the chapel as he almost slammed his boot into it and tripped right into the door, catching himself on the frame before his nose could crack from the impact that didn’t happen. The horse snorted, tossing its head, and Fennec giggled behind him, the first light-hearted sound he had really heard from her since they had left Roguerock. He glanced back at her, sending a half-hearted exasperated look her way before he raised his fist to knock.

The echo of Jackal’s unspoken request rang throughout the halls, and he bit the inside of his lip. The wait felt like eternity. The bustle of the little town went silent, at least in his ears, and the rapping of his own knuckles against wood almost felt like a death toll. Fennec hopped down from the wagon, a hand on his shoulder startling him out of the nervous stupor he had trapped himself in, just in time for the door to open.

The man who answered was almost twice Jackal’s height, taller than a regular goliath, one eye covered with a black ribbon and a fur lined hat nestled on his head. Strands of lavender hair poked out from under the fluff, reaching just down to the nape of his neck, and he wore a long black cloak over his civilian clothes. The one visible eye, an almost white shade of silver-grey, looked Jackal up and down, and the tabaxi almost wondered whether there was even anything under the ribbon.

“What is it you want?” the giant stranger spoke, his voice deep and thick with an accent Jackal didn’t recognise. Under the hard stare, his voice caught in his throat and any words he had died on his tongue. He had no idea whether this was Rudzbar or some other goliath also living in the chapel, and he had no experience with magic so there was no way he could possibly sense it on anyone, even if that person was a warlock and made it stupidly obvious.

“Are you Rudzbar?” Fennec jumped in, saving her brother from the embarrassment and panic of attempting to speak, “We were told you could help us.”

The man was silent for a moment, and Jackal’s ears flattened against his head, worried that they had found the wrong guy. Had this all been some kind of elaborate trap? Some way of luring him and Fennec in while they were desperate so strangers could profit off their misfortune? He had his dagger on his hip, so they weren’t defenceless at least, and Fennec was much better at using the crossbow now, but he wasn’t sure how affective that would be against a goliath, especially an oversized one and a warlock to boot.

“Come in. I see you are truthful, so I will help in any way I can.”

…

Wait what?

Jackal paused for a moment, confused. Had they really found the right guy? And if they had, why was he so willing to help them? He knew nothing about them, so how could he know they were telling the truth? Of course, he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth so he followed Fennec inside, leaving their horse to its own devices. The goliath led them into the chapel, past the pews and the altar, into a small alcove at the back, an office perhaps, where things were organised.

“You’re running from something. Something that haunts both of you, and you can’t go home because of it. Am I correct?”

Tail swishing back and forth wildly, Jackal bit the inside of his lip. Were they really so easy to read? How many people were able to tell? The goliath glanced at him, noticing how tense he was, and turned to a small altar behind the office’s desk.

“I mean no offence. You aren’t from around her, tabaxis are rare in these parts, and I’m assuming you wouldn’t willingly leave your home unless you were absolutely forced to, is that right?”

“How did you-“

He raised a hand to interrupt them, “My patron, Sarvella… she reads the souls of newcomers and tells me whether they are truly in need of help or if they have some ulterior motive. You two… she knows what you’ve been through, and she wants me to help. She won’t tell me all the details, not without your permission, but she’s given me a general idea. You were attacked by a force you didn’t understand and fled your home from fear of it striking again.”

Jackal couldn’t deny it. Whoever this ‘Sarvella’ was, she certainly already knew about why he and Fennec were there, and probably about their encounter with ‘Nobody’, whoever they might be. Why she hid this information from her disciple, he didn’t understand.

“So, are you Rudzbar? Are we in the right place?” Fennec asked him, all innocence and nerves.

“I am. Whoever sent you to me was correct. Who did send you?”

One of Jackal’s fangs sank deeper into his lip. ‘Nobody’ had warned them not to tell Rudzbar who had sent them and he really didn’t want to mess up anything, if not for himself for Fennec. This could be their only chance to get any help whatsoever.

“They didn’t tell us their name. Someone in Darkstrand City, they saved us from being attacked one night.”

Rudzbar visibly tensed up, still with his back to the siblings. He definitely knew something about Darkstrand, or at least could make a guess as to who told them about him. He slouched above the altar, muttering something to himself in a language neither Jackal nor Fennec understood. A sudden breeze rushed through the room, seemingly coming in from nowhere; there were no windows and the door had been closed behind them. Jackal’s cloak flapped and slapped against itself, the loud cracking of material filling the tiny room, and the siblings watched in silence as Rudzbar cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, as if resetting his body. He straightened to his full height, easily tall enough for the top of his hat to graze the ceiling, and Jackal instinctively reached for his dagger, just in case.

“Hey, no need for that!”

The voice coming from Rudzbar startled both siblings. It certainly wasn’t his, there was no accent, it was far higher, there was a slight echo to it and it definitely wasn’t masculine in any way. Fennec’s ears went flat in surprise, and Jackal wrapped his tail around hers quickly, his way of reassuring her that he would keep her safe. The goliath slowly turned to face them, his body language far more open than before. His face twisted into a grimace, but quickly fell.

“Ah, by the Reversed… I forgot about that.”

Jackal didn’t drop his stance, but his ears did prick up in confusion. This… wasn’t Rudzbar?

He let out a high-pitched laugh, still in the voice that wasn’t him, “I’m sorry you had to meet me that way. I’m Sarvella, Rud’s patron. I’d smile but… well, bad injuries that don’t heal properly leave some nasty scars, don’t they?”

Fennec perked up, still a little confused, “You… you can speak through him?”

‘Sarvella’ opened Rudzbar’s eye, the grey-white laced with a vibrant pink, “Occasionally, when I can convince him to let me. I figured you weren’t likely to believe him unless he had someone to back him up, so here I am!”

She pushed off of her altar, staggering a little with a giggled “Whoops!”. On very clearly too long legs, ‘Sarvella’ brushed past them to open the door, beckoning them to follow her with a smile that strained against the muscles in Rudzbar’s face.

“Now, let’s see if I can’t get you what you need, hmm?”

It took some time, but Sarvella and Rudzbar secured a place for Jackal and Fennec to stay for a while. They stayed in a small guest house not too far from the chapel, a comfortable little place with more than enough supplies and comfort for a few days. Their horse was sent back to the person they borrowed it from. Sarvella happily offered them a place in the village as a more permanent home, but Jackal wasn’t convinced. He didn’t feel like they were far enough from Roguerock and the collapsed prison of the thing that had attacked Fennec. Yes, they had travelled mile after mile, crossing almost half the continent, but it didn’t feel far enough. They had to keep going.

Though clearly disappointed, Sarvella explained that there was a town further north, towards the northern section of the Western Spires and at the base of Mount Wrynhell. She called it Spiritgate, a town set up only about a hundred years prior to provide homes for those working in the gold mines beneath the mountain. It was said to be a quiet village, one where trouble rarely came knocking, and since the mine closed down and the town turned its focus to farming and brewing as a way to support itself, it had slowly become less and less remarkable and more of a sleepy little hamlet out of the way from the rest of the country. Fennec immediately perked up, liking the idea of a small place where it wasn’t likely that they would be found by anyone. Everyone who knew she and Jackal had been leaving Roguerock had been told they were heading to Darkstrand and wouldn’t know any different, so even if that thing broke out of its prison, it was unlikely to find out anything accurate from any of the locals.

Reluctantly, Jackal agreed to stay in Mythcairn for a little while. He insisted on no more than a week, and Fennec couldn’t help but agree. Rudzbar, Sarvella, Witraph… they already had the town to look after, two tabaxis with a potential link to something far more dark and powerful than any of them was going to be too much for them to handle, as strong as they might be. If that thing came after them again, they didn’t want a bunch of innocent people who had been nothing but friendly to them caught up in it too, and if that did happen, Jackal and Fennec agreed that they would leave Spiritgate and disappear into the wilderness on their own. That way nobody would be dragged down with them. Jackal wasn’t sure if Rudzbar could tell that they weren’t being entirely truthful, or if Sarvella told him what she knew about them, but he didn’t want to stick around too long to find out.

A week later, Rudzbar replaced their horse with one much more accustomed to travelling with a heavy load. He told them that her name was Marble and she was a packhorse, able to pull their wagon easily and for long distances. He and Jackal carefully loaded their bags, and to the latter’s surprise, he offered a blessing from both himself and Sarvella, one that would hopefully protect them for some time at least and would give them good fortune on their journey to Spiritgate. While Jackal was uncertain, Fennec insisted that anything was better than going off on their own, and so Sarvella took over, reciting an incantation and sending a gentle wave of magic over them. Jackal nervously thanked her, before turning to see Witraph handing Fennec a longbow, having spent a little time with her and learning a few of her skills. She plucked the bowstring a couple of times, took the quiver of arrows and slung it over her shoulder, before hopping into the wagon and waving to the townsfolk. Jackal glanced over their map, took Marble’s reigns, and began leading her away from Mythcairn.

Spiritgate took a long while to reach, almost four months at the steady pace Jackal kept alongside Marble, and true to Sarvella’s words, it was a very quiet little village. Unfortunately, Jackal and Fennec arrived at a very, very awkward time. They were quick to notice the very tense atmosphere hanging over the whole town, from the Six Crow Inn to the Market Square to the old, ruined house on the way to the graveyard in the north. At their first stop, the Six Crow Inn, the halfling barkeep and owner, Anna Horner gave them the general rundown, and warned them to keep an eye on each other if they wanted to stay safe.

Two days prior, two people had been brutally murdered and burned in their house, and their two daughters had disappeared.

Jackal and Fennec had barely been in Spiritgate for two weeks before three more incidents of murder and disappearances occurred, and the local noble finally sent somebody to investigate. According to Anna and their new friend Alexis, the so-called ‘witch’ of Spiritgate, multiple people reported the first three to Count Godefroy, but it was only the day after the fourth that help actually arrived. They came snooping around the Market in the early afternoon, a group of three elves, a half elf and a tiefling, and came almost straight to them, claiming Anna had told them that he and Fennec may be able to point them in the right direction. Jackal couldn’t be sure whether she was accusing him of somehow being responsible for the killings despite not even being in the town when the first one happened or even knowing what had been going on, but Fennec gave him a nudge and he reluctantly agreed to help. At the very least, the tiefling, Rormunn, and one of the elves, Elefie, seemed nice enough. What he wasn’t happy about, however, was they asked him and Fennec to come with them, even after almost reminding her of the nightmare she had been through in the desert.

Despite all this, Fennec convinced him to go along with them, even if it was just for some kind of closure. Before this strange group had arrived, Jackal conducted his own little investigation of the crime scenes, but the strange atmosphere there that made his skull feel like it was about to implode from pressure forced him away time and time again. He had to wait a few days before actually going close to them to investigate, and while he spoke to Rormunn about what had been going on, he let slip that the atmosphere felt more like a familiar presence. That was the single sentence that dragged him and Fennec into the craziness of this investigation.

The group rejoined him and Fennec on the outskirts to the local graveyard to investigate the ruined house there, which was burned beyond recognition. From what Anna told them, and she had certainly told the investigators too, it used to be the home of a big family, the name of which most of the town had forgotten. Three years ago, the family had been killed in a fire, survived only by the youngest daughter, Loralei, who had been seven at the time. Anna had mentioned that she thought she saw Loralei living on the streets at times, but was never sure what happened to her, since every time she tried to approach the girl she ran away before the halfling could get close. Jackal, despite rarely sleeping at night and constantly being on watch for anything that could hurt him or Fennec, never saw her either. It was almost like she was a ghost, disappearing from everyone’s sight whenever she pleased.

Whatever. That wasn’t really at the forefront of Jackal’s mind, not while they were searching through this strange place. Rormunn was examining some old symbol on the only wall still standing, Yenn, another elf, by his side and running some magical checks on it or something, he didn’t care to know. Willow, the half elf, stood outside with Fi, the last of the party, watching torn shirts splattered with crusted brown and red flap in the remains of a mountain breeze. When asked, he told them he didn’t know the symbol, but he had a bad feeling about this place. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Fennec tensing and turning, dashing through the opening where the door had once been, her hands clenched into fists, signs he knew all too well. Reacting quickly, he followed her, chasing the tip of her tail up the hill, towards the graveyard.

The ensuing battle felt… strange. The blinding spice powder Jackal had experimented with had no effect on Rormunn or Fi, and he kept missing every single cursed shot with his crossbow. He knew that he didn’t have much reason to fight them, especially being five against one, two if you counted Fennec since she was dragged in too (she was actually doing better than he was, having managed to hit Fi with an arrow, while he had been attacked by a baboon Yenn had summoned and took an arrow to the hip immediately afterwards), but really, could anyone blame him? His sister, the most important person in his life, was yanked out of her comfort zone and straight into yet another mystery that neither of them wanted any part of. It was like they were trapped in some cruel cycle, doomed to constantly be involved in something that would likely only end in their deaths.

Jackal notched his last bolt to his crossbow, ducking back behind a gravestone. This one had to hit, he didn’t like getting in close enough to use his shortsword or his daggers, but he would if he had to. With Fi and Willow distracted by Fennec, and Elefie, Romunn and Yenn currently unaware of where he was, he carefully poked his head out, aiming at Willow’s leg. Not a vital place to kill, but enough to slow her down and distract the others, since she was their strongest healer. He took a deep breath, bracing his finger to pull the trigger. A sudden shout caught him off guard, and he flinched as the bolt flew from his crossbow, thudding into the mud several feet away from his target. Turning, Jackal gritted his teeth in frustration, watching as Rormunn, who was a good couple of inches taller than him, came sprinting closer, leaping over the gravestone between them, hand outstretched to grapple him. On instinct, the tabaxi twisted, grabbing his attacker’s wrist and flipping him over his shoulder, dropping him into the grass behind him. Snarling, Jackal wrestled him down, holding him there in a desperate attempt to maybe, just maybe, have some leverage over the others. His face was barely inches away from the tiefling’s, and he watched as the golden eyes with no pupil filled with some kind of panic he didn’t recognise.

“Call them off.”

“W-wha-“ Rormunn tried to speak, tripping over his words and frantically trying to piece together something to say.

“Call them off! All of them!”

Jackal didn’t hold back the angry snarl that left his mouth as Rormunn choked on his own words over and over again. He knew at least Yenn and Elefie’s eyes were on him, but Fi and Willow… he wasn’t so sure about them. His ears twitched, catching a muffled cry and a rough thump of bodies colliding with mud and earth over in Fi’s direction, and he glanced over, his grip loosening in shock. Somehow, Fi had managed to get close enough to Fennec to tackle her and pin her down, just as he had done with Munn. Something inside Jackal snapped. Fennec was in danger, immediate danger, and he wasn’t close enough to save her.

So he let go.

He released Rormunn, leaping to his feet and dropping into the fastest sprint he could manage, a hand going for his dagger. The mud beneath him splattered everywhere as he ran to his sister’s aid. Ears flattened, tail waving in panic behind him, Jackal pushed himself hard, desperate to shove Fi off her, only to slip on the slick ground, losing his footing and tumbling towards the ground. A body appeared in front of him, blocking his view of Fennec and Fi, and an arm latched under his chest and stomach, staggering a little from the impact. He didn’t know who it was, one of the spellcasters most likely since they appeared out of nowhere, and he let out a wild howl of anger and frustration, followed by a wide slash of his claws that missed by a mile.

“Steady, steady. We aren’t gonna hurt either of you.”

The voice in his ear was cold, but not uncaring. Elefie. Jackal had caught her off guard earlier, surprised her with a shoddily thrown together charm, an attempt to not cast suspicion on him and his sister. Heh, look where that had gotten them. Writhing around in the mud like a pair of worms trying to escape a blackbird. The damn investigators had won. It was over. Defeated and exhausted, Jackal tried to reach for Fennec, completely missing Fi letting her get up, and strained against Elefie’s hold, the last of his strength fading from his aching muscles.

He didn’t know exactly what happened after that. The last of his resolve shattered, and the next thing he realised once his thoughts had reconnected themselves, Fennec was guiding him back down the hill, promising him some of Anna’s spiced cider to calm him down.

It was several hours before they met the investigators again. Jackal stayed in the Six Crow Inn the entire time, slowly sipping from a tankard of spiced cider, a combination Anna had come up with, thanks to Fennec giving her some cinnamon and a couple of other spices she and Jackal had left over from the market. Darkness had fallen outside, and the tavern had slowly filled up with locals, most of whom ignored the two tabaxis. They had no idea what had happened, not in the graveyard, not in Mythcairn, Darkstrand, not in Roguerock, and Jackal had no intention of telling them, not even Anna or Alexis. He kept his hands wrapped tightly around his warm tankard, ears drooping. If anyone looked over, he didn’t really care for what they thought. He didn’t have the energy for it.

The door to the Six Crow Inn opened for the twentieth time that night, letting in a familiar group of chattering elves, a half-elf and a tiefling. Willow, Yenn and Elefie were deep in discussion together, while Fi took a seat at the bar and began talking to her instead, probably ordering drinks for everybody. Rormunn, on the other hand, glanced around the room, surveying everyone inside. He caught sight of Jackal, much to the latter’s dismay, and came over immediately after Fi passed him a drink. Fennec lightly patted the back of Jackal’s hand, noticing Rormunn approaching, and got up, heading over to talk to Anna herself. Nervous, Jackal almost reached out to grab her wrist, to make her stay with him so he didn’t need to deal with Rormunn alone, but he was too late. She was already out of reach.

The tiefling offered him a small smile, asking if he could join Jackal, who barely shrugged in response. At this point, he didn’t know whether he cared enough or not to feel anything at all. Rormunn started talking, his words going into one of Jackal’s ears and immediately out the other. Not even half of what he said registered in the tabaxi’s mind, so he just nodded along, hoping it would get Rormunn to leave him alone. At the very least, his unexpected companion didn’t seem to hold any grudge against him, despite all he had put the whole group. The fight was his fault after all, yet none of them seemed to be holding it against him. They really should be.

Jackal didn’t realise at the time, but several of the locals had suddenly got up, dashing through the tavern’s door. It was only when the panicked shouting got to such a level that he had to cover his ears to try and think properly that he realised both Fennec and Rormunn were tugging on his arms, trying to get him up.

“Get up, brother! There’s another fire!”

Another one? The previous one had only been a night before… And if they were getting more frequent that could only mean one thing. Jackal’s legs kicked into gear far faster than his mind did, and he sprinted to the village well, the closest source of water there was. He got there faster than most of the farmers; by the time two of them had stopped gawking at the burning cottage barely five steps away from the market square and come to help, he already had three buckets worth of water ready for them to take to try and put out the blaze. Despite the straining of getting the water bucket up and down the well, he noticed two elves running up the hill in pursuit of two figures he didn’t recognise. A wave of water poured down onto the burning house, dropped from thin air by one of Elefie’s spells, quenching most of the flames. Jackal hefted the last bucket he had filled and hauled it over to the final embers right outside the door, running entirely on adrenaline, before dumping it over them and hunching over, panting heavily. The bucket fell from his hands, and he was the first one to finally get a look at the crime scene. What he saw, however… it made him want to hurl.

Two more bodies stabbed and mutilated as if attacked by a madman, and the same cursed symbol on the far wall, painted in fresh blood.

That was it. Jackal knew the symbol and he recognised the strange atmosphere now. Adrenaline had pushed him closer to a fresh crime scene than he had ever been before. The same creature who had kidnapped and almost killed his sister was to blame for all these deaths, and this time he would not stand by and let it continue. That monster needed destroying once and for all, not trapped underground in a cavern where it could just wait out the years until somebody was foolish enough to poke their nose where it didn’t belong. He refused to let history repeat itself. As soon as he could see the investigators had regrouped, he approached them, insisting that he join them in investigating the two figures they had seen fleeing the scene. Willow, Yenn, Fi and even to some extent Elefie all looked hesitant, but something seemed to click with Rormunn. He grabbed hold of Yenn’s arm and gave her a look, one Jackal didn’t really recognise, and she sighed and nodded.

Fennec must have noticed what was going on, as she joined them barely a minute later. She knew just by looking at Jackal exactly what he was thinking and that there was no way even she could stop him. She breathed a soft sigh of relief and told the investigators everything she and Jackal knew about the creature that had caused all these deaths. In response, Elefie told her that they believed its name was Okomod, and it was the same thing Spiritgate’s founders had made a deal with, causing them to strike gold under Mount Wrynhell. It was likely Fennec and Jackal weren’t the only ones who had been targeted by whatever kind of creature it was, but they had been the ones who survived.

He wasn’t sure what exactly convinced the others to let him join, but Jackal found himself trekking back up the hill to the graveyard alongside Rormunn, who had cast some kind of spell that could make everyone stronger. Fennec had handed him a little bundle of bags of spices to act as little ‘blinding bombs’ as she called them, before ducking back to help Anna and Alexis try and regroup the townsfolk. He couldn’t help but wonder if she came up with that from watching him improvising during battles back in Roguerock. Either way, they could come in useful. Elefie led the group up to the crypt for the Founders of Spiritgate, ducking behind the altar there and stopping in surprise. There, hidden in plain sight, was a trapdoor that clearly none of the investigators had noticed before. A wooden ladder descended into the darkness of the stone corridor below, with still wet, muddy marks on the rungs leading down. Whoever was down there had only just got back.

“We have to go down there, don’t we?”

Willow looked nervous when Jackal looked over at her. He didn’t like it either, going into a tightly enclosed cavern with one way in. But he was going to face whatever it was, one way or another.

“I’ll go first,” he growled, and slid down the ladder before they could stop him.

The tunnel Jackal had landed in had been an old mine shaft, blocked off from the gold mine by a cave in, and in it, all the children who had gone missing during the murders of their parents. They were all huddled up either in their supply area or in the cavern they slept in, and the majority did seem to have realised what was going on or that their parents were dead, only saying that ‘Big Sister’ had brought them here to keep them safe. Jackal couldn’t help but feel a little pity for them. He and Fennec didn’t know much about their parents either and had grown up fending for themselves. This ‘Big Sister’ character… he had no idea who that could be. Was it possible it was Loralei? And if it was, how was she connected to the monster?

Venturing deeper into the tunnels, Rormunn had led them into a much larger cave, one decorated with carvings of symbols and strange drawings of dark things Jackal wished he hadn’t seen. This place looked far too similar to the one he had found Fennec in, right down to the stone altar at the centre. A young girl, no older than ten, stood on top of it, turning when she heard them come in. She was pale and thin, unhealthily so, and was wearing a tattered grey shirt that came down to below her knees like some kind of robe. Her hair was a tangled mess, long and unkempt and thinning in places. Her eyes were grey, like a storm, and they didn’t have any feeling behind them. When she spoke, her voice trembled and echoed around the cavern as she told everyone about how her family hurt her for being weak and small, and how she had met Okomod on her seventh birthday after her father kicked her out of the house in a drunken rage. Willow claimed that her past mistreatment wasn’t an excuse for what she had done, but the girl simply laughed, saying that she had saved the children from the fate she had suffered, before plunging an ornate dagger into the pedestal she stood upon and calling upon Okomod. A purple sheen spread over her body like armour, and a shield sparking with violet energy spread from a symbol on the back of her hand, one Jackal partially recognised. He had seen the monster trying to draw that symbol on Fennec.

This was the fate he had saved her from almost 4 years prior. The monster must have failed to use her and had then moved around the continent searching for someone else they could use instead.

He didn’t have the chance to react, not when the girl screamed her own name, Loralei, proclaimed that she was Okomod’s herald and allowed him to take over her body. Immediately, her eyes rolled back and began to glow a deep shade of magenta, lifting her into the air like a ragdoll. The voice that came out of her mouth was nothing like the soft, shaking one that she had spoken in less than a minute before.

“My my, if it isn’t an old foe of mine. Perhaps I should make use of you this time instead of your weakling sister.”

Jackal didn’t have time to react as Loralei’s body pointed her dagger straight at him, a bolt of light hit him square in the chest, and he blacked out.

While unconscious, Jackal had the occasional moment where he was barely seeing what was going on around him. From what he could gather, Okomod had knocked him out and used whatever magic he had given Loralei to use him as a puppet. During the short period where he could see, he had his dagger at the throat of one of the investigators, or had his crossbow aimed at the head of another, or had just been struck by a bolt of magic by Elefie or Rormunn. The battle was long over when he fully came to, nursing a throbbing migraine and a nasty wound in his side. The tiefling was sat over him, carefully wrapping bandages around his injury and mopping up any blood that escaped. He groaned, ears flattening in pain.

“Steady now. It’s over,” Rormunn’s smile was surprising to the tabaxi, though not unwelcome. Jackal looked over towards the others, seeing Willow crouching beside a weeping Loralei as Fi and Yenn looked after the other children, and Elefie set about destroying the pedestal and symbols all around the cavern.

“Why… why let her live?”

Rormunn chuckled a little, carefully helping him to his feet, “Well, we figured that it wasn’t her really doing the killing. She doesn’t have memories of the deaths, only of leading the kids to safety, and even then she was tricked into thinking that their parents were bad people.”

A thousand questions rushed through Jackal’s mind, “That doesn’t change what she did.”

“No, but she’ll likely end up living with the guilt. She’s a good kid, she just got caught up in something that shouldn’t have happened in the first place if not for her own family and the trickster nature of anyone from the Reverse.”

Jackal groaned as he stumbled a little, listening to Rormunn mumbled something about them not having any spells left after the battle and apologising for not being able to heal him fully. He shook his head, not really caring about coming out unscathed. He kind of expected that anyway, so it didn’t bother him.

“Is… Is it gone?”

His tiefling friend nodded, a tired smile flashing in his direction, “Gone, dead, destroyed, back where it belongs, whatever word you want to use. It’s gone and I doubt it’ll be back during our lifetimes.”

The tabaxi let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The creature was gone. Fennec was safe, and that was all that really mattered. Their nightmare was finally over.

At least, this one was. Jackal didn’t know it at the time, but he would end up traveling with the investigators, going to places all around the continent, from Tower to Darkstrand to Mythcairn back to Roguerock and beyond. But of course, that is a story for another time.

Above: Jackal (left) and Fennec (right) as drawn by my partner, Alexis.

#dnd backstory #one shot #drabble #character study #tabaxi #dnd characters #dnd oc

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nightfallsupon · 18 days

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When you say "mental health" what even do you mean? Are we talking someone's brain, emotions, feelings, pain, grief, loss, trauma? Then why don't you just say that? Or are we trying to define someone's pain in a limited sense of two words that don't really mean anything.

Today we ask, how is your mental health? And what do we mean by this? A pie in the sky, a fixation upon a concept, not a distinct and obvious feeling. Well I can tell you what psychiatry means by it...

Are you a danger to yourself? Do you have any thoughts of harming yourself or anyone else? Do you hear voices? Do you see things that aren't there? Do you feel unsafe?

And by psychiatries laws (a law to their own), if they decide any of these answers to be yes, the reason is untenable, for I need now to put you in a 'hospital bed' or in other words a prison, until you can act convincingly enough that we believe the answer is no. But in the mean time we will break you just enough, so that you begin to learn lying is the only way to feel free, and get away from people that are making you feel much, much worse.

Start asking people, what is hurting you? Why are you in so much pain? How can I help you? What would make you feel better?-Apart from a pill or a needle, a drug, that is addictive and will come with a black and grey kaleidoscope of side effects.

You see what the mental health industry does not understand (candidly) is that you cannot separate mental health from physical health. The two are not mutually exclusive. Health is health. Stop distinguishing between the two, and treat a person as a whole and complete canvas. 'You're in pain'...'where does it hurt?' Because I can guarantee there is a place in that persons body that is in unbearable pain. And a drug with physical side effects is only going to make things worse. Heal the person. Don't drug what you judge to be unusual. Have humans ever been so black and white?

Well yes, to psychiatry we are. We are black and white. We engage in this behaviour, it fits into this box, we say this thing, we belong here. This method of simplifying complex and colourful life forms to labels, is destructive at best, deadly at worst.

And how is this behaviour, yes the behaviour of "doctors" and "nurses," who have never healed a person in their entire life, fuelling the "mental health crisis?"

Because to them a solution comes in the form of a pill. But to anyone that is in pain, what they need is community, support, family, love, attention, understanding, care, kindness, and to be listened to, and offered constructive solutions - like real safety (where you can walk outside, where you know no one is going to hurt you), and conversations which don't place blame on you or your past. You do not receive these things within the "mental health industry." They fixate upon the things we have done, (perhaps mistakes, perhaps not), are content with studying and analysing our behaviour in the most unobjective ways, abuse us with their words and actions, then hand us back to the arms of our families, oftentimes also abusive. These are people who find comfort in controlling other people. I have been a part of it for twelve years now, and I have never found a single one of these things that would have helped me, from the people claiming they are making me "better."

The pharmaceutical industry is making billions of dollars upon peoples' sickness and the pyschiatrists and nurses all feed into this ideal, that a pill or liquid in a needle, is the help you need. While remaining completely and willfully ignorant to the pain these things cause, because they don't listen, discredit us, and also never feel that pain from these drugs themselves. They keep themselves thoroughly in caves, disregarding the truth we tell them about the way they make us feel.

And nothing will ever change, until the world is ready to acknowledge that the mental health industry is fuelling the "mental health" crisis. Like they say in advertising, you can't polish a piece of shit. So in conclusion, stop trying.

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sublimeobservationarcade · 8 months

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Downward Envy: What Kind Of Australian Indulges In That?

Hands up who has heard of the term ‘downward envy’? Yes, this is the name for all those Aussies who think that everyone on welfare is a dole bludger. These people reckon that there are too many folk having a good time on less than $50 a day. You could not even pay your rent in Australia on that, let alone eat. Downward envy: What kind of Australian indulges in that? Bitter and twisted miserable bastards comes to mind. Unhappy people wanting to apportion blame onto others, also, springs to mind in this case.

“As a student of John Howard, Peter Dutton was always going to focus his budget reply speech on how middle Australia is missing out, in the hope that there are enough Howard battlers still around to appreciate the throwback. In this line of attack on the government’s priorities, he’s getting help from some sections of the press gallery. At his National Press Club address the day after the budget was handed down, Treasurer Jim Chalmers took a question from Sky News political editor Andrew Clennell. “With unemployment at three and a half per cent, it seems in the vast majority of cases, if you want a job, you can get a job,” began Clennell. “So why do people on the dole get more money from the government out of this budget, but not a household on more than $160k a year who, for example, don’t get the electricity bill relief? What do you say to those working full time about why those on the dole get relief, but they don’t?” Won’t somebody think of the couple on $160,000 a year?” - (https://www.themonthly.com.au/the-politics/daniel-james/2023/05/12/downward-envy)

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Robodebt & Downward Envy

Weak scumbags who like putting the boot into those who can’t fight back is another identifying attribute here, I reckon. The Robodebt debacle was fuelled by downward envy and the Coalition of the Liberals and Nationals in government fed on it. Scott Morrison, that great liar who led the nation, was a driving force in the Robodebt shameful betrayal of vulnerable Australians. Tony Abbott, Stuart Robert, Alan Tudge, and Marissa Payne all had their grubby paws on it as well. Plus, a bunch of shameless senior bureaucrats who would have licked the s*** from the sewer if asked to and for their plump pay packets.

Nothing To See Here Your Honour

Lest we forget, people actually died on the back of the disgraceful and unlawful imposition of debts upon them. Oh yeah, and it cost the Australian tax payers $1.8 billion for the massive stuff up it was. Did any of these movers and shakers even say they were sorry? No. Nobody was responsible apparently – it kind of just happened by itself apparently. Bloody amazing how these politicians and senior public servants conveniently go missing when they are handing out blame and the s*** sandwiches. The Robodebt welfare cops were suddenly on holiday during the Royal Commission and ducked the arse smacking from the judge.

Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com Treasurer Jim Chalmers noted: He cited comments by Taylor “that what worried him about our changes in social security was that it meant that the broader Australian community would be funding help for the most vulnerable”. “That is the whole basis of social security,” Chalmers said, to applause in Parliament House’s great hall, packed with ministers, department heads, chief executives and advocates who had called for increases in welfare. “And I think that our country is better, frankly, than the kind of downward envy that we hear about from time to time from people like Angus Taylor. - (https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2023/may/10/jim-chalmers-accuses-coalition-of-downward-envy-as-dutton-refuses-to-commit-to-jobseeker-increase-in-budget)

Downward Envy & Keeping The Abos In Their Place Peter Dutton is The Grand Poo Bah of the downward envy club in Australia. Old skull, Voldemort himself, is forever ready with a dog whistle for the racist mob and their bitter hate for Indigenous Australia. It is never enough that institutional neglect and racist behaviours have dogged First Nations people in this country for hundreds of years. No, the Coalition of miserable scumbags is dedicated to keeping them in their place at the bottom of the wealth ladder. Closing the gap won’t be happening anytime soon on their watch. Cheap shots at Linda Burney for the way she speaks. Jibes and thinly disguised insults thrown at Aboriginals for being bludgers. Downward envy bubbles over on the stove for this lot.

Sky News Australia, Fox & Downward Envy Sky News Australia is where Rupert Murdoch has coalesced all the smug, ugly, and selfish attributes of Australians into one, hopefully, cash inspiring place. Fox News is his American cash cow, where he feeds on the rabid right wing audience over there. The thing about right wing news is that it doesn’t even bother being objective. Telling lies is par for the course and the dumber the BS the better for the alt right. Successfully sued for a billion dollars for misleading the public over Dominion’s role in the 2020 presidential election Fox News is so far from being a trusted source of news it is a sick joke. Donald Trump the compulsive liar is the pied piper of fake news on Fox. Murdoch and the Trump machine go around sucking billions of dollars out of a deluded audience hellbent on believing anything that fits into their own uber partisan view of the world. Downward envy even gets a guernsey over there with African Americans in the ghettoes getting a free ride wherever they are going, according to the shock jocks and motor mouths on Fox and Sky News Australia. Yes, Blacks deserve the hundreds of years of slavery and the decades of Black Codes locking them up and continuing peonage slavery for the state in the south until 1942. Race was criminalised in America and still is with a veritable industry keeping African Americans incarcerated and working in prisons as free labour for states and corporations to this day. It is big business in the US of A.

Downward envy is like having the telescope the wrong way around. Peering down into the lives of the poor and benighted and giving them a hard time for their troubles. This is the Murdoch, Trump, and Dutton stratagem. Blame those below you on the economic ladder for their self-begotten woes – that way your own greed and self-serving attitudes don’t ever come into question. Middle Australia has never been wealthier, despite the fact that landlords and corporations are feasting on the inflated fat of the land. But don’t blame the rich because you aspire to that position yourselves. Blame the poor, the homeless and the unemployed instead. Welcome to modern Australia in the 21C. Robert Sudha Hamilton is the author of Money Matters; Navigating Credit, Debt, and Financial Freedom. ©MidasWord Read the full article

#Australia #culturalidentity #modernculture #ScottMorrison #Trump

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locallixie · 2 years

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into the spider-web — seungmin

✦ genre ; smut, mature, suggestive, subtle horror, suspense, dark-fic, supernatural, yandere au, yandere!seungmin, gn!reader, dom!seungmin, sub!reader, spider-man but it's a gothic horror.

✦ warnings ; bondage, japanese shibari, cum-play, dacryphilia, overstimulation, fingering, saliva as lubricant, praise kink, kidnapping, exhibitionism, non-con, sadism, violence, slight gore, minor language, mention of drugs, arachnophobia.

✦ word count ; 4.6k

You haven't been sleeping well, possibly suffering from chronic insomnia. Stress, anxiety, and fear swallowed you whole. A wind of terror washed throughout your body from head-to-toes every-time you were to go outside. Someone has been following you, his presence lingered everywhere you go. You would see his reflection in traffic mirrors, vehicle mirrors, and even your own. Sometime you would pass through him without knowing, but the vague figure of him stayed in the corner of your eye.

How he fuelled you up with paranoia, giving you cold feet, and making your once pleasant dreams into grim nightmares. You couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and couldn't breathe. Because of him, you were forced to live in such distressing state, in a never-ending disorder.

You woke up in a cold sweat, eyes wide opened, The summer breeze flew by your windows, the left-over scent if spring soon faded. It was pitch blackness outside, the sky held not one star. You sat up from your bed, chest rising-and-falling by an abnormal pace. Unstable, vulnerable, and afraid. That shiver of fright hit your back, your hands shaking as they gripped tightly on the sheets.

"Darling," A pause, a long pause fell between the thick atmosphere. You heard an unfamiliar voice, praying that you were just having auditory hallucinations. "Why are you so frighten?" The voice lacked emotions, monotonous, distant.

You dragged your sight forward, to where you heard they talk. Though, your room was dark, but you could still make out the faint silhouette of a person. They sat on your desk chair, the gloom covered the upper-half of them. Simply sitting there with ease while you felt troubled in your own home.

You exclaimed, "Who the fuck are you?! A-And why are you in my house?!" What type of psychopath break into your house in the middle of the night, sit there in the dark on your chair, staring at you while you slumber? You would be much more thankful if they stole something valuable, at least you could see them in an ordinary light.

They let out a low, menacing laugh, "Are you scared of me, darling? Judging by the way you reacted." You knew, from solely their voice, they screamed danger.

"How disappointing, you're not happy to see me at all, despite this being our first intimate meeting." They said, carrying the same unwelcoming tone of their sound. You sat there frozen in your bed, closely watching them as you were alarmed.

Wherever they walked in your room, your eyes tailed their wandering figure. First intimate meeting, they said? Wait, could it be? The man whom have been stalking you for the past time being? Oh, what a bad influence he was upon your pathetic mortal life. He was like a strong levanter that flew the other direction.

“Darling, you really need to stop killing our children. What type of parent are you? How cruel.” He began, blaming you for the many deaths of his offsprings. “You’re like Uranus, who devoured his own sons and daughters.” You were pulled into a family dynamic out of the blue by this unknown man. He compared you to a recreant god who was afraid of his child one day overthrowing him, you would never do such repugnant thing like that.

You shook your head, denying all of his accusations against you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, what children are you pinning on me?!”

He stood beside the windows, his front illuminated by the moonlight. You still couldn’t see his face, only his back and shadow. “Please, please get out of my house, and leave me alone!” You begged, tears brimming your eyes. You were so stressed out by him, you couldn’t bring yourself to fight. You did a thing only a coward would of pleading for him to stop.

“I give you one last year of freedom, I’ll come get you when due date comes.” That was his last few words before he disappeared into the night. One last year of freedom, or was it one last year of constant fear?

At least he was a man of his word, he became absent from your sight and life. He didn’t haunt over you like a vengeful spirit, how things used to be. He simply wasn’t there, closely watching your every movement, your inhale and exhale, your eyes blinking by each passing millisecond. Completely nowhere to be found, he was gone, like the spring season.

Though, an echo of him remained in you. A hint of that mysterious man existed all around and over you. You would see the fatal venom of his footprints left on the ground you walked, smell the peculiar scent that seduced you, and feel the unknown vibe you hated. You continued your life, living in a fear he would come take you away of your own will and independence. You isolated yourself from the outside world, with no one by your side, stuck inside a lonesome trauma.

You felt yourself decay day-by-day, minute-by-minute, second-by-second. As a flower wilted, and soon to die. He was no where near you, although he was watching in the very far distance, your paranoia ached when the thought of him crossed your mind. Who was he? Who made you like this?

People called you insane, unwell, a lunatic, whenever he was the topic of your conversation. The police didn't believe your words and worries, not one bit. Someone was stalking you, but no evidence to prove it. The way your appearance seemed deranged and disheveled made your sentences sound like utter nonsense. You decided to quit, whatever, you couldn't care less anymore.

Sleeping pills was your best friend, helping you fall and stay asleep night-to-night. However, you knew you shouldn’t be dependent on drugs. An overdose was the last thing you would want. But wouldn’t death be much better than keep on living this miserable life? To die in your sleep would be a great favour, a painless and wonderful death.

Popping a pill into your mouth, swallowed it down with a gulp of water. Already feeling drowsy, eyelids heavy, muscles relaxed. You made your way back to bed, falling out of consciousness in an instant. The effects sent you into a dreaming state with ease.

The most beautiful moments in life, happiest of feelings, surrounded by joyful thoughts and views. You saw a tree of blooming cherry blossoms, sat on a hilltop. Painting your sky with pinks and oranges as dusk set in. You ran to it, dropping yourself on the soft green grass. How peaceful, how very leisurely and calm.

A groan fell from your mouth, sudden pain seeped through your veins. You held your hand to your eyes, a spider the size of a pea bit your palm. Fresh scarlet blood began to drip-and-drop, as if it wouldn’t stop to listen to your agony. The darkness overshadowed the light, it was coming for you. Despite how much you tried, you bled without an ending. Your tears mixed with your blood, eyes weeping nonstop, and hand bleeding like waterfalls.

Your breath hitched, awoken because your mind told you to do so. It was a dream, it was merely a dream. A dream that turned into a nightmare, how common. You stopped, everything else followed. When a peculiar thing began to crawl its feet on your face, its hair grazed over your skin. The scent that it carried along was foul, stomach-turning. Each of its many legs on different points of your face, forehead, eyelids, nose bridge, cheekbones, lips, and cheeks.

Its size was huge, able to cover your entire face. The spider held dreadful venom in its bites, teeth only inches from your skin. Though being a creature that repulse human as much as we repulse them; this one kept its place on your face. It didn't bite, at least that was what relieved you. Shooting its web somewhere else in this dimly-lit place, it swung away from you finally. Now your sight was clear; you examined your surroundings, and how unfamiliar it was to you. This wasn't your bedroom, or anywhere inside your living space.

You took a look at yourself as well, seeing your body and limbs being tied up in an odd position using red ropes. Hovering above the earth ground below, you were close yet far from the surface. As if you were an unfortunate fly who flew into a spiderweb, stuck and helpless as it waited for its inevitable demise. Regardless of how harsh you pulled, those tight knots held you back. Struggling like this was so pathetic, knowing your faith that whatever sick pervert would come kill you any given second.

“I love seeing you powerless like this, my darling. Escape is the only thing on your mind.” You heard that voice once again, from farther away but unsure of exact location.

Before your eyes, he descended from above on a thin string. His body turned upside-down, his hands gripped on the string with incredible strength. The spider has arrived to feast on its prey, in form of a young man. His face paralleled with yours, gazing at you intently of desires and total love-sick.

Seeing his face for the first time ever, the mystery solved. He, the mastermind behind it all. Your suffering, your long for death, your night terrors. The charming façade he would wear on the outside, covering the true darkness of his soul. Sadistic, cruel, and perverse.

“Time’s up, darling.” He said, the coldness in his voice sent shivers down your spine.

A tear slid down your flushed cheeks, "Why are you doing this? Why can't you just let me live? Tell me! Who the fuck are you?!" You screamed on the top of your lungs, your cries and wails shooting at him. He leaned in closer, his face wore no emotion. His lips filled with venom which poisoned you into his control, his touches like spider-webs which gently got you wrapped up around his fingers. As he kissed your lips, paralysed you whole until you couldn't feel even your fingertips.

His tongue entered your mouth, pushing deeper into you. You could only cry, as much as you told your body to wake up and fight, it felt numb and dead. He pulled away slowly, licking the small bit of saliva off your lips.

"Seungmin, my darling, you can call me 'Seungmin'." He told, staring at you from under. Seungmin pulled himself up to your eyesight, what type of fine string that could support his weight without breaking? As if it was made from webs—able to be broken up by a wave of a hand.

A sudden burning sensation rose inside your chest, slowly but steadily spreading all across your system. As it reached lower, you ached in arousal. Chest rising up-and-down, breath heavy and hot, light-headed and unable to think straight. You started to sweat, wetting the fabrics you has on your figure.

Seungmin smiled at you, hearts in his eyes. His feet landed on the ground, coming down from his swung webs. "You look so pretty when you sleep, when you cry, when you please yourself on your own bed. Oh-how I just can't get you out of my mind." The image of you, the concept of you, the sole existence of you brought him excitement and sickening lust. The rush of adrenaline that he experienced every time you smile, every time you cry, every time your face display a look of fear. It stimulated him in such a sinful way, his ears blushed a coral pink 'cause of your little adorable actions, his heartbeat racing just from your sweet talking alone, and his body reacting to you pleasuring yourself after a long stressful day.

Kim Seungmin was never this insane, well not technically speaking. A normal science major, he used to be. He studied in multiple lectures in the day, and continued his experiments in his personal lab by the nightfall. Once, a fail experiment led to an unexpected quirk. A black widow stained and genetically transformed with chemicals, it bit his wrist with its sharp razor fangs. The venom had no delays, quickly spreading and seeping in as it coloured his veins an unnatural hue.

Immediately, it took effects. Stomach grumbling, muscles aching, chest burning of rapid flame. Falling to the floor, a liquid spurted out of his mouth with an awful smell. His abdomen felt like being punched and kicked, agonising, excruciatingly painful. It was getting harder and harder to breath, feeling his throat swell up. Gradually losing all senses of reality, only death awaited him. To die like this would be an embarrassment, in perfect white lab coat, and vomit spilling out the corners of his lips. Seungmin blacked out soon after, blood replacing the vomitus.

Either it was the many strange substances that mixed in its venom, or the prescription drugs he has been pumping his body with. Seungmin awoken on the same cold floor of his laboratory, seeing a deep brownish fluid that composed of his vomit and blood. By standards, the effects of a black widow's bite would last around a day or two. He, a special case indeed, presented no symptoms. For some unknown reason, he felt stronger than he ever did. When his hand stuck to the counter-top, he knew he has unlocked something inhuman.

That was how he got to here, the thought-to-be tragic bite has granted him absurd abilities, extraordinary compare to normal human beings. He hid this peculiar thing from everyone, what he has in mind of abusing his power for his own greater favour. He has no wanting to be a hero like inside those graphic novels, he was selfish unlike how they taught us to be. One thing he wanted so dearly, was you. No matter what, and no matter who; he wasn't going to let anyone walk over you or steal you away from his grasp.

"You belong to me, wether you like it or not. We are meant to be one with each other, darling, can't you see?" He said, easily sensing the calm, yet unhingedness in his tone. He was growing crazier and crazier as time went on, because of you, entirely because of you. You sent him into a concerning obsession with a single gaze, hooked by the very first look. You made everything worse by being so nice and kindhearted, always caring and looking after for people around you. You treated him like everyone else, but to him, he felt as if he was special and you were the most wonderful person alive he ever known. From how much he has fought with loneliness, he was quick to grow an attachment to you.

You were only doing your job, doing voluntary jobs around campus a couple years ago. When he stumbled across your booth, studies and worksheets of his scattered all over the ground as he had fallen. You came by to help him up, and even picked up every single one of his stuff. Your hands grazed one another, his eyes filled with hearts and sparkles as he looked directly at you. From then onwards, his madness and addiction with everything you began.

You lifted your head, "Let me go, free me. You're fucking unwell, Seungmin." You said weakly, enough to offend him at least.

Seungmin retorted, "You don't talk to me like that, darling, watch your mouth." He pointed angrily, looking back at your tied up figure. As much he tried to stay calm and not to scare you any longer, the wrath inside him was rising like the sea levels.

The numbness from the venom in your system began to wear off, by each passing second, you started to feel your limbs again. Taking advantage of making Seungmin angry, him, throwing a temper tantrum and walking away to release his fury elsewhere. You could tell that he was hesitant to hurt you, the way his hands was shaking and pulling far away when he attempted on touching you back then. The most he would do was to berate you, such a soft spot you were.

The ropes sprung out and laced together like an actual spider-web, your arms and legs were spread out to different directions. A loose knot, you saw, a possible chance that it could undo most of the ropes that was restricting you. Double checking that Seungmin's presence wasn't around, no where to be found, you pulled on the little bit of rope that held the knot with your fingers. Freeing one arm, then using that to free the other, then a leg, then another one. Removing the final that wrapped your waist, your bare feet felt the concrete floor below.

Using your once in a lifetime chance, you ran to the nearest opening. Not looking back, not taking even a glance. You ran for your life, your lungs bursting a fire but your breaths was cold. Sprinting faster than you ever could, a speed which you were not familiar with. The path was dark and empty, but decorations hanging from above, your heart stopped as you saw the horrific sight. Corpses that were missing their heads, dangling from the ceiling by fine white strings, some being stuck to large cobweb.

"[Y/N], how disrespectful!" Your name echoed loudly, volume blasting to your ears. You kept your pace, getting closer to an actual exit, the light at the end in front of you.

You let out a yelp, falling to the ground as you were puled back by a string around your ankle. Digging your nails into the earth, using the leftover strength to crawl away. Then another bound your other ankle, your wrists, overpowering you. You screamed, the threads that hugged your wrists and ankles tightened 'til it drew blood. You body slid far far away from the exit, the light moving out of sight, blood trailing after.

Face-to-face with him, Seungmin has a look of utter insanity. He hanged you up, the strings hooked in unknown places. Wide and wild eyes, unsure of how upset he actually was. The threads that tied you tight was coming from the tip of his fingers, his hands painted scarlet with his own blood—the threads presented a similar shade.

"This behaviour," Seungmin curved his fingers, the blood red threads cutting into your skin. "Is unacceptable." You cried out in pain, tears falling from your eyes and blood dripping from your wounds. As if it was digging deeper into each micro layer of skin, your wrists and ankles bled.

Your struggling just making it worse, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please stop! Please have mercy!" Hearing your pleading, he finally let go. The blood ran back into his hands, yours and his, it sunk and returned to his original clean skin. Your body dropped down, worn out legs aching, slowly bringing you into a slight haze from lost of blood.

Seungmin walked towards you, looking down at your pathetic state. He leaned down, ripping your shirt, the buttons shooting out. You held your shirt together in desperation, no use, his rage fuelled his flames as he tore it off you completely. You shrieked, his teeth sinking into your skin from the back, biting your shoulder blades. As his venom seeped inside your veins once more, you felt yourself became somewhat numb and bothered again.

He stripped you off of everything, undergarments and suchlike, leaving you bare and freezing on the concrete. Moaning, feeling the temperature in you body rising and effecting you little-by-little.

"Why don't you declare your love to me? Say that you love me, darling." Seungmin requested, the sinisterness lingered in each word.

You shook your head violently, obviously denying to do what he want. You wouldn't give up, and absolutely not to someone as psychotic as him. "Wrong answer." He tied your wrist together, tight and rough. You yelped, feeling the pressure on your cuts.

"Say you love me." He asked again, but your stubbornness did the talking for you. Consequently, he bounded both your arms close together. How come the venom didn't entirely paralyse you like how it did earlier, you could feel every single hint of pain inflicted onto you by that cruel man. You were wrong to think that he hesitated to hurt you, never knowing his real intentions.

Seungmin asked the same question, "Do you love me, darling?" For every time you answered anything along the lines of 'No', or plain out rejecting with your body movements and sounds, he would tie up a section of your body.

"No—!" You shouted, expressing your opinion and truth.

Seungmin grunted, "Too bad." A strong pull, and you were off the ground, tugged from your arms and wrists—sure to strain your muscles. The ropes hurt so badly, your eyes filled with solely tears every time he tied a knot.

Now with your legs over your head, putting you in an odd position. He stood back to admire his work of art, you, that was. "I repeat, do you love me, darling?" Seungmin questioned you, gazing with seduction.

You finally submitted to him, you couldn't take the torture anymore. "Yes! Yes, I love you! I love you, Seungmin!" You cried as that sacred sentence with his name bound to flew out of your mouth. His face showed satisfaction, heart softening from your false sweet words. You eased the beast by appeasing him, tears and the fakest of forced affection.

Seungmin smiled, "I knew it! I knew you love me, and I love you too, my darling." He gently held your chin, pressing his lips onto yours. He was so thrilled to hear you say those three specific words, even if it was completely out of pressure. What kind of person could tie someone up in such an aggressive manner, but at the same time, has such a tender touch. Only Kim Seungmin could play that role, the quick switch-up of his duality.

He ran his fingers over your skin, his hand shaking on every inch. "So soft, so warm. Touching you like this...tempt me to do something...carnal." You were a desire, a fantasy, a wet dream. He thought of you every night he went to sleep, you brought him to his slumber. He invaded your nightmares, while you invaded his dreams. Most of them, he couldn’t help himself, wanting to claim you as his. He wanted to see you become a mess, crying and whining under him as he slamming into you with no kindness. He wanted to mark your skin, he wouldn’t stop until every part of you were stained by his lips. He would never stop until you were fully his.

His hot fingertips coloured the canvas, which was you, an excellent painting you were. The faint pinkish of your lips, the deep red of your blood, the plum violet of your bruises, and the wonderful tone of your naked skin. His palette was complete.

Lowering the ropes, allowing you to be closer to the surface below. Seungmin retied your legs, letting it dangle on the side. A clear view of your entrance, wetted from the sweat dripping down your tired figure. "My body reacted when seeing you like this." He smiled, his hardened cock pressed against his pants, throbbing silently. You shivered violently, Seungmin running his tongue from your entrance to your neck.

“Seungmin…” You whimpered, his name rang out by your heavenly vocals.

He tilted his head back, let out a long breath of delight, hearing you say his name filled up with excitement. "Yes, my darling?" He held your back, tracing your spine.

"Please help me." You pushed out with the little bit of strength left in you, being taken over by the arousing side effects. The venom from his direct bites has a strong aphrodisiac, a bite was much more dangerous than a kiss. As if it was telling that Seungmin was much more than he seem, this was only the beginning. Feeling floaty; the sensation of a drunken night out, hot, lightheaded, and overly sexual.

Seungmin coated his fingers with his saliva, making sure it was nice and wet for your enjoyment. "I could never deny you." Pushing the first one inside you, you squirmed, tugging on the ropes that bound you. He was soft and gentle with you, unlike how scary he was a couple moments before, trailing light kisses down you torso while his fingers went in-and-out of you.

He pushed in the third finger, "There we go, you're doing great, darling. Do you like it?" Seungmin asked, continued to preparing you for something else next. You leaned on his shoulder, whining and crying in a guilty euphoria. You looked absolutely breath-taking when you cry, he always thought so, specially in a lewd way like this. He curved his fingers, touching your fleshy walls. Pushing deeper, making your eyes watered more. Another moan he withdrew out from you, you came on his fingers, and by it too.

Seungmin removed his pants, freeing his cock from its confine. He pecked your forehead with his soft lips, at the same time, sliding his cock inside you. He held your nape as his mouth held your own, thrusting into you with all the love and admiration he has. He worshipped you with his body, his heart, and his mind. You were the leading light in his dark and dull life, illuminated him with the ideation of you.

"Darling, you're taking me so well. Won't you be a bit louder, and let me hear your sweet sounds?" Seungmin requested, sucking your neck, forming marks of declaration.

Moaning and sobbing from the pleasure you were receiving, you ground yourself against him as your body begged for more. You were in a daze, a lust-drunken daze. You knew deep down you didn't want this, you despised him wholeheartedly, but a part of you wanted him to come please you—a part that took over entirely.

Feeling his cock continuously moving inside of you, hitting every single enjoyable spots. The way he was harshly slamming into you might leave a bruise, he too, was reaching for his high much like you. You arched your back, releasing first. Though he didn't stop, even after seeing you came this second round. Keeping his fast pace, pounding into you like an animal.

You whined, "Seungmin, that's enough—" You came a second time, it dripped off your frail legs and onto the floor. How quick, how very quick that he could make you come twice in a row. The pleasure was great, but he might gave you too much of it. You beginning to feel more discomfort than actual bliss. Your mouth crying for him to stop since you couldn't take any more of it, as if he was going for hours on end.

Finally, he was near his high. Another thrust was all it took to fill your inside with his love. He pulled out, shooting the rest all over your exhausted figure. You couldn't stay awake any longer, passing out soon after with yourself painted by his seed. Seungmin untied the ropes, putting your naked self into his embrace. He caressed your hair with his hand, each fingers intertwining with many strands.

He was aware of how sick he was, how disgustingly in love he was with you. These unknown urges crept over him, to stalk you, to know everything about you, to hurt you, to claim you, to isolate you so that you would just be his. Each day he spent living, he could only sense himself spiralling deeper into complete lunacy. What a total maniac this Kim Seungmin has became, and the reason was because of you.

"You are wholly mine now." He told, gazing at your unconscious state. You faith was sealed, forever stuck in his spider-web.

426 notes · View notes

wangshuus · 3 years

Text

love like you | xiao

pairing: xiao/gn!reader

genre: angst+fluff

wc: 4.1k

summary: you and xiao are polar opposites according to him and because of that, he deems himself unworthy.

note: this is my first time writing for genshin and i love xiao so much so this is essentially a bunch of word vomit i whipped together while listening to love like you from the su soundtrack :’)

(i’ll have to go in for another proof read after but pls take this for now)

fic under the cut

In the land of Liyue, the Adepti were acknowledged for being the protectors of the sacred land, guarding both it and its people. As most of the adepti resided in their abodes, there was but one that stayed within the vicinity of the Wangshu Inn. Xiao; the Vigilant Yaksha, Conqueror of Demons, Alatus. He went by many titles, many names all of which carried the story of the adeptus himself. Upon the years of history carried through Liyue in its passing generations, it’s known to many that despite having the looks of a young man, the adeptus was not someone you would want to take lightly. The Yaksha carried thousands of years worth of burden, shackles of guilt and terror binding him to unpleasant memories. With every passing day, he is harshly reminded of the way he and his polearm skillfully worked through the bloodied dance of weapons on the battlefield, crimson liquid painting the ground and his very hands. It stains so intensely that it was like an unseen tattoo that reminded him of eons of slaughter he partook in, the lives and dreams he so greedily took from people. It was something only he could see and something he would continue to see for many more years to come according to him.

He very rarely got close to anything or anyone, devoting his life to duty and the orders granted to him by Rex Lapis to protect the beloved land of Liyue. For this very reason, he never thought much about emotions or the overall concept of it, seeing it as a worthless matter, a weakness even, for it could not help in the slaying of those in battle. All he ever knew at that point was violence, having his purity harshly stolen from his grasp all those centuries ago and being left with not even a single grain of what it was like to feel anything pleasant. Whenever he did feel anything, pain, suffering and agony were the only things that filled his system therefore to him, it was better to feel nothing at all. Needless to say, he was somewhat unapproachable on several levels, but who could blame him?

There then came a day in which all of this would away as an estranged guest made your way merry when into the Inn. You, (Y/n) were a mere mortal traveler with a dendro vision chained upon your hip, specializing in the field of healing. You stumbled upon the inn, looking to take on commissions and requests in exchange for a room for the time being. Your fates clashed with each other during your first encounter when you were tasked to deliver almond tofu to the adeptus that was specially made by yourself. You could still remember stuttering over your words in embarrassment during your first meeting as he revealed himself to you, commending you for your culinary skills but telling you to leave immediately, saying something along the lines of it being ‘too dangerous for mere mortals to stay in the presence of adepti for too long’. It was accurate to say that you two took an interest in the oddity of the situation. Why did Xiao decide to reveal himself to the simple human, knowing very well his mere presence was already a threat to you. Why did you not turn away in fear just from the adeptus’ profound deathly gaze? There were several unspoken questions between you two at the time but that one fateful encounter had caused a shift.

You had decided to extend your stay at the inn a little longer than you intended to. You went about the daily tasks set out by Verr in exchange for your stay every day that you were there. The completion of your tasks leads to a delivery that had become habitual to you during your stay at the inn. Every day you’d made your way up to the highest terrace in the inn to drop off a plate of almond tofu to the adeptus. On some days, he’d reveal himself and on some others, he chose to remain unseen-- and to you, this was okay. As the days passed, it began to be more apparent how odd this whole shift was for the both of them.

You are an adventurer, someone who sought out to travel the lands, and yet, you remained grounded at the Inn, your fascination and curiosity driving your patience to learn about the distant Yaksha and fuelling your willingness to stay settled at the inn instead of seeking for the thrill of adventure. Xiao was an adeptus, a being that has lived for many years on end, a being that has slaughtered countless, a being that carried an indescribable amount of karmic debt for all the treacherous and ungodly amount of terror he has bestowed upon thousands in the past. He could not explain to himself why he even decided to associate with a simple mortal, thinking that there was something wrong with him at the time because he knew that if he were in his right mind, he would have never even bothered taking a glance at the human. But then again, not all things could be explained. From the days that you had stayed at the Inn for that time, you would find yourself visiting the lone adeptus every evening, delivering a plate of what became familiar to him as your almond tofu, the one that deemed to be the closest to that of the dreams he so greedily devoured all those years ago.

Months had passed since the first day you first set foot into the inn. You had managed other work and commissions throughout the time but often found herself coming back. you became well acquainted with everyone who worked there, practically making it her second home in fact. Even when you did have to part ways, you would pass by whenever you could, sparing your time and energy at least once a week to come reeling back like a moth drawn to a flame. The reason behind it was very evident to you, nothing that you would ever admit to hiding at this point. You did enjoy the company and atmosphere of the other humans at the inn but at the end of the day, everything came back down to the enigmatic adeptus that resided there.

Sensing your presence had become second nature to the adeptus, him knowing the very moment you set foot into the Inn. He would never admit it to himself, but he found himself looking forward to the mortal’s visits. He still thought about the first day he decided to reveal himself to you, feeling a little more content about it with every passing day. But something about the whole ordeal scared him to no end. He wished it wasn’t the case but he was well aware of all the changes and feelings that had bloomed since you waltzed into his life. The feeling of bubbling excitement inside of him every time you came back to him, the feeling of embarrassment of when you’d blurt out compliments towards him, feeling more comfortable and daring as the visits continued. The feeling of protectiveness washing over him when you told him stories in which you got even the slightest bit injured. One may view this just as someone showing emotion; but that was the problem for him. He wasn’t supposed to show emotion-- he wasn’t supposed to feel-- according to himself at least. Rather, he didn’t deem himself worthy to feel pleasant emotions.

“Xiao” A familiar voice called out to him, turning to face the direction from where he stood, which happened to be the spot where he viewed the familiar landscape of Liyue.

You made your way towards him, holding out a plate of almond tofu which he had come to admire. He took the plate from your grasp and greeted her with a light hum of acknowledgment before beginning to munch down on the tofu. You let out a soft chuckle before standing next to him and leaning on the railing, staring off into the starry skies you had become accustomed to seeing, though every time, it never failed to amaze you. Your eyes gazed at the twinkling stars in the sky as you began your usual routine of speaking about how your life has been since you last saw each other. You had become accustomed to Xiao’s aloof demeanor at times like this because you knew that despite him seemingly looking uncaring, he was secretly listening to your rambling. You stared off into the distance as you spoke, your attention being stolen by the stars. While at work on the plate of almond tofu in his hands, Xiao took these moments to look at you as he silently listened to your long-winded sentences.

In serene moments like these, it was hard for Xiao to keep his composure. Though the stars in the sky glimmered so beautifully, they paled in comparison to your eyes when they sparkled so passionately when you spoke of your adventures. In moments like these, Xiao was reminded of your courteous nature. He was reminded of how good you are, going about your time adventuring the lands, specializing in the art of healing with the assistance of the beloved vision clipped at your side. You lived for adventure; you lived to help those in need. It was in moments like these when he became painfully aware of how different you were from each other.

It had been so long since Xiao ever considered himself to be good in any way. He was all too aware of the disgusting red that painted his hands permanently, the hands which have slain countless beings in the past. The hands that he did not see worthy to touch anything so fragile in fear that it would break, feeling as if anything would die at even the slightest touch of his fingertips. You see, when he met you, he was so sure that he was far from anything good and you proved himself to be right in his mind; because you were what he deemed to be good in his eyes. And he was nothing like you.

Before he knew it, he was left with an empty plate and a bustling mind full of thoughts as he looked out into the distance along with your words flowing freely with the wind. You turned back to see Xiao in all his glory, taking in his presence, eyes lingering upon him like the first time you met him. There was never a day that passed where he didn’t look stunning in your eyes. The reserved yaksha was nothing short of a challenge for you to get close to. Even to this day, there are times where he was standoffish towards you. In moments like these, you’re reminded of how you’ve barely scratched the surface of his character, being well aware that he’s lived far longer than you and will quite possibly continue to live way beyond your time. Though he hasn’t explained every single detail of his past to you, there have been significant points in time where he has opened up about snippets of his past, to which you grasped and held onto as much detail as you could when he went on. You’ve picked up that Xiao isn’t the most well-articulated when it comes to explaining his feelings but you paid no mind to it, taking pride over the fact that he has yet to slit your throat open with his spear. There have been countless occasions in which you’ve praised Xiao but none of them have truly projected your feelings towards the adeptus.

Xiao was not truly aware of how deeply you felt for him. Sure, he thought that you were interested enough to stick around and pester him for who knows whatever reason. However, it went way beyond that. You admired him so dearly, his presence being one in which you ironically found an indescribable amount of comfort in. You’ve listened intently to his wise words of wisdom, his tales of his bloodstained past that he was willing to share, as well as his little remarks about how peculiar humans are. You saw beyond the seemingly frigid, cold, and distant demeanor of Xiao and instead saw a boy with such a yearning to be tender, gentleness being beyond his reach according to him but to you, he was gentle.

You noticed the way he would handle the little things involving you. You notice the way his tone has changed in the slightest when talking to you whenever he does, softer than the first time you had initially met. You notice the way he acts when it comes to physical touch, preferring to make little to no contact to you but his touches were soft and fleeting whenever touch was necessary. He’s told you several times in the past that he has a brute touch preferring a distance to keep himself from hurting you. From that alone, you knew he’s gentle, reluctant to admit it though due to the events of the past but nonetheless, his gentleness was hard to grasp but must be cherished greatly and that is something that you have done.

“Xiao” You called out to him. He turned to face you, noticing how you were staring right back at him, your arms resting upon the railing as you gazed at him.

“Is something wrong? You seem a little more spaced out today.” You spoke out again.

He sighed before clicking his tongue. “It's nothing that should be of any concern to mo--”

“--mortals like you, I know yada yada yada. You’ve said that far too many times in the past. Now tell me, what’s truly wrong Xiao. I did make you listen to my rambling so it’s only fair that you shoot something my way.” You cut him off.

Annoyance laced his features as he let out his nth sigh of the day. He turned to look at you, giving you a serious, almost cold look.

“I am already greatly aware of how odd some human tendencies are, knowing you mortals do some strange actions that even I question to this day. But you, you are the most peculiar of ones that I have encountered. You wish to stay with someone as myself, someone who could take your life in a single heartbeat. So tell me, why does someone like you continue to linger?”

Lo and behold, a question that you were surprised to hear from him, though you knew the day would eventually come when he would ask. Why did you continue to come to him time and time around? You let out an exasperated sigh as you turned to him with a lighthearted smile in an attempt to lighten the tension that filled the air.

“I enjoy your company, that’s all. Is it so wrong to spend time with someone when you enjoy them being around?” You stated. His eyes narrowed at your response.

“I do not believe it is normal to risk your life simply for mere company, it is not worth it. I refuse to believe that your motives are as light-hearted as that. Is there something that you desire that is beyond that of human capabilities?” He stated.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your smile faltered at his aloof response. What was with the sudden cold demeanor he decided to put up front? You held eye contact with his warm amber orbs that held a stare ironically as cold as the mountains of Dragonspine.

“It’s because you’re you, Xiao. I come back and spend my time here because you are you. I enjoy the little things about you and the time we spend together, y’know? I enjoy the way your eyes light up at the sight of almond tofu, I enjoy your little declarations of how odd us mortals are, I enjoy hearing you open up about even the littlest of things. You’re special in my eyes, Xiao. You’re strong in so many different aspects, you’re wise in the words of advice you speak and last but not least, you’re gentle. Those are just a few of many aspects of yourself that make you so special to me.”

Xiao’s face contorted to one of bewilderment for a brief moment before morphing to one of disbelief, scoffing at the statement. ‘Gentle’ he thought. When you mentioned him being gentle, he thought to himself that it was a load of pure nonsense.

“Calling me gentle is simply blasphemous. I have told you countless times that I am far anything related to that of a tender nature. I leave nothing but a trail of anguish and regret. You’re foolish to see me in anything of a good kind of special, even more so if you see me as gentle.” He firmly stated as his arms crossed tightly across his torso.

Archon’s Xiao’s mind was a mess. He was in a stubborn state of denial as he refused to believe the words that slipped past your lips, writing them off as lies. He covered the creeping insecurity that arose in him with a stone cold demeanor like he always did. He couldn’t accept it, he couldn't even fathom to believe what makes you think he’s so special.

“Listen Xiao, you’re being awfully stubborn right now.” You said dejectedly. Despite his current manner, you wouldn’t back down, seeing this as one of the only opportunities where you could truly and openly speak about how you felt towards him. You turned so that you were fully facing him, standing your ground as you spoke to him.

“You think so lowly of yourself sometimes y’know? It saddens me to know that you only ever see yourself like that.” You stated.

“I am stating nothing but the tru--” Xiao spoke.

“Listen to me, Xiao.” You cut him off, him being surprised by your snapback.

“You’re far more than your own past. I’m aware of everything you’ve gone through from what you’ve told me. Forgive me for I’m unable to fully sympathize with you but I can’t let you continue to do this to yourself. I’ve only known you for mere months out of the thousands of years you’ve lived but I’ve been around you long enough to know that you’re not as bad as you claim yourself to be.” You paused for a moment to gather yourself before you continued on, looking that Xiao was very much paying attention, an unreadable look on his face.

“You’ve told me yourself that you’ve been around long enough to capture the knowledge of the world to an extent. You’ve told me that you’re aware of how barbaric and lethal your own strength is but you’ve never told me that you hold tenderness inside you, even after all you’ve been through. You hold such valuable knowledge in the field of strength but you’ve failed to notice that the gentleness in you is not completely gone.” Your own hands stretched out and firmly held onto his gloved ones as you continued speaking.

“You speak about yourself as if you’re not worthy of feeling anything but the anguish and pain as a price to pay for your actions. You’re allowed to feel vulnerable, you’re allowed to feel curious, you’re allowed to feel happiness. I want you to be more honest with yourself so that you can see that you’re worthy enough to feel good emotions. You can extend yourself out to others and the human world and allow yourself to be free. Still after all this time, I sense you feel that it’s necessary to keep me at an arm's length but that’s not true nor is it something that I want. Though this fact alone proves my statement. The fact you wish to keep me away is a sign that you hold that gentleness within but you can still learn to be gentle without having to lock everyone out. Your loneliness isn’t an inevitable conclusion, and I’ll prove to you that it isn't. I wish to stay with you not only because I enjoy your company but because I found something in you worth cherishing. I want to see you grow from whatever anguish you hold, even if it’s just a little bit. I know my life might be merely a second in yours but please, let me do what I can in my lifetime to make you feel worthy and feel loved, because I truly do love and care for you, Xiao.” Your grip tightened around his hands, fearing that he’d yank them away from you with every passing second. Although you firmly stand your ground, you were internally malfunctioning at the whole-hearted confession to the adeptus in front of you.

Xiao felt as if the wind was knocked out of his lungs, face contorted into that of even more disbelief as he found himself still trying to process this whole ordeal. He took the time in processing the words that came directly from your heart as it went straight into his, a warm feeling erupting inside of him, something that felt to foreign to him that it scared him a little. Though your words held a weight to them, it was much more pleasant compared to that of his past memories, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the way you desperately held onto him.

He was well aware that he could pull away from you at any moment, knowing that your strength could in no way match his but he couldn’t do it. The moment your hands touched his, even through his gloves he felt the firm gentleness of your grasp. You were no hydro user but in that very moment, he felt as if you washed away the bloody sins that stained his hands for years on end. For once he felt clean; for once he felt pure, rid of all the unpleasantries of the world for these very moments that he spent with you.

You noticed how Xiao stood still. You feared that you might’ve severely angered him from the way you snapped at him, but the look on his face told you otherwise.

The usually serious and stern face of the adeptus held such a soft, perhaps vulnerable look. His eyes were wide and in the moonlight, you could tell that they were glossed over from the way they shone with emotion, mouth slightly ajar, possibly trying to find the right words to respond to you. He didn’t need to say anything though because from that look alone, you got all the answers that you needed.

You slowly let go of his hands as one arm moved to wrap around his waist and the other going towards the back of his head, reeling him in closely for a foreign yet mellow embrace. His hands awkwardly stayed at his sides before they slowly and hesitantly moved to hug you back, leaning in gently to your touch as your hand led his head to the crook of your neck, allowing him to bask in the warmth you so generously offered him. For the first time in archons knows how long, Xiao felt a warm liquid spill from his eyes, staining your shirt. Your hands ruffled through his hair in an attempt to soothe him in his time of vulnerability. His hold on you was still so light, almost as if he was afraid he’d break you if he held on even tighter. The hand that ghosted over his back made its way to one of his arms and tugged at it, encouraging him to hold on as much as he needed.

“It’s okay Xiao, you can hold on tighter. I’m not as fragile as you may think. You don’t have to be scared of breaking me.” You chuckled lightheartedly.

His grip did tighten, as he began to mumble words with his face still buried at your side. Something along the lines of apologizing for snapping at you earlier. Your smile widened as you held onto him even tighter if that was possible.

Xiao knew he wasn’t perfect, he was far from it in fact. He had so many flaws and rough edges but that was okay--that’s what made him Xiao. He never understood until now why you thought he was so special and to be quite frank, he still didn’t understand, but he was determined to understand it one day. He wasn’t good like you but he wanted to start believing that he was good in his own way, wishing to truly do something that he felt was right by you in the future. Though it wouldn’t be the easiest of journeys, he was determined to do something that feared him to no end--for you. He wanted to learn how to love, how to love you even more and openly express it to you but also, learn how to love himself, just as you loved him.

“Thank you, (Y/n).”

#genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact x reader #genshin xiao #xiao #xiao x reader #love like you #fanfic #fanfiction

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supremeinlilac · 3 years

Text

Hurt me once

Pairing: Billie Dean Howard x Fem!Reader

Prompt: Hurt me once- Ben Platt, also there will be a Mina one too :))

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Cheating, lying, basically Billie is how I imagine some celebrities in reality tv to be like, so soz.

Maybe you were reading into it too much. Since Billie had started dating you, you’d wanted to pull away from working for her and get your own job on the pretence that you could never be equal if you worked as her assistant day in and day out. You supposed you’d brought it upon yourself.

She still needed an assistant. Her job was demanding and stressful so of course she’d rehire. You’d been naïve to think any differently.

“No one can replace you.” She’d purred when you’d admitted to wanting to quit. Assuring that you’d been her best help to date.

She was lying.

You’d tried to remain focus in work but Billie Dean Howard had this addicting aura about her person and you couldn’t help but become distracted. Especially when she’d aim flirty remarks and winks with pinpoint precision at you. Like a lamb to slaughter you were set up to fail.

She’d taken you to watch a drive in movie for your first date. Huddled together under blankets on the plush of her backseat. It had been an action, the name escapes you now; but at the time you’d been far more aware of the way the light from the screen caught against her skin instead of the actual film.

The way she’d catch you staring and the signature cocky grin would form, tongue poking into her cheek as she pulled you closer. Under the stars that night you’d felt her lips for the first time, the moon a perfect witness. Stark and full above you, beaming down in chords of silvery light.

Naturally, it became routine for the moon to bare witness to such moments. For you both to come together under the pale light and either dance or watch another movie. The moon was hers, delicately and wholly and irrevocably hers.

You can’t look at the moon now without feeling the need to howl at it like a wolf does. For the moon had stolen Billie from you. The moon was no longer a thing you shared alone.

Billie took her new assistant to a drive in theatre.

It rained. The sky cried and protested like a petulant child because it should have been you. It should have been you there, huddled together under blankets on the plush of her backseat. Instead of throwing a tantrum, you told yourself that she was just being kind. Billie Dean was kind. Annoyingly so, in this case.

You told yourself that she didn’t realise that doing that was your thing, something that you did together. It was special. A rare pearl lodged in the mouth of a clam, the gem that you were lucky to have had. Had. Had you lost it, was its touch fleeting? Inevitably drawn back after being loaned so cruelly?

You started to notice the little ways Billie was pulling away. At least, you thought she was pulling away. Little landmines that were buried under your feet, growing and ticking dangerously, waiting for you to lose balance and fall. Triggering them. A looming explosion.

Billie would eat with her production team after long scheduled days of filming, she’d message you fleetingly with wordless apologies for her absence, and slip into bed after you slept. She never saw the tears that would stain the skin of your cheeks. At least you hoped she didn’t notice them, because she never mentioned it, and you’d prefer her to be ignorant to it than to ignore your pain.

She’d started to take her phone calls on the porch, leaving the dinner table with only a motion to the ringing to say where she was going. She’d mouth that she’d be back in a minute but you’d always have to reheat her food. Eating alone with the silhouette of your lover in the window had become the regular, leaving an uneasy feeling in your gut which you couldn’t seem to shake.

It seemed like you’d forgotten how to read her face.

No. You’d always been able to sense her mood by the twitch of a lip or the furrow of a brow, could know what she was thinking without even having to try.

It struck you that maybe that was only the case because she was letting you, an open book, the tells of her mood bright against the curves of her face. The book was no longer open, fragile pages torn in an attempt to hide the contents. The library of Billie Dean’s emotions padlocked and closed to you.

At the back of your mind however, you knew that you could still read her like you always had been able to. A feeble attempt to disguise the fact that you could see the words strewn carefully across the page, so clearly in front of you. But you don’t like what you read, instead feigning oblivion rather than face the truth.

It was red to love Billie Dean.

Passionate and fuelled, excitement sparking your muscles involuntarily. It was hot, blushed faces between silken sheets. The feeling one gets as the rollercoaster reaches its peak, and hovers just over the edge, dipping so you can see the fall. Your breath hitches in your throat and for a moment you feel like you might live forever, stay in this moment and this safety with Billie.

But a moment doesn’t last forever.

And then it’s dropping. Falling, falling. You reach out to grasp for something sturdy but fingers only close around the fragments of memories that you’re losing. Moments you won’t experience again. And your breath draws in a way that is painful, burning down to your lungs. Red. Fire. Dangerous.

For it was dangerous to love Billie Dean.

You knew it all too well.

You’d read the suggestive articles about the mysterious, nameless new girl that clung to Billie’s arm, sheltered by the umbrella she’d once used to protect you from the rain.

Now, you’d dance fearlessly under it with closed eyes and a head tilted to the sky. Welcoming the rain from your apologetic moon. For your moon was panoptic, it saw your pain and her infidelity, sending shards of silver regret.

You wanted the looming explosion to be destructive. To be angry and snapping and make her understand that she’d hurt you with inexistent loyalty when yours had been unwavering.

But the explosion wasn’t big. It wasn’t sudden and angry, a dog snarling and baring steak knives for teeth, loud and frothing at the mouth. Looking back you wished it had been, it would have been easier to hate her, to blame her.

Hating Billie Dean Howard was impossible. Even the people with the least humility would sooner blame themselves, sinking and struggling beneath the waves themselves lest have Billie drown.

You found yourself drawing back into yourself, a child curled into itself in the corner, a small animal frantic to take up the least space possible. You shrunk, imploding instead of exploding. Crippling hatred gnawed at your skin, vultures picking your body clean and leaving it to rot in the burning sun.

Doubt crushes your ribs to ash, filling your lungs and mixing with blood to a paste no amount of coughing will clear. It was deep and bruising, and you knew that not even Billie’s empty reassurance wouldn’t settle the ache.

The night you confronted Billie played in your mind like a broken cassette, looping the scene, a single jumping moment on display endlessly.

You’d been crying. Billie hadn’t turned up for the dinner you’d made for your anniversary, well she’d showed, hours later and stumbling through the door. She’d been drinking and the curve of her lips was smudged with a crimson lipstick under the moonlight.

Your moonlight.

You couldn’t remember a time when Billie Dean had worn red lipstick. Hooker lipstick, as she’d once said. The fact only made the tears run anew.

Her intoxication made it easier. Perhaps you’d be able to vent and cry and confess to her and she wouldn’t remember come the morning. The spirits in the walls would remind her though, whispers and taunts in sobriety.

You wanted to be big and angry, pushing back against her when her actions cut you, hurting and scarring her back. But you were kinder than her. Billie was kind but she had nothing on you.

You’d stood, bags packed in a pile by the door, and she’d sat. You’d cried, and she didn’t. She didn’t even speak until you made to leave, didn’t move until it was to cling onto your wrists in a frantic effort to keep you.

“Did you sleep with her?” You found yourself asking without even registering your words. You hadn’t planned on being so direct.

“Y/n, listen to me. I-”

“Did you, sleep with her?” Ignoring her, you spoke. Slower, punctuating and almost spitting your words at her, as if keeping them against your tongue would do more damage.

“Once, yes. But she’s not you.” Billie said, slender fingers reaching to pull at the pearls around her neck, instead of reaching to you.

You found yourself backing away again, struck anew at her final admission. Somehow it hurt more to hear her confirm what you already knew to be true. Like when you know someone to be dying, yet it only really hits you when they’re gone. When it’s too late to change anything.

“I don’t know why I did it, I just-” her voice trailed off, hands hitting out at nothing. Slumping onto the sofa, you mirrored her movement, perching yourself tentatively on the arm of the coach.

Your eyes flitted from her form to the door, the escape should you need it. Should youchoose it.

“You did it because you could, Billie.” You breathed, knuckles pressing at your temple to ease an impending migraine. Fighting with Billie always gave you a headache, it was a headache to get your point across when she’d ceased to listen. “I mean I get it, it’s exciting. Young girls like me, fawning. You feel, I don’t know? Appreciated, flattered?”

You knew that it was commonplace among celebrities like Billie, to chain date young girls who fed into their egos and made them feel young. Billie didn’t speak for a while, head in her hands and knees knocking together while you forced yourself to not watch her, eyes fixing instead on the way the curtains sways slightly with the open window. Even the curtains ached to free themselves.

“Look. I’m sorry, I swear.” Her voice thawed, defensiveness gone and replaced with a vulnerability she rarely let herself show. You wrung your hands in your lap and stared at the way they whitened with pressure. Your lungs felt like that, blood pressed out with the crushing doubt, a band wrapped around your ribs. You almost reached a hand up to your chest to help you breathe.

She stood, reaching into the cabinet drawer and retrieving a packet of cigarettes and flicking one between her fingers. She didn’t light it. What would be the point of creating more of a separating fog between you both? Instead, she just fiddled with it, a nervous tic.

“Can we still be in love?” She pleaded, eyes shining and you screwed yours tight as to not be lost to the depths of them. Her eyes were your weakness, and she knew it. You’d once told her that you thought you’d seen the man on the moon, reflected in them. The man on the moon, dancing on a music box in her eyes.

“I don’t know you. Your voice, it’s different.” The shake of your head and the riddle of your words had the medium narrowing her eyes in confusion. For one who loved to play games, Billie wasn’t playing fair.

“What do you mean? Different how?”

Frustration bit at you, and you wondered if this was the explosion people spoke of. An internal understanding of grief for something you never had.

“I can’t with you Billie! Did you ever even love me? You say you want to be in love but were you ever in love with me? What makes me different from the others?” The chime of the music box, opened and singing in the splash of your tears.

She sighed, tying her hair loosely behind her head to stop her from running her hands through it in anguish. She didn’t like to see you in pain knowing she was the one who’d caused it. Unjustly caused it. Guilt washed smoothly over her only now at the sight of her baby girl, a small ache in the gut. But the realisation hit like a winter wave in a storm. She’d lose you if she didn’t fight to keep you.

She reached out to wipe your tears with a comforting hand.

“Let me in. Please.”

Who were you to seek comfort in the person who’d broken you? Much alike to a shadow seeking solace with the sun, the sun that burned and cut through the shade. Prey looking to please the predator.

But you did. You craved the musk of smoke that would cling to her clothes, the rasp to her voice in the morning. The suggestive lilt to her eyebrow when she’d dress you in her favourite dress, dancing in an empty crowd because she used to only see you.

“I love you.” She begged; voice hoarse from overuse. “You’re a part of me.”

That made you stop. Made you question.

Who were you without her? Billie Dean Howard, medium to the stars. She was a light, cutting through the dangerous darkness a path forged for you. The darkness was exciting and inviting and you wanted to be comfortable in its depths, but without her you are nothing.

You sell your soul for the chance at happiness. For the hope that she may learn to love you properly, how you love, and deserve to be loved back. To walk in the light.

You tell yourself how easy it would be to leave the city and find peace elsewhere. Get a steady job in television production, a steady and reliable wage. Reliability. Billie had made you crave it. Crave it from her, selfishly asking for something that you aren’t even sure if she’s capable to give you.

But you're ensnared in her trap. Her charm and confidence has bound you on a tether, an obedient puppy just looking to please. Young and impressionable.

How could you settle for a simple life when Billie had shown you the city from the highest building. Made you watch as the lights illuminated the world below in perfect technicolour. She’d shown you what could be, what was destined to not to be, but what you’d reach for nonetheless.

You’d known about Billie’s previous proclivities toward girls your age, but you’d believed that you could change her. Naively, you, another wide eyed, hopeful wannabee, believed you could make her settle down. Stupid. She’d lain with dozens of girls like you, before you, and she would lay with dozens more.

This realisation did nothing to stop you from letting her back in, agreeing to her empty promise of change.

Was change even possible?

She was Billie Dean Howard, the stars. The stars could make deals with the people of Earth, but they could not bargain in return. You can’t catch a star and claim it as your own. She held all the cards, all the choices while you remained empty. Without her, you were nothing.

You let yourself be engulfed by the stars. Opening your arms for her warmth to invade you once again as she pulled you into a hug. Letting yourself be hers again.

But you’d always been hers, ever since she’d strode, cocky and confident, into your life. You didn’t think that she’d ever truly been yours, or ever would.

Billie Dean Howard held the unpredictability of a tornado’s spin, and people got caught up in her exciting whirlwind. You weren’t sure if she really meant for them to, or if she realised the damage she left in her wake. Travelling from place to place, never looking back.

It was a defence mechanism the job forced upon her. But who was defending you?

“No second chances.” You warned her through gritted teeth, chin propped against her shoulder. She couldn’t see the angry tears that pricked at your eyes, anger at her, at yourself. You’d been reminded of the dangers over and over and yet you still allowed yourself to fall victim to her charm.

“I won’t need one, I promise. I swear I won’t,” Billie reassured, palms rubbing up your back and making you shiver involuntarily. You clutched her blouse in trembling fingers, perhaps if you held on strong enough your bones might turn to ash in her grasp and she’d be the one to mourn. You convinced yourself she wouldmourn.

“I can’t do this again.” Truth.

“I won’t do this again.” Lie.

She hummed, accepting your whispers as truth, for who was Billie Dean Howard to question you? Who was she to take your love for granted and render it infinite? Fame did not mean she was entitled to your loyalty if she refused to give hers.

Billie wasn’t stupid, she knew it wasn’t a game she could win without consequences. She couldn’t have it all. Wouldn’t have it all.

“I love you.” A kiss against skin mottled by tears.

You didn’t say it back, she didn’t deserve it yet. Despite wanting to let your lips form the words, your teeth bit down on your tongue and refused for the phrase to drip demurely from it, she had not yet earned the nectar of your spoken love.

Instead; you let Billie believe that you would have actually left. That you would leave next time.

Not that you wouldn’t have eventually, when you finally broke the spell she had over you, being the television star that she is. You loathed that you would forgive her for hurting you so easily, self-respect forgotten in lieu of kissing under the gentle moon once more.

You were ashamed that you were proud of the fact that she could do anything and you’d still be in love with her. You’d chosen her, your colour sealed with the crimson blood that coursed through your veins.

Red was once your favourite colour, wasn’t it?

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#sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #billie dean howard #billie dean howard x reader #american horror story #ahs murder house #imagine

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lyrabythelake · 3 years

Text

When you lose your sword... panic?

This idea was concocted from a conversation with @gintrinsic-writing and Just_Bonesy :)

CW: blood, gore, violence

Twilight is not the best fighter of the group by any means, that title goes to Sky or Warriors, or possibly Wild when he isn’t setting the battlefield on fire. It’s clear which of them have had professional training and who hasn’t; where Sky moves with precise elegance, Hyrule fights with almost desperate brawl. Where Warriors parrys and jabs with meticulously calculated technique, Legend’s style is rather a brutish scuffle. But while the professional soldiers of the group have the upper hand while fighting with swords, there are certain situations where those who have learned exclusively from their own wits and experience come out on top.

Take now, for example, as Twilight faces three lizalfos head on. His sword is in the ditch somewhere having flown out of his hand a few moments ago courtesy of an unsuspecting swipe from his blind spot, and he has no other weapons on him. The others aren’t in any position to be helping him, they have their own battles to fight; the waves of enemies are approaching fast.

The lizalfos on the right comes at him first, swinging sword glinting maliciously, and Twilight jumps into action, light and sturdy on his feet. He lets his adrenaline run wild and his most animalistic instincts kick in, and he lets out a snarl, baring his teeth in battle-fuelled rage. He doesn’t dodge backwards away from the first swipe, he lunges towards it seemingly heedlessly so that instead of being hit by the blade, he’s struck with the inside of the beast’s elbow. It stumbles slightly in surprise and Twilight uses the opening to grab its wrist and turn it forcefully clockwise, hearing a couple of bones in its hand crack. In his mid-battle high, they might as well be twigs snapping beneath his palms. It lets out a pig-like squeal but doesn’t drop its sword – Twilight is forcing its hand to keep its grip underneath his own.

It’s a struggle, but he manages to turn it enough that the wrist too snaps beneath its scaly skin and the sword plunges into its own stomach with a little added force. Twilight shoves it away with excessive strength and it falls to the ground, unmoving, dark red pooling beneath its body, congealing with the grit and mud in a viscous concoction of its own defeat. Twilight staggers slightly from the momentum of the push, his knuckle scraping painfully along the floor, and the next lizalfos takes the small opportunity to grab him in a steel headlock.

He doesn’t hesitate as he turns his head to the side with sudden force and uses his entire weight to pull on the arm that holds him. It gives way immediately, almost too easily, and he twists his body, the lizalfos hand with it, until he’s in a position to shove it to the ground alongside its companion. He finishes it off with five kicks to the head, the tiny, fragile bones of its face shattering beneath his worn, blood-splattered boot.

There’s one left now, weaponless, and Twilight can feel it’s hesitance, it’s eyes flickering to it’s fallen comrades with what Twilight would like to think of as nervousness. Good. A hesitant opponent means it’s more likely to make mistakes, more chance of openings for a kill. Still, there’s strange determination in its cold, reptilian eyes when it runs at full speed towards him, and it’s almost a shame that it lasts as little time as it does.

Twilight squats in preparation, and as it reaches him, claws outstretched in front of it, muscular tail poised for attack, he manages to grip it around the underside of its arm with one hand and the scraps of its tunic in the other, and then pulls with all his might. It goes flying over his shoulder with more momentum than Twilight had expected, and he feels its neck crack as it tumbles to the ground behind him.

He straightens up, eyes roving over each of his three enemies to confirm that they are indeed still motionless, and rubs the dust off his hands contentedly before turning around, coming face to face with Wind, a fierce look in his sea-blue eyes.

“Show me how to do that,” the sailor demands, the pointy end of his sword pointing straight at him. Twilight takes a step back, startled.

“What?” he asks. The others are coming to the end of their respective fights and seem not to have noticed the gruesome brawl that went down only seconds ago.

“That.” Wind waves the sword to the place the third dead Lizalfos lies, “The thing you did with the twirly arm where you threw that guy over your shoulder.”

“The one arm shoulder throw?” Twilight questions, parroting the name Rusl had taught him all those years ago when his mentor used to beat him every time they sparred.

“I don’t care what it’s called! Just show me!”

So he does, later, when they’ve set up camp and the others are doing their own thing elsewhere, either practicing their own fighting or foraging resources for their journey. Twilight has had experience teaching hand-to-hand combat to the children of Ordon – it’s strongly believed in the village that children should learn to fight as soon as they are able, and not everyone can afford swords – and he is pleased, but unsurprised, that Wind has the enthusiasm of all of the village children put together. He is also considerably more competent at listening and picking up the moves (again, not altogether surprising considering he defeated Ganon at the tender age of twelve) and he manages to learn a good few techniques in just a couple of hours.

“This is fun,” Wind grins, looking down at him as Twilight picks himself off the floor having just been taken down for the umpteenth time, on this occasion with a solid kick to the back of his left knee. Hylia help them all if Wind grows any bigger, who knew his skinny legs held such brute strength.

“Hey Captain!” Wind shouts to Warriors who is walking into the clearing carrying a stack of logs, an axe on his back, “you wanna spar? Twi taught me some new moves.”

“Sure, Sailor,” he replies, dropping the logs into a neat pile by their camp and swapping the axe for his sword, “don’t go too hard on me,” he grins good-naturedly, clearly not noticing the mischievous glint in Wind’s eyes. Wind picks up his own sword and they get into their respective stances, eyeing each other from across the small clearing. Wind waits for Warriors to swing first, at which point he tosses his sword to the ground beside him.

“Wait, wha-“ Warriors manages to get out mid-swing before Wind is careening towards him and grabbing his wrist in the way Twilight taught him. Twilight is proud to see he executes the move perfectly, twisting Warriors’ wrist towards him and immediately sending him to the ground, sword and all.

“Holy mother of FUCK!” Warriors shouts, clutching his wrist in obvious pain, his sword lying some few metres away. Twilight hopes Wind didn’t break anything.

“What next, Twi?” Wind asks cheerily as the captain rolls around at his feet.

“Now you kick him in the balls,” Twilight informs him.

“WAIT, NO! STOP, I SURRENDER!” Warriors pleads, and Twilight gives Wind a wink before going over to help Warriors up, grasping his good hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Where in Hylia’s name did you learn to fight like that?” Warriors asks him, clutching his wrist to his chest.

“Rusl taught me some of it,” he replies, “some I learned from just being on the road, and some of it’s stuff I learned from goat wrangling.”

The Captain considers him for a moment, clearly impressed.

“You think you could teach that to everyone?”

So that’s how Twilight finds himself standing in front of a scene that might be even more chaotic than when he was teaching Colin and his friends hand-to-hand. In his defence, he’s almost certain it’s not his teaching skills that are to blame; goat wrangling is nothing compared to herding these supposedly ‘respectable’ holders of the triforce of courage.

Wind successfully managed to take down Time before the lesson even started, and he now sits next to him, sheepishly holding some ice from Legend’s ice rod over the old man’s nose while the latter glares stonily into the distance. Behind them, Warriors has Legend in a headlock and Twilight almost chuckles at the distinctly rodent-like way Legend is trying to squirm out of it, punching every square inch of torso he can reach.

Four’s eyes flash blue-green as he gleefully pulls Sky down to his own height by the clump of hair he mercilessly has clenched in one fist, and Hyrule and Wild are hanging upside-down from a tree (though Twilight is pretty sure that has nothing to do with the lesson at hand).

All learned technique has gone out the window. Scratch that, it’s left the Goddessdamned kingdom. Though, Twilight supposes, that was kind of the point in the first place. Besides, Wind has fully mastered the one arm shoulder throw considering the way Time landed face first in the mud like a sack of potatoes not so long ago and Warriors has lost his usual stringency that so often prevents him from improvising in tight spots. All in all, they’re not doing too badly, and he fancies next time they find themselves up against an enemy without a weapon, they’ll be considerably more prepared. Rusl would be proud.

#linked universe #lu twilight #fanfic #linked universe fanfic #blood #gore #lyra writes

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antiquitiesandlabyrinths · 3 years

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The Impact of Religion and the Mother Goddess on Human Culture

Notes: This essay is compiled from a number of sources ranging from books, university publications, youtube videos, and museum articles. This essay is also not just about Egypt, like the rest of this blog is––it concerns early civilizations ranging from Britains to Harappans.

As we all know, religion inhabits much of our daily life in modern times, and even more so in ancient times. The origins of our existence have been explained many times over with many different ideas––how these ideas are presented to the world and the common man influences the actions of the people and government who follow that religion.

The oldest religions in the world tend to worship a Mother Goddess––a feminine figure that represents the ability to create life which, for a while, was confined entirely to the efforts of women and the miracle of childbirth. We know very little about these people beyond what the archaeological record can tell, as there is no written language for pre-history hominids who created the first works of art; women, with full hips and breasts, carved into wood and stone. What we do know about them is that they had forms of empathy––healed femur bones from old, preserved skeletons reveal that people healed from grievous injuries that, in many other species, would mark death. Jaws, hunched in like the pursed lips of old men, were also found without their teeth, but still living to an impressive age of around 80. Someone had to physically chew this person's food, and they did, for what could've been decades. This shows that same pattern; a tribe that fed, clothed, and took care of someone who otherwise would not have survived on their own.

All of this points not only to intelligence in early hominids, but also a form of empathy that some people even today lack in our society––a society that doesn't worship a Mother Goddess, whose origins in humanity are entirely different from the beliefs of the first humans.

The Sumerian civilization is among the oldest, including the four civilizations birthed in cradles of humanity––the Harappan civilization along the Indus Valley river, Mesopotamian culture along the Euphrates––or the fertile crescent––, as well as Egypt along the Nile and the rivers in China. This topic of Sumerian religion, the changes it went through, and the effect that had on its' people, are discussed in great detail in the book 'The Alphabet Versus the Goddess' by Leonard Shlain, but I will attempt to summarize the religious history of Sumeria and Mesopotamia.

When the first towns and cities began to prop up around the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, the people who lived there worshipped a wide pantheon of Gods like many of the other first civilizations. Their creation myth involves the work of a primeval mother Goddess named Namma, who created humanity. These people who lived under this creation myth, this belief that they were created out of nothing and out of love, allowed for times of relative peace, as well as a rapid growth in art, structure, and other such refinements of city life. Later on, however, this idea was obstructed by a rising Babylonian culture coming into the fertile crescent. These people believed in a much more gruesome birth of humanity, and is a strikingly, and horrifying, difference from the myths of early Sumerians.

The Babylonian creation myth was written or told as a way of confirming Marduk as the main God of the world. This story is called Enuma Elish, and acted as a way to legitimize Marduk replacing Enlil, the previous God King. The telling of it occurred during the Kassite inhabitation of Babylon.

Tiamat, the Goddess of the Sea (salty water) mated with her husband Apsu, a God who represented fresh water. From this several Gods emerged in couplets. Most were boisterous and loud, as young children are, producing so much noise that Apsu was incensed to destroy them. He was stopped soon by his wife, Tiamat, who urged him to exhibit more patience; a request he did not heed. Their sons soon heard of this danger and, in fear of death, called upon the god Ea to help them. Ea was an incredibly resourceful God, and put the angered Apsu to sleep with a spell. They killed the sleeping God and stole his vizier, Mummu. After this, Ea birthed his own child with his consort, Damkina. This is the origin of Marduk.

Marduk was the tallest and the mightiest of all the Gods, who held power to control the four winds, a power given by the God Anu. Anu told him to let the winds whirl; it created a storm that picked up dust from the earth, the winds roaring loud enough to antagonize the usually patient Tiamat. Other Gods faced this same irritation and urged Tiamat to take action––to slay down the God, Marduk.

Another telling of this story has a slightly different timeline, that tells a significantly different story––instead of Ea and lesser Gods killing Apsu, Apsu is killed by Marduk, which directs Tiamat's anger more reasonably to Marduk.

When she comes to face Marduk on the battlefield, she has with her eleven monsters created by the Mother Goddess for this quest. While Ea tries to find a way to end this confrontation with magic spells, he is eventually told that it isn't exactly possible, and thus Marduk puts forth an offer that the other Gods take. He will face the Goddess Tiamat, and if he should win, he would be the King of all Gods. This battle is long and difficult, but eventually Marduk does win in a horrifying way. He blows massive gusts of wind down Tiamat's mouth, swelling her stomach and abdomen so massively she appears to be a woman in the final stages of pregnancy. While she is thoroughly and painfully stretched with Marduk's wind, he slays her with an arrow down her gullet, killing a woman who had the image of the feminine creation of life, an ending violently estranged from the myth of a mother Goddess creating things by her own magic, and not the death of others.

Once Tiamat is slain, her corpse is large, and Marduk puts it to use. He stretches her skin out to become the sky. Her pierced eyes, heavy with tears, are the origins of the Euphrates and the Tigris, flooded with her crying. Her tail is made into the Milky Way. Her split head, torn by the heavy club of Marduk, is used to make the mountains, and her body created the earth. He pricked her breasts in many places for the tributaries of the rivers. From her blood Marduk creates humans in a disturbingly dark way, a stark difference––humans made by magic, versus humans made by the murder of a Goddess mirroring the image of a pregnant woman.

As God-King, Marduk received complaints from lesser Gods that they had to toil on the earth themselves to create their own tributes, taken care of by worshippers. To remedy this, Marduk decides to create humans. He singled out Tiamat's favorite son, Kingu, who ruled with her after her husband's death, and accused him of instigating Tiamat's rage. He placed all blame on this one God, freeing everyone else of the blame but Kingu. Marduk then ordered his father, Ea, to knead the flesh and blood of Kingu's executed form, this sacrifice, molding it like clay in his hands. After the images of many humans were created, Marduk sentenced them to toil on Tiamat's corpse for all their lives in order to create offerings and worship for the Gods.

This violent origin creates a culture indebted to its' gods, forever attempting to repent from the sins of their past, the gruesomeness of their creation, to make up for Kingu's sacrifice. Compared to the simple origins of the mother Goddess Nammu, the people who worshipped her in Sumer didn't have this responsibility––they were created of love. But Babylonians lived forever attempting to make up for their own creations, a theme that is reflected clearly in Christianity. A savior, and worshippers forever trying to repent for their own existence.

This story also reflects the growth of monetary gain in a society. For example, the Indus Valley civilization on the Indus river had no such array of Gods that required tributes so often like that. It is hard to say what exactly the people of Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro truly believed in, as we have yet to decipher their written language, but archaeological evidence shows no presence of temples for Gods in any of the cities. Instead, the cities are laid out in a straight, clearly preplanned manner that allowed wind to channel through the streets like air conditioning. There were no ways for these city-states to hold immense power over the people, as there was no reason that would excuse the abuse put upon lower-class citizens; there were no violent 'Gods' to which such offerings were necessary, meaning the class system most likely worked in a very different way to that of Babylonia, who had massive temples. The creation and building of these temples fuelled the Mesopotamian economy greatly, as money that was collected in taxes was actually put to use, not stored up and saved like what can happen in a capitalistic society. It's the difference between a city built for its' people or a city built for its' gods, and, in extension, the god-Kings that ruled on earth. Something interesting to note as well, is that the Indus Valley civilization didn't have any weapons or mass wars––as far as we know––in its' history from 5,000 BC to 1500 BC. There could be other reasons for this, but I believe it may have something to do with the feminine cult religion and the absence of temples.

There is a similar theme in Egyptian culture, surprisingly. Egypt is known as an ancient civilization that had forward-thinking rights for women and men, including divorce proceedings and the ability to hold a job and property. Like Sumer, its original creation myth dealt mainly with the creative, coming-together of powerful forces; this time two women, something that very rarely happens in religion. There are no male Gods that inspire or order the two Goddesses––they act alone, and of their own volition. This tale is one of the oldest creation myths we've found yet in Egypt, dating all the way back to the Early Dynastic Period of the Old Kingdom.

Nekhbet was the Goddess of Upper Egypt, a vulture Goddess (whose imagery and meaning we will discuss later). Wadjet was the serpent Goddess of Lower Egypt. These two Goddesses were primordial deities, existing before the creation of earth. They emerged from the waters of chaos, which was thought to be all that the world was back then, bringing with them land and air, and eventually the loving creations of humans. Like cobras that twist around each other into a double helix, the Egyptians were intrinsically entwined with the Nile, an image that is reflected even in modern times, with the symbol of two entwined snakes being the symbol for healing, often displayed in hospitals, and the formation of DNA in its ladder-like structure.

It may seem a little strange that the two Goddesses who created the earth––in this Divine Feminine mythology––are represented by a cobra and a vulture, but in Egyptian society, that was simply what they were.

In hieroglyphics, vultures denote a woman. They are in the spelling of mother, of daughter, of wife, and of Goddesses. In fact, the word mother is written the exact same way as vulture. These birds appeared to have foresight to the Egyptians as well––they circled their prey before a meal was assured, remarking a sort of prophecy. They also denoted a divine manifestation of death, an important trait to share with the goddess Nekhbet, who carried exceptional power.

The snake was also a feminine symbol, though strangely explained by the Egyptians, whose ideas on life differ greatly from the modern, more monotheistic view (Christianity, Islam, and Judaism). The sinuous like movements of its' 'step' mimicked the swaying of a woman's hips in a dance, evocative and nubile, and her movements in the throes of passion mimicked a similar serpentine state. Snakes resembled the meandering shapes of rivers, the roots of trees and plants, and the umbilical cord of mammalians. They live deep within the earth, making their home within the Great Mother, and they appeared to live forever, shedding their skin whenever renewal was required. This specifically was a trait revered by Egyptians, who had a great love and zest for life, and wished to live forever. Renewal connected snakes to the Nile's inundation and the sun's revival every morning after its' death the night before. Hieroglyphs come into play with snakes, as well––the hieroglyphs for serpent are the same as the hieroglyphs for Goddess.

It can be difficult to say how exactly this myth was thought of during the Old Kingdom. This is an incredibly old myth, and by the time writing started to really take hold of the country, the myth was replaced with a new, more masculine one. While it wasn't as violent as the Babylonian creation myth, it contained an incredible amount of masculine energy. Female goddesses faded from the light as a particular two Gods shot up in popularity––Amun and Ra, or Amun-Re (there are many different spellings, including Atum, Re, Aten, etc.).

There is an incredibly theory put forth in the previously mentioned book "The Alphabet Versus the Goddess" that inspired me to truly think about the connection between religion and society, as well as the impact of writing on the ideas of feminine and masculine energies within that society. Leonard Shlain, the author of the book, posits that "... any written method of communication skews society toward masculine vales."

The new, masculine myth that took the place of the Goddesses Nekhbet and Wadjet was a little more simple––Atum stood on a mound of earth, surrounded by the primordial sea. Atum masturbated, and from his seed sprouted the Ennead––nine deities making up a family of powerful Gods and Goddesses. This story was found to have its origins nearly 1500 years after the myth of Nekhbet and Wadjet.

So how did this change in mythology reflect in society?

Again, it is hard to say. In the Old Kingdom, Pharaohs tended to their people, and their was a feudal-type system ruled by an all-powerful King. Art flourished in the time, and even today many people claim that the art of Egypt peaked in the Old/Middle Kingdom and fizzled out during the New Kingdom. Another notable change is after the invasion of the Hyksos––and an occupation that lasted only a little over a century, one that was despised heavily––Egypt began to take on a new sort of mindset. Pharaohs now went out beyond the borders of Egypt, even up into Canaan and completing quests of great magnitude, erecting monuments in honor of their victory. Such behavior is found more in violent, masculine-powered societies than anywhere else.

Viking and Medieval UK faced this same problem––women were hardly considered people during this age, unable to own their own land or divorce. This was a masculine honoring society, praising the violence of colonizing and shunning empathy. There was a need within the people to 'spread their greatness' to others, but in reality, the greatness was nothing more than violence; a theme also seen in the Avatar: The Last Airbender, as the Fire nation brainwashed its' child citizens to believe the Fire Nation had a right to the rest of the world. I'm afraid I have little else to say on the topic of Europe because that is not my area of study, but the similarities are easy to draw.

Our society today is, despite our best efforts, a masculine-drawn society. Our God is chiefly referred to as 'He' and representation in our media for women is scant beyond superficial characters, as men, who rule most of the business in the world, can have trouble seeing women as something more than a pretty, talking toy. This, of course, isn't universal, but it is incredibly common and would be more so if women weren't trying to make a stand. Like Babylonians, Christians are born with innate guilt, attempting to make up and repent for the sacrifice of their savior, another masculine form of a deity. Like Atum-worshipping Egyptians, our world was created alone at the hands of an all powerful male God.

But, unlike Sumerians, we never had a Mother Goddess. Unlike the earliest myths of Egypt, the world was not birthed at the hands of a fertile woman. And, unlike early Egypt, we are not happy. Our 'life after death' is somewhere unlike Earth, somewhere that is perfect, unlike earth. But for Egyptians? Life after death was earth, just another form of it, and life in that afterlife was just the same as life during life. Whether or not that has anything to do with our method of governing, our economy, or our massive differences in religion––there is no evidence. It is a simple outlook on life that is only translated in holy texts and the remains of dead people, and dead people very rarely talk.

Like most things, religion isn't contained to a Sunday every week or to Muslim prayer mats every day––such things spread into our food, our way of life, our infrastructure, how we respect and treat each other, and how we treat the Earth. I believe it is important to remember that the oldest Gods are things seen every day––the water, the earth, the sky, the sun, and the stars. These are what influenced the first humans, the first beings to care for one another in old age, to heal what was thought to be forever broken, and to take up the mantle of kindness for each other without the threat of a violent God condemning them. Many modern people base their ethics on the threat of punishment from God(s), in which case we can all learn from atheists, who continue to do good without threat, simply because they believe it is right to help others, just as our ancestors did.

#ancient religion #ancient history #egyptian mythology #ancient sumeria #sumerian mythology #babylonian mythology #indus valley civilization #divine feminine #divine masculine

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huenjin · 3 years

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"i am never, ever, going to one of jisung's parties again."

you shift in your 'seat' to try and get comfortable which results in the person underneath to emit a low groan, hot breath fanning against your ear causing goosebumps to rise all over. it's such an inappropriate scene, the way changbin has you perched on his lap, firm hands on your hips to stop you from moving around too much. "comfy, princess?" he rasps, and you have to bite your lip from making any sounds you know will boost his ego. it's already sky high as it is. god you could almost feel the raging hard-on if you leaned further back, even just a little.

it's hyunjin's fault. you blame it all on hyunjin for dragging you there because he said you needed to "have fun and let loose" after 2 weeks of stress and sleepless nights during final exams. you really do appreciate his thoughtfulness, and he's not wrong for the most part, it's just that you would've preferred staying in to binge watch the latest episodes of private lives on netflix. you're so behind on the drama it's frustrating. but when he offered to buy you new clothes for the halloween party, you figured why not? there's no loss with those terms are there?

wrong. hyunjin just conveniently forgot to mention that your natural enemy seo changbin would also be there. and that he'd be hot as fuck dressed as a policeman. if you were being brutally honest you'd like for him to lock you up and use those handcuffs for you, but it's well known around the campus that y/n and changbin do not go together. you bicker, you fight, you squabble every single time you're in the same room, let alone the same space. he riles you up like no other, and you challenge him like none has.

the sexual tension though? un-fucking-believable.

in changbin's defense, you didn't have to look so sexy in that air hostess costume. a flight attendant? he'd love for you to attend to his needs instead. it's true, the both of you can't stand each other but what's a bit of hate sex can't fix? "probably everything." was what his best friend and fellow roommate chan had said. he might be true, but that won't stop changbin from trying now will it? no, of course not.

"truth or dare y/n?"

curse that beer bottle for landing in your direction twice in a row. the first ended up with you in that position. and now? it's about to get real. so there's two options. either you get zapped by the lie-detecting machine or pick a lousy dare. both you're sure will only end up in your misery because your whole group of friends will forever try and get either you or changbin to break and get into each other's pants (or skirts) already. there's no giving up in their dictionary unless when it comes to studying.

"dare."

changbin whistles at your decision, his intense stare burning holes at the back of your head as he removed one of his hands to rest on your bare thigh. every touch of his fingertips sends tingles up your spine, core starting to drip with want. the longing, the need to be filled is overwhelming that your brain turns into mush and all rational thoughts are out the window.

"i dare you.. to kiss changbin. french style, if you will."

fuck it, you thought. you want a show? fine, i'll give you a show.

in the blink of an eye you've switched positions to straddle his lap, taking off the hat he's wearing and placing it on yourself before leaning in to capture his lips with yours. he smirks during the kiss, feeling victorious at you finally giving in at your desires. under different circumstances you'd want to slap that smirk right off, but now you're in too far to care.

it's animalistic, how he has in tongue in you within a split second after giving your ass cheeks a particularly harsh squeeze. the gasp you let out encourages him to move lower and lower to where you need him most. the sucking and biting he litters under your jaw would be future y/n's problem to handle in the morning because right now, you're putty in his hold. the purple and red marks are a sign, a warning. this is seo changbin's territory.

your hands around his neck, tangled in his soft locks earns a string unholy moans you're sure you'll never get tired of hearing. he knows damn well what he's doing. not one sweet spot of yours did he miss, and by the end of it he has your dress bunched up around your waist, lower half grinding down on his crotch.

"fuck, princess, you're so beautiful."

the action has you seeing stars, pure bliss fuelling your veins which keeps you going on and on and on. every drag gets you higher and god does it feel good. when his lips find yours again his thrusts meet you halfway, sinful moans getting swallowed by the wet muscle exploring the vast of your mouth. his taste is your favourite flavor yet.

you well and truly lost it when his dominance takes over. "you're tired hmm? it's okay princess let me take care of you." the flex of his thigh and the way he's pressing you down so that your clit rubs deliciously against the material of his pants has you keening. the words slipping out of his mouth are downright filthy, the knot in your stomach so awfully tight you're afraid it'll snap without caution.

"b-bin- changbin please.."

the audacity of this man to send you a devilish smirk after all you did was be a good girl for him.

"please what, princess? you're so pretty begging for me like this aren't you?"

his praises, god his praises could send you to heaven and back. you live off of him being proud of you, complimenting you as if you're fully his. he owns you. all of you.

"please.. don't s-stop. ah i'm so close. p-please."

"since you asked so nicely."

one strong pull and you're spurting hot white fluid all over his thigh. your newly bought lace panties, needless to say is drenched and ruined from the intense orgasm you had but fuck was it worth it. he chuckles when you pant, soothing you through your high with more praises that has you whimpering for more.

"sensitive are we princess?"

you blush bright red as he takes a good look at you, the condition you're in making you avoid eye contact in embarrassment. hiding your face in his chest, he runs his fingers through your hair and laughs when you hum appreciatively.

"cute."

then you realise the rest of the the room is empty except for the both of you. for once you're actually glad jisung hosted this party because his huge mansion has plenty of rooms to occupy. the door though, is left wide open. so much for privacy.

"do you still hate me?"

he asks out of the blue, catching you completely off guard. you lean back and stare up at him, tilting your head as if he's just asked something ridiculous. he chuckles again, seeming whipped at how cute you were being in response to his question.

"i've never hated you."

"really? then why do you get mad when i flirt with you?"

"because!!!!"

fuck, this is not a post sex kind of conversation.

"because you flirt with literally everyone, bin. i wanted to hide the fact that i do like you so i pretended i didn't."

you expected him to say sorry for playing with your feelings, or at least apologise for giving you mixed signals but all he does is smile sheepishly.

"what? why are you smiling?"

"you called me bin. only my close friends and loved ones call me that."

"and?"

"we're dating as of now."

#changbin smut #from nara #big brain nara #stray kids smut #love parcels #THE WAY THIS IS WRITTEN AHAGAJAJ OMG NARA ILY AND YOUR BRAIN <333 #sparklemin #submission

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supermanshield · 3 years

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So I was thinking about SuperBat just now and like;

What if Clark Kent was born long before Bruce Wayne, and Superman was already Earth's Hero when Bruce falls into the cave/well when he's young, and it's Superman that descends into the cave like some sort of deity, hazy and illuminated by the sky in the eyes of a concussed, terrified nine year old.

And then Martha and Thomas Wayne die in an alley behind the movie theatre over a pearl necklace and his father's Rolex, and when the numbness fades Bruce is furious, because where was Superman then? Why didn't Superman save them? Why save a kid in a hole but not his parents at gunpoint?

And so Bruce Wayne still goes to Ra's, still trains under the League, still becomes Batman... But he does it to exact revenge on Superman. He does it to stop the alien who thinks it can pick and choose when and who to save. He's fuelled by pain and fear and fury.

And they clash. Of course they do. With the Batman suddenly running around Gotham it was only a matter of time before Batman and Superman met. And maybe Clark remembers the terrified little boy he pulled out all those years ago, maybe he doesn't. Maybe Batman succeeds in defeating Superman or maybe he collapses in his arms, gasping out between sobs why didn't you save them, why save me but not them, why weren't you there

I just. The angst potential.

Oh, this is a very interesting concept. It could touch on a lot of 'Superman simply cannot save everyone', which Clark often learns the hard way. (idk if you can read minds, but literally 2 days ago I read the comic where Cat Grant's son gets killed and Jimmy is mad and says 'where was Superman?!' and just, oh god Clark and Super-guilt, he blames himself so much (and it's because he was in Paris with Lois, but that's a technicality, this happens more, having to choose, or not being fast enough, and 'there's always a way', but there's not always a way to save everyone, even though he tries)).

I also think Bruce would learn this the hard way if he still becomes Batman, and starts to understand Superman's struggles a little bit more.

That being said, it doesn't really sit right with me that Bruce would become Batman out of revenge, and especially out of revenge for Superman, because even in the original situation he doesn't do it to exact revenge on Joe Chill, but to make sure no one has to go through what he's had to go through. And Batman would sound like the umpteenth Superman-villain that became a villain because Superman wasn't there when they needed him. Or it would be a completely different Batman and not the one we know and love, imo.

Sure, Bruce can dislike Superman for it, and be a little sceptical, and think he can do it better, if he were to have those powers, and blame Clark for not doing more. (see also the literal SuperBat story from Superman/Batman #53 - 56 and some of the Superman comics post-Clark's resurrection for why just not sleeping/eating and trying to save everyone on earth 24/7 is not the best idea). But yeah, it would be interesting if Bruce also learns the hard way that you can't save everyone, as I said before.

So maybe they clash, because there is distrust, and so many questions, and blame. And I think Bruce desperately wants to understand, why? But shrouds it in threats and aggressiveness, and if Clark recognizes Bruce, and he remembers, the guilt hits him and they both collapse in each other's arms over the things they can't do, the people they can't save. And maybe Clark blames himself for Bruce becoming Batman, for having to become Batman, but they have that mutual understanding, similar experiences, and could find each other in that.

So yeah, give me that emotional payoff and catharsis.

Much angst, much super-guilt, good learning curve for Bruce. I'd probably read this.

#hmu if you would ever write this!#or anyone #superbat #asks #replies #therogueheart #thank you for this amazing ask now im thinking about absolute power again and bruce 'i can save them!'#mayhaps it's time to reread and cry #/sorry for rambling so much

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

Note

Dearest Wolfie, I am here to humbly request some Jaskilion vampire smut pls 🥺

Dear Buttercup

Prompt: Frottage/grinding/scissoring Relationships: Jaskier (netflix)/Dandelion (book) Rating: E Content Warnings: vampire sex, sex magic, frottage, biting, blood drinking. Summary: Jaskier gets caught in a thunderstorm, luckily there's an appropriately spooky house near by to shelter in.

For my darling @dani-dandelino and also my last prompt for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Art by @dapandapod

Lightning shot across the sky in a vicious streak of blinding light, and there was a resounding clap of thunder that made the ground shake. Jaskier’s hair was stuck to his forehead as he tried, with very little success, to shelter under his guitar case. He blamed Geralt for this entirely. The bastard had gotten into another fight with Yennefer and Jaskier was left to find his own way home from the pub. He wasn’t drunk, just mildly tipsy and sorely lacking a driving license. It had been too late to catch a bus so here he was stomping through the park in the middle of the night, during a fucking thunderstorm. The old house in the centre of the park looked like something out of those stupid horror movies that Geralt and Yennefer liked to watch. It looked haunted during the day, but at night… fuck. It was something else entirely.

So naturally, Jaskier wanted to have a look. He was soaked through to the skin and shivering. His house was still a good hour away if he didn’t get lost, which, if he was being completely honest, he probably would. Directions just weren’t his strong suit, and everything looked the same at night. The house, despite scaring the shit out of him, looked incredibly tempting. It would be warm. He could dry off. Maybe the owner would even let him stay the night, if they were kind.

And if he was really lucky, they might not kill him.

He laughed and he wiped his nose, pushing his sopping wet hair off his forehead and away from his eyes. His fringe immediately fell forward again.

“Oh fuck off,” he muttered and shook his head, wrapping his arms around his chest in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Stupid Geralt, stupid Yennefer, bloody fucking thunderstorm.”

The large wooden doors creaked open, startling Jaskier from his pity party. There was candlelight flickering in the hallway and the sound of a violin singing from somewhere in the house. Jaskier crept forward, cocking his head as he peered inside. The house was extravagantly decorated in burgundy and gold. From the porch, Jaskier could see a faded painting of a young man, dressed in old-timey clothing, regency if he had to guess. It was rather Mr Darcy. The young man was tall and slender, with a mess of golden curls that just about covered his ears. Jaskier couldn’t look away. The man was beautiful, with soft pale skin and rosy cheeks, a smile that could outshine the sun. He had a long dark blue tailcoat, and there was a small white dog bouncing at his feet.

But it was his eyes.

Beautiful cornflower blue.

Utterly stunning.

The door slammed shut behind Jaskier and he spun round, arms flailing, “Oh cock!”

The sound of the violin stopped. The house fell eerily silent. Jaskier could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest and he pulled at the edges of this shirt, flexing his fingers and tapping out a rhythm on his leg. Nothing helped. He was pretty certain he was about to die. The worst thing was he couldn’t even remember entering the house. One minute he was admiring the portrait from afar and the next he had his hand raised, ready to trace the sharp cheekbones of the handsome blond.

“I haven’t had a visitor for a long time,” a mesmerising tenor voice lilted from the top of the stairs.

Jaskier jumped, almost falling over as he twirled again to face the mysterious owner of the murder house. His mouth fell open as he saw the beautiful blond at the top of the stairs. His skin was deathly pale, and his hair now fell to his shoulders in a cascade of curls, but there was no denying that it was the same man from the portrait. Blood red eyes glowed in the darkness, never blinking as he peered down at Jaskier with a haughty expression. Gone were the elegant regency clothes from the portrait. Instead, the blond wore an unreasonably sexy lingerie set, black as the midnight sky, with garters strapped around his thighs. On each thigh above the garter was a holster, with an elegantly decorated hilt; daggers.

Seriously, who the fuck carried daggers in this day and age? Surely you needed a license for that?

But on the mysterious stranger it just seemed to work. He was timeless in his beauty.

The fine silvery silk robe trailed behind him, and he raised one perfect eyebrow, looking considerably unimpressed. Jaskier’s eyes widened as he realised he still hadn’t said anything, too busy gawking at the angel before him…

Or perhaps the devil.

There was no way this gorgeous creature was a man from god. He was too sinfully tempting.

“Ah, bollocks,” Jaskier stammered. “Well, you see I just- there was a teeny problem with my ride, and then the storm, and well… the wine. Oh the wine, it was absolutely delectable, you have never tasted anything as delicious, a true blessing from the gods themselves.”

He was rambling. He knew he was and yet he couldn’t shut up. Jaskier just kept talking, letting his wine fuelled brain spew poetry about everything and nothing. He talked about Geralt, the flowers he’d seen on his walk, the stars that had been glittering in the sky before the clouds had ruined the view. He talked about the way the river shone in the moonlight, and Geralt, and the cute adorable kitten he’d seen sheltering in an alley… and well… about Geralt.

“Forgive me, dear fellow,” The man finally interrupted with a wave of his hand, “but if you are quite done, I’d like to ask what you are doing in my home.”

Jaskier blushed, glancing between the very much shut door and the handsome figure before him. Gesturing wildly between himself and the door he stammered, “The door? It- it- ah, well, it just sort of opened.”

“And you walked in? I must say, you really have no sense of self preservation. Pretty little thing though, aren’t you?”

Jaskier scoffed, putting his hand on his hips. “Little?!”

“How old are you? Barely twenty by the looks of it,” he smirked, a long finger brushing Jaskier’s cheek. “So young.”

“I- I-!” Jaskier spat out, “You! I’m twenty five!”

“A child,” the man hissed.

And Jaskier’s heart jumped. He froze, an icy feeling creeping through his veins.

Fangs.

Red eyes.

Definitely immortal.

“Oh fuck, fuck!” Jaskier fell backwards, tripping over his own feet. “You’re a vampire! No. No, no, no. This is a joke. Fuck!”

“Vampire,” the vampire scoffed. “How rude! I have a name, buttercup.”

“I- how- oh cock,” Jaskier whined.

But before he could flee, the vampire’s hands were around his neck. The bastard moved faster than light. His pale skin a blur as it pressed against Jaskier’s throat, lifting him from the floor.

And Jaskier, in all his idiotic horniness, was starting to feel rather aroused by the whole thing. Sure, he was scared shitless, but if the vampire didn’t kill him…

Well…

Jaskier really hated his dick sometimes.

“So, ah- umm, will you do me the pleasure of telling me your name?” Jaskier squeaked, gasping for air.

The vampire chuckled, a beautiful melodic laugh that could charm aphrodite herself. “Finally, some manners, darling. My name is Dandelion, you would do well to remember it.”

That was… promising.

“A flower for a flower?” Jaskier suggested, praying that this would not be his last night on earth. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Oh, my dear Julian, I have no intention of killing you. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a monster, unlike the villain that turned me. Now, he was an utter cock. He didn’t even ask! Day before my wedding, unbelievable.”

Jaskier laughed. Was the vampire, Dandelion, actually telling him his backstory? What the fuck had he walked into?

“That’s… unfortunate?”

“It was a complete disaster, my darling Henrietta married the deplorable Valdo Marx instead and I had to flee to the shadows like some bloody monster. It gets lonely.”

Jaskier blinked, feet still dangling as the vampire held him by his collar. He was struggling to breathe, his cock was hard in his pants and he was almost certain that he probably would survive the night. “Can’t- breathe.”

“Oh, poppycock! I am ever so sorry, dear boy,” Dandelion cooed and dropped Jaskier to the ground. “Better?”

“Yeah, yup.”

Dandelion inhaled deeply, “Oh, you do smell good, really good.”

This felt more like what Jaskier would expect from a vampire encounter. Before he could even respond, Jaskier felt himself being thrown back against the nearest wall, Dandelion’s cold body pressed up against his. The vampire ran his nose under Jaskier’s jaw, a low moan falling from his lips. “Talk about fine wine. You, my dear buttercup, smell utterly irresistible.”

Jaskier whimpered, his hands nervously gripping Dandelion’s silk robe, fingers intertwining in the soft fabric. He wasn’t really sure what was happening but he knew he liked it. Getting fucked by a vampire, there were worse things in life, especially when the vampire was as pretty as Dandelion. Jaskier wondered whether his eyes really had been such a dazzling blue before he was turned into a creature of the night. Red eyes burned like fire instead, the pupils almost completely black.

It should have been fucking terrifying.

It should have.

And Jaskier thought he’d never seen such a beautiful creature as the man before him. There was a scrape of teeth against his throat, and Jaskier groaned, helplessly baring his neck to give the vampire better access. He’d never thought getting his blood drained would be so alluring, but he was achingly hard and feeling heady with arousal at the mere thought of it.

The vampire just laughed and pressed a skin to Jaskier’s neck. “Eager little whore, aren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“Now, now, patience,” Dandelion purred, making Jaskier shiver. “First we need to get you out of those clothes. You must be absolutely freezing, where are my manners?”

“Fuck your manners,” Jaskier grumbled, yelping as Dandelion scooped him into his arms and flew through the house. “Oi! Watch it!”

“Such a fragile little flower.”

“I- You, oh fuck off,” Jaskier protested weakly, because to Dandelion, he was fragile. He was human, mortal, weak. Despite looking like the stronger one of the two, Jaskier was like a glass rose compared to the glimmering diamond that was the vampire.

Dandelion fussed around him in a blur of silver and blonde, peeling Jaskier’s wet clothes from his skin, bringing him a steaming mug of sweet tea. It was all… kind of nice?

The vampire had said he was lonely after all, and maybe Jaskier’s blood would taste nicer if he was not miserable and cold. How was he supposed to know?

“Dandelion?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head as he looked up at the pretty blond from the pile of soft silk sheets on the bed.

“Yes? Did I miss anything? It’s been a while since I’ve had human company.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile. He’d been in the strange house less than any hour and yet his head was spinning from the rollercoaster of emotions, fear, arousal, panic, and now whatever this was, a sort of fondness perhaps?

“Everything is perfect, Dandelion, but why- why am I here? I thought… you’re a vampire. I smell good? Didn’t you want to- to-, you know?”

Dandelion giggled and perched on the bed next to Jaskier. “Sweet buttercup, I would never drink from you unless you wanted it. It’s not expected of you. I can go without.”

“You can?”

“But of course! And I’m not about to fuck you when you’re shivering, and reeking of fear, no matter how hard your cock is. I have standards, Jaskier.”

The vampire had standards. Of course he fucking did. “I’m not afraid now,” Jaskier whispered, “And I want you to drink. Come on, trapped-”

“You’re not trapped.”

“- in a vampire’s house, in the middle of a thunderstorm. It practically writes itself.”

“And yet, I made you tea?”

Jaskier laughed, “Yes.”

“Well then?” Dandelion breathed in a soft low whisper that made Jaskier’s skin tingle, “Perhaps a kiss?”

This time it wasn’t Dandelion’s hands that forced that air from Jaskier’s lungs, but his words. Jaskier swallowed, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth as Dandelion approached him. The daggers had been removed from their holsters and set aside on the table, but the rest of the vampire’s ensemble remained. Jaskier, on the other hand, was as naked as the day he was born, only the silken sheets to protect his modesty. His cheeks warmed under the heat of Dandelion’s gaze, a blush that he was sure bloomed right down to his heart. He nodded dumbly, unable, for the first time in his life, to find the right words.

Dandelion’s skin was like ice as he cupped Jaskier’s cheek, their lips barely a breath apart. “You really are such a pretty flower, I love beautiful things.”

Jaskier whimpered as their lips met, ice and fire, vampire and human. Their breaths mingled as Jaskier eagerly parted his lips, and Dandelion’s tongue slipped inside his mouth. Jaskier had kissed a lot of people in his life but never anyone quite like Dandelion, centuries of practice served the vampire well, and Jaskier was left breathless and panting in mere seconds. His arousal from before reared up and he moaned wantonly against Dandelion’s lips.

“Divine,” the vampire murmured as they parted, and he pushed Jaskier backwards against the bed, their legs entangling so that Dandelion’s thighs pressed against Jaskier’s cock, “simply divine.”

“Dandelion,” Jaskier moaned, his head falling back onto the pillow.

“My venom won’t harm you, darling,” Dandelion whispered, his lips pressing against Jaskier’s neck, “but it will enhance your pleasure, dull your other senses so you know only me, my lips, my hands. You’ll be more relaxed than you ever thought possible…”

“Yes,” Jaskier answered Dandelion’s unanswered question.

The vampire sank his teeth into Jaskier’s skin, sharp pain soon subsiding into what could only be described as the most intense pleasure that Jaskier had ever felt. It was heavenly, magical, a blessing from god herself. He vaguely heard himself moan, arching his back off the bed as he thrust against Dandelion’s thigh. Every movement sent wave after wave of never-ending pleasure through his body, fire burning in his soul. He whined when Dandelion pulled away from his neck, rocking into Jaskier’s body, unheard praises whispering into his ear. When their lips met once more, Jaskier could taste his blood on Dandelion’s tongue.

It was addictive. He wanted more, more, more. “‘Lion,” he slurred as their bodies rocked together.

“Shh, little buttercup,” the vampire cooed, brushing Jaskier’s fringe from his eyes, before biting once more on his shoulder.

Jaskier keened, his orgasm shattering through him as he bucked up against the vampire. It seemed to be an eternity before he came back to himself, covered in cum and his own blood on Dandelion’s bed. The vampire in question was running his fingers through the thick hair on Jaskier’s chest, blood staining his lips, smearing down his chin. He looked as fucked out as Jaskier felt, smiling serenely as he hummed under his bed.

And his eyes were cornflower blue.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed shakily. “Did you…”

“Mhmm, not long after you. What a sight you made, truly stunning? I really would love to paint you one day.”

Jaskier groaned and rolled over, grimacing at the mess but too tired to care. “If the sex is that good, you can paint me every fucking day.”

“Oh, darling buttercup,” Dandelion cooed, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder where the bite mark was beginning to heal. “You and I are going to get along splendidly.”

#the witcher #jaskilion #jaskier x dandelion #vampire dandelion #wolfie's witcher writing

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years

Note

if you're still taking the fic prompts i'd love some anders/m!hawke with the prompt "there was nothing more you could have done."? possibly set after the quest All That Remains, but if you have other ideas do what you think would be best! thank you in advance :>

Ah thank you so much! Sorry for how long it’s taken me to reply, I hope you enjoy!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Handers

Characters: Anders, Garrett Hawke

Tags: the Circle is awful, angst, hurt/comfort, post All That Remains, fantasy bigotry

Rating: Mature

“There was nothing more you could have done.” It feels like a hollow platitude even as he says it, and not for the first time Anders’ wishes that Garrett were as fluent in the coded gestures of comfort he’d been raised with. He wishes he was able to understand what solace Anders did know how to offer: silent touch, humour, magic. But Hawke has all the magic of a sledgehammer and, for the first time in a long time, Anders finds the fact making him nervous.

“Isn’t there?” Hawke’s voice is too loud in his high vaulted room, voice bouncing against the rafters. Anders flinches. Downstairs, Dog is barking, and Anders can hear the muffled voice of Sandal trying to soothe her. In the grate, the fire spits. “I should have seen the signs - I should have known,” Hawke’s voice breaks, and Anders steps forward, feeling himself drawn closer as if piano wire had been strung through his chest.

“You’re not omniscient, Garrett -”

Hawke whirls on him then, and for all that Anders has half a foot on him in height, Garrett has always been far thicker set than he is, stocky and strong as his mabari, and any good Fereldan warrior. “But I’m not stupid, either.” There’s a knife in one of Garrett’s hands now, and Anders tells himself his heart doesn’t skip a beat, and tries to ignore the race of it as it tries to make up for lost time. “Everything I’ve ever learned about mages - I should’ve have known. I should’ve known this would happen eventually.”

Anders has been stabbed through the heart. It hurt less than this. He falters. “I -”

Garrett looks up at him, then, and in the dark of his room his brown eyes are nearly black. “Shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what mages do? Play god. Twist life and death. Hurt people.”

It’s suddenly very difficult to breathe. Anders blinks, and shoves every thorn curling around his heart down inside his chest. “That’s not -” his voice shakes, and he tries again “- you don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” Garrett’s voice is high, suddenly, as a wounded dog. In the firelight, his tears are bright as gold. “I thought, I thought I was doing the right thing. But look at this, Anders! Does this look right to you?” He gestures, suddenly, to the darkness of the empty room, and when he does the blade of his knife catches the firelight and gleams copper. This time Anders does flinch, bodily, skittering backward like a frightened halla and hating himself for it.

The anger falls from Hawke’s body like rain from a cloud in his sudden confusion. His gaze follows Anders’ to the blade, and he drops it abruptly as if it had burned him. “Wait, fuck, no, Anders, I’m sorry.”

As it always does, anger rises in Anders fast and hot to smother the shiver of his fear. Anders tells himself it isn’t fuelled by the ozone taste of Justice on the back of his tongue. “No, no, it’s fine. Don’t let me interrupt. You were saying something about how all mages are murderers.”

Garrett grimaces, hands curling into loose fists before they loosen again. “I didn’t -” He looks so lost, then, in the dark, hands empty at his sides. Anders finds himself moving forward without meaning to, drawn to Hawke as inexorably as the tide. “I just -”

“Needed someone to blame?” Anders asks, and cannot entirely hide his bitterness.

Hawke shrugs with one shoulder and looks down and away from him. “It’s easier than blaming myself.”

“Garrett.” Anders speaks, firmly, over the crackling murmur of the fire, resting his hands on Hawke’s shoulders. “There was nothing more you could have done. This was - there aren’t words for the cesspool of steaming hot fucking bullshit that this was. And if you want people to blame I’ve got an itemized list, including but not limited to: Meredith motherfucking Stannard, the farce that Aveline calls a City Guard, the awful fucking mages who wrote that magic in the first place and, most importantly, the murderer himself. May he rest in bloody fucking pieces. You know who I don’t blame?” Anders’ squeezes Hawke’s warm, broad shoulders, fingers pressing into the soft leather of his armour. “You, love. There was nothing more you could have done.”

On the streets of Kirkwall, a cat yowls, and distantly a crowd of drunks descends singing into Lowtown. Through the window, the night sky is clear and blue and beautiful. Dried blood is itching on Anders’ arms, and both of them stink of sweat and viscera. In the grate, the fire cracks, sending jumping shadows against the stone.

Hawke’s shoulders slump, and he shuts his eyes, expression crumbling. When he falls, Anders catches him, supporting his lover as his arms come up and around his back. Hawke’s body shudders with the force of his tears, and when he speaks he does so thickly through them. “I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I did wrong. I keep losing them. I lost everyone.”

Anders grits his teeth, and shuts his eyes when they burn as he presses a kiss into Hawke’s thick, coarse black hair. “I know. It’s not your fault. The world is just fucking terrible sometimes. I’m so sorry.” The words feel as worn on his tongue as the Chant of Light, dulled by decades of repetition. Anders squeezes Hawke’s body in his arms, and holds him as he cries. “It’s not your fault, love. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

#dadwc #my fic #handers #hawke #anders #m!handers #da2 #mageunderground

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theinkmage · 3 years

Text

Hope

Tw : self-harm mentions, attempted suicide, bleeding

I lie. Still. Not telling the truth.

The blood pours, but I deny pain. It trickles down, below my navel, runs the width and length of my right arm. The crimson red pools on the ground, the white hot tarmac, like spilled ketchup.

The plan failed.

Part of me is swamped with guilt, the feeling long gone from the sketches of my very existence. I haven't felt it for eons, the stab of a knife in my gut, twisting until it hits its mark. Bullseye.

The other part swims and drowns in regret. Regret and guilt are closely intertwined, but different. You can regret, but not feel guilt. You can also be guilty, but spared from regret.

I didn't mean to take lives. I didn't want to. But as one of the Darker Beings, they expected you to. Why resist something expected of you? Something so many of your kind are already doing with no qualms?

My guilt stems from my betrayal of my friends. But life isn't fair, we don't get to choose what or who we want to be. We can only accept what we are given and move on.

The expression on his countenance is still etched firmly in the dredges of my mind. Her shock too. So many of them. Not the friends. So the right word should be 'much'. Much shock, much hostility, much aggression. Of course, I didn't expect them to understand. They were born Lighter Beings. It was always Good versus Evil, and the latter would always be defeated no matter what. Who ever watched a movie where Evil triumphed? That would take the fun out of it and probably insert terror and unsatisfaction in its place.

This world has been stigmatised too much to be changed. And too few of us want it. Who would want change, in a world where ninety-nine percent of the odds are against you and you've already gotten used to it? Not to mention hope for it. That would be foolish.

Extremely foolish.

The Chief had wanted blood on our hands tonight, as a test. I know, I do admit, blowing up a building full of innocent children was too cruel. I wasn't given a choice. We all weren't. Maybe the Chief had a choice, maybe he didn't. Maybe he thought he was supposed to always do this. I can hear the clamouring at the back of my mind, screaming and yelling, "Ridiculous!"

Who are you to speak, if you are not one of us?

Whether blood did get on our hands tonight was a totally separate matter. What actually mattered was the defeat, which could be counted as a relief. The ones who had come with me had done their job well. Thrown the bombs well. Aimed, deft, precise accuracy. Almost deadly. Sharp like a sword. A flash of lightning and a peal of thunder.

Their encouragements still rang in my ears. I threw. I had thrown. Launched the black object like a curled up bat into the air, through the glass windows into the facility. It took only thirty seconds to detonate once released.

I heard the babies crying and shots from below. Honestly, I couldn't find it in my heart to blame them. I only watched, unwilling to betray my own kind, as those posted on the mission together with me attacked. I stayed up in the air, hovering, like a dark guardian angel.

He was below, battling fiercely while the others rushed in to get the babies. A slight twinge had tugged at my heartstrings, something so foreign to me I had almost forgotten it. It was a memory, something stronger, a fragment of the past always slipping past my fingertips like sand in an hourglass. Back when we were kids, back before the segregation, back before everything else that divided and conquered.

He had been my first true love, and still is. I had willed my resolve not to crumble there and then. The aches remained and flared, the smoke from their flames rising and intertwining into a monster in front of me. Porous, unreal. A living epitome of me.

My soul had risen into the air, cut itself out of my real physique, and watched silently as I dove down, slicing a spiral out of thin vapour. It took only seconds before my body collided with his, knocking his hands off my allies. The word tasted bitter in my mouth now, apart from the metallic sting of blood and the salty wash of tears and rainwater. I had watched the astonished, stung look on his dirt-streaked face, then fought against the longing in my heart. This was a good chance to win, to cut it all off once and for all. Human emotion was a tricky thing, not to be toyed with.

I haven't toyed with it for a while.

Even so, the years spent in numbness and coldness were for naught. I had felt the sprigs of flowers blooming inside my bosoms, threatening to unfurl their petals and burst in a radiant splash of colours. But before they could, I bit down hard on my tongue, tightened the iron fist, and rammed into him with all my might and force of my wings, sending him crashing into the glass behind.

The hurt and agony was something I would never forget, even as I lie, almost dying, on the pavement.

They had gotten the children out, fortunately. My allies had gotten away before the bombs had exploded in a fury of volcanic ash and red-hot lava. My wings had gotten burned, their black edges charred even further until the feathers singed and littered the ground. They had once been white, soft vanilla cream, until the segregation. And now they remained inky, jet-black.

The grit tasted hard between my molars and I spat it out, along with a mouthful of fresh red blood. Now I could feel it, the raw pain and anguish. A remembrance of human emotion. I clung to it in my last breaths, reluctant to let go of something I once had that made me human, something that defined me as virtuous and morally upright. Had defined me.

Now, no more.

I might have killed him. Murder. Assassination.

A lump formed in my throat and bobbed quietly. Why wasn't I dead yet? When would the descent to Hell begin? Angels, or Demons, come and take me away. I want to leave without any struggle. I have played my part in this horrific world, branded myself as Evil, now ruined by my own doing.

This was what I deserved.

The world around me blurred, coalesced into water and sharpness. The mist came, and left, and everything was crystal-clear again. Too clear. Each breath was harder now, the intake much more difficult. It was coming, I could feel it. Death arriving on my doorstep, ready to take me away to where I belonged. I would make its job quicker and more efficient.

The knife blade felt cool in my hands. I remember feeling it thousands of times before, the edge cutting into my soft skin, the blade ripping through, drawing just a tinge of blood, not enough to kill me. And then whenever I began to feel human emotions again, I would rip it through again, patch it up, and continue. Until I became a living breathing block of ice, unfeeling. With no feeling came no pain. That was what I had come to realise over time.

But this time, I wouldn't just be drawing a tinge of blood. My eyes took in the world above me – the shattered glass, the wails of babies, the shouts and yells ricocheting all above. Large wings flapping, white against the night sky. I hoped he was fine, I hoped they were all fine. But what could hope do if he wasn't, if they weren't?

My cold fingers shifted up to the handle. It would just take one plunge into the already bloody area. No pain, and I would just go like that. How ironic, that I had always longed for human emotion, but when I am given the chance to take it back, I don't want to. I want the feelings to spare me before I die.

I shut my eyes, expecting to feel fear encasing me in its shell. Instead, I don't. I feel an otherworldly peace shrouding me in its silent holy veil, draping me in its cloak, caressing the tears and blood from my face. Even Peace took pity on me, this ruined, broken thing longing to leave the surfaces of Earth. I positioned the knife, its shiny blade facing downwards, raised it high above my abdomen.

Then with a determinedness, I brought it rushing down. The air swept above bare skin, bringing with it a tint of frost and chilliness. Flashes, memories, pictures raced before the blackness in front of my closed eyes. Brightness soared in my mind, spreading wings and taking flight as I braced myself for the ensuing farewell.

It never came.

I blinked. The eyelids lifted. A blurred image knelt in front of me. Was this Hell yet? The Demon, Satan, coming to kill me himself? The rain fell harder, disorienting. The edges of wings lay below me, fluttering helplessly as I struggled to discern between living and dying.

That was when I could feel them. Warm fingers, holding mine around the handle. The blade was poking my skin, drawing just a tinge of blood. Even without seeing, I knew who it was and I struggled to remove my fingers from his grasp, desperately wanting to sink the blade into me even more. Anything to get away from cold, hard reality. No one would miss me.

The fingers refused to let go, retained their hold around mine and tightened. The drops of water above hardened their fall. I shut my eyes again, and felt the hands shuddering. Both of ours. Not because of the cold. We were both crying, me and him, while around us, the world lay torn, shredded into pieces.

A white flash of something, like a piece of cloud ripped from a clear blue summer sky of the past. Through the drenching cold rain, I thought it was his wings, burning with a light and righteous glory of their own. But no, they were a normal shaking white, encased with streaks of blood amongst the dripping feathers. Warm energy flowed from his hands to mine, and I turned slightly to look at my outspread wings. I forced my unseeing eyes to take in their shining surfaces, white slowly pooling in from the edges.

The tears came, now free-flowing like the rain, down my wet bloodied cheeks. He was hoping in me. It had been hope all along, that fuelled him to stop him from killing myself; hope that allowed me to hesitate in the last few seconds of throwing the bomb, praying for a chance to redeem myself; hope that gave me those last few moments of hesitation before plunging the knife in, wanting someone to come and untangle me from this ruined world as an alternative ending.

It was hope that almost killed us, but also brought us back to life, even stronger than before. It was hope that nurtured love, and love that nurtured hope. The two caught in an endless cycle.

"Hope, now!"

The thunder was loud, deafening, a splitting crackle of electricity above and the rain its tears, pitter-pattering down. Yet I could hear him over the crash, his voice ragged and hoarse and desperate. And hope I did. Our fingers intertwined tighter, palms pressed together, the handle of the knife between us.

An amalgamation of emotions came crashing onto my shores, flooding the gates of my memory.

First was Happiness, like a bite into the sweetest chocolate cake, fresh out of the oven, baked by my mother.

Second came Pride, like clinching a trophy in a competition.

Third was Anger, its red-hot flames washing over me, devouring all my senses in its explosions.

Then came Disappointment, with the disappeared notion of believing something good was about to happen only to have it snatched away from you, right under your nose.

Guilt, with its sting in the gut, sharp and raw, tearing into your conscience like a monster burrowing underground.

Sadness, with its poignancy and something broken deep inside, breaking the dam of tears.

Then Disgust, mud on clean carpets and all over pretty white shirts and dresses.

Regret, replaying the same scene ten different times in your head, each playing out differently, but having apologies as one thing in common.

Hope, its wings spreading to embrace you, cushioning your fall, believing that you can fly.

The hands clenched tighter and sparks flew. The glow around me lightened considerably, a halo around two figures crouching under a lightning-split sky.

Last came Love, a burst of cherry blossoms and rose petals fluttering all around you, the sweet fragrance of honey and clean washed clothes.

His lips came down on mine, gently, almost as if unable to believe that it was happening. Hope could make anything happen. The brushing of a feather, light as breath, the rainwater and blood and tears mingling into one dark bitter taste, overcome by the sweet pleasantness of touch and intimacy. Using up the last of my energy, I returned the kiss, lips pressed against each other, hard and firm and safe, yet soft and dream-like and humane at the same time.

To love and to be loved were things I had yearned for for as long as I could remember.

Now, I could feel my body burning, my wings heating up and flaring out with a brilliance never felt before. The white swirling faster and faster behind my eyes was now dotted with numerous black spots, tightening into a circle of white and black.

I hoped for Change, and the change it would in turn bring into the world, like a rippling effect of pebbles on still water.

The circle spun faster, dancing on the edge of my vision, white-washed waves painted with black. Would Good and Evil truly coexist together?

A flash, darkness, then light. Freshness of petrichor in the air, and then once more, the airy feel of new spring raindrops against skin. I opened my eyes, noticing the wings first. Black and white. Both his and mine. Together, two colours on the same pair of wings, a mixture of colours filled in in startlingly intricate tones and patterns.

Hope had brought us together. But more than that, it meant that this destroyed world had a chance of being healed after all.

#hero x villain #betrayal #hurt #comfort #romance #light vs dark #hope you like this!

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