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naffeclipse · 8 months

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I've been musing over a few thoughts inspired by this ask about a mafia-ish style of Apex Polarity without it being too close to Pearl Eye, and after watching a few videos of Orcas hunting their prey (which included dolphins), landed on a sort of Mafia inspired Apex Polarity AU

Also not to add another Y/N to Orclipse's growing collection but this Y/N is a white-beaked dolphin. Look! They're so beautiful!

Sirens are cunning, brutal, and take everything with teeth and claws. The strongest kill and maim at a whim. As a siren who's not particularly strong, though incredibly agile, with a tail streamlined and dark gray with white patches, fins curved and mostly black, you're somewhere at the bottom. You're doing your best to survive and avoid trouble. You pick your battles and you pick your escapes, and most importantly, you stay alive.

But then you do something really stupid: you venture where you shouldn't have.

You don't usually swim so far up north but you're hungry, and the thought of a few tasty squids distracts you from the silent waters and vast, blue emptiness. You realize a bit too late that you're not the only one hunting.

You catch the first orca siren in the distance as a dark figure, and then another. Two who immediately cut through the water, charging straight for you like shadows. Though you turn tail and bolt, you quickly spot them in the corner of your vision. They easily keep pace, their size and strength overwhelming as they flank you on both sides, wide grins flashing their deadly teeth. You can hardly look at the mismatched color of their eyes as you dodge and weave, diving down only to be cut off by one with midnight blue colors at the tip of his flukes, and shooting off to the left just to almost be snatched by the black-bone claws of a siren with bright yellow fins framing his head.

They're toying with you. You know that for a fact in how they just barely keep back, corraling you onwards, draining your already spent energy, and picking at your panicking pulse. You have no choice but to avoid the edges of their jaws and the tips of their talons, and swim in the direction they want.

You near a field of ice floes floating on the water, and though you cut into the jagged structures dipping into the sea, the orca sirens never lose you. A desperate need for air pushes you onward. One small drop of hope still burns in your chest. Despite the aching of your muscles, you steal a gulp of oxygen and dip back down once more, charging away—

Only to run smack into a third orca siren.

This one grabs you, his burning red and orange colors filling your vision. The other two orcas join to help their kin keep you in place long enough for you to truly regret ever venturing here. Between the three of what you can only assume are brothers, hands hooked over you shoulders, claws clutching your wrists, and palms pressing into your hips, you're a fish caught in a net.

You brace for a voilent end. It never arrives. Instead of digging into your sweet meat, the sirens offer you a deal. The tips of sharp fingertips trace your jawline and the soft inside of your arms and down your slick tail while they explain.

You keep watch for human ships and report back when they're getting close, and in exchange, you get the best food you can imagine, the entire Arctic Ocean to swim, and anything else you'd like. The best benefit? You're under their protection. Of course, they expect utter loyalty from you. You are no one else's. Failure to devote yourself to this work and the brothers would mean a grisly fate, but hey, you're nothing if not eager to not be torn apart. So you agree.

You have a few questions about this whole arrangement, struggling to understand why they, powerful orca sirens, bother with a smaller fish like you when they could rip you limb from limb and be done. What's with the human ships? Why task you to this? Are you just fodder so they can keep their fins nice and unscabbed? They reassure you that they'll explain in due time (the sunny one booping your nose, much to your chagrin), but for now, all you know to know is that the human ships are a problem, and you are their solution for it. You've never really encountered humans before, but they've never really encountered sirens, or so you thought.

The burning red one lets you go, but you don't slip away too far before he tugs on your flukes and tells you to follow him. It's not a request. The darker blue one leaves for a moment, jetting away as the other two guide you to a nice resting place on an icy shore. They introduce themselves, and then their brother reappears with a squid in hand, half dead, and an insistence that you eat—they could tell during the chase that you didn't have all your energy.

And that's how you unwittingly join a very powerful pod of orca brothers who may or may not be teasing and taunting you simultaneously.

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tarjapearce · 9 months

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Iridiscent (Pt. 4)

Pirate AU! Miguel O'Hara x Mermaid! Reader

WARNING: Angst, mentions of violence, graphic depictions of violence, mild gore, political implications, character origins, character backgrounds, introduction of character, Greek mythology mentions.

Summary: The aftermath of a mermaid encounter brings an unexpected ally.

A/N: Pirate Miggy is back ❤️

Mermaids, sea witches, sirens, sea monsters. The latter was the most accurate name for what your mere existence rendered. And now, men eater.

Existing since way before humans understood the concept of civilizations, silent watchers of eons of evolution, yet unfortunate by the simple fact of being.

The permanence of the kin itself was a result of a fateful domino effect the God of the dead had unleashed by being invaded and bewitched by a mortal feeling. Love.

His whim had turned into obsession and this somehow morphed into love. A feeling so strong that made him kidnap the Spring goddess for himself, tired of the miserable companion solitude was in the underworld. And that was the moment everything changed.

The nymphs in charge of their queen's safety were turned into winged beings, as a punishment from none other than Demeter. Her wrath over them, ruthless and merciless as they were forced to look everywhere for their vanishing queen to no avail.

Some of the nymphs had escaped the aftermath to a recluse island, abandoning all purpose of finding Persephone, to follow the whims of their hearts in lieu. Singing and music.

But even so, Demeter's fury had no match, vengeful and blinded by anger she looked for the rebel ones to kill them, but these hid in the sea. Eventually, the feathers hardened, turning into scales. These etched and covered their legs. Securing them in a colorful long tail.

Bird's talons turned into beautiful and deadly hands, that once a prey was caught there was nothing it could do but to accept it's fate. Death.

Damned be Hades and his stupid obsession. Damned be Demeter and her blinding rage, and damned be the men that polluted the earth above with their existing and constant evolving.

Men. The real wretched creatures. The executioners of everything they decided unworthy of living. Stupid beings that played God in a self imposed role in life's hierarchy.

Creatures that had hunted and killed your kin for ages, forcing to separate and face new dangers at every turn in the endless ocean. Humans, a little too praising title considering their acts and actions were everything but, had forced you to hide in the deepest waters and forbidden lands not many were brave enough to venture in.

A couple of centuries were more than enough for you to have a glimpse of their nature. Destructive, dangerous and merciless. They sullied and tarnished everything unfortunate enough to go under their hands.

They killed everything unknown or deemed too frightening for their existence and had no mercy while at it. The bloodier the better. A disgusting yet necessary example of behavior you had to follow in order to survive.

Humans had shaped your temper. Heart rejoicing at every sunken ship the sea swallowed. Even their flesh had lost the sizzle to be enjoyable enough, making your feeding habits more inclined towards other creatures within the sea.

You didn't eat men because you hated them. You ate them because their hatred had poisoned enough the seas, leaving you without resources, pushing you to consume them. And your refusal had made your body weak, it had been years since your body felt properly satisfied.

You collapsed.

How many days had passed, certainly was unknown. Time under the sea was measured by how long it took for a reef to go completely white, how often the ships let their nets in a single spot. Sometimes you remained on land, sea too dangerous to venture alone.

But none of that mattered anymore. Inanition wasn't exclusive of humans, the last thing in your mind was to curse Hades and the men.

But death escaped and picked you and others alike within a net. Pushing some survival instinct back in you as the net wriggled and broke. Injecting the right amount of life to hand you a buffet in a wooden platter. Gathering your bearings after the little commotion in your head, was quickly overlooked when the attention focused on the scene unfolding.

A ship full of men, that stared in wonder and fear. One of them stood out from the rest. It reminded you of Hercules. His physique unique, just as his eyes. A fine specimen and surely a delicious one. Their language was unknown, but it became clear the moment you kissed the fool before your apparent naive form. Absorbing his knowledge and a little more in that simple gesture. Which was little.

But enough to understand what the men said and whispered around you.

Foul and salty smelling, with a faint tinge of wine. He tasted sour and ashy, but edible enough to sate your rampant huger. You wanted to go for the herculean man in shackles, his scent rich in leather, voice like a soft and firm caress in the back of one's head. His cinnamon toned skin made your mouth water.

You were about to move for him, but Elliot, the idiot infront and your hunger kept you in place. You knew your initial prey would fight and would waste the little reserve of strength you had left. He was no fool.

As moronic as the man on your way was, he'd save his purpose. The prey was subdued, flesh and bones devoured; bland and tasteless, but well welcomed within your body. Revitalizing energies and restocking the strength you had been lacking for a time.

Expected as it was, they attacked, all by the command of the shackled man, that had dared to injure you with a bullet. But you were too frenzied and hungry to care. Your meal hung in your maws, as you fought to get it off the ship.

Your Hercules watched in horror from afar, and never in your life had you felt more realized and satisfied to provoke such disturbing reaction in a man.

You could almost taste the fear behind his raged and shaky breathing, his shock in every powerful beat his heart did, the denial in his eyes as they widened the more your teeth sank into the corpse. It fueled you. And also ignited with new strength the already flickering purpose of your existence.

Destroy as many of them as possible.

You went under the ship, away from their archaical defense to eat and consume your food. Humans weren't definitely on the top, for a moment the hunter became the prey and didn't survive to brag about his new kill.

Skin and flesh was torn, consumed with such hunger it had you full and completely sated like never before, within matter of minutes. Elliot Jackdaw no longer existed, but served as a reminder that your kin prevailed and endured.

But also, had unleashed a new domino effect you weren't aware of.

The man in shackles, your forsaken greek god, was thrown at the sea. Your territory. You saw him move, fight against the current; trying to free himself from the heavy cuffs that weighed him down and reach back to the ship. And then nothing.

He became still and it made you frown. Where that bravado had gone? The smirk that was about to emerge in your lips faded as soon as a red cloud oozed and swallowed his head.

His scent was too rich and alluring, stagnant almost. Sickly sweet for your senses and he wasn't moving.

If you recalled, he was called a captain. What was a captain doing out of his ship drowning in the sea? Your lip twitched in scowl.

The lack of loyalty among his kindred was another reason to hate them. He wasn't the first nor the last you had saved in these conditions. Mostly women or little children that were expelled without much reasons other than being a burden.

As much as you cursed your heart for not turning its back to these sort of injustices, and your need to have a tiny taste of him, you hauled him up shore. Light as a feather in water, but heavy as lead on land. The heavy iron around his wrist didn't help, so you destroyed it, inflicting little cuts around his flesh in the process.

Ancient eyes scrutinized his form. Sharp cheekbones that could only match a sword. Strong features that screamed fighter in every direction you looked. A jagged and nasty cut on a side of his head, some strands obscuring his face, you removed them and some bloodied debris from his wound, inspecting it.

Not a too deep cut, the contusion of his head against the moving ship had been rough. A single cut in the upper right cheekbone, clothes clung to him like a second skin. His pockets however were too tempting to be left alone.

Sand and water on them, along a shiny pearl that had you staring and sniffing at the trinket for a close inspection, that didn't pay attention to the locket nesting deeper inside. The pearl was true, so you took it as it quickly etched to your skin, under the ribcage as a decor motif of the raggy top you used to cover your chest.

He'd surely serve as one of Aphrodite's lovers. His forearms laced in tiny and fading scars, that also loitered his solid and somewhat hairy chest. A man through and through. A natural enemy of yours, yet you had saved him.

Probably, he would hunt you too, like the scarce quantity of men you had pulled out of danger. The pearl was a token for saving his life.

You could kill him, filling your tabs with another number, but it wouldn't be honorable. Even if you were a different species, you refused to let some of their habits to rub on you. You opposed greatly to be like them, and so with a look that would suppose to be a final one back at him, you dipped back into the sea.

----

He was on land. Alive, heart beating along every single erratic breath. The sea waves washed over his hips, not cold neither lukewarm. Just the ideal temperature for the humid weather

I'm alive.

His mind couldn't comprehend what had happened. One moment he was in the sea, to then hurl himself back up and puke all the salty water his body had unwillingly ingested.

Miguel was dizzy, but alive. Beaten up, but still breathing. Pissed and ever ready to get his treasure back. But he had to recover some energies first.

Sighing and rising slowly, he turned around to kneel in the moist sand. Tiny grains of it etched to his moist skin, they were rough, altering his sensorial touch for a second. Feet finally got the strength to stand up, careful to not let the nauseas get to his head entirely. Skin burned, but he could bear the discomfort, what Miguel truly needed was a big gulp of water.

He remembered the sun being high on the sky, blazing with all it's glory and witnessing his crew marooning him for good. And now it was night. Somehow thankful that he didn't have to deal with the weather's inclemencies. Step by wobbly step he approached to the thickets and palms rooted in the soil, dressing up modestly the land he walked on.

As another wave of nauseas hit while his head pounded, Miguel stopped to rest in a nearby palm. Calloused hand cupping and covering his mouth to prevent the bile and vomit to spill out once more. Dehydrated as he was, Miguel also understood the dangers of drinking too much salty water.

If dehydration didn't kill him, puking too much without having any other resources on reach would. But none of his survival could be done with the unbridled headache that hammered in his head. A side of it was caked in dry blood, like some strands of his already matted and full of sand hair.

With careful steps he ventured in deeper into the jungle, looking for a spot to spent the night away from land's troubles. The island wasn't familiar for him, he didn't even know if it was big enough to harbor sustainable life, or if ships would pass nearby. With a gasp and a frantic move, he palmed his pockets.

Mierda, no! No

Panic rose upon not feeling the pearl, the sudden motion made his steps stutter as he puked, unable to hold it in anymore. But once he was done and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, he searched into them.

Por favor

The pearl was gone, that was for sure, but relief washed over him upon feeling the fine golden chain of the locket. Hand clasped on it while he brought it to his chest and sighed.

He nearly gave up.

Heart pounding in his ears along his head, and only when he opened the locket, the tears flowed. Calloused fingers full of sandy grains probed the valuable mineral, feeling the dents of the shell shape he knew by heart at this point. Eyes drowning and his voice muffled into a silent and wrathful sob as he inhaled the trinket.

Perdóname, Gabi. (Forgive me)

A faint tickle of fresh home bread, coconut oil that he used to fry the fish, and the eucalyptus ointment that was always next to him brought back the bittersweet memories that flooded his mind about the last years he had with Gabriella. She adored when he cooked, and always smelled his fingers after using the oil.

It reminds me of you, Papa.

She loved freshly baked bread. But hated the smell of the eucalyptus ointment the doctor left her.

The only memento he now had of his beloved and long gone daughter. The only thing that mattered the most for him.

How dared them betraying him when he had been everything but fair and good?

How dared them into taking his ship and some important things he had hid inside? But most importantly, how dared life to show him that mermaids were real when the reason he believed in them in the first place was no longer with him?

Who was he supposed to tell that he saw a mermaid?

A karma for turning into a pirate, maybe. All his mind was able to remember was the way the creature looked at him, a clear assessment of her power. Fear invaded every fiber of his being, making him too stunned to actually think or act until he saw the creature devouring Elliot.

Another reason for him to respect the sea. Now that he had a glimpse of what laid underneath, Miguel wondered what other things crawled in it's depths. But he would think about it all tomorrow.

His eyes drooped in exhaustion. Thinking consumed the last bit of his energy reserves. Despite the thirst clawing at his throat with a vice grip, the headache and weariness were greater. Even though a thicket wasn't the right choice to spend the night, he hadn't the time nor the energies to be picky. He just collapsed once more and hoped whoever above to live another day.

----

The sunlight was slippery enough to leak through the dense foliage and reach patches of the humid and moss textured land, as well parts of his weathered face. With a wince he rolled to his side, avoiding the aurifeous and warm touch from the ever blazing sun. Head clear from it's pain, and thoughts in order, like it should be.

With a sigh he rose and stretched, popping joints back in their place. Discomfort remaining in his head and wrists, that upon further examination he deducted the cuts in them were fresh, and undoubtedly someone had saved him from a certain death. Who, he didn't know but was grateful for the mysterious savior to let his revenge start.

With a rested yet hungry body, and a fresh head to think, he rolled his shoulders back and took a look around. Surveying his environment to decide which way to go. No weapons, no resources but packed with skills that were honed precisely for these sort of situations.

He still remembered the first time Mundaca had left him in an island with a single knife to fend for himself, since Miguel refused to accompany him in a slave hunting trip. At first he thought that Mundaca had left him for good or out of spite, but Fermín had only taught him a valuable surviving lesson. This time however, he didn't have that knife and would rely only on his hands, brain and brawns.

Naturally, Miguel headed for the north, palm trees left behind, instead acai palms, rubber trees and soursops begun gathering in the place. The scent of wet soil and rotting wood was pungent in the air, oddly, he liked it. Macaws and other birds cackled and cawed as he pushed deeper along some distant rustling.

The overgrown roots twisted and tangled here and there, weaving a walkable path free of them to his right, His eyes darted to the tail of a cobra slithering away from him, minding it's business.

The copious squaking of the birds was a good white noise along the crunching of his wet boots. His throat was beyond arid, that even spit couldn't form in it if he wished; stomach rumbled violently, begging him for some food. Breathings paused but deep.

Hours stretched for what seemed forever, he didn't know if he was walking in circles, the island was definitely not small. He had found some fruit trees along the way, but the things were so our of reach, that attempting to climb for them was a risk. He'd knew the wait would worth it.

Ears however perked at the gunshot given in the distance. Eyes widened, both in surprise and excitement at the thought that civilization was within. Cause that meant, food and water. And also weapons. And what a better way to confirm it than a booming gunshot that spooked away the nearby fawn.

With careful steps, he followed the echo, making the least of noise possible. As much as it thrilled to have a bite, he also understood the implications of such things. Armored men, guarded bodegas, overpowered foremen and probably slaves.

Time flew by, but his spirits lifted upon spotting the first red uniforms in a distance. Two of them. He approached closer to take a better look.

The soldiers had a rifle each, a belt full of ammo and firing at what were now dead slaves as shooting dummies. To his right, Miguel saw a few tents and supplies. Food and water tossed in a nearby bench, a fire was alight, serving as a cooking source for the pot placed above. His eyes however fell upon a machete. Probably belonging to one of the dead men tied up in the wooden posts.

After all, working tools had to be in perfect conditions, leaving no room for slacking off.

Miguel forayed slowly, moving within the foliage until he reached for the machete, with paced breathings he awaited for another shot to rumble to pull the weapon within his reach. The metallic drag was drowned. He couldn't eat until the men were disposed off.

Now that he was armored, a distraction was needed. The branches used for the iron's pot makeshift support were weak, the stew inside boiled. Miguel pushed the tip of the machete on the pot's edge, a little clink connected as the pot was pushed forward, but it barely tumbled it. He awaited for another gunshot to echo to push the pot entirely on the ground.

The lard immediately sent sparks on the floor as smoke surrounded the area. The noisy thud of the pot alarmed one of the guards that didn't waste time into blaming his companion for the shitty structure and how they'd have to go fishing again to get food done.

A little too late the guard noticed the fiery red eyes that glowered at him. Before he could even say something the sharp blade of the machete sliced through this throat in a firm thrust, all the guard could do was a gurgle, perturbed, before plummeting on the floor, staining the blade with a warm crimson as Miguel pulled it out of the body. Flesh sizzling at the contact of the hot coals and wood.

He took a rock that filled in his palm and aimed it for the head of the remaining guard, the other soldier yelped as he fell on the ground, the rock hitting his head with a lurid crack. Miguel lurched for him to end his misery by impaling the weapon in his back. Right in the middle. It was quick, deathly and effective.

Miguel panted but waited in case another guard was around, but none approached, just the wing flapping of a macaw somewhere. With the machete in hand he approached to the tent and wasted no time in gobbling down the water in a container, quenching his thirst, not really caring for the droplets that rolled down his neck.

His hands then wiped his face as he scrubbed the caked blood and sand away, then scarfed down the leftovers left in a plate and devoured anything within reach that was cooked or preserved, Adia probably would scold him for eating like an animal, despite being starving.

Once he was satisfied and his strength back, he looked for other weapons he could use. As much as the machete proved a worthy aid, it was long and it made noise. The opposite of what he needed.

The Red Eyed Demon searched into the soldier's pockets, a couple of coins, bullets and gold teeth that seemed freshly pulled out of the bodies in the back. He took the bullets and left the rest, he also found a short ranged pistol, a combat knife and a rope.

Also, to his luck, some fresh clothes. As much as he was set into his vengeance he wouldn't waste the chance into being comfortable while at it. His boots were soiled full of sand and saline water, he changed them, like his pants. The shirt was the only thing he kept since none of the men actually wore his size.

Ridiculous as it was, one of the soldiers had abnormally larger feet. But were perfect for him. Pants still a bit too short but he'd had them any other day instead of walking around feeling uncomfortable and itchy by the salt etched to his skin and clothes.

He ventured deeper only to find a familiar scene before him. A state. Hacienda Valverde read in the overly embellished metal structure that held the sign.

----

So far, Miguel had done a good job in keeping himself hid, the least of attention he attracted, the more successful his escape plan would be. So far he had counted around fifteen soldiers in the property. Five of them scattered through the plantations, making sure the workforce didn't dally in their duties.

He ventured over the trees, avoiding unnecessary trouble, to then land nearly quietly in a mountain of hay. His breathings stopped at every time an unsuspected guard passed by him. Heart pounded in his ears when his steps brought him closer and closer to danger

The rest of the guards were scattered through the property, watching over the stables, the main storage room, inside the hacienda and of course, watching over the supply.

He had snuck in the warehouse, to his surprise the cells were empty, he went through each of them to see if anything worthy had been left behind, but the sound of the lock being picked made him hide behind a couple of haystacks.

"Stop, Stop!" A groan came from a wriggling man, "I told you the truth! Let me go!"

Miguel couldn't see who was the prisoner, peeking out would be too risky, but the lack of accent, gave him a hint. An American.

The man grunted as he kicked, managed to land a punch or two to the guards that only twisted his shackled hands backwards. This made the man whine and curse, blind hot pain shot in his ribcage as another soldier hit him with the base of his rifle.

"Shut your fucking gob!" With a rough shove, the fighting man was thrown into the cell, the enclosure's door stilled with a loud creak as the main door was slammed shut.

The only noises the pirate could hear was the pained grunts that only increased when the prisoner tried to pick himself up from the floor, and the shaky huffing that turned into whiny whimpers when he managed to recover some air.

The day was set to surprise him, cause in his life he had seen a white man being thrown in a slave cell. Until now.

The man was tall, lean muscle in his body, a five o'clock stubble in his narrow cheeks and blue eyes. Hair hapzardly peeking ontop of his head.

"Fuck..." He groaned but recoiled in his cell even further upon seeing the shade of red glinting at him behind the haystacks. Pain screamed in every breathing he did, but that didn't stop him from trying to get himself free.

"H-Hey"

The man's eyes widened as soon as Miguel came into full view. He had to crane his head upwards to meet his eyes and gulped as soon as he realized the color in the behemoth of a man. Breaths shallow but less erratic than before now that he knew he had company.

"Please. Help me out of here, pal"

He was definitely American.

"And why would I do that?"

Miguel’s bushy brow quirked while taking another look through the warehouse, searching for alternative escape routes.

"Cause my wife just gave birth and I wanna meet my little girl."

A red stare seized the blue one. His unwavering, but the man's rivalled against it. Miguel broke contact as his hands fisted briefly. The prisoner's chest heaved whole he rubbed the area he was hit on.

Lucky bastard

"I was supposed to arrive last week but I was taken from the ship."

"Why?"

Miguel looked through the haystacks and other corners he didn't have the chance to search thoroughly.

"That's what I'd like to know!" The man sat against the lateral bars and winced defeated, watching at the moving man.

"I was a merchant, on a trip to improve a little familiar business I have, but Nueva York isn't precisely friendly with the working class." He paused to take some air the hit had taken away, "So I came back. And that's where the english trapped me." His forehead rested ontop of his scrapped and bloodied knuckles. The spark that gave him a beating and his imprisonment.

"The English are press ganging civilians at sea."

Miguel's lip twitched in a scowl upon hearing the news. Of course they would, Americans and English were too deep in political wars that could barely stand eachother. But in the sea, the English were the masters and none was there to stop them. More like he wasn't there to sink as many of them as possible.

Yet.

"How old is your daughter?"

The pirate asked above his shoulder and this made the gaoler to look up.

"Three weeks old. According to my wife's last letter."

Miguel's shoulder slumped, and he turned to look at the man. A little hesitation passed over his eyes, but it vanished as soon as he saw an old acquaintance of him. Hope. Red eyes rolled annoyed, as if regretting the sudden decision he was about to make.

"Do you know how to use a weapon?"

The question surely threw the man off, but still managed to reply

"Y-Yeah. Not fond of them, but yeah."

"Fight?"

"Not a complete useless if that's what you're hinting at."

Miguel chuckled and approached closer to the cell, examining the lock while the detainee put on his pair of boots.

"Gimme a wire and I'll get myself out of here."

Miguel instead took a nearby shovel to destroy the lock in a couple of hits. The metal piece clanking on the floor as it fell.

"O-Or you could do that. Yeah."

The man stood on his feet and stretched before offering his hand to him, Miguel just stared at him for a moment before taking his hand in a firm shake. Peter hid a wince at the sheer display of strength and that he had grabbed his injured hand.

"Peter B. Parker. Merchant and lock master."

"Miguel O'Hara. Pirate."

Peter could only blink stupidly at him.

"Let's go."

But followed him without much thought.

-----

Taglist:

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guppybibi · 24 days

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Not much of a Romancer..

𖦹 pairing: Necromancer!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x ghost!fem!reader

𖦹 word count: 1543

𖦹 content: Dead Johnny (shockers), most likely inaccurate information, maybe ooc, mild cursing, i feel like this will be a rushed slowburn

𖦹 notes: the definitions are from google lmao, idk how necromancy works but..how do u do dialogue what.

Necromancy, the practice of magic involving communication with the dead by summoning their spirits, a certain act that Simon wasn't familiar with. Yet, at least. He’s been browsing through local libraries whenever he isn't deployed, researching on this topic. It never really piqued his interest to begin with, you know? Well, not until Johnny brought it up once. It stuck with him since.

“Aye whin ah die L.T., mak' sure tae git an ouija boord or learn necromancy sae we kin still talk.” He joked, already tipsy from the amount of alcohol in his system. Simon knew he was kidding, the man was bloody drunk after all. The idea didn't seem..horrible though. Would it really work? Could he still talk with Johnny or the other undead by simply using a haunted board or using witchcraft?

Now that Johnny really was gone, it wouldn't hurt to try it out, right? Simon chose to use the Ouija board first as it looked easier than to learn literal black magic. And did it work? It definitely did! Except he wasn't talking to Johnny’s spirit, instead he was talking to a fucking demon. That could also be the late Sergeant messing with him but he wasn't taking any chances of being possessed by an actual demon, he had enough demons he was fighting internally, he didn't need any more. So he turned to the last option in his book which was learning necromancy, which certainly wasn't easier.

First, he went and browsed the endless world wide web, finding tips and tricks of what you're supposed to do or not do. It was quite useful, being able to learn in the comfort of his own house was convenient. One of the few downsides of researching on the net is the fact that the internet was a cobweb of all sorts of false information, just waiting for the users to fall right into their sticky trap. Simon wasn't one of them though, he wasn't one to trust that easily, especially strangers. So he went to the public library, a place he hasn't been to in years.

It felt like he was out of place to say the least, every heavy step he took made the aged floorboards creak, earning the librarian’s stern glare every time while he nodded his head to silently apologize. So far, the most important thing he learned to keep in mind in necromancy is respect. After all, it was the undead he was disturbing. To never forget to say things like “please” and “thank you” deemed easy enough. Sure he was a cold-hearted man, a lot of people were skeptical if he even had one in him, but he wasn't a disrespectful man. So he kept these things in mind, they were easy enough to do anyway.

So, after months of researching he finally decided to start his very first ritual. He got some chalk, some white candles to repel any negative spirit, he would've chosen to use tea candles but that wasn't the better option. Get it? Because Brits like tea? Well there were a bunch of different methods he could've used, but he chose this so it better work. He was taking this chance, the chance to speak to Johnny again, to properly say goodbye.

At last, it was time. It was the dead of night, Simon decided to perform the ritual in an abandoned building. He managed to accurately set everything up, proving that the months of studying necromancy was worth it. Then, he started the long awaited ritual. It started out smoothly, with him reciting chants and doing whatever was required for him to do. He was anticipating to hear an annoying Scottish accent to come out soon, but instead he heard..a high pitched voice? From what he could tell, it was no doubt a woman. Shit, did he just summon the spirit of an unknown dead woman? Well he had to deal with this, he can only hope it wasn't a hostile spirit. It’s his responsibility now, he can't just shove your soul back into the afterlife.

“I was having a really good rest, ya know..” The spirit starts. “Until a certain someone here decided to ruin it.” She glares at the masked man in front of her, making Simon feel like he was being pierced by sharp needles. “Sorry, that wasn't my intention.” He states the truth, sighing when he realizes his first attempt at speaking to Johnny failed. He should clean up and get going before he pisses you off even more. So he does just that, cleaning up after himself and packing up. “Hey hey, stop right there big guy.” She calls out, disappearing from where she was and reappearing right in front of him.

“You bothered my peaceful slumber, now I’m bothering you!” She announces proudly as if she had just said the best idea for vengeance. Okay, maybe it was because Simon’s ears were already starting to ring from your voice. “Sure, go follow me or whatever.” He said with an indifferent tone, he’s been through the worst things. Things that also caused his ear to ring and rupture, so he could surely handle this. From what he could tell, you seemed like you just wanted to provoke him. That's fine, at least you meant no harm. Physically at least.

And so, you did indeed follow him. No matter the occasion, rainy or sunny, you’d be right there beside him like a pesky shadow. Unless he went to the bathroom, that's where you’d finally cross the line. You still waited for him out the door like a clingy dog though. That was when he was not deployed though, you weren't exactly aware of him being a lieutenant..Sure his room seemed very soldier-like and had remnants of proof all over but he could've been just a military enthusiast or something!

Now here he was, packing all of the essentials as he prepares for deployment while you watch him intently. “Seriously? 3-in-1 shampoo? It's not even scented!” She bitches, concerned about his hygiene routine. “It's efficient and convenient.” He answers dryly, continuing to shove all of the necessities in his bags. “Where are you going anyways? Vacation?” To which he scoffs at, do you really think he's bringing a pistol to a vacation? “Did the afterlife take all of your wits too? I’m getting deployed.”

“..Deployed?” She questions. “I’m in the army.” And with that, her eyes are as wide as saucers. “Excuse me, no wait–excuse you? And you never bothered mentioning it to me once!” Then he cuts you off. “You never bothered to tell me your name. I think we're in pretty similar situations.” Her mouth is instantly zipped, he did have a point. “Oh right..well it isn't too late to get to know each other, big guy.”

“Stop calling me ‘big guy’.” “Then tell me your name. Look, I’ll even start. My name is Y/N, nice to meet you.” She starts, holding out her hand as she expects a handshake from him. Because that's how proper formal introductions start! “Ghost.” He replies blankly, getting a raised eyebrow from you. “That's it?” She sulks. “Just an alias, that's enough.”

‘What a killjoy’ she thinks, why couldn't someone more interesting make her come to life! Like maybe a group of rebellious teens or anyone but like this ‘Ghost’ guy! “Well then ‘Ghost’, let's get to know each other!” She insists. “I won't be talking to you when I’m deployed, don't want the soldiers thinking I’m a madman.” She whines, how much did she sin during her lifetime to deserve such dull torture? Before she could even open her mouth to complain, he spoke up. “If you dislike haunting me then just leave.” “I can't.” She tells, and Simon has never seen you this quiet before.

“I bet I owe you some kind of explanation huh? Looks like you didn't research enough on this necromancing disturbing the dead shit.” He nodded, admitting his mistake. “Whoever awakes the undead is the only one who can put them to rest again, you have to perform another ritual for it. So if I don't stop following you, I could possibly lose you and permanently wander as a ghost forever. I don't want that, none of the undead does.” She explained, the words are hard to get out of her. While the masked man nodded in understanding, that's why she acted like she was glued to him like honey. He thought about it, it did seem pretty shitty. You can only do so much, going around as a ghost doesn't seem like the funnest thing in the world.

“I see. Just..stick by me or whatever.” There's something in him that doesn't wanna get rid of her just yet, maybe it's his conscience? Yeah, that was for sure it. It would feel like he was purposely putting someone back in their grave, the soil being used to bury them a little too familiar to other experiences. The woman blinks a few times, burning straight through his soul as she stares at him before nodding. Looks like he was in no rush to get rid of her, that's nice. She’ll stay by his side the whole time, whether he likes it or not.

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notthesomefather · 1 month

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Prayer to Njord for Prosperity

Father of the divine twins, You bravely venture forth to provide for your kith and kin. Bless those who would seek to likewise care for their loved ones.

Father of she who cries golden tears, You cast line and net to bestow your prize to those who depend on you. Bless those who work and yearn for the betterment of their family.

Father of he whose seeds bring life, You stay the course, enduring storms to ensure your people’s prosperity. Bless those whose perseverance enriches their home and community.

Hail the Vanir King, Hail the Steward of the Sea, Hail the Bringer of Bounty, Hail Njord!

#njord #prayers #heathen #norse pagan #vanatru #asatru #vanir #pagan #norse paganism #paganism #heathenry #polytheist #polytheism

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narcissses · 1 year

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welcome all enstarries, make yourselves comfortable !

two of my friends and i run a brand new server for 18+ enstars kinnies and fictives!

features include ::

mandatory intros to avoid raids

doubles and fictives friendly

lots of channels for different topics

pluralkit for system use

music bot, starboard and sheep for activities and color roles

friendly mods + server admin is a system

condensed rules ::

no bigotry

no character hate

no use of closed-culture names if you are not from that culture

no pr//o.shippers

the full rules and blacklist are available in the server itself.

we look forward to seeing you there !! >LINK!!<

#enstars kin #ensemble stars kin #kincord #kin server #enstars kin server #enstars kincord #ensemble stars kincord #ensemble stars kin server #kin net

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genshin-impacted · 1 year

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three ways to say goodbye

Never once does Alhaitham ever say the words ‘good-bye.’ (And one time he doesn’t need to.) OR You die in four three different ways; Alhaitham deals with your death differently each time.

Word Count: ~3.5k (one shot)

Notes: Alhaitham x Reader (3+1 fic), gender-neutral reader, Alhaitham POV, major character death(s) (you), ANGST, mainly hurt with comfort at the end, exploratory fic on how Alhaitham deals with grief & death-- his devotion, each part has specific notes

[anticlimatic]

notes: slight description of dead body (you), blood, ambiguous relationship status; implied roommates with Kaveh and Alhaitham, could be ot3 if you squint, mild profanity

Your death came without warning, without rhyme or reason. It doesn't make sense for you to die here, your potential on the brink of being fully realized, your journey cut abruptly before it has even started. As a narrative, your death is almost anticlimactic, unpredictable and hidden away in the forests of Sumeru where the rangers found you, body broken and eyes closed forever. Your wings must have failed you midflight, plummeting you down to the ground without a safety net. If there were any signs of foul play, it is hard to tell; there is so much blood to wash off of you.

Tighnari was the one to set your limbs straight to make you look more comfortable, and Cyno was the one to tell Alhaitham to come and identify your body.

It's only a formality at this point. Cyno and Tighnari-- Alhaitham thinks they would not have let Collei see your body, bruised as it is-- would have been ample identification checks. They know you well, consider you a friend. It may also be a sort of mercy from Cyno to inform Alhaitham of what has happened so he can be one of the first to know, the first to see you.

They know Alhaitham was more important to you than any of them-- Alhaitham included-- could truly understand. So, of course, it is Alhaitham who gets to know first.

Cyno peels back the cover from your head. It must be the least injured part of your body because the only tell-tale sign that you are dead is the stillness of your face. You are the most animated person he knows, even if you aren't aware of it. You constantly move your eyes to see the world for what it is, lips always upturned subconsciously, though Alhaitham can remember the days when you went without for quite some time. It was a trying period for you, but your smile came back eventually, and all felt right in the world.

Alhaitham knows it will not come back this time.

"It's them," he says, though you look far from the person you were when you were still alive. "Where will the body be stored?"

"The Sumeru morgue," Cyno replies. He pauses. "Will you-"

"They have no family. No next of kin." Alhaitham says, "I will arrange their funeral."

Cyno only nods, and Alhaitham watches as he goes to cover your face up with a foreboding sense of dread he cannot place. Cyno does not apologize to Alhaitham for his loss. Neither of them is the type to placate others even in their grief. As for "his" loss? Certainly not just his. You were well loved, a bud in bloom among the vines of the Akademiya with your reputation built from the soil up. Those that knew you will mourn.

Yes, Alhaitham is in mourning, right now, isn't he? Everyone else believes it to be so. Tighnari tells him ‘my condolences' even though his own face is tight with regret, as though he could have single handedly prevented this from happening. He doesn't see Collei but perhaps that is telling enough of her grief. Cyno tells him that he will let Dehya and Candace know, and Alhaitham can only nod in agreement.

Alhaitham thinks he knows the reason for the dread when he comes home and Kaveh is there. His roommate has been pacing around in the living room, Alhaitham can tell. Without either you or Alhaitham present, Kaveh was worried but trying not to think of the worst-case scenario. Alhaitham has to be the one to break the news to him of the worst-case scenario, and he braces himself for the torrent.

If Alhaitham is the person who knows you best, then Kaveh is right behind him. Your death will devastate Kaveh, even if Kaveh does not know it yet.

"You're lying," Kaveh tells him. His face is as impassive as Alhaitham has ever seen. "You're lying to me, and it's not fucking funny-"

"I’m not lying," Alhaitham says. When Kaveh opens his mouth to argue, spit vitriol, call him a liar again, Alhaitham feels his own temper rise, and for a twisted moment, it almost feels familiar, him and Kaveh at each other's throats, except they've never argued over something as serious as this. "I wouldn’t lie about this. And you know it."

Alhaitham expects it to escalate. Kaveh will raise his voice and Alhaitham will too, both of them feeding their animosity into each other like they have never done since their Akademiya days. Even their latest bickering is nothing, and with you added into the mix, it becomes even less than that-- more eye rolls and snarky remarks than anything close to an argument.

But you're gone. So everything is different now, even if no one wants it to be. And when Kaveh's lips begin to tremble, his face falling upon the realization that oh god, Alhaitham is telling the truth, Alhaitham realizes something too. Telling Kaveh about your death was worthy of dread, but the thought that nothing will ever be the same with you gone, makes the foreboding feeling gape and widen.

He will pass by Lambad's Tavern and walk in, expecting you to be there at the third seat of the bar, writing your essay, but you will not. He will sit at the table nearest the window in the House of Daena and read while waiting for you to come and ask him to find a book, but you will not. He will walk home, noise canceling headphones off despite the bustle of the city, because he expects you to come up from behind him, hoping to surprise him for once, but you will never come. He will enter an empty home, quiet and devoid of sound, and instead of being relieved, he will only feel the same heavy dread, knowing you will never come home again.

Alhaitham never said he loved you aloud, and now he never will. Did you know anyways? Without him telling you, did you know that he loved you? Through the way he believed in you, the way he said your name, the times he's helped you, eaten with you, let you sleep on his shoulder and in his bed when you were tired. You knew him best, cherished him more than he could understand. Did you know he loved you like you loved him?

The unspoken questions, the unsaid words. As abrupt your death is, it is permanent, and Alhaitham will have to live life knowing there is an empty space where you once were that will never be filled again.

[stay]

notes: slight description of dead body (you), blood, established relationship

Alhaitham cannot control things that are beyond his abilities to do so. The heavenly principles are far beyond him, beyond even the archons themselves, so it only makes sense that the events that transpire involving them are out of his control.

This upsets him less than most people would think. He's a thinker, calculating each of his steps before implementing them, so it would make sense when he can’t plan out every step of the way. People would be right to an extent, but Alhaitham is logical enough to understand there is no use trying to change something that he cannot. And why waste time being upset over that when he can focus on the things he can control?

Only… he is human, and even he miscalculates. When he thinks of the things within his power to control, he thinks about your happiness, his ability to make you laugh and blush, the ways he can keep you safe. He did not anticipate, as he holds your hands slick from your own blood, that your safety is beyond his control.

"Let me stop the bleeding," Alhaitham tells you, scanning his surroundings for anything he can to help him staunch your wound. You look at him, breathing shallow, his grip not once faltering even as you seem to lose the strength to hold onto him. "Don't fall asleep. Keep looking at me. I'll use my cape for now-"

"Alhaitham."

"I’ll lift your body up," he says, clicking his tongue when his hands slip from under you with the blood. "Tie this around you for now. The Traveler wasn't far from here-"

"Haitham."

"-even Paimon can help carry your legs if you can't walk anymore. I know she can-" Alhaitham stops when you start to push his hands away from your abdomen where the bleeding is most heavy. "What are you doing?"

"Can you," you begin to say, rasping these words as though it is taking every breath to speak, "can you just hold me? Haitham."

Alhaitham shakes his head. "I’ll hold you later.” He tells you, swallowing thickly as you look into his eyes as though searching for something. The next words makes his mouth dry, but he must say it. He must try. “I promise. I have to do this-"

"I can tell I'm not gonna make it."

Alhaitham shifts his legs under him and feels his knees soak in blood.

"Respectfully," Alhaitham says icily, "you may be more well versed with medicine than me, but you aren't at full capacity right now to judge accurately."

You laugh at this. Alhaitham doesn't see how any of this could be funny to you. He doesn't understand you. He never has. But, oh, he wishes he does; wishes he had all the time in the world to get to understand you more.

He feels your hand paw at his wrist, your fingers cold as ice.

You shake your head so slowly, and the smile you give him blooms just as slowly as the Padisarah flower he gave you last week. Your smile is no less beautiful though, no less bright despite it all.

"Maybe." You sigh. "But I’d like for you to hold me anyways. Please?" You say, "I feel so cold."

Alhaitham swallows his protests, because in the end, it is logic that will always win against all else: there is a low percentage that any help will arrive, and Alhaitham cannot do anything to save you.

“Okay,” he says quietly, gathering you up into his arms. Strong as he is, he is so gentle with the way he brings your head to rest against his shoulders, bringing your legs over his lap so he can cradle your body against his to share the warmth. He hears you sigh in relief, though he doubts it’s because you feel any warmer. It is purely comfort that he is providing, until the end.

For the first time since his youth, Alhaitham feels helpless.

“Your eyes are so pretty,” you tell him, words slurring. He lets out a huff of laughter– he feels delirious almost– that is shakier than usual, taking your cold hands and kissing your fingers as though it could bring it some semblance of warmth. “Lots of colors.”

‘Thanks,’ he could say dryly, like he always does. ‘I think I might like yours better,’ he could say; it would get a laugh out of you, and isn’t that what he always wants for you? ‘I love you’ would work too; it always works when it’s you.

Alhaitham opens his mouth to reply, but instead of anything he has planned, he says to you instead with all the desperation in his heart, “Please stay.”

“I love you,” you tell him instead; you always made it sound so easy to say.

In the aftermath, when the dust has settled and those who have not toppled remain, Kaveh finds Alhaitham hours after your death, cradling your body, his face buried into your neck.

[anticipatory]

notes: next two parts have the same back story- you have a leyline curse similar to Dainsleif; some fluff here! established relationship

“How long,” you ask as you lie in bed with him, “do you think I have?”

Alhaitham’s hand stops tracing lines on your back over the curse marks that paint your skin abyss blue. It’s not an unfamiliar question. You ask every once in a while, because you can’t see the progression of the ley line curse on your back, so you rely on him to tell you how far it’s spread.

Based on the growth, which only seems to go faster by the day, Alhaitham calculates you have about another year before it consumes your entire body.

Only six months ago it was invisible to the naked eye. Tonight, the blues spread outward like butterfly wings from the middle of your spine to reach your shoulders. You’ve already stopped wearing sleeveless shirts to cover the marks, but when they go past your neck or onto your hands, it’ll be difficult to justify wearing turtlenecks and gloves all the time while in Sumeru.

“Let’s take a vacation to Shnezhnaya at the end of the year,” Alhaitham says instead. “I have three months worth of sick days and breaks.”

You pause for a moment before letting him guide the conversation away. “Isn’t one of their main cuisines soup dishes? Borscht or something like that.” He hears you say, amused. “You hate soups.”

“It makes it difficult to read,” he explains, tracing lines into your back again. You sigh in contentment as he spreads the expanse of his palm along your shoulders, memorizing the abyssal stars that align along the path he makes. “I can deal with it for a little bit. I can cook something else while we’re there.”

You’re quiet for a little bit, breathing even and steady that Alhaitham thinks you’ve fallen asleep while he was memorizing the dips and curves of your body. You shift when he lifts the blanket up higher over you. He can hear you swallow audibly as though readying yourself to say something, probably to redirect the conversation back to your initial question, he suspects. Before he can say anything, you say with a voice as equally shaky as it is steady, “I’m sorry.”

Alhaitham’s heart stops. “Why are you apologizing?” He asks as calmly as ever when you do not answer, “Because I’ll have to cook on vacation? Not really that an inconvenience, isn’t it? I’m assuming we’ll split the responsibility.”

No answer.

“I wasn’t going to use the vacation dates anyways,” he continues. “And I hardly get sick. Though now that we’re talking about it, three months in one place is a long time. Perhaps we should consider traveling-”

Then he sees you crumble before his eyes, shoulders shaking, face burying into your hands as you start to cry.

Experienced at loving you now, Alhaitham is quick to bring you close. Lucky enough for him, you still melt against him, welcoming his embrace as he coaxes you to turn his way and bury yourself into his nape instead of your hands. He can still hear your apologies mixed between the gasps of air you take, your tears seemingly unending. He holds you steady, voice calm even though his heart is leaping in his chest as it always does when you are upset.

“What’s wrong?” he says, voice hushed. And like every other time you are upset, he asks you, "What can I do to fix it?”

“I don’t-” you say, voice cracking, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“...You don’t know that you will,” Alhaitham says. And it’s true. Neither of you know what will happen for certain. A lone blond traveler with a curse similar to you had passed by and told him of his eventual fate, and you had likened it to your own. But there’s no proof proving the two of you are the same, though it can’t be said that there is no connection between your fates at all.

“How long do you think I have?” You ask again, and he knows he cannot hide it from you any longer.

“A year at most,” he says. Your eyelashes brush by his collarbone when you close your eyes shut. He stops you before your thoughts can even form. “I am not leaving you.” He scoffs and you make a noise of indignation. “Don’t even think about saying something like that.”

“You didn’t let me say anything yet,” he hears you grumble, and he lets a huff of laughter out at the sound of your petulant voice.

“Do you really think I would do something if I didn’t want to?” Alhaitham says dryly, “And what’s the thought process behind me leaving you before you can leave me? I’d love to know.” When you are quiet, he continues softly, “Do you think I am that fragile to fall apart when you are gone?”

“...No,” you say finally. “But I think you underestimate how strongly you feel.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, really,” you say, and your voice is light again, as it always is when you talk about how much you love him. “‘Cause I know better. How much you really feel, even if your face is… like that.”

“Like what,” Alhaitham says bluntly. When you only laugh into his shoulder, he can’t help but smile with you.

If Alhaitham could describe it, it feels like the longest goodbye. ‘Live every moment like it’s your last’ becomes the mantra between the two of you, though neither of you has said those exact words out loud. You love in abundance, laugh in abundance, bicker in full as though you are trying to live out the rest of your lives in one year.

The day Alhaitham takes you to the snowy lands of Snezhnaya is sooner than later, the scarves and gloves worn more days than not. As promised, you two do share the cooking duties for those months, getting cozy by the fireplace and learning how to icefish from the locals. He learns how to barter with the merchants there and commissions the two of you rings to wear. Though he never sees you wear it outside, he can always feel the ring when he holds your gloved hands. He thinks you never take it off.

When Alhaitham returns from Snezhnaya, he comes home alone with nothing but a golden band on his ring finger. The people that know him know better than to ask.

[priorities]

notes: connected background as previous but different ending; fluff! established relationship; happy end

Alhaitham has always been the type to stay in the background. People might be inclined to call him the ‘mastermind’ but that’s giving him too much credit considering how much he wants to remain unknown and unperceived. But he supposes having a hand in toppling the heavenly principles and destroying the castle in the sky and being unrecognized is asking for too much.

“You’re an… interesting guy,” you tell him, a few days after the climactic battle which, fortunately, neither of you had to have a large part in. (Well, there was that key role for you… and another for him, but that is neither here nor there.) You snicker into your hand when he shoots you a strange look.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Alhaitham asks, and before he can continue his retort, you are sitting on his lap even though the two of you are supposed to both be on bedrest, in separate beds. Tighnari is going to kill them if he finds them now that he knows neither of you are going to die any time soon.

“It means you’re an interesting guy,” you say. “The first thing you tell me is that you hate involving yourself into tedious things. And then you get yourself into making strategies to take down literal gods, which sounds pretty tedious to me.”

Your smile is beautific when you look at him, your arms finding their way around his neck and legs over his lap. Instinctively, he puts a hand around your back and holds onto your legs so you don’t fall. He takes a peek at your back and sees that the abyssal blue has not moved a single centimeter beyond your shoulder blades. He knows that was what was calculated, but still, he breathes a sigh of relief upon its confirmation.

“I always make a basic list of pros and cons for a plan,” Alhaitham says. “I just deemed overthrowing gods to be less tedious than the alternative outcome.”

“And what could possibly be more tedious than overthrowing a literal god?” You laugh, looking up at him as though he hung the moon and stars. He thinks if he hung the moon and stars, then you must be the one holding up the sun in the sky.

“Losing you,” Alhaitham says simply. “I’d prefer not to imagine a life without you in it, so I made sure that a life with you would happen.”

Alhaitham knows you are smart enough to know what he was going to say, but you seem surprised anyways, eyes wide and tears welling up at his admission. Perhaps some time ago, Alhaitham would not have believed it would have ever been worth upheaving his life for the sake of another person. But Alhaitham has never been one for halves; the moment he decided to have you in his life, then there was no other option for him.

“I love you,” you say, and he thinks overthrowing gods is an easy choice to make if three words is enough to make him feel this happy, if your arms around him is enough to make him content.

He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again– it’s only a matter of priorities. You just happen to be right on top of that list.

#alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #al haitham x reader #alhaitham #i think this may be my first genshin angst fic #like the fact some of these parts dont end happily? crazy for me #OFF BRAND i would say #couldnt resist adding a happy part tho :)

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homunculus-argument · 2 years

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One fun way to give depth to characters that might otherwise be a bit too one-sided is to give them one exception to the rule they live by, in a way that doesn't detract from the plot or characterisation. A character who's all about being Fancy and Sophisticated is really into exactly one (1) trashy activity, food or music genre, a character who's all about being bold and brave is scared of ladybugs (but not other insects, just that specific one because for some reason those crawling red little beads are creepy to them), a character who's the worst person you've ever met has one specific thing they're moral and ethical about.

One of my book ideas had Beunir Fisher, the One Sane Man of the entire book who is constantly pointing out how idiotic everyone else is being. He doesn't take offense to people saying "fishers have no sense of honour", not because he'd agree with the idea that his people are without morals, but because he's seen too many good people getting themselves killed because they put honour before reason. If this is what "honour" means, then fuck it, he's glad and proud that fisher folk don't understand what it means. He's the angry mom friend yelling at everyone for making stupid choices.

Having grown up in the streets, pickpocketing for survival, he had never had money to spend. Clothes are just something you wear to protect you from the elements, and whatever you can manage to steal from an unattended clothesline and then wear to literal rags is good enough. Due to circumstances that are actually perfectly sensible in context, he ends up being raised from a stray into a baron, and he is informed that going about dressed in rags is no longer fit for his station. Being a sensible man, he doesn't argue this.

Visiting a tailor - who is delighted to figure out how to combine the elements of traditional fisher folk clothing with the correct fabrics and styles of the military nobility class - Beun spots a coat that he likes, being displayed in the shop as a demonstration of the tailor's skills. It's bright kingfisher blue and embroidered with a sparkling pattern that resembles the traditional nets that fisher folk used to make and use, so he says he wants something exactly like it, or for that particular coat to be tailored to fit him.

The tailor becomes embarrassed, explaining that the coat was originally commissioned by a tumbler from a performing circus troupe, who rejected the work for being too over the top and looking too flamboyant on stage. He can't let a baron walk out of his shop wearing something that was too ridiculous for a circus performer. Beun insists on it anyway, if he is the first husband to the first Fisher Baroness, then he gets to decide what is appropriate for a man of his kin and status to wear.

So he dons the coat, and nobody can say shit about it. Once he is re-united with his friends, their immediate question right after "holy shit, you're alive" is "what the fuck are you wearing." It turns out that when given the means and the opportunity to choose how to dress himself, the most logical, pragmatic and sensible man in the Empire who never made a single impulsive, impractical or frivolous choice in his life, has the most bizarre and ridiculous sense in fashion.

And nobody can tell him shit about it.

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monstersdownthepath · 1 month

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Monster Spotlight: Kijimuna

CR 2

Chaotic Neutral Small Humanoid

Adventure Path: Jade Regent: Tides of Honor, pg. 84-85

These coastal cousins of the common goblinoids lack most of the malicious bent that can be found in goblin clans in the Inner Sea Region, for more than a few reasons; they don't want for food, they live simple lives, and their pyromania is considerably less destructive than that of their landlocked kin. Unlike many of the larger goblin clans in the Inner Sea, the Kijimuna are also cut off entirely from the wicked teachings of the Goblin Hero-Gods (this ironically includes Zogmugot, despite her dominion over goblin shoreline societies) and instead their culture seems to have been born from kindly spirits of fire and the sea... not that any of them remember it. Whatever story in their past happened to make them the way they are today is lost to time.

Combat-wise, the Kijimuna are nothing to write home about; this article is mostly about their lore and behavior rather than what they can do in a fight. They come armed with spears that deal 1d6+1 damage with one attack, and most of them carry around entangling nets to make their victims easier to beat to death. More often than not the spears are only used as deterrence, the Kiji rarely ever fighting to the death and preferring to render enemies unconscious, then steal their stuff and leave them tied up somewhere for someone else to find. Any fights to the end are always the result of someone attacking to kill THEM first, and in every other case, they prefer to take it easy.

The most shocking thing they can do is Steal Fire, calling any nonmagical fire of campfire size or smaller to their hand and turning it into a ghostly Dancing Lights at their command. The Kijimuna can command their orbs to crash into someone or something, either causing 2d6 Fire damage (and potentially igniting something flammable), or outlining them in ghostly fire (as Faerie Fire) for 5 hours. Both modes have their uses, but ironically, it's likely the Faerie Fire that's the more dangerous one! Any source of flame snuffed by Steal Fire cannot be relit for 24 entire hours, and Faerie Fire makes the victim glow like a beacon for every predator in the coastal forests the Kiji call home... predators they can no longer see coming or ward off with flame, because they can't relight their torches or campfires. Kijimuna are not especially dangerous on their own, but they can still cost someone their life indirectly... not that they're in a hurry to.

Kijimuna spend the majority of their days doing one of three things: fishing, planning pranks, and pulling pranks. Living on the bounty of the seas has given them a +4 racial bonus to both the act of fishing itself AND to Swim checks, giving them a total of +9 to Profession (Fisherman) and +10 to Swim, typically meaning a single Kiji can catch far more than it will ever need to eat on a given day. A portion of their catches, in fact, end up rotting on the shore when they inevitably get abandoned, the Kiji growing bored of the act and forgetting to store their food. They fish both for sustenance and for entertainment, and when fishing is no longer fun, they quickly move on to the aforementioned pranks.

Consummate pranksters, Kiji can spend hours concocting their jokes, their homes literally littered with diagrams and sketches of their next big prank (whether they have the same belief about the written word as landlocked goblins is not stated), making their huts, caverns, and tree-houses look like the lairs of some maniacal villain. When it comes to launching them, things rarely go as well as they hope for, but part of the fun is trying at all! Besides, if they DO end up working, then it's all the better.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Kiji pranks run the full gamut of harmless but inconvenient to legitimately dangerous, with the Kiji having difficulty grasping why anyone wouldn't want to be a part of their comedy acts (which, again, points towards them having fey origins). To the Kiji, being included in the bit is an honor, and anyone who grows angry or resentful over being pranked--even if the prank caused them actual harm--is just a spoilsport who clearly needs to be pranked even harder until they can see the actual humor in it, in much the same way a comedian who offends someone with an off-color joke may attempt to double down on them until the soured audience member either leaves or laughs. In this case, though, the poor target may eventually die... though in the Kiji's defense, this isn't on purpose.

Kiji are not killers, you see. They try and avoid directly causing deaths to any creature that doesn't wish them death first, with only the dreaded octopus (a creature they are, as a whole, irrationally terrified of) earning their lethal ire no matter what. Any settlement living nearby a clan of Kiji never fears for starvation, as the goblinkin will gladly stock their storerooms with fish (even and especially if they have to break in to do it), and the Kiji will even come to their defense as guardians if a true threat actually arises. There are a few reasons why they do this, mostly because if their friends and neighbors die, they'll have no one to share fish and jokes with!

Perhaps their lackadaisical and mischievous approach to life also has something to do with the fact that they have a maximum lifespan of 15 years, with most of them passing away at around 10, an absolutely ephemeral pittance when half the playable ancestries can easily hit 100 and still have life left in them. With their own histories lost to their kind, Kijimuna may be subconsciously motivated by the need to be remembered by someone else. A single human being can see four, five, or even six generations of Kiji come and go, so they can remember pranks pulled in the past, acting as unintentional living libraries of things the Kiji have already done and essentially forcing the next generation to come up with new material, because the old jokes won't work on them anymore.

You can read more about them here.

#monster spotlight #cr 1 to 5 #pathfinder #dungeons and dragons

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bonefall · 1 year

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Bonefall's Forgotten Warriors

If you've ever set out to make a WC fan project, you've surely heard of Su Susann's Missing Kits. It was a series of authorial statements giving names to previously unnamed cats, and adding interesting little stories to many of them.

But there's also a TON of "Forgotten Warriors" that were created through timeline inconsistencies, offhanded authorial statements, or single throwaway lines in super editions. By their nature, finding these cats on the wiki is a pain in the butt. In this post I hope to compile these cats as a resource for the fandom.

So first, let's define a Forgotten Warrior.

A Forgotten Warrior does not have a big presence. Primrosepaw was first named as a Missing Kit with no mention of her name on the page or in the allegiances. Over time, she has appeared in several books and is now a widely known name in the fandom. But Blossomkit, whose only appearance is in Su Susann's Missing Kits and the worst field guide, will count as a Forgotten Warrior.

A Forgotten Warrior is not just a nondescript Clan cat. For example, if a "ThunderClan warrior" speaks up at a gathering and their name and description is not mentioned, that could be anyone. Same applies to a description that could easily describe an existing character in a Clan-- if a "White ShadowClan Warrior" appears in a modern arc, that may just be Stonewing, BUT, the "Tabby Queen with Distinct Black Markings" of TPB doesn't match any other, so she is a Forgotten Warrior.

A minor appearance inconsistency is not a Forgotten Warrior. Just to pre-empt wiseassery. Blue-eyed Dovewing and Green-eyed Dovewing are not two separate cats-- but I will note down MASSIVE appearance changes in background characters, like the magic color AND gender-changing Stoatfur (just add water!)

(also, I will not be compiling all of the random kittypets, rogues, and loners because there is too many of them. I could, however, be persuaded to compile all cats of a specific group, like The Kin, Sisters, BloodClan, etc.)

This post is an updating list as I find and catalogue more cats. Last update: 8/21/23, version 1.1 Added new category: Sudden Elders

Key: X = No gender F = Female M = Male

Su Susann's Missing Kits (WIP; will update with full descriptions later)

Cranberrypaw

Thistlepaw

Drizzlepaw

Rustlepaw

Elderkit

Tulipkit

Lynxkit

Cherrypaw

Chestnutkit

Cricketkit

Duckkit

Dragonflykit

Rubblekit

Turtlekit

Quietkit

Lavenderkit

Waterkit

Oatkit

Carpkit

Morningkit F Dead child of Graypool. Gray-cream with a white dash.

Splashkit M Dead child of Graypool, gray with lighter flecks.

Swankit F Silver-and-black child of Graypool who lives just long enough to see her take Mistykit and Stonekit as fosters, and then dies.

Splashpaw F RiverClan apprentice of the RiverClan Swallowtail, appears in the allegiances of Dawn, said to have drowned in human nets while fishing with Stonestream.

Storkkit

Quailkit

Eaglekit

Hillkit

Downkit

Swampkit

Blossomkit

Spirit Cats

Skunkpaw M From Goosefeather's Curse, an ancient ThunderClan apprentice who helps him cheat at Hide and Seek. Has a white stripe that parts his face and heterochromia (right blue eye and left green eye)

Fenneldust F A Dark Forest cat killed by Thistleclaw in Spottedleaf's Heart. Light brown tabby from ThunderClan

Batear M Spottedleaf's Heart. Black and white with a disfigured half-face. From ShadowClan

Palefoot M Gray tabby in Night Whispers who speaks to Flametail.

Lightningpaw M Gives Crookedstar a life, from RiverClan

Lilyflower F Gives Crookedstar a life, from RiverClan

Shiningheart, Brightspirit, Braveheart FFM Cats modeled after a real family of WC fans who died in a natural disaster, appearing in Long Shadows

Mallowfur F Spirit who greets Featherwhisker on his first trip to the moonstone.

Inconsistencies and Replacements

Cypresspaw F Brown and white; appears in Thunder and Shadow and is replaced by four Lakeheart kits.

Wavepaw F Silver and white; appears in Thunder and Shadow and is replaced by four Lakeheart kits.

Stoatfur X First appearing as a ginger tom, they become a tortie-and-white molly between books.

Happykit M A fan name for a kitten killed in the Great Battle which the author approved of. Changed to "Weaselkit" by the family tree.

Silverpaw X Appears in the allegiances of Fire and Ice and Forest of Secrets and then vanishes.

Greenflower F Supposed to be the foster mother for Feathertail and Stormfur, forgotten between books and replaced by Mosspelt.

Gorsetail M A pale tom warrior who is trapped by humans during the destruction of the Forest, suddenly replaced by ANOTHER Gorsetail who is a silver-and-white molly in the Po3 arc

Unnamed Background Cats

Distinct Tabby Queen From Into the Wild, greets Goldenflower as she leaves the nursery. ThunderClan.

Tortie Molly From Fire and Ice, seems to be a friend of Morningflower. From WindClan.

Gray Tom From Fire and Ice, another exiled warrior of WindClan who alerts the Clan to Fireheart's presence.

Tabby Tom

From Fire and Ice, another exiled warrior of WindClan. Carries Morningflower's kitten; May be Onewhisker.

Field Guide Exclusives

Smokepaw X From Secrets of the Clans. May be a consistency error, given that the authors forgot that Smokepaw TNP fell off a cliff and they could be Smokefoot. Close with Tawnypelt, likes to climb trees and watch boats.

Pikepaw M Large, dark gray. The only serious apprentice in his training session of BOTC while the siblings squabble. RiverClan.

Duckpaw F Mean to Rushpaw while training. Sister of Tangle and Rush. RiverClan.

Tanglepaw M Large, big-pawed, long-furred. Mean to Rushpaw. Brother of Rush and Duck. RiverClan.

Rushpaw F Short legged, tiny, and pathetic. Awful at swimming. Girlfail. Sister of Duck and Tangle. RiverClan.

Silverpaw X Sees Onestar and the POV kittypets on RiverClan territory, and brings them to Reedwhisker.

Adderkit M Lost spirit baby in Cats of the Clans from WindClan. Killed by an adder and named after it. Forced to listen to Rock say dumb shit about Nightcloud at the world's most uncomfortable sleepover.

Spiderfoot M Anxious, battle-averse ShadowClan warrior fresh out of Apprenticeship at the Eclipse Battle, tormented by RiverClan warriors while hiding in an abandoned building. Said to have left to become a kittypet

Rabbittail M WindClan ancestor of Webfoot who was caught in a human trap for REAL rabbits, but chewed his way out.

Sudden Elders

These cats suddenly appear as elders despite never having been seen before.

Darkfoot M Appears as a WindClan elder without warning when the Clans get to the lake.

Oatwhisker M Appears as a WindClan elder without warning when the Clans get to the lake.

Snaketail M Brown ShadowClan elder with a striped tail

Ivytail F A brown tabby in RiverClan who dies of oil poisoning

#warrior cats #Forgotten Warriors #Su Susann's Missing Kits #Resource

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