#vacant lucidity

[moxijunk]

(5/5) From left to right ->

Top row: Robert, Sneve, Shadow, Legundo

Bottom row: Sean

(inspired by "You'd be Paranoid Too (If Everyone was out to get you)" by Waterparks

[ss-sock]

<_<

>_>

vl guys?

the guys \o/

sneve fr xD

also a sketch I made for aron a bit ago!

[astro-naut9]

VL guys.

mhmm vl :3

[brokendreamscreation-moved]

@originemesis xxx)

Text: [The exorcists sent me this? Why? Is it like a party invitation? When did Father have a brother named Sam? Or do they mean Samael? Because if so Lucifer is NOT my uncle!]

Text: [Im Lucifer’s “clone” which makes us Doppelgängers?]

Text: [Where even are you? And everyone else?]

Text: [Also you left three bags of ranch Doritos open in the office. Those are gonna get stale.]

[aster-oid]

To the stranger I knew too well

Summary: When your recurrent dreams about a puppet become out of hand, a reality check feels like the only way to get back to normalcy. Fate proves you wrong.

Pairing: Wanderer & gn!reader (post Irminsul), the relationship is heavily implied to be platonic

Content warnings: Reader is gender neutral, mentions of blood and murders but I don't go into details, slight angst, Wanderer is bad with feelings, platonic content

Word count: 7.2k | Soulmate AU

Comments: A special thank to my beta @ladyfocalors for always brainrotting with me about Genshin characters. We'll platonify the Genshin soulmate AU one work at the time /lh

It took you years to understand that your frequent lucid dreams about an Inazuman electricity-wielder leader were actually the memories of your soulmate.

To your parents' defense, every normal individual would have dismissed the idea. While your soulmate wearing an extravagant hat wasn’t impossible, your tales about a place shrouded in darkness and an Electro-user without a Vision sounded like a child's fantasy. There was no such thing in Teyvat.

You quickly got the reputation of an imaginative kid. Adults liked to ask you about your dreams.

"What a smart child you are!", they cooed once you finished recalling your visions. "You could write a storybook!"

Your younger self would shoot them the dirtiest glare they could muster. Unfortunately, adding that the protagonist was a puppet made hundreds of years ago was not the convincing argument you thought it was. To the layperson, your visions were nonsensical dreams.

But you knew what you saw. It felt real. Terribly, shockingly real. Most often that not, you woke up from these flashes with the taste of iron in your mouth, static filling your sight, your muscles locked into place. You were trapped in your own unresponsive body. Even your breath was stuck in your throat. But the worst part of your awakenings was the sticky feeling on your hands. No matter how many times you scrubbed, it lingered on your skin. You didn't know what it was at that time, just that it made you feel gross and that it would sometimes reappear if you washed your hands hard enough.

You learnt what blood was before you knew how to spell the color red. 

When one is repeatedly told that they're wrong, they will come to believe it. You were no exception. As the years passed by, you pushed those fantasies in the back of your mind. The adults in your life must have been right. You were just a strange kid with gruesome dreams, that was all.

Despite knowing that they were figments of your vivid imagination, the sights of snow-covered plains and bloody massacres haunted you well into adulthood. They had grown more complex. Details you didn’t notice as a child seemed obvious now that you had more experience. You could also recall conversations better. That’s how you learnt the name of the body you inhabited. Well, it was more correct to say you learnt multiple names for them. Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche, the Balladeer... It was like you could never make up your mind.

The puppet you temporarily inhabited was as elusive as the wind: no fixed name to call them and no face to match. They fled mirrors when they saw one, preventing you from seeing their appearance. The only thing you knew about them was their title: number Sixth of the Fatui Harbinger. A seat that was left vacant for centuries according to every Fatuus you asked.

Your constant daydreaming was annoying but manageable until you started having visions about Kunikuzushi taking over Sumeru. You saw them getting experimented on to become one with a robot, wincing in pain at the hands of a masked doctor, rambling about their birth-given right to access godhood, taunting a blonde traveler; a chain of events that could only make sense in a dream. The problem was that your reverie was affecting your daily life. You couldn’t go through a day without getting assailed by memories that weren’t yours. You had to stop halfway through any task, discussing became hard and sleep rarely came to you.

There was little you could do as you didn’t know what had worsened your visions. You were hoping it would go away by itself.

That was until a particularly haunting dream. As usual, you were but a spectator seeing through the Balladeer’s eyes. You saw a hand -their hand- reach for a chess piece, leaning forward as much as they could. Your blood went cold. They were about to fall over the edge of the platform! Your gaze darted everywhere. There was nothing on the distant ground that would break their fall. For the first time in your life, you realized that they could die. Scaramouche, the one you had observed for decades, could die.

You were the only one to realize how far they were leaning. They only had eyes for the violet pawn in front of them, begging and begging with a shaky voice. It had never sounded so frail, so raw with hurt and panic.

"Please, anything but the Gnosis!" 

It’s not worth it! you tried to scream. Stop! You didn't know why this Gnosis was so important to them but it was nothing dying for. Alas, no matter how hard you tried to move your mouth, the body refused to answer to you. You were nothing but a witness of a tragic scene, a powerless ghost with a bleeding heart. Your throat was thick with emotions you were not allowed to express.

Your dream ended in a snap, quite literally. A tearing sound erupted from behind you before you were sent falling down, pain flaring in your back. You bit down a scream as the world turned to blurry shades of blue and fluttering black bangs. The increasing speed made your eyes water and your body burn. You clenched your teeth. The fall was inevitable. Maybe it made you a coward but you couldn't bear to see it. You didn’t want to see Kunikuzushi die. Muttering an apology to the stranger in your dreams, you squeezed your teary eyes shut. 

The last thing you heard was a wet crushing sound, a mix between eggshells broken under the palm of your hand and a fruit being squashed. Your body jolted in your bed and you gagged, fighting the urge to throw up. You had never felt this sick. Not even when you dreamt of unfair massacres.

You sank to the floor, furiously wiping away the tears beading in the corner of your eyes. You couldn't do it anymore. You had to confront your dreaming problem. There was only one solution: if your brain was so adamant on obsessing over an imaginary character, you had to show it the harsh reality, to remind yourself that Kabukimono never existed.

Your trip to Sumeru was the most spontaneous project you ever planned. You were strolling through the busy streets of Sumeru city the very next day with barely enough money to get back to your nation. You had packed the bare minimum in your suitcase to carry it easily, meaning you wouldn’t be able to stay for more than just a few days.

That was, if you found a room for the night. You had no time to check what the usual prices were in the capital before leaving. Now that you were scouring the streets with your meager funds, unable to find a hotel within your budget, you were bitterly regretting your lack of foresight. You sighed. You supposed that the saying was right. Slow and steady wins the race.

As if it had felt your determination dwindling, the crushing sound echoed in your mind in response. You bit your lip, bile rising in your throat. You hadn't been able to forget about your last dream. It looped in your head like a broken record. Even if impulsively leaving your country was one of your worst ideas ever, the quicker you settled your daydream problem the sooner you'd be back to your normal life. 

Your weary steps lead you to an indoor bazaar. The smell of fried food filled your nostrils, making your stomach growl. You winced. The small homemade sandwich you had earlier couldn't compete with the appeal of street food. Unfortunately you needed to save your funds for a room. You let your gaze wander in the crowded marketplace, trying to distract yourself from the appetizing smell. Colorful stalls were full of fresh fruits, potted flowers and intricate trinkets. If you stood on your toes, you could even see a small theater representation in the farthest part of the bazaar. It was a lively place that perfectly encapsulated Sumeru’s charm.

You were about to turn back when your eyes stopped on a blue silhouette near a candy stand. You didn't know how you missed them earlier. In the brown and green crowd, their traditional clothing and their ornamented Inazuman hat stuck out like a sore thumb. They were in deep discussion with the merchant. Turquoise fabric trailed behind them, floating in the wind.

Without a second thought, you cut through the crowd, never leaving the stranger from your sight. Your heart leaped in your chest when they left the small stall. 

"Hey, you with the hat! Stop!" you yelled. To your dismay, the Inazuman did not even slow down. They must have been too far to hear you. Breaking into a sprint, you called again. "Hat guy!" 

You breached the distance in a few seconds. Just as you were about to grab their shoulder, they turned around. A cold hand snatched your wrist, making you wince. When you looked at its owner, you were greeted with a deep scowl and narrowed indigo eyes. 

"Don't." The man’s low voice warned you, his tone full of unspoken threats. You swallowed uncomfortably as your confidence melted away. He managed to be intimidating in spite petite stature and youthful appearance.

As he glared daggers at you, you were hit by a feeling you couldn’t quite place. You pressed your lips together, studying his messy black mullet and his glowing Anemo Vision. The word popped up in your head. Familiar. The stranger felt familiar.

Wiping the feeling of déjà-vu from your mind, you retreated your hand. "Sorry, I was just trying to get your attention." 

"Well, now you have it," he huffed. Annoyance was written on his face. He crossed his arms. "What do you want?" 

A good question, but not one you had an answer to. Running after the man was a spur of the moment decision.

Self-awareness striked you like a thunderbolt. Why were you even doing this? Your goal was to cure your daydreaming, not to throw yourself headfirst into the rabbit hole nor to annoy a stranger with the tales of an imaginary character.

He clicked his tongue. "Hurry. I don't have all day." 

You huffed. It was true that you were taking too much time to gather your thoughts but he didn’t have to be rude about it. 

"I'm looking for someone,” you said tentatively. It was the closest you could get from the truth without annoying him. Considering his foul mood, the stranger would have walked away if you told him you were looking for the lack of existence of Kunikuzushi, the Sixth Harbinger, the person who tried to become an Archon, someone that only existed in your mind.

The man didn't answer, encouraging you to continue with a movement on the head. His black bangs flew in the light breeze. Now that you had a clearer view of his face, the man seemed more bored than irritated. He wanted the conversation to be over with but he still had the patience to hear you out. This realization gave you the courage you needed to talk again. 

"Their clothes are quite similar to yours, but they're red and black. They also have a hat. A huge one." You opened your arms in emphasis.

He scrunched his brows together, looking at you like you were an idiot. "Right. Because the length of their hat is the most important detail you could give me," he deadpanned. 

You fight the urge to sigh. "I wasn't done. I don't know much about them, but they're linked to the Fatui." The stranger's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was back to glaring at you, his face closed. Unsettled by this sudden tension, you quickly added. "Probably. I'm still not sure about that." There was no Sixth Fatui Harbinger, after all. Your brain had made it up. 

"Of course." His voice was drier than earlier. What little interest he had in your discussion had melted at the mention of the Fatui. You scrunched your brows. You swore you could read another emotion than ire in his eyes, even if you didn’t know what. "Anything else I should know about that... Friend of yours?"

You racked your brain for more details. There was a lot to say about the person in your dream. Their lack of heart, their coup attempt in Sumeru, their bloody killings, the experimentations they underwent... Nothing you could talk about in public without looking crazy, in sum. The only thing you could still mention was... 

"Their name is Scaramouche."

The man went rigid. "What did you say?" he gawked, his eyes wide with shock.

"Scaramouche. I think that's their name?" Truthfully, they were given so many names that it probably wasn't their real one. But it was the one that came up most in your dreams. 

As if it caught onto the tense atmosphere, the wind abruptly stopped blowing. You barely noticed it, focused on the horror shining in the man's eyes. He couldn't believe what you had just said. His piercing eyes analyzed every inch of you with a newfound distrust. 

“Nobody should be able to-” He interrupted himself with a gasp. Recognition flashed across his face. "Wait. You...!"

His face went from surprise to disgust in the blink of an eye. You had barely the time to react before he pulled his hat down over his head, his scowl peeking from behind the rim.

"Of course fate would string something like this..." He let out a bitter laugh. "Has it ever made anything easy for me?"

You watched as crossed his arms, lifting his head to glare at you as if you had purposely wronged him. You tried to appease him by apologizing. "Sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Despite your question, you knew you had done nothing worth this cold attitude. You didn’t know why he was overreacting, why he was looking at you like dirt under his soles.  It’s as if he was personally offended by your description of the Balladeer. You blinked as pieces fell into place. An Inazuman with a strange hat and dark hair, just like the one you were looking for. Could it be…?

"Is that you? Are you Scaram—" 

The man turned around before you could finish your sentence, the blue fabric tied to his hat smacking you in the face. You yelped in pain.

"Don’t use this name." You couldn't see what kind of expression he was making but his flat tone told you enough.

You were standing in front of the protagonist of your dreams.

Reality shattered around you. There were only two reasons for your dreams to be visions of the past. You either were a seer —which was unlikely considering you had no elemental affinity— or you were using your soulmate link. Realization sank in. You had a soulmate. Everything finally clicked together: why you had Scaramouche's memories, why he recognized you, why you never stopped having those dreams… It was because the universe had deemed you a perfect fit.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears. You were not an anomaly without a soulmate, like you were led to believe. You just didn't pay attention to the signs.

"Wait a minute," you gasped. No matter how happy you were about your discovery, it came a lot of terrible implications. "Does it mean that everything is real? The Fatui, the taking over Sumeru part, everything ?" 

Kunikuzushi immediately clammed up. Not even bothering to look at you, he said without a trace of emotion. "This conversation is over."

Strong wind currents flared all around you with him acting as the epicenter of the small storm he invoked. You stared at him with wide eyes. He was getting away! 

"Please!"

You grabbed his sleeve and tugged hard, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The man gave you the dirtiest glare from above his shoulder as the miniature hurricane intensified. But you didn't let him go. You sank your nails deeper into his arm.

"Listen to me!” you said through gritted teeth. “I'm not gonna pretend I know everything about you because that's not true. I only know glimpses of you. Parts of your past that don't make any sense." 

You closed your eyes as the memories flooded your mind. The Gnosis, the laboratory, the crushing sound as he fell down... You didn't understand what those events meant to him. What kind of story they told. It was like you were in front of an incomplete puzzle where all edge pieces went missing. It was impossible to get the big picture no matter how many combinations you tried.

That didn’t mean the little bits of memories you had taught you nothing about him.

"You were hurt. That much is certain."

Your words only rekindled the fire of his ire. He bared his teeth at you. “Huh?! Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?” He stabbed your chest with his finger, forcing you to take a step back. “Seeing glimpses of my past doesn’t give you the right to assume things about me, you worm.”

"But it’s not an assumption. You lived a very long and lonely life. A bloody one too.” You briefly wondered if contrary to you, he had grown accustomed to seeing his hands covered in crimson. You let out a shaky exhale. “But you cannot talk about your life to anyone. No one would believe you if you talked about the Sixth Harbinger of the Fatui or what you were doing centuries ago."

You had the experience to back yourself up. You still weren't sure what the Fatui thing was all about but if you could barely believe it after seeing his memories firsthand, no one else could.

"See, you’re just assuming things again out of pity," Scaramouche snapped. He tore himself from your grasp, sneering. "Guess what? I don't need you to feel sorry about me."

You shook your head. "I wasn't about to."

You were never going to forget the feeling of blood on your hands, the crackling of electricity as you saw someone charred alive, the coolness of a cadaver against your skin. You couldn't bring yourself to feel sorry for this man. It wasn't what someone like him sought. 

Pity was for those forced to live under the ruling of unfairness, not able to object to its cruel laws. Forgiveness was for those that were mothered by this tyrant and dedicated their life to preach its teachings. For now, the Balladeer deserved none of them.

When you opened your eyes, Scaramouche had tipped his hat down, obscuring his expression. His grip on his crossed arms was so tight you thought he was going to break his fingers. 

"You don't understand. You can't understand."

His voice was lower than earlier, almost like a growl. 

It wasn't enough to scare you.

"You're right," you admitted. "I cannot understand you. But I really want to." 

Maybe it was because you knew him on a deeper level than a stranger, but something had changed. You were starting to notice it. The hurt he masked behind a veil of fury. Until his words, you thought he was just an eternally angry man, bitter at the world and at his fate. Now, you wondered if he was just someone who lived through too much. Someone who was ready to beg and kill himself for a glimpse of a better future.

He snorted, disbelief written across his face. “A human like you, understanding someone like me? Don’t make me laugh.” He leaned towards you. You fought the urge to take a step back, withholding his stare with all of the courage you could summon. His mouth contorted into a twisted smile. “You’ve seen what I am capable of. Not only are you fundamentally unable to relate to a fraction of my existence, you’re also unable to withstand it. Understanding me will only bring you trouble.”

“You already do.” Scaramouche didn't utter a word, turning his back to you. You didn't let it get to you, instead squeezing your hand against your chest. "I spent my life stuck with visions I couldn't control. Seeing your memories at random moments robbed me from precious moments with the people I love. From enjoying a normal life, one where I don’t have to fear falling asleep."

Your hands were shaking. Whether from anger or sorrow, you didn’t know. Scaramouche was the one assuming things. You may only be a human, one similar to thousands that have come before you, but you knew how it felt to be misunderstood. How it felt not to belong. Nobody had believed you for decades, nor understood why you were so uncomfortable when it came to sleeping. Even your friends couldn’t wrap their heads about your constant worry of getting lost in the daydreaming. You might as well have been from a different species.

You took a deep exhale. Your anger faded away as quickly as it came. "I feel close to you, no matter how strange it sounds. You've always been a small part of me.” Determination seeped through your tone. “So I won't be able to move on as long as I don't know what's going on with my soulmate."

Soulmate. The word rolled strangely on your tongue. It was the first time you were saying it out loud.

Scaramouche gagged at your word choice. "I'm not looking for a lover." Disgust laced his voice. Seems like you were not the only one who felt weird about the whole situation. 

You shook his concern with a wave of the hand. "Me neither. I'm looking for an explanation. A timeline in a chronological order, if possible." 

Your attempt at a joke fell flat as silence fell between the two of us. Your face shifted into a frown. Had you been too insistent? 

"It's alright if you find the situation strange," you said, trying to save the conversation. "I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that you saw glimpses of my life. This is quite embarrassing...."

You didn't have the most exciting life but there were private moments you wanted nobody to see. Especially not your soulmate. 

He shot you an uninterested look, examining the dirt beneath his nails. "I could not care less about your mundane life."

You blinked. You didn't expect him to get interested in your life as much as you were in his, but was that supposed to be comforting? Unsure how to respond, your face contorted into a polite smile.

None of you said a word after that. You didn't dare move either. Weariness taking over you, you watched as the back of his hair fluttered in the breeze, joining the hypnotizing dance of the blue ribbons. The sound of animated conversations and the ringing of distant bells filled the otherwise tense silence.

You were about to leave when Scaramouche let out the heaviest sigh known to mankind. He finally turned to you, uttering a single word. 

"Wanderer."

Whatever you were expecting him to say, it wasn't that. "Come again?" 

He rolled his eyes but repeated it anyway. "Wanderer. That’s my name. Not Scaramouche or whatever name you heard in my memories." 

You felt your entire face lit up. You could recognize an olive branch when you saw one. "I won't call you anything else, I promise!"

He sighed at your sudden excitement, shaking his head. You were starting to recognize when he was truly irritated and when he was acting annoyed by habit. This time, the look in his eyes didn't match his bored pout. It was not soft by any means, but he did not glare daggers at you anymore.

"I still don’t think someone like you can handle the tale of centuries of existence.” He clicked his tongue. “That being said, I suppose it would be entertaining to see you try. Come to the entrance of Sumeru city in two hours."

Your eyes widened. You thought that you wouldn’t get more than his name, and now he gave you the opportunity to explain his life ? You had half the mind to pinch yourself awake.

"Don't be late Wanderer!" 

He scoffed, readjusting the position of his ginormous hat. “If I were, you'd scream my name in the streets of Sumeru until you get ahold of me. No thanks."

"I wouldn't do that!"

"Oh, really?" A smug smirk took place on his lips. He cleared his throat before taking a high-pitched voice. " 'Hey, you with the hat, stop right there ! I really want to talk to you! Stop, I say !' "

You gasped in shock. "So you actually heard me! Do you not stop when someone calls you?"

"I do. I just don't typically talk to pipsqueaks."

His grin deepened at seeing your offended expression. He even let out a short laugh. You playfully punched the cheeky bastard on the shoulder, not putting much force in the blow. 

Wanderer didn't budge. He instead grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from him. His eyebrows were pinched together in irritation. "Don’t think you can punch me and get out unscathed, kid."

Despite his words, his grasp on you was light, as if he was careful not to hurt you. It was easy to slip from his hold. He was entertaining you, you realized. Considering how harsh he had been when you first had tried to touch him, a light scold was nothing. 

Mimicking a fighting stance, you started shifting your weight from left to right.

"You're the one who's gonna bite the dust! I can knock out someone with a single blow!" You punched the air to demonstrate, a smile blooming on your face. "I can take anyone in a fight!" 

Wanderer pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated by your playful attitude. "Celestia above, not another Childe..."

You pouted at his words. "Are you calling me a child again? I'll let you know that I'm a fully-fledged adult!" You may not be as old as the immortal puppet but you were no kid by human standards. You were only teasing Wanderer because you needed something light after your heavy talk. He couldn’t base his whole perception of you on a speech stemming from your sleep-deprived self…

He clicked his tongue in his mouth before looking at you directly in the eyes. "You talk big for someone I've seen fall in the stairs several times."

Horror washed over you. Every little embarrassing moment you lived flooded your mind. The fact that Wanderer had seen some of them sent warmth pooling in your cheeks. 

"You said you didn't care about my life!" you said, absolutely mortified. 

"It doesn't mean watching you was not mildly entertaining. Why would I focus on boring Fatui politics talk when I could be the witness to the mess of your teenage years?” Your expression was decomposing by the second, to his delight. "I especially liked it when—"

You cut him off with a nervous laugh. "Alright, alright, I get it. Aren't you busy?" 

His gaze fell into a small pouch at his sides. "I do, actually. Buer must be looking for me."

"Buer? Who's that?" You didn't remember hearing this name in his memories.

"The Dendro Archon," he said like it was the most obvious thing on Teyvat. 

"...Right. Of course.”

Maybe you were a bit too optimistic about his ability to open up to you.

Wanderer couldn't believe himself. Three betrayals should have been enough to teach him that closeness only brought pain. Whether because of misunderstandings, lies or the unpredictable and unescapable scythe of Death, the ending was always the same: he was fated to end up hurt. Alone. Cursing himself for loving too much.

He snorted. He knew all of that and yet here he was, wrapping his job up before his meeting with you. How pathetic.

Part of him was not surprised about this new twist of events. Fate liked to throw him in the most ironic situations. He was currently going on errands for Buer, the same Archon he had tried to supplant her months ago and who took him prisoner. Randomly meeting his soulmate in the middle of the streets was not the most unexpected thing to have happened to him. Far from it. At that point, he was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.

When Wanderer entered the sanctuary of Surasthana, the Archon was sitting on her swing, humming to herself. The melancholic tune didn’t sound familiar but the lyrics in old Sumerian sang the tale of a love long gone. If he rolled his eyes at the song choice, he was polite enough to wait until the end of the song before clearing his throat.

Buer perked up, finally noticing him. She jumped from the swing and greeted him with a small wave.

"Hat guy!" He cocked an eyebrow at the oh so creative sobriquet, making her giggle. "I’m glad to see you. I was starting to think that you had forgotten about me."

"As if my memory would get faulty. I was held up by someone." Holding his hat to pin it into place, he sat on the lush grass. Reunions with Buer always took a while. He might as well make himself comfortable. 

Familiar curious green eyes landed on him. "Was it a friend from the Akademiya?"

He rolled his eyes. "I had never seen them before."

He had expected this flow of questions. Buer was very invested in his relationships with other people– well, rather his lack of. She had made him participate in social events like the Interdarshan championship to socialize. She even enrolled him in the Akademiya. Her argument was that it would help him understand humanity better, as well as himself. 

The results were arguably mixed. Wanderer admittedly tolerated people a bit better than before. They were predictable creatures but they could be entertaining. Sometimes. On the other hand, he had not grown close to anyone since he started attending classes. Sure, some students followed him around, gushing about the mysterious “hat guy” and throwing a birthday party for him, but he would not call them friends. They were classmates at most. It was for the best: it didn’t matter if Buer claimed he was progressing regarding socialization, talking to him was an experience he wished on no one.

She didn’t seem to agree with him. Excitement and pride shone in her eyes. "Every stranger is a friend in potentiality. That is what makes new meetings so exciting: you might be talking to your new favorite person in Teyvat," she beamed, taking place near him. 

"If you say so." 

Friendship was a human concept. Something he could neither fully understand or get. Melodramatic speeches and lengthy explanations meant nothing to him. That is why Wanderer didn’t try to counter her argument. There was no point in talking about something he knew nothing about.

What he did know was that Buer was wrong. You were no stranger to him.

His gaze fell to his hands. The first time he had seen your memories, Scaramouche had thought he was defective. He had never been able to dream until then. His creator didn’t see the interest in allowing him to do so. The only reason he knew what dreams were was because Niwa liked to recount his when they worked together in the forge. 

One second he was lying down in the laboratory of the Fatui, the other he was in a small bed. Piles of toys were scattered around him, decorating what seemed to be a child’s bedroom. Why on Teyvat was he here? Scaramouche tried to move his arm but it did not move an inch. He cursed under his breath. For some reason, his body refused to listen to him. If it was Il Dottore’s scheme, the man was dead.

Without a warning, his head turned. He was greeted by the reflection of a small child in the mirror of the wardrobe. You.

His mind had been pure madness when he had come back to his senses. He had the time to zap five machines before the Doctor arrived, complaining that his research was being destroyed. The Tsaritsa, the stars, fate itself... He had cursed everything he could think of for giving him a soulmate. There was no other reason behind his sudden ability to “dream”. Fate had decided to intertwine your destinies together. The thought only made him more angry.

He couldn't be mad at the child you were, though. You were barely five. No matter how much of an unfeeling person he was, Scaramouche was not about to hold the situation against someone as young as you. A small part of him, one he had tried to bury for centuries, had even ached to hold your chubby hands in his when he had seen you reach for your reflection.

With the impossibility of breaking a soulmate bond, the Fatui Harbinger had been forced to watch you as you grew. He learnt about your favorite color, the school subject you liked best, the names of your childhood friends, the color of your bedroom, all the details of your ordinary life. He was a spectator to mundane moments, to victories and horrific failures alike.

You had transformed from a kid with shining eyes to a determined adult before his eyes.

If Buer was right and that all friends started as strangers, it meant that you would never be able to grow close to him. You already knew him.

Wanderer plucked a few strands of grass, watching how they fell to the ground. No, hoping for you two to be friends was wishful thinking. You had seen the atrocities he had done as a Fatui Harbinger. Once he filled the gap in your knowledge, you would not want anything to do with him. His erasure from existence didn’t excuse the actions of his past life.

He would not blame you. He deserved your hate. At the end of the day you were another name on the endless list of his victims. Because of your soulmate link, you had lived your entire life plagued by visions you didn't understand, othered because of things out of your control. You were the proof that Wanderer brought suffering just by existing. That he wasn't a fundamentally good person, like the one Buer and Traveler insisted he was. You had every right to loathe him.

That was why he accepted your offer. If he explained everything to you, if he confirmed that every "dream" of yours was true, you would move on. You would forgive Fate for giving you such an unloving person as a soulmate. Maybe you would even want to settle down with someone else... At the end of the day, you'd be free from the chain of destiny. So would he.

The world would let him do a good thing, for a change. 

"While it's true that talking it out will appease both of your minds, you shouldn't only see them as a way to atone for the sins of your past life," Buer intervened. 

Wanderer gave her an unimpressed look, throwing away the rest of the grass strands. "One day, you will have to answer for all of those breaches of privacy before the General Mahamatra."

"Talking about your thoughts with someone else can help you sort them out and gain new insight. I felt like you could benefit from it."

Her growing smile told him that she didn't feel sorry for reading his mind without his consent. He huffed. She was lucky he had grown accustomed to this habit of hers.

She hummed as she stepped in front of him. "Agreeing to a meeting to ease your guilty conscience is not a bad thing in itself. The problem is that you’re assuming that they can only hate you."

“What other reaction could they have?” The answer appeared in his mind before he finished his sentence. “Pity?” Pronouncing the word made his insides hurl. Wanderer would rather feel your wrath than your pity. The former didn’t feel as disgusting as the other;

Buer shook her head. “That’s not it either. It’s alright if you don’t yet understand Wanderer, you will see in due time.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. He preferred it when she used complex metaphors. At least he had the opportunity to understand what was going on in her mind, contrary to when she used vague words of wisdom like a drowsy prophet.

"If I can give you one more piece of advice, you should give this relationship a chance." Seeing his scowl of disgust, she explained herself. "I'm not telling you to pursue a romance with them. Just don't assume that tonight is the only time you meet. Keep your mind and your heart open."

Despite her smile, she had a serious look in her eyes. It was the face of wisdom in all of its assured glory. Wanderer closed his eyes. It was easy for him to forget she was not a young child, like the one he took care of all those centuries ago. 

"There is a reason why they're your soulmate," Buer said. "Don't you want to discover why?" 

"Someone like them has nothing in common with me." 

Your memories told the tale of a simple life. In an ideal world, a normal person like you wouldn't have been paired up with him. How it happened in this one was a mystery. If he was inclined to pity others, Wanderer would feel bad for you. Being his soulmate only brought you experiences that you couldn’t talk about to anyone.

“You cannot talk about your life to anyone. No one would believe you if you talked about the Sixth Harbinger of the Fatui or what you were doing centuries ago.” Their hands shook as they lifted their head to meet his gaze. He stilled. He had expected to read loneliness and fire in their eyes. He only found the glow of loneliness. It was the same he had seen in your reflection all those years ago.

Wanderer hid his face behind his hand. He supposed he was wrong. He could see a few ressemblances between you and him. That didn’t necessarily mean you would become friends.

"Don't expect too much from this meeting. I only plan on retelling my story, not on learning more about them."

Gentle hands covered his, pulling them away from his face before lightly squeezing them.

“You don’t need to. You already know them better than anyone else.” Buer's voice was as soft as her expression.

He opened his mouth but no snarky counter-argument came to his mind. From what little insight Wanderer had gained on friendship over the course of his life, sharing experiences with a potential friend wasn’t enough. You also had to learn about the other person's personality, their taste, the little things they did… Such a process was too much work for a relationship that would eventually decay. But the man already knew you, more intimately than any person ever would.

If to be friends was to learn about someone, he had become yours a long time ago.

Wanderer fought the urge to shield his face behind his hat. It would be as good as admitting to Buer her words had struck a chord. No way he would embarrass himself like that.

“You're not going to give up, are you?" he sighed.

“While I do hope you will form a bond with them, I will not hold it against you if it doesn’t happen.” She took some time to think, trying to come up with a convincing imagery. “Fate is a tricky concept. It steers you in a specific direction but it cannot force you to follow it. No matter what, you can always make your own way.”

He let the words sink in as he laid down on the cool grass. From the Sanctuary, he could hear the entire city’s hustle and bustle. The sound of the streets mixed with the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the wind through the branches.

He felt Buer sitting next to him. Her voice interrupted his quiet reverie, sounding cheekier than usual.

"Don't I deserve something in return for my good advice?"

Her eyes were focused on the small pouch hanging at his side.  He had forgotten about it, their conversation had distracted him. Wanderer shook his head in defeat. The Archon didn’t need to use her mind-reading powers to know about the actions of her subjects. 

“If you want to be paid for giving lectures, you should think about becoming a teacher at the Akademiya.”

“I would deprive someone from the joy of educating young minds.”

His lips curled into a grin. “Right. Poor them.”

Feeling her gaze on him, he relented. He unclipped the package from his belt and gave it to her, not bothering to sit back up. Buer tried to open it carefully. It was so full that in spite of her efforts, morsels of candied Ajilenakh nuts spilled on the ground.

Wanderer frowned at the sight of the mess. Something churned inside him. If he had known it would be wasted, he wouldn’t have bought so much food.

“Be more careful,” he chastised her. “It’s expensive.”

Buer shot him a perplexed look. He scoffed in response, averting his gaze. 

"I didn't buy them. The merchant gave free samples to bystanders and he couldn't take no for an answer."

Another white lie from him. He had noticed that Buer didn't have much candy left and since he had to go to the Bazaar anyway, he had decided to buy some. He watched as she inspected a piece of candy, rolling it between her fingers. He didn't get why she was head over heels for those disgustingly sweet nuts but he had to keep her in good spirits. Otherwise, she might decide to lock him back in his cell. That and seeing her smile so much sent warmth running in his chest. 

Her eyes crinkled, amused. "A free sample? How nice," she said, popping one of the delicacies in her mouth. He supposed there was no fooling the Archon of Knowledge. She pointed at him. "Your friend hasn't had the opportunity to try food from Sumeru, have they? You could bring them to Lambad’s and keep some of the Ajilenakh nuts to snack on."

“We have other things to do than distract ourselves with culinary tourism.”

“It’s not a distraction! See it as a bonding experience that will allow you to grow closer.”

He arched a brow, unimpressed. “As if I needed something like this to become their friend.”

He stopped after his own sentence. He blinked, not believing what he had just said.

Wanderer didn't know how he ended up in this situation. Truly. He was never one to let Fate decide for him. He defied it at each opportunity, fighting with all he had. This shouldn't have been any different. He was a traveler, an outcast, an outsider. He had no use for a soulmate– a lover. Especially not a human one, one that would be gone in a blink of his immortal life. 

He had no use for a lover, but he supposed that if he had to befriend a single person in the world, it may as well be you.

If you liked this work, please reblog and leave a comment or an ask!

[bittencandy]

𝔻𝕒𝕨𝕟 ℝ𝕖𝕝𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖

Just something short, sweet, and pointless for Mammon.

Summary: It's early dawn and you have the misfortune of having to go to work. It would be simpler if the only thing you have to fight off is only your lack of motivation and the sleep still clinging to your skull, but on top of all that your boyfriend is less than enthused about letting you slip away.

Word Count: 3,7k (not proofread)

It's all still a little blurry around the edges, nice and fuzzy with the weight of sleep curling over your body and stuffing your skull like a vacant, but pleasant sort of weight. It's all soft and balmy, luring you to dip back closer into the comforting, dark swaddle of unconsciousness and give into its call. It's difficult to tell where your body ends or begins while under the lull of sleep with the plush swathe of what you vaguely register as the duvet draped over you. Even while caught in that strange, distorted limbo between lucidity and unconsciousness, you can tell that something is trying to rip you from the inviting haze of your slumber. You can feel the remnants of your dreams weakening from your mind, breaking down into something distorted and murky until you can't even recall what you had ever been dreaming of in the first place. 

It's making you suddenly aware of the massive chill pressed against your back; the collection of arms wrapped around your middle to keep you secured to the plush, familiar expanse of someone's chest and stomach. You can feel the rise and fall of their steady breathing puffing against your back, the subtle vibrations that reverberate throughout their body with the sound of their snoring. But the guttural, choppy noise of their repetitive gasping isn't the cause of your abrupt awakening. The culprit is the jarring, digital trill that warbles along the walls of room, blaring from the speaker of your phone like a shrill war cry. 

The alarm breaks through your mind with all the subtly of a gunshot. Instantly reminding you of all of the chores and expectations you have to complete today. The mandatory meeting at work with your dull coworkers; the thankless, arrogant businessmen who you have to shake hands with and force plastic, strained smiles for; all of the phone calls you have to make and plan. You're sure that it's still dark out; it's too early, and the sun hasn't even begun to bleed along the horizon in water-colored shades of lilac and soft pink that will eventually yield to the toxic emerald smog and pollution that blankets the sky. It all makes you entirely unmotivated for the day, and you haven't even scraped yourself out of bed yet. But you can already see the list of bullshit and tasks unraveling in front of you and waving in front of your face like a taunt. 

A weary groan rips out of your lungs when you manage to pull yourself to the edge of the mattress, not even bothering to open your eyes as you slip your hand out from underneath the warmth of the covers to blindly slap your palm on the counter of the nightstand in search of your screeching phone. Your fingers come up short, slipping along the corner of the device but you're unable to get a proper grip from the distance. The firm, encompassing hold that a set of arms has on you makes it next to impossible to shuffle any closer. They're latched around you like bands of steel, all tight and unwavering in their hold like a child with their favorite stuffie. 

You could have felt annoyed if you weren't completely tempted to give in and melt into the grip of them and pass out for a few more hours, but the insistent chime of the device demands that you wake up. It has you propping yourself up on a single elbow and lifting a hand to weakly slap at his arms in an effort to wake him, but he might as well as be dead to the world. You can still hear him snoring soundly underneath the irritating whine of the alarm, and you're sure that he's probably drooling all over his pillow too. Lucky bastard. 

"Mammon, c'mon," you press in a tired mumble. You thread your fingers along his own in an attempt to begin prying them from you, and the vexed grumble you get in response lets you know that you're making some sort of head way. It rumbles along your back, all exasperated and weary, but you have hardly any sympathy when he doesn't have to awake for at least another four hours. His grip slips when you manage to unwind one of his arms free from your middle, and it gives you just enough leeway to shift forward to reach for your phone. You just barely crack a bleary eye open, vaguely making out the bright cast of your screen glowing in the dark of the room just long enough to finally swipe your thumb to cancel the alarm. The silence that follows is utter bliss. The world finally seems still. Quiet and peaceful despite the fact that you can just faintly hear the lively hum of traffic and what might be a round of gunshots and panicked screams ringing out down below as everyone else in the city prepares for the day ahead. 

The desire to plop back onto the cushion of the mattress and pass back out is almost debilitating. The allure of the blankets, soft and warm and covered in the linen, woodsy musk of Mammon's scent is dangerous. If you don't get out of this bed now, then you definitely won't be leaving it any time soon. Consequences be damned (pun not intended).  

It's with a ragged sigh that you manage to wedge your hands with his own, and combined with a very ungraceful, almost full body shake, you succeed in tearing his remaining limbs from your body to slip your feet onto the chilled tiles. The low, guttural groan that rumbles along the walls of the bedroom at your absence lets you know that he's anything but pleased when you rise up from the mattress to trudge towards the open threshold of the bathroom. Even in your muddled state, you're sure that you can feel a subtle electrical charge coursing through the air and tainting the atmosphere with the scent of something sharp and almost bitter. He at least hasn't begun to throw off any static in his annoyance - not that it would have mattered if he did. You really don't have time to deal with his theatrics or tantrums today. 

"Babe, come back, " he all but whines, voice muffled and slurred. Without even having to turn around you're certain that he has his face shoved into one of the pillows. But you're unable to resist your curiosity for long and a quick glance over your shoulder confirms that he does indeed have his face smushed against one of the cushions. Like an absolute drama queen, he rolls onto his back abruptly, tossing a hand over the burning green of his eyes like some kind of distressed maiden from an old fairytale or a campy film, and lulls his head back onto the mattress with another overdramatic groan. "This is fuckin' stupid." 

Yeah, right. Because he's the one that has to be awake right now. Still, you hate how cute the pout that twists up his face is. In a pathetic sort of way. With his lips all curled up into a nasty scowl to show off a hint of his sharp teeth while he mutters and curses underneath his breath. 

But you can't get distracted. No matter how tempting it is to fall back into bed or how much the pitiful, tender emotions welling up in your chest tell you to go back to him and kiss the furrow between his brows away. You can't go back now. He'll never let you leave if you do. It's how he lured you back the last time. Honestly, it's a little more than concerning with how well the Sin of Greed is able to pull the wounded puppy look when he needs to. It's those damned big eyes. They're far too expressive, and the way that he's able to get them all wide and dejected at the drop of hat is a dangerous talent of his. The influence it has on you is weakness that he exploits to absolutely no end. 

It makes you just as quick to look away from him to focus on the open entrance to the bathroom, lest he realize that you've been observing him and turn that exaggerated, chartreuse gaze onto you instead. You feel like death as you cross the floor, nearly dragging your feet along the tiles. Even though you've only been awake for a few minutes at best, you can already feel what little bit of energy you had previously, wanning and ebbing from you in steady pulses until you're practically a doll on a string. You're just dragging yourself along with a frayed sense of obligation, and muscle memory is doing the majority of the work now. It's like your feet have been encased in cement, and you're fighting yourself to take a single step forward.

So when your body freezes in place, you hardly think anything of it. You barely register it at all. It isn't until your senses realize a band of pressure coiled around your waist that you actually notice something is amiss at all. Whatever is keeping you still is narrow but firm, and when you force yourself to glance downward, you notice something semitransparent cinched around your torso like a strip of thread. It's slightly pearlescent, shimmering in shades of yellow, and subtle, muted lavender, but most importantly green. 

The sight of it alone has a prickle of irritation thrumming along your skin, and if you had the energy, you probably would have rolled your eyes. You can feel an exasperated comment burning on the tip of your tongue; prepared to berate Mammon for his immaturity but you don't get so much as a sound out before the ribbon of webbing is tugging you backwards on your feet and retracting you across the floor and to towards the bed with a speed that leaves you a little disoriented. Your hands reach out in a blind scramble to correct yourself and gain some sort of stability, but it's too late to try and reach for anything that might stop the way that he's reeling you in, because suddenly you're being dragged back onto the plush of the mattress and ripped underneath the blankets like a wounded animal being snapped shut behind a set of snarling, hungry jaws. 

His arms are around you like they had never even left, chilled and unwavering as he seems to pour all of his strength into them to keep you pinned in place. He's holding onto you like you're some sort of teddy bear that he can't sleep without. It's usually pretty endearing - cute, even, when you aren't pressed for time and the security of your job isn't on the line. But when you have places to be, Mammon's proclivity for latching onto you like a sloth is a little less adorable and more so annoying. 

"I have to go," you insist. "I'm serious - you have to let go." 

A near unintelligible grumble is his response, but it sounds suspiciously like "fuck no." And the weight of his arms around you only strengthens, constricting around you like a bunch of serpents that might wring the life out you in a single squeeze. Every bit of space that you had managed to wedge for yourself is eaten up by a single motion, and in a blink you're right back to where you had started: back smushed along his chest with his hold cinched around your waist and hips. It doesn't help that he's easily about three times as big as you, and not only has he begun to almost violently cuddle you, but he's also curled the entire length of his hulking body around your own, tucking his chin on top of the crown of your head and restraining your legs between his knees. You're completely encased. Trapped. 

"You're going to get me fired," you grouse, even though you're sure that it's going to fall on deaf ears.  

Somehow, he nestles himself closer to you, filling up small gaps of space between your bodies like he's trying to mend you together. You can feel the chill radiating off of him from his lack of a natural warmth, and it's seeping into your back like a thawing icepack. He's latching to you in an effort to snatch you of all of your body heat away, akin to some sort of cuddling, clingy parasite. 

"Mmm, then I'll kill 'em," he mumbles maturely, somehow simultaneously petulant and indifferent all at once. It's terrible how much the rough, tired lilt of his voice drowns at the dull ember of irritation in your chest, singlehandedly dousing it out as though it had never even existed. And the tenderness sparking through your veins is like melted sugar when you feel him lift his head to nudge at your cheek with his own before trailing his lips downward, nipping at the soft skin of your throat with the scrape of his pointed teeth. The glide of his lips is dangerously close to the place on your neck that turns you into mush, that makes your arms and legs go weak like heated wax. He's absolutely doing it on purpose. Trying to hit your weak point to get you to crack and give in, and even worse is that it's working. The wet, hot heat of tongue dragging along your flesh has a thrum of warmth skipping down your spine, and based on the pleased purr that reverberates from his chest, he definitely felt it. "Why don' you just stay here with me? I can tell you're still tired and those dickheads at work can manage for a few more hours on their own . . . don't you think?" 

(No, they definitely cannot.)

He says it all softly, in the guise of genuine question when you know that it's purely rhetorical. You want to be mad about it. He's an absolute bastard for using it against you, but it's a little hard to feel even a shred of anger when he's peppering kisses along your throat so sweetly, using just the hint of his tongue and teeth to make your body go all pliant and useless within his hold. And even while his grip is still firm and unrelenting, the cradle of it around your chest and waist nearly has a delicate edge to it, like he's cautious that you might break if he's too harsh. 

You're really too tired to fight him off. Maybe if you had some proper rest, you'd be able to resist him better (no, you really wouldn't be able to), but here and now it seems impossible. Especially with the way that sleep is heavy under your eyes, and despite how chilly his skin is, the bed is warm and soothing, and the plush weight of him against your body just nudges you closer to closer to the possibility of passing out. It's these little quiet, unhurried moments between the both of you that never fail to make you fall in love all over again - just a little bit harder. When everything is still enough for you to believe that it's only just the both of you, tucked away and undisturbed in a world so violent and crazed. It's the closest you've gotten to peace in a while, and it makes you all the more reluctant to try and tear yourself away from the bed and from his embrace. 

Even with the blackout curtains drawn together tight and eclipsing the room of any possible glimpses of light, you're sure by now that sun must have begun its ascension over the Greed Ring. It's probably cresting above the smog covered horizon and towering buildings with a rush of that burning, golden hue that's been tainted into a toxic sort of green by all of the pollution in the air. Just the thought of it should be enough to light a fire under your ass and have you ripping yourself up from the bed to get ready for work, but you remain completely motionless. The desire to remain fixed within the comfort of his hold is rising up high and weighing down your bones, and it's only buried in deeper by the soft scatter of kisses that he nips along your nape and presses behind your ear. It's all soft and sweet, so it nearly takes you by surprise when he's suddenly shifting to lie on his back, taking you with him as he clutches you in his arms. But he settles just as quickly, leaving you to sink and sprawl out across the length of his body while underneath the comforting weight of the comforter. 

" 'Sides, I'll handle them if they give you any problems," he promises, all saccharine and gentle even though you know that he's practically threatening to murder your bosses if he has to. "I always take care of you, don' I?" 

He really is a sweet talker when he wants to be. Or maybe you've just grown too susceptible to his charms. Either way, the soft edge that he's taken to his voice is starting lull you back into the draw of sleep, threatening to have your lids grow heavy and slip shut. It's all a recipe for disaster. The soothing dark that's cloaked over the room, the scent of him perfumed over the blankets, and the steady weight of him underneath your body. And he's taken to sweeping one of his thumbs along your hip, slipping the digit underneath the band of your sleep pants to caress it along the sensitive skin there in a steady glide. 

"Yeah," you finally agree drowsily, and your eyes lids threaten to slip closed. 

"Your boss is such a shit head anyway; let him suffer for a bit." He doesn't bother concealing his hatred when he speaks, letting it drip from his tone like venom and acid. You know that he'd have your boss' head on a pike if he were able to. A dramatic desire for sure, but then again, when it comes to reactions and impulses Mammon deals in extremes, and the disdain that he harbors for the man is almost wild. It's literally for no other reason than that he's your boss - because you have a job. The Sin has never been particularly fond of the fact that you even have work at all. It takes you away from him. It's "unnecessary," and he finds it endlessly frustrating. So by proxy the king's hatred for your employment was easy to bleed into a loathing for your boss, and the man had unknowingly become a physical token - an outlet - for Mammon's frustrations and ire. Granted you aren't particularly fond of CEO yourself with his gnarled, sharp grin and his proclivity towards passive aggressive quips and underwhelming one liner's (he always slaps his knees when he laughs at his own jokes, wheezing in that ragged, grating guffaw before licking the seams of his mouth with his forked tongue to make his giggles whistle between his lips like some sort of irritating train horn) but he is your boss. And you've worked far too hard, faked too many smiles and put in too many hours to have him murdered just because your boyfriend might have an extreme case separation anxiety, and doesn't know how to properly manage it. 

It's bad enough that you're even entertaining Mammon right now. That you're letting him have this much of an influence on you. Give him and inch and he'll take miles, but you'll be damned if he isn't entirely too persuasive. Or maybe you're just weak against him. But it's too late to feel guilty or frustrated about that now. He already has you convincing yourself that it might not be all that bad to just sneak in a few more minutes, or perhaps even an hour or two before you face your responsibilities for the day. He's soft, and plush and pleasantly chill beneath you. It makes you want to sink into him beyond a point that probably isn't even possible. To wrap yourself up in his limbs and burrow into his scent while you let your mind fall numb and dark, and the world with all of its drama and expectations become pointless, temporary ghosts. 

You should be tearing yourself from his hold and preparing for the tasks ahead of you, but the cushion of him is too tempting. The pleasant buzz of sleep is already heating up against your fingertips and toes, clouding your head over with a calm fuzz. It's all placid and dark, and the steady rhythm of his breathing rising and falling alongside your own; syncing with the pace of your own unhurried breaths is a lure. It's absentminded when you nudge your cheek against his chest, dragging the point of your nose along the crook of his neck and drawing in his scent in a deep lungful. It's uncanny, how much he smells like a wad full of cash, musk and leather. Such a distinct fragrance that's long since developed into one of your favorites. You don't just associate it with money anymore, but with him specifically and all the things that you think of him: comfort, love, stability. All things that no one with sanity would affiliate with the King of Greed. But here you are just second's away from passing out on his chest. 

". . . no killing my boss," you manage lowly. 

"Of course not," he responds airily. All sing song and not at all convincing. You could smack him on the chest or scold him. Make him promise not to do anything, but the clarity to form words evades you. Your tongue is all heavy and motionless in your mouth, and you think that your eyes might have actually slipped shut. You feel his words before you hear them, rumbling along your skin and trembling past the influence of sleep like a lazy purr. And you swear that he might have kissed the crown of your head, or maybe you had simply imagined it, but you don't have the energy to figure it out before everything falls flat and peaceful with the low rasp of his voice following you into all of the dark and softness. 

"I wouldn't dream of it." 

[arcielee]

Each Coming Night

Summary: Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader Word Count: 2870 Warnings: Smutty smut, smidgen of knife play, fingering, oral (female receiving), some spanking, p in v.  Author's Note: Okay, this took a minute because I literally was unsure what the fuck to do next with this depravity. It was supposed to be a smutty one shot and now it is finding a full arc. Thank you for much to @f4ll-for-you because your feedback and editing has helped me with this entire series. There will be 5 parts and I hope you all enjoy!  Tags (kindred spirits): @glitterandgoldfinds @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @fan-goddess @welcometothelioncage​ @hueanhdang (it won’t let me tag you??)   Series:  Call It Dreaming

This cannot be happening to me.

This was your thought when the timer on your phone had gone off and you looked to see two pink lines glaring back.

This is a false positive, a defective strip, you reason, throwing it into the trash and retreating to the kitchen to refill the mason jar you were using to hydrate. 

At first you rolled your eyes when your roommate, Emma, made a comment about how your diva cup was only collecting dust as of late, but when you checked your calendar you realized that your cycle was, in fact, late. You purchased the test-a pack of three, actually-from the corner mart for peace of mind, reminding yourself that the only way for you to be pregnant would be to actually have sex or immaculate conception, which made the latter plausible since you were not fucking anyone.

Or fucking anyone within this reality.

You felt your chest tightened with the damn intrusive thought that spoke boldly from the back of your mind. Your sleeping schedule felt irreparable as of late, with you only having two solid nights of sleep that left you aching in the most delightful way the following day. 

You felt crazy and you were certain you could not speak it out loud to anyone-how would you even describe these lucid, sexy dreams? You assumed it came from the stress of the semester, these graduate level courses particularly grueling as you worked towards your masters; you used to appreciate being a recluse, the burden of your coursework and internship damn near suffocating, but you were finding it difficult to focus on anything as of late. 

There was a time when you were able to turn your brain on automation and be able to retain whatever your professors spewed, dive into assignments with an outline in hand, and be able to finish projects before their due date. 

Instead, you were consumed by this ache in your core that could not be resolved by any means available within the 21st century. 

Then you dreamed of him again, Aemond fucking Targaryen, and it was just as delicious as the first time, fulfilling a satisfaction that you were grieving the prior day, assuming it was lost forever. It was unlike any dream you ever had and you remembered a tone of sadness when he said the words, “I imagine you will leave me again.”

You had, of course, woken up in your bed with that same delicious ache between your thighs and naked. Damn, I liked that dress, your mind thought as you were quick to check yourself in your mirror, just like last time. 

There were love bites that trailed your neckline and you could see the bruises from his grip on your hips.

It did not make sense. 

Your mind was in a fog and you would tread through each day listlessly. Whatever the lie you convinced yourself of before had faded into nothing, your only motivation was to be done with your degree and even that was clouded by the impending student debt. At night, you pined for your subconscious to return you to Westeros but instead you had a few hours of a fitful sleep each night. 

There was an unexpected release when you found yourself returning to a passion you had not felt in years. 

It began one afternoon, during a particularly long lecture, when you were enticed by the vacant space on the lined paper you meant to use for your notes; your pen was intentional with every stroke, flitting across the page, desperate to capture the sharp angles of his face… 

“I appreciate your rapt attention, but class is over.”

You looked up to see the room was nearly empty, with a few students filling out, and your professor watching you, holding his bag and waiting for you to exit. 

You were quick to throw everything into your backpack and return to your apartment, to your room, where you dug out an old sketch book you purchased years ago. You retrieved the notes from the class and saw the beginnings of Aemond’s portrait peering back; you had been complimented often for your drawings, but your family was apt to remind you the impracticality of an art degree and had been appalled at your suggestion at having no degree.

You could not place the blame on them entirely; you eventually shelved your passion and enrolled in a university you knew would make them proud. 

And clearly the pressure of all this had cracked your brain entirely, since you suffered from a fucked up insomnia and found only a fictional prince from Westeros could get you off these days. 

You groaned when the timer on your phone brought your attention back to see the two tests on the bathroom sink, both with two lines of pink mocking you. You threw them in the trash and piled toilet paper on top to hide them. 

Fuck me. You sighed and washed your hands, peering at your reflection in the mirror. The love bites had faded away and you just looked tired, which was an understatement as you had not slept well this semester save those two nights in King’s Landing. 

You returned to your room and threw yourself on the bed, eventually moving to rest your chest on the back of your hand and looking to see the growing collection of drawings and sketches that you began to pin on your wall. All were different mediums, pen, pencil, and the occasional charcoal, but each one was the same subject.

Aemond. 

He had stirred your muses in a way you thought was lost to you the moment you signed your livelihood to this degree and the career it would entail. 

He has stirred more than just your muses, that fucking intrusive thought made your groan and you rolled on your back, grabbing a pillow to smother your scream. 

I cannot handle this, you decide, still unable to fathom the madness that you might possibly be pregnant from a sexy dream. Instead, you would sleep, wake up with a clear mind and some sort of idea of what steps to take, or maybe wake to find the news of a massive recall for store bought tests. 

You curled beneath your blanket and closed your eyes. 

And when you opened them, you were, once again, in his room.

He was not awake, from what you could see. The fireplace had a low, amber light that pooled out onto the stone hearth that stretched in front of the fireplace and towards the empty leather chair. The dark, velvet curtains were tucked in the silver tiebacks and allowed the sea breeze and moonlight to pour into the room. 

There were tapers that burned low on his nightstand, casting a golden hue that washed over the sharp angles of his face and highlighting his tranquil expression as he slept. You were slow with your steps as you approached his bedside, your eyes drank in his figure as he laid back against the mattress, the shimmer of his silver locks and how one arm up was tucked behind his pillow while the other rested on his bare chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing. 

He was beautiful and you were lost in the moment, your fingertips touching the bed edge and a small sigh that slipped from your lips.

Aemond was too fast for you to comprehend his movements, one moment you admired him as he slept and now he bound out of his bed like a white fury. He was pressed against you, his slender fingers wrapped around your throat and his other hand a white knuckle grip on his dagger, the blade against your throat. 

Your eyes were wide as you watched him; his silver hair fell disheveled on his shoulders, his chest heaved with rapid breaths, and as he blinked the sleep away, his lavender eye slowly widened with his comprehension of who he had his hold on. 

Aemond released you, throwing the dagger to the side with an echo of metal on the cobblestone floor, and his hands cupped your jaw, bringing you against him for a bruising kiss. Your name spilled like a fervent prayer from his lips, “I did not think you would come back to me.” He pulled back and his eye looked over your face, falling to the side of your neck.

You knew he had cut you and your thighs clenched from the sting, the sea breeze cool against the trickle of blood. You saw the flash of worry dance on his features and your hand rested on his hips, your nails biting into his skin and pulling him close again. “I’m fine, my prince,” you soothed, your face flushed when you dared to tease him. “This has become a part of our foreplay.”

Pleasure coils in your stomach when you see the curl of his lips; he leaned forward to capture your mouth again, his hot tongue pressing in and pulling a moan from the back of your throat. Your hands flitted across the rivets of his abdomen and stopped at his chest, his large hands covering your own and pulling you to the bed. He peels off your clothes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass and lifting you onto the edge of the bed.

Goosebumps ripple over you when his warm palms lay on your stomach and move to your hips, pushing you further back on the bed so he can nestle between your thighs. His lips trails the inside of your leg towards your center, then he drags his tongue against your silken folds. 

You give a small gasp and can feel him grinning against your cunt, followed by the gentle prod of his fingers that curl into you. There is a wet squelch as the pads of his fingertips press further in you, searching until you mewl his name.

He hums his approval, “Sȳz riña.” 

Good girl.

He continues the rapid motion against that sweet spot within you, his head dipping forward and his tongue lavishes you, drinking you in as you become undone. Your hands clamp over your mouth to muffle the mixture of your moans, crying against your palms as his movement continues through your release and continues towards overstimulation. “Aemond,” you gasp and he stops at once. 

He is slow to stand, his gaze hard on you and you watch as he begins to unlace his breeches. “Do not cover your mouth when I fuck you,” his tone dark and he crawls on top of you, pushing you further up the bed. “Va jaelan ryptas ao,” his face nuzzles into your neck and you feel the burn of his tongue along the cut.

I want to hear you.

His arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you towards the headboard, pulling until your backside is flush with his warm chest; his mouth is hot as he bites into your neck, sucking, and his tongue leading to your shoulder. 

You arc against him, your ass pressing against his cock; he groans, grabbing your hip to slip between the softness of your thighs, slick from your release, and rubbing his length against your swollen lips. You whimper from the friction, your head tilting back against him and his nose presses against your ear, his mouth chewing on your earlobe. His hands trail your side, his fingertips gentle to trail your curves before grabbing into your hip and pulling you roughly against him.

“Sīr rāpa,” he groans in your ear. So soft. 

His slender fingers palm your ass, lifting to press his swollen head into your wet warmth; his head falls forward between your shoulder blades and you let out a cry, arching against him again and allowing him to sheath himself fully into you. 

Aemond grabs your hip to pull you against him at a bruising pace from behind, hitting the same spot from before. Your thighs are slick and he slips out, but moves you on your stomach. He reaches for a pillow, nudging to tuck it under your lower abdomen, and propping your ass up when you lay back onto it. 

Your breathing quickens when you feel his warm hands, one on each cheek, and he pulls you apart slowly, allowing the breeze to tickle your wet heat. “Gevie,” Beautiful, he praises and you can feel the press of his cock against your soaked folds, the delicious stretch as he presses entirely into you. 

Your hands grip the sheets and his hands are pressed on your lower back, holding you in place, and you feel the tickle of his silver hair on your backside when he leans forward. “Stop clenching,” you can hear his smug smile. “I wish to enjoy you.” 

There is a satisfying wet squelch when he finally ruts his hips against you, hitting a depth within your velvet walls that curls your toes. You can feel his hip bones in the soft flesh of your ass and the crescendo builds easily from his overstimulation; you are breathless, your skin is aflame as you best brace yourself against his thrusts.

His hand moves from his grip on your hip, moving the curve of your ass before lifting his hand for a sharp slap that sends shockwaves of pleasure over your body, once, twice. The sound spills a wanton moan from your lips and a guttural groan escapes the back of his throat.

As your cunt begins to flutter, you bury your face against the mattress and he is quick to grab a fistful of your hair, pulling you back to all fours. You are a mewling mess, tears streaming your cheeks, and his other hand grabs onto your hip, continuing his brutal pace.

“Aemond,” you beg, but unsure what you are begging for. “Aemond, Aemond…”

Your crescendo of pleasure blossomed in your lower abdomen, your thighs shaking from the orgasm that rolled over and you clenching desperately at him. His thrusts grew sloppy and you felt the warmth of his seed spill into you, his cock twitching with his release. 

You fall forward and curl on your side, hugging the pillow he propped under your hips and savoring its new scent of sex. Aemond pushes from the bed and moves to an oak table with a basin on top, picking up a cloth and dropping it in. He wrings out the extra water and returns to the bed, sitting on the edge and nudging your knee. 

“Open,” he says and your legs spread.

The cloth feels cool in contrast to his touch and he is gentle to wipe you clean before pushing from the bed again. He uses a clean cloth for himself before he curls beneath the covers, eager to bring you against his chest and wrapping his arms around you. 

This gives you a sense of serenity, the feeling of being against the warmth of his chest and the comfort in his embrace. There was nothing comparable in your world to this moment and you feel the threat of tears at the thought. You swallow to hold them back, but he notices and says your name in a low whisper. “What is wrong?” 

His tone is genuine, gentle, and you cannot control the tears that spill. “I’m fine, I just wish that,” but what did you wish for? How do you explain that your reality is a suffocation of unwanted responsibility? That your only sense of pleasure is a hobby that your family begs you to forget and to just become another cog in the 21st century?

You blink away the tears, a small smile on your lips when you turn your head to look at him. “I only wish I was able to stay longer with you,” you finally manage. 

Aemond hums as he pulls you close, nestling you beneath his chin and his touch gentle as he draws small circles between your shoulder blades. The ministrations lull you to sleep and you wake up to your roommate walking through your bedroom door. 

“Hey, slut,” Emma is flippant with her greeting, mostly focused on grabbing her red hair to tie back. “I have to go to the store and I was checking if you need anything. Alex is making me go right now to buy him Pop-Tarts because he thinks I ate all of his, which I did but…” her voice trails off when she finally looks at you. “Holy fuck. Are you okay?”

Your eyes are swollen and red, there is a smear of blood on your neck under your jaw with love bites that decorated beneath and to your shoulders. Her eyes are wide with alarm and she moves to sit on the bed, unfazed that you are very naked. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” You are quick to shake your head. “No, I just,” you struggle with how to explain this, “I, uh, have been seeing someone and it is kind of complicated.” 

Emma raised her eyebrow. “How so?” She asks, peering over the marks from your night with Aemond. “Like, it seems whatever you have going on is very enthusiastic, if anything…”

“Emma,” you breathe. “I’m pregnant.”

[noa-ciharu]

Alternatively: fyosig + 36

fyosig + "please don't leave me behind"

Post Meursault, angst, hurt/questionable comfort, religious symbolism, sort of brainwashed Sigma

- - - - - - - -

Last thing Fyodor expected is to be tracked down in the back of beyond, much less by Sigma.

Peculiar indeed. But warranted reason for alarm? Not so much, or at all if he's to be candid. After all Sigma did read all his memories, not too implausible to presume he put wits to good use and figured out his whereabouts on very own. Impressive Fyodor had to remark - if not served as an immaculate litmus test. Not necessarily of Sigma's capabilities and lengths he's willing to go, those are nothing groundbreaking. But of Sigma's irrefutably wheedled decision - spoke of all darkest hues he managed to smear on the once blank canvas.

Dozen seconds ticked by in suspensive silence. Sigma stared at him with those vacant yet fiery eyes, at sixes and sevens. Fyodor didn't rush him anyhow - best to give Sigma illusion of freedom, although judging by how spent he looked Fyodor assumed that by this point Sigma can see through all of his smokes and mirrors.

Accented inhale. Tone eerily flat. Simultaneously clash of emotions and none at all on features - "I know everything"

Of course he does. That came as no surprise; what did is that Sigma felt the need to remind him of that. Fyodor crossed legs, tipped head and offered a meak smile Sigma should know by now serves just to disarm. "So you do", affirmed Fyodor while staring right up into oddly unguarded eyes. "But you've surely didn't come all the way here to tell me just that" - surely there's an ax to grind, but judging by confusion flashing over Sigma's twisted face it's not too far fetched to assume he's knocked out for six.

So no, not even Sigma himself knew why he sought him out. Itch for him became hardwired - no matter how much Sigma fought the newly found impulse he needed him like oxygen to breathe. Akin to moth to the flame Sigma will always be draw to the one that burned the life he used to know to the very ground.

"I..."

Pause followed by couple stressed sighs. Lips twisted and quivered, chest heaving in dire struggle for breath, eyes snapped shut with force that had to sting - inner conflict was manifest. Much to his credit Fyodor kept expression impassive; best to neither insult via glaringly fake consideration nor unnerve via brutal honesty. Considering everything Sigma went through in his memories this level of lucidity was to be applauded instead.

Frowning Sigma clasped both sides of his head and groaned - "Ugh, my head feels like a mess", kneaded forehead and huffed, likely wishing to cast away his presence from mind - futile endeavor, by this point he was engraved in every fiber of Sigma's being. Like clockwork he admitted just that - "Ever since that cursed day I couldn't get you out of my mind"

Your curiosity had a price tag on it, Fyodor wished to wise off but kept poke behind teeth. No need to fan the flames, especially when Sigma was on the brink of cracking; nothing but an empty shelf of former self. Greed got the best of him. In accordance, his freedom was clipped away. Every sin calls for a punishment, just because he didn't take over Sigma's body didn't mean there aren't other ways in which he can consume a greedy soul whole.

Sigma took a step backwards; then wobbled forwards, subliminally drawn by him and him only. "Your presence has engulfed me", heavy breath, foggy eyes, skin unhealthily wan - perplexed like this Sigma painted rather drained picture. Child's play to forge into a perfect weapon, however Fyodor knew a prod too firm could topple fragile mind pass the point of return - if he's to take this one into his embrace he'd need to thread carefully for regular manipulation would no longer cut it. By this point it's not even a matter of whether Sigma would take his hand or not, just when he'd realize caving in is inevitable.

"Gosh, what have you done to me?!", snarling Sigma paced back and forth; rocked throbbing head between arms and tried to soothe himself; to no avail. "No matter how much I try", sharp inhale, Sigma threw head back and combed fingers through hair; likely pucked out few strands from stress alone. "I cannot stop viewing life from your twisted perspective"

Ah, there it is, symphony to his ears. "That's a given", snickered Fyodor, allowing ounce of sadism to seap onto surface; insulting to keep the mask of benevolence after Sigma drank in his every cruelty. Thence Fyodor let devilty touch smile, in contrast kept tone mellow - "After all you've never taken in that magnitude of information" so it's only natural I tainted your sense of identity to the point where you cannot distinguish your thoughts from mine.

For a split second Sigma looked at him like he's not even human - no, not a devil either but something divine that transcends life itself. Atypical sure considering he never elicited anything but fear or anger in that timid yet assertive gaze, but also not surprising. Sigma's life divided in before and after; this one in front of his eyes is the fool who let the devil in on that faithful day; as result lost himself. In spite of godlike ability God he's not, merely one bestowed with His mission of bringing harmony to the entropy. But for Sigma's entranced eyes Fyodor would gladly become one.

In an instant reverence evaporated, leaving nothing but spark in weary eyes that surely would be rekindled. "I know you're up to no good", Sigma hissed and glared, but jab lacked the bite; crystal clear he's desperately clinging to last threds of life he used to know. Biting inside of mouth Sigma rewarded him with another meak scowl, only spoke volumes of how torn he's inside. "I know you'll inevitably end up using me again", accusation yet it came off as more of a wail.

Smart man, that Fyodor had to give it to him; but again foreseeable considering Sigma knew him down to the wire now - quite the strange sensation Fyodor had to admit, however nothing to lose sleep over; upper ground is still and forever will be his to claim. Transitory he toyed with idea of deception; promising Sigma to never lead him on again. With a shrug opted out of it. "It'd be insulting to lie to you after everything", explained Fyodor inaptly lightly considering gravity of the topic. "After all you are the one who knows me the best", flashing a roguish smile he finally stood up and strode towards his unwilling worshiper.

Rather than flinching or showing disdain Sigma appeared strangely relieved for a heartbeat by their close proximity - as if subliminally craving his presence, tactile presence, after being exposed only to indoctrinating memories. "And in spite of all that...", thin voice, head bent low. Sigma squeezed eyes and heaved. "I wish I could hate you", went off the tangent. "But I'd be hating myself in process" - because separating 'you' and 'I' is no longer feasible.

For a second Fyodor weighted the idea of patting Sigma's shoulder and consoling; not even as a part of deception but merely to have him calm down. Much to Fyodor's surprise Sigma beat him up to it - curled arms around Fyodor's frame, shoved coat down shoulders, cried out and threw himself in his embrace.

Ah, so you do have it in you to take me off guard. Silent sobbing, light shaking; hard to tell if Sigma burst in tears but definitely was distraught. Despite being stunned Fyodor found himself smiling; knew right away this one is hopelessly trapped in his web of lies - ironically constructed of nothing but truth, but with mind distorted beyond remedy Sigma couldn't distinguish own projections from reality.

"I know it's pointless to demand sincerity from you", faint hush, Fyodor more felt his chest move than heard the words, nonetheless could tell exhaustion and anguish in tone. In turn he embraced back; hummed into crown of Sigma's head and combed fingers through hair, just to coax Sigma into revealing more.

"But can you promise me one thing?"

Even if I do, how could you ever trust a word of a liar? By this point Sigma should know better than anyone else to expect honestly from him, admitted so himself moments prior - yet like a fool still held onto hope. If there's one thing Fyodor found admirable, albeit sinfully foolish about humans it's how unbreakable their spirits are - surely entertaining, but far and in between were ones worth his while.

Rather than offering any response Fyodor just chuckled; kept on caressing the trembling frame, privately savoring warmth of another human being in his arms - in all sincerity forgot how touch void of malicious intent even feels. Closing eyes he pressed lips against Sigma's temple. After this I won't let you go even to very death itself.

"Whatever you do please don't leave me behind ever again"

[saintmurd0ck]

thinking about... the aftermath.

series masterlist | main masterlist | part three | part five

Your face drops as it replays in slow motion in your head, every word more damning than the last. 

‘How long have you been fucking my girlfriend?’

You’re vaguely aware of the ensuing chaos around you: Matt yelling out as he shuts his hand in the fridge door, Frank jumping to his feet, beelining to the metal handle of what looks like his gun—

“What are you talking about?” Matt asks, calmly, his voice dragging you back into the present. He yanks his hand out from the fridge, massaging the welt blooming across his knuckles.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about, Red,” Frank laughs, incredulously. He stiffens a moment before turning to you, frustration miring his face. “Answer the question, sweetheart.”

“F-four months,” you say, but it comes out as a squeak.

“Four months?” Frank runs his tongue over his teeth. “Four months,” he nods, repeating it in affirmation, or… vacant delusion, from the look on his face.

He raises a hand, pointing in Matt’s direction. “I swear, Red, if you don’t start fuckin’ talking—“

Matt’s voice cuts through. “How did you know?” 

Frank scoffs. “You really think you could get away with it? That—that just ‘cause I can’t hear heartbeats a mile away or tell you what you had for lunch last week I wouldn’t know?” He shifts on his feet, more reticent now than before. “C’mon, Red. It was piss easy. ‘Sides, not like you two were quiet about it.”

“S’funny, isn’t it?” Frank glances at Matt, his mouth curving into a rueful smile. “Thought you were uh… upholdin’ the Catholic values you seem to preach about every time we’re together.”

It’s difficult to look at anything but your hands; not with the mixture of renegade mortification and undiluted adrenaline running through your veins. “Okay Frank,” you start, meeting his gaze, “Can we—can we just talk about it?”’

“Don’t you worry sweetheart,” he says, nonchalantly, “the talking’ll happen later.” 

“After tonight,” he adds, noticing your bewildered stare. “Right now, I ask the questions. Got it?”

You swallow dryly as he pulls up a chair from the dining table, spinning it around to straddle the seat. “So,” he begins, a little too indifferently, wagging his finger between you and Matt, “does he fuck you like I do?”

You choke on your own spit, unable to comprehend his question or come up with any kind of intelligible answer.

“D’you moan his name when you’re together? Same way you do f’me?”

Matt speaks for the first time in what feels like an eternity, and you’re grateful for the cushion against Frank’s relentless pursuit. “I don’t think this is appropriate, Frank. Not right now.”

“Oh,” Frank sneers, “now you wanna speak up? ‘Cause for a second I thought she mighta fucked that mouth right off of ‘ya.” He flicks back to you, eyes ravaging the length of your body. “Answer the questions, sweetheart.”

You inhale, aware that it’s ragged and shallow, so the words don’t form properly. “Yesandyes.”

Frank blows out a breath. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says, lips curling into a crooked smile. “Seems like altar boy ain’t such a pussy after all."

“What?”

“That wasn’t too hard, was it?” Frank grins. 

Matt bristles, listening intently to the moderate boost in Frank’s heartbeat, to the fibres of his denim jeans stretching ever-so-slightly to accommodate— “Honestly, Frank? Fuck you.”

“So that’s it? You’re… okay? We’re not going to talk about it?” you interject, wondering for a second if this is yet another twisted, lucid dream.

“I told you,” Frank mutters obliquely, stepping off the chair to make his way over to you, “the talking’s gonna happen later.” He flashes you a Cheshire cat smile, planting one hand on the back of the couch to tower over you. Blinking, your eyes flicker over his form, catching on the now-prominent outline in his jeans.

He takes your gaze away in an instant, lifting your chin up with a finger until your lips are almost touching.

His breath fans your face as his honeyed voice drops an octave. “Show me what you do, yeah?"

"Huh?" you whisper, clenching your hands, unsure of where to put them.

"Show me how you fuck him, sweet girl.”

[moxijunk]

[throws a vl post at y'all's]

vvv inspired by "Buying Time" by The Faim

[astro-naut9]

VL!Welcomin !!! req by @moxijunk :3

[astarionfixation]

Am I Fu**ing Insane !?!

A multi chapter adventure in Astarion's mind

Chapter 2 - +As if I had been kissed by mint leaves all over+

Rating: eventually Explicit but just a lot of mind tease so far.

Word count count: 2.3k

Pairings: Astarion X OFC Tav

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54356776/chapters/137824306

I have a quite serious praise kink. Which also means compliments in the forms of tags and/or comments might very well spur me to write and post more

Teaser:

In an exasperated sigh he breathes in again and all the effort he put into keeping lucid since he got back into her room is crashing down upon him. The nauseatingly spiced mix of wine and flowers assaulting his senses once again, and her breath caressing his face as he just now realises he must have leaned in without thinking. *As if she’s not been a damned little inconvenience already!* But that’s when she begins stirring and the image of the moment when he was just that close to her a few hours prior, flashes in his mind again. Her warm fingers on the back of his neck as traitors ready to find a spot to bury a dagger  *I should know! I’ve played this game before, you hussy! better than you ever will!* Those fingers seemingly trying to grasp at him just before a soft whiff of that intoxicating scent escaped her lips when she hummed, barely intelligible: Stay.

Chapter Two - *as if I had been kissed by mint leaves all over*

Notes: *Astarion's Thoughts* +quotes from her journal+ "audible dialogue" -remarks-

aul iasa nha tho is Elvish for "in vino veritas", otherwise said "In wine there's truth" or the general idea that people are much more guileless when intoxicated.

He must’ve read those pages so many times that it’s surprising how they have not been worn out. And the fact he doesn’t technically need to sleep surely hasn’t helped the surprise quickly turn to addiction.

*How could I have not noticed?!*

The tightly kept book gave him more access to her mind, her actual thoughts, that any connection the worms might have forced them to share, and that’s likely why everyone promptly agreed to stay out of everyone’s business for the time being. And it wasn’t quite like he meant to break that deal, he was just severely unprepared for what he had found in that insignificant shiny little volume. All handwritten. By her.

Along with the odd note of information gathered during the last few days, the pages were filled mostly with just her reflections, clearly never intended for eyes that were not her own deep ones, eyes he never felt lingering on him more than the time it was necessary to be called for duty, to be addressed as politely as an accidentally forced companionship put them together. And he was supposed to know, to see, to read people and understand how to play them as if fiddling with an instrument he himself had built from scratch! The countless souls he alone had enticed and played every key, including -especially- the dark, heavy ones. Then how could he have missed the eyes she had been looking at him with? How could he have missed the intention? How could she have walked this earth without a tenth of the time he had and compete with his own ability to mask and dissipate any impression of sentiment or feeling?

He started to genuinely wonder if there could have been a mistake, perhaps she had been keeping the little metallic book for someone else *and yet I saw her and her damned quill on it! I saw her unimpressed and vacant eyes!* while clearly less than a day ago her thoughts must have been so focused on him they should have burnt a hole in his back:

+I cannot cope with the heart rending clench, from my stomach to the tip of my hair, diffusing a cold, quivering heat as if I had been kissed by mint leaves all over in just a moment, every time his voice pours, like honey, into my ears+

He found himself catching breath he didn’t need for hours, disgusted surely by the idea that she kept him in her mind so often, yet compelled to scrutinise every single line, with no chance to concede that even just one word she spent on him could have gone amiss. He had dozens of pages to commit to memory before sunrise, now that his plans toward individual freedom had suddenly fallen apart. There was no tadpole solution, no way to charm and dominate the worms, nothing to guarantee he could remain himself while still feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin.

*Nothing to guarantee the warmth of her skin if her thoughts get consumed until there’s nothing left of her*

And he has to shake his head physically from the thought because *why!? Why would she be the issue now!?* when he has his own thoughts, his own brain to worry about, his own survival as the only thing that has kept him unnaturally alive for over two centuries, well before she was barely an idea in her parent’s minds! 

His arm pulls back and the book’s metallic cover hits the door he’s still sitting against. He should be throwing it with such force that would destroy that little insignificant piece of paper conjuring all kinds of soft, enticing visions, while none will help with their shared issue: they are all on borrowed time.

+it was a good delusion of power, as if anyone could really be just... So mature for their age... But that's another story, I don't like the stories of my memories, read in hindsight…+

And that’s what froze him in place. She doesn’t spell it out but just reading the words pulls his stomach just the same, he knows that feeling, the lulling comfort that the idea of pleasing a tyrant and taking each beating as a compliment will do. His eyes close and this time the little precious book is brought to his chest, just where his heart last beat all those centuries ago. And his tintless eyebrows furrow, his usually graceful traits tighten in what is almost a grimace, teeth clenching as his head shakes once more, but this time it’s because his own memories made stories out of his delusions of power, when no matter the amount of sacrifices he brought back every night, neither his body nor his mind were spared the abuse and humiliations from his cruel Master. Cazador’s looming body flashes behind his tightened eyes.

*Fourth: thou shalt know that thou art mine.*

The rules of his master played like an obsessive charm in his head over and over,  and then it’s kinder, it’s easier to embrace what felt like the only power he had, seducing and pleasing whilst hoping for the lesser beating.

It does not matter that air is not needed now, because the sharp intakes cut through his lips and down to the bottom of his lungs, and his lips pull almost as if from muscle memory and like he so often did before. To please and appease him, to make the punishment shorter and numbing his own mind for longer.

And all of a sudden it all stops. His arms feel as if they are strained by efforts he does not recall, the heavy door behind his back certainly not as comfortable as the bed in front of him and 

*oh yes, the little useless book* 

The book that gave him no more freedom he had the night before. He would throw it mindlessly but his hand finds a way to just leave it to rest on the floor, while with an agile movement he’s back on his feet, and in a moment he’s theatrically falling on the bed, face hitting the pillows first, and a long unnecessary breath empties his lungs with the last remnants of something that reminds him of mulled wine and flowers.

—-----------

The noise of boots outside snaps him out of his trance just when the last of the candles must have burnt out as a swirl of smoke still rises in the otherwise darkened room. Voices muffled behind the door tell him his companions are only now getting to their beds which means not much will be expected of him that morning.

*Thank fuck!*

His arms move the pillow around to bury his face onto it and hoping to fall into trance again when a deeper sigh rises from his chest, and he knows. He knows what he has to do to avoid any consequences to befall upon him. Never before a sleight of hand has failed him so spectacularly and now he's not only stuck with the merry fellowship of warmbloods ignorami 

*no closer to understand and control the worm in my head*

but now with the knowledge that their pretty, little accidental leader has had her eyes fixed on him way more often than he ever realised.

*Shit… does she know?* 

And with that thought he rolls on his back, the crook of his elbow sheltering his eyes and with a final exasperated sigh he pulls himself up. Even in the darkened room he can see the metallic cover trying its best to reflect whatever resemblance of light it can catch. His long, delicate fingers pick it up and he finds himself almost laughing at himself

*You thought this was going to be your freedom and now you're just more chained to her them*

Of course he's just stuck being a monster, what did he expect? He gathers the book in his hands and not far, discarded by the door, he finds the small lock, the mockery of having to use his lockpicking skills to put it back together does not escape him.

Once the lock is back in place there’s only one thing left to do. His resignation has almost taken over if it wasn’t for that tinge just at the bottom of his stomach that wishes for him to destroy the book, destroy the room and have splinters find their way under his skin so that maybe, hopefully, the pain will take his attention away from the spectacular failure he is.

*serves me well for conceding anything to hope*

In a flash he’s out of his door, gliding through the shadows. The corridor should simply bow to his graceful presence as he approaches her room. Again.

His hand pushes the door slightly and in a moment he’s in, this time making sure the lock is turned just to avoid any sudden interruption, and within a few seconds his senses are assaulted once again by that scent that makes him feel both a drunkard and abstinent by necessity more than choice. A sigh is the loudest noise he allows himself to make as he exhales: the less he has her scent in his lungs, the easier it will be to ignore it.

Her breath is deep and regular which gives him information enough to carefully reach for her bedside table where her bag was discarded, and indeed, it’s still there waiting for him, half open. The little book still in his hand and he’s just about to place it back there

*Like absolutely nothing ever happened*

And in that moment he realises, as soon as it’s back, it’s gone. His one window to her unadulterated thoughts is gone. The one access he has ever had to someone, anyone’s actual idea of him that wasn’t serving a purpose or trying to extort something from him. If her behaviour had fooled him so completely then it was reasonable to consider the possibility she never intended to act upon any of her reflections, and the book held so many he found himself cursing the fact his elven life ended earlier and lasted much less than his immortal one, before he could learn how to commit to memory more enduringly that the last few hours perusing the little tome allowed him.

*nasty little tease! letting my mind slip that far back!*

His head shakes slightly and a bitter smile pulls the corner of his lips. There’s no point crying over spilled milk again. His hand doesn’t even touch the bag, but the book is back in it, as if it never left. With his body crouched next to bed he can see the look on her face, the look of someone who has really been peacefully resting for the last few hours, completely and utterly unaware about how she has taken that peace almost directly from him: he should have rested, he should have gone hunting and the mere thought reminds him of that dry, stinging feeling in his throat. But instead of satiating his hunger, gaining any ounce of strength back, any semblance of mortality, he just wasted the entire night on that vexatious little book that she guarded so intensely for absolutely no reason. 

*Nothing no one of value in it!*

In an exasperated sigh he breathes in again and all the effort he put into keeping lucid since he got back into her room is crashing down upon him. The nauseatingly spiced mix of wine and flowers assaulting his senses once again, and her breath caressing his face as he just now realises he must have leaned in without thinking.

*As if she’s not been a damned little inconvenience already!*

But that’s when she begins stirring and the image of the moment when he was just that close to her a few hours prior, flashes in his mind again. Her warm fingers on the back of his neck as traitors ready to find a spot to bury a dagger 

*I should know! I’ve played this game before, you hussy! better than you ever will!*

Those fingers seemingly trying to grasp at him just before a soft whiff of that intoxicating scent escaped her lips when she hummed, barely intelligible: Stay.

And she might just have given him an excellent solution. Out of that image it finally dawns on him: 

*For all she knows, I have never left*

As if the mystification of the last hours had never happened, he can just slip back into the flirtatious role that she last remembers, and at that, he whisks himself up and his leg gracefully drapes over hers so that in the next moment his body is now behind hers, without so much as a breath *or heartbeat* skipped on her part. She wanted him to stay didn’t she? In hindsight it’s just like they say *aul iasa nha tho in vino veritas*. And now her tipsiness really reads as someone’s infatuation, he had confirmation from her own well guarded thoughts, her fingers and heart committing words to paper that would have kept being nothing but denied by the demeanour she carries herself with, except for last night. 

*And isn’t it going to be a delight to coax the truth out of her own lips, when I already know I have her protection, before I even had a chance to persuade her so*

That is the first time the realisation dawns on him: no matter how well she hides her feelings, he is already under her skin, there is nothing that he can’t convince strangers to give him, the knowledge that 

+he’s on my mind, really almost all the time+

And *oh! What a terribly applicative concession!* He knows, before he even thought to strike, that he will hit the target in the perfect bull’s eye. The attainment of that awareness almost lets him enjoy, for the first time, fully, completely, the exhilarating aroma that she emanates, because in due time, understanding how that little precious tome has  opened her mind, her actual mind, to him, he now knows. 

Before he has to ask. 

He will taste her. 

Because she already says yes to him in every thought of hers he occupies.

[emry-stars-art]

could i also ask for a responsibility snippet 👉👈 andrew piecing together neil’s change in behavior after coming back from evermore makes me soooo insane

(God same anon 🤝)

Aug 2 [wip wednesday game]

"Your Highness," Abram said, his voice muffled by his hands. "No, no. No, you can't... you can't be here."

Andrew took a knee beside him. "And why not?"

"You... they're trying to cut it, cut my hair, after - after you worked so hard -"

"Did Day say it needed to be cut?"

"Y-yes. But -"

"Abram," Andrew said quietly. Abram went silent. "You said your hair was mine to do with as I pleased. Have you changed your mind?"

"...No. But you - you didn't want me to cut it, you liked it long. I liked that you liked it."

It was the fever. Abram was with them, but he wasn't entirely lucid yet, he didn't know what he was saying. He tried to see Andrew but his eyes were too vacant, too full of tears.

"Evermore did it no favors," Andrew managed. The dull mats and knots of Abram's hair were all the more ugly against his newly clean and bandaged skin. "Let it be cut, and I will start with hair that hasn't been ruined."

(Shout out to @jtl-fics for probably all of the inspiration for this scene 💕)

[brokendreamscreation-moved]

Send my muse 🩸 to find them unable to stop bleeding from an injury.

🩸[ Adam @helluva-hazbins ]

The tension between the brothers had never reached such levels of intensity before. Lucid had given Adam some lip back and going as far as to prepare to attack the First Man, only for Micah to intervene. Hauling the younger seraphim off by a tight grip to Lucid’s arm, the two disappeared around a corner and out into a vacant hall. The youngest brother ripped himself from the vice hold, shouting and gesturing wildly in frustration back towards the way they’d come. Micah warned Lucid only once to stand down and come quietly. When the blue seraphim refused and turned to go back to confront Adam, he was suddenly swept off his feet and face down on the floor.

The fight did not last long, and Lucid surprisingly held his own for a moment. But it was when he summoned a ball of light in his palm and a fire in his eyes that Micah ended the fight. Their sparring feud escalated to the older sibling summoning his spear, bathed in holy light. The blunt end rammed into Lucid’s stomach, doubling him over as he stumbled before immediately being met with strike of the handle across the face with a ‘crack!’ Stunned, the blue seraphim never even got a second to prepare for what was next. A searing hot pain skewered through his shoulder, the brute force slamming him against the wall and pinning him. Crying out in pain, Lucid struggled and desperately grasped at the spear jutting through him. Terror filled his weeping eyes as Micah roughly grabbed his jaw, forcing his brother to look him dead in the face.

“You think this hurts now? The council won’t hesitate to drive a dozen of them into your flesh if you keep this attitude up. You’re going down a dangerous path, Lucid. Consider this your final warning.”

Roughly shoving Lucid’s face as he let go, Micah pulled the spear loose, causing the seraphim to cry out again. Sliding down the wall with a streak of golden blood smearing, the younger Angel clutched to the gaping wound with his opposite hand. Starry tears rolled down his cheeks, trembling from the adrenaline, fear and pain. Micah waved his spear away, speaking coldly.

“That wound won’t kill you. But may it serve as a reminder to not fall out of line again.” Micah’s sharp gaze flicked towards the doors where he knew Adam watched through. Without another word, he turned and left Lucid, who now sobbed as he clutched the profusely bleeding wound.

[shentheauthor]

Random cotl drabble

“I think I understand now.”

They looked at Shamura with wide, vacant eyes. They figured their blank expression would have been haunting, if the spider had the mental capacity to feel disturbed at the moment. They just continued to weave, pulling at silk and clacking their mandibles.

“You understand little,” they mumbled. “Knock, knock, the Lamb comes to raze…”

Kore sighed, balling their hands into fists. “I understand your decision,” they whispered, their voice breaking. They stared down at their fleece, the red fabric covering their wooly body. They were taller now, taller than most sheep ever grew to be. They hated it.

They were changing. They could not stop it. Clauneck had said as much when they turned to him, desperately seeking answers and help with handling their new form. Narinder hadn’t been much help, as he had taken to godhood on his own. His power was not stolen, like theirs was. He could never understand.

Shamura waited in silence for a moment before speaking, stopping their weaving long enough to look Kore directly in the eye. Their face filled with clarity in that moment, their pupils shrinking to bright red slits.

“Godhood is filled with difficult decisions, little Lamb,” the spider muttered. “Sacrifices must be made.

Part of Kore wanted to scream at Shamura that the slaughter of the sheep was not their sacrifice to make. But they hadn’t come to yell.

They sat down on the ground next to Shamura. The spider didn’t seem to mind getting dirty, and neither did Kore. “I sent a follower to his death today,” Kore admitted quietly. “He did not request it, but faith was low, and I needed the devotion.”

Shamura hummed. “Curved horns,” they whispered. “The rot will spread.”

“I…” Kore blinked, tilting their head up toward the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in. It would rain soon, and they would need to make sure the crops did not flood. The world kept turning, even though a life had been cut short.

They looked back at Shamura, who had stopped weaving. Their eyes were bright and lucid, staring right through Kore with an intensity that was rare with their addled mind.

Kore started again. “If I was in your position,” they said, “centuries ago… and it had been any other species than the sheep…” They balled their fleece up in their hands, digging their fingers into it.

“I would have done the same as you.”

Shamura nodded. “It is difficult to see mortals as anything more than tools,” they admitted. Kore’s ears twitched. Tears pooled in their eyes, threatening to spill over. They scratched their neck.

“I feel so far away,” Kore whispered.

“You will only grow more distant.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

Silence stretched between the two, broken only by laughter coming from the more populated cult grounds. Shamura’s hut was isolated, more for the cult’s safety than their own comfort.

Kore stared out at their Flock, blinking their tears away. “I’ll never forgive you,” they said under their breath. “But I understand.”

Shamura did not respond for a moment. Then, they sighed. “You are not meant to be here,” they ordered curtly. “Go back to your chambers, sheep.”

Kore looked up into four pairs of foggy, distant eyes, and gritted their teeth. “Very well, My Lord,” they muttered. They stood up, stretching briefly before walking away. They did not look back, but they could hear Shamura whispering as they went.

“Off with their head, the rot will spread, the rot will spread…”

[bluiex]

Hello! It's the 'Vamp Scar dancing with Hunter Grian but not really anon' again! I'm here again, this time with another little thing about these two's relationship! Today I give you Grian getting taken care of after a few other hunters beat him up when they (rightly) think he's abandoning their oath of killing all vampires, but don't do any actual investigating and take it into their own hands. And how Scar does not like anyone hurting his Grian :)

~~~~

Scar had gotten used to Grian being around. He had gotten used to someone alive sharing his space. He had gotten used to the sound of a heart beating not to far away. He had gotten used to the warm weight that often presses against him. He had gotten used to how his bed dips and creaks as someone else crawls in to cuddle.

He had gotten used to to their smell sticking to everything. The rooms, his sheets, his clothes...He had truly gotten used to them.

He didn't think he had to get used to open wounds and their blood soaked bandages.

"em sorry Scar..." Grian says, only semi-lucid after taking more than the recommended amount of pain killers.

"And why are you apologizing?" He asks, wincing a little as another grotesque looking wound appears after unwrapping the cloth binding their arm. "It's not like asked to have five of your 'colleagues' to beat you within an inch of your life."

"I know...that this must be really...real difficult for you. With all the...blood and mess I'm making. I'm getting...blood all over your tile and tub."

"It's alright Gri. You just try to relax as I turn the water on and try to get you cleaned up."

He watches them nod their head before he tosses the red cloth bandage into the bin with the other ones. He hates seeing all those bandages, with the red almost overtaking the fabric and only leaving a white edge as a reminder to what it once looked like. He hates how torn to pieces their clothes were, reduced to nothing more then hole ridden rags. He hates how they seem to have been stripped of all possessions on their person, their weapons, their phone, and even their wallet nowhere to be found...

He hates how broken their body looks, how their limbs seem be so limp, how once healthy skin is slit open and irritated and likely to be bruised, how shallow their breathing is, how vacant their eyes look, how dirt sticks to their hair and is smudged way to close to too many open and still bleeding wounds, how it looks like they are so close to death and are just waiting for the Grim Reaper to walk through the door...

And he hates how the people who did this had walked away with nothing happening to them.

"I'm going to turn the facet on. You tell me if it's too hot or cold, okay?"

"Okay..."

~~~~

Scar carefully rests a bundled up sleeping Grian on the bed, carefully brushing hair out of the way to kiss their forehead.

"I'm going to spoil you so much during your recovery..." He murmurs against their skin. "I'm going to spoil so much you won't remember how life was before."

Grian makes a low noise before turning their head and resting their cheek on a pillow. He carefully runs his fingers through their hair, still wet even after him trying to dry it with a towel.

"I'm going to spoil you because you deserve it after coming so close to death. I'm going to spoil you because it's unfair what happened to you."

He slowly moves his hand down their face, gently brushing a thumb along their bottom lip, unfortunately split in two places.

"I'm going to spoil you because despite everything, you still chose to be with me. You still chose to be mine."

He gently and carefully presses a kiss to their lips, pushing down anger as he tastes blood.

"And I am to hunt the people who did this to you. And I am going to kill them."

Grian lets out a low hum, like they heard him and like the idea.

WAAAH ANON THIS IS A LOVELY FEIST- This is amazing. thank you for this. SO well written!!! I felt like I could feel Scar;s emotions and just wanted to beat the crap out of those guys too *chefs kiss*