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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months

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Hidden Treasure 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your quiet life is interrupted by a tempestuous man. (reader is Blair from Follow You Anywhere)

Characters: Thor

Note: I just did it, okay?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You lay out the hand-sewn coin purses along the left side of the table, completing the array of your hand-made and repurposed goods. It’s a good day to sell, sunny but not too hot, the early days of spring when people are eager to get out. At least it should be. Despite your selection, you’re not the most personable vendor along the square.

The last detail is the hand-painted wood sign. You did it yourself; an antique frame you added a gold hue to and filled with a thin sheet of board. It isn’t much but it tells people what they’re looking at; handmade and renewed goods.

You fold your hands and hover behind your table. You’re a one-person operation. It’s your own table, your own money, your own everything. It brings in enough for you to live. Just you and your cluttered apartment.

The coin purses and the sleepers you sew by hand are the more popular sellers. Anything for children goes first, you notice. Everyone seems to be having them. The older crowd radiate towards the old candlesticks you polished to a shine or the glass-shaded lamps you tediously re-wired. Most try to haggle but your prices are fair enough.

You peer around at the produce stands, the soap and candle makers, and the crocheted stuffies of your fellow sellers. You do a bit of window shopping but never follow through on your wandering eyes. You don’t need to waste the money on the pretty new things, you have lots of lovely old things.

The traffic picks up and you busy yourself with the browsers. A woman with a stroller buys several of the infant dresses and headband, a group of older ladies peruse the aged hardcovers and pick out a few, while a couple comments on the brass-based lamp with the dangling chain. You do your best to smile through the transactions.

The rises higher in the sky towards its apex. The steady flow keeps you busy, with some time in-between to work on fixing the binding of one of the old editions. You like to keep yourself distracted, thinking can be dangerous. With how much time you spend alone, it’s hard to avoid.

As you lock up the cash box and tuck it back under the table, a shadow passes over, large than any other. For a moment, you think a cloud’s passing over the sun. You look up at the sky as a broad figure stands across from you.

You don’t know how you didn’t see the man’s approach. He’s huge. Tall and wide. He doesn’t seem the type to be interested in your selection. Still, he leans in to eye the embroidered coin purses and gives a rumbling hum that sounds like distant thunder.

He picks up one with primroses sewn into it. His thick thumb brushes the threaded design and his large hand makes the coin purse look even smaller. You tap your fingers on the table as his eyes flick up and meet yours.

“Hi, uh, how can I help you?” You whittle out of your tight throat. It’s not often a lone man finds interest in your things. You cater to a more femme audience.

“This is nice,” he remarks, “do you make these?”

“Uh, yes, I do,” you give a tight-lipped smile, “I just embroider old used purses.”

“Just? That’s splendid work,” he brings it closer to his face and looks down his nose at the little flowers and leaves, “my mother would love this... mother’s day is coming, eh?”

“Oh, um, yes, I suppose,” you agree. “It’s five dollars. Cash only.”

“Mm,” he traces his thumb over the metal clasp as he taps his back pocket with his other hand, “don’t think I’ve any on me. Could you hold this for me?” He offers the coin purse, “I’ll find the ATM.”

“Sure, I could do that.”

You take the coin purse, fingers brushing his rough skin, and you set it aside.

“Thank you,” he smiles broadly, blue eyes twinkling as lines creases around them and across his forehead.

He reluctantly trails away and you watch him go. His golden hair is longer than most, twisted into a low bun behind his hand as a few strands dangle freely around his face. He wears a denim jacket over dark red tee and grey jeans, along with a pair of scuffed brown boots. He stands out even in his casual attire.

You shrug off the encounter and turn to your next customers. More baby clothes. The women chat about a baby show and you point them to the newborn sizes, telling them about the fabrics you use for each. They buy a few bibs along with the sleepers and diaper covers.

You back up and sit in the folding chair, drinking deeply from your bottle of water. You don’t know if it’s the interactions or the sun making you dizzy. It’s close to noon. You always start to feel it around this time.

The hours surrounded by strange faces and buzzing voices are clustering in your head and chest. Only a little longer; the market only runs until two. If the world didn’t require money to survive, you might never leave your apartment. Yet your table is the only means you have to keep walls around you.

You sit a bit longer and get up again. You’re okay. You should’ve eaten before you left the apartment. How silly of you to forget the overnight oats you had put in the fridge just the night before. You do forget quite a few things.

The market thrums with the late morning rush and you brace yourself for the final stretch. If you can clear off half the table, you might not have to come back next weekend. You’d be all too content to stay in your own little world, the one beyond is too loud and too bright.

🕰️

You fold your table up and push the hook around the peg to keep it shut. You fold up the chair as well and lean both with your boxes. As the market clears out, you pull up your small two-door and load your wares into the back hatch.

You peer over at the other vendors and their vans and trucks. Crews of half a dozen or more pack away goods and chatter just as loud as the previous crowds. It’s an isolating moment. You don’t mind going unnoticed but sometimes you feel so small.

As you put a box in the back of the car, your keys slip off your finger. You bend and feel around the tire to retrieve them and sense a shadow above you. You clasp your hand around the keyring and stand-up suddenly, turning to face the figure behind you. There’s no one there.

You peer around but find nothing out of the ordinary. You return to your task and pause. You don’t remember putting that box away yet...

You shake your head. You’re just tired and forgetful. Your cardinal vices. Your mind wanders too much to rest, too much to keep order.

You put the last box away and close the hatch. You get in the driver’s seat and turn the engine. It putters softly but it runs well enough. The old car has gotten you through the years just fine. There was a time that tiny thing was your home.

You pull away down the lane parallel to the edge of the market square and pull out into traffic. You drive without seeing, led by habit as you stop at signs along the way, turning around corners mindlessly. You stop and wait to pull into your building’s lot and notice the large storm grey jeep behind you. It strikes you as peculiar; you enter from a back street to avoid the rush.

You steer into the lot and the jeep continues down the street past the building. You forget it as quickly as it rolls beyond the faded brick. You find your spot, parking pass dangling from the mirror, and shut off the engine. You linger and take a breath. You're hungry and tired.

You leave your things in the car and go upstairs. You slow as you pass your neighbour’s door. You saw her yesterday, she was in trouble about something. The police came as she hid from her boyfriend in your apartment. You didn’t even know she had one. You tried not to be nosy but she seemed real upset.

Your cheeks tinge as you stare at the numbers on her door. She’s the only person who’s ever been inside your apartment. You don’t welcome people in, not into your home or your life. You hadn’t meant to let her in but you were so tired and confused, you couldn’t stop her.

You cringe and continue down to your door with one last glance over your shoulder. You put the key in the slot and turn with a grind. You scurry inside and quickly lock the door, afraid she might once more emerge and follow you inside. Or that man, the big one with the beard.

You twist the latch back into place and put your keys in the tray on the cramped shelf. The apartment is dark, the windows shrouded in black fabric, and you flip on the overhead light to guide you down the hallway. The walls are made tighter as their lined with endless shelves and tables, all filled with your collection of curiosities.

You go to the fridge and take out the mason jar of steeped oats. You sit and eat the soft, pasty oats and the berries. You didn’t add enough cinnamon. It doesn’t matter, your stomach greedily mulches it. You put the kettle on and wait for it to steam.

As you pace around, you hear a loud rumble. An engine. You don’t think much of it but you go to the window to peek out around the dark fabric. A woman walks a large dog past a grey jeep parked along the curb. Is it the same one you saw before?

The question doesn’t pique your mind much. That’s the way of the world, you find. It’s a lot smaller than it seems, yet to you, it’s inexorably vast. It’s too fast, too unpredictable. You retreat as the kettle whistles.

Your apartment is small and warm and safe. The world can’t follow you back here. Not if you don’t let it in and you won’t be doing that again.

-🕰️

You decide, against your better instincts, to go to market. The weather is nice and it wouldn’t be so bad add a few extra bucks to your nest egg. You never know what might come up, or what you might find! Too many times you stumbled upon an antique you just couldn’t afford.

You go through your usual ritual. You set up the table and the chair, and arrange your things in the same way around the wooden sign. As you put your boxes to the side, you hear a rattle at the bottom of one. You look into the crate and notice the silver ring. How’d that get in there? You didn’t bring any jewelry.

You put down the box and reach inside. You take out the ring and turn it. You’ve never seen it before. There’s a strange stick symbol on the flat face. Maybe another language or a run of some type. You turn it in your hand and tuck it in your pocket. You’ll have to give a closer look at home.

It’s early and a few stragglers trickle in, but they all walk by your table without pause.

You sit and take out the jar of oats. You remembered today. You’d woken up with a hunger so deep, you almost ate before you left. You know better than to eat too early. Instead, you had your tea and got yourself moving.

You stir the blueberries in and eat slowly, trying to measure your bites so you don’t feel sick after. You watch the other vendors, some still setting up, and lazily swallow down the thick oatmeal. It feels like it might rain after all, there’s a touch of damp in the air.

You finish up and put the jar away. As you wipe your mouth with your sleeve, a woman’s voice trills and pricks your ears. Silver hair with a few wisps of gold peak out from her silk headscarf. The teal fabric matches the pattern of her blouse, tucking into a finely pressed skirt. She’s not alone, she has her arm hooked through another.

Her companion is younger than her. His golden hair is pulled half up at the crown of his head as he towers over her lithe frame. You squint, they might be related. As they approach, you get a whiff of deja vu.

“Yes, it was this one, mother,” the man’s voice is deep.

“How lovely, look at all these treasures,” she slips her arm free as she approaches, “hello, dear, is this all yours?”

“Mhmm, yes,” you stand up, “are you looking for something in particular?”

“I think we’re just browsing,” she smiles brightly, her lips painted a gentle shade of rose.

“A coin purse,” the man says, “with prim rose? Do you recall?”

You look at him. Faces aren’t easy for you but his voice strikes something in your mind, and his size. You haven’t seen a lot of men that big, only the one in your neighbour’s apartment. You think you remember holding something but the customer never came back.

“This one,” you point to the coin purse, set back in the row.

“Yes, that was me,” he chimes, “mother,” he pulls the primrose purse to the top. She takes it and he looks back to you, “I apologise that I didn’t return, there was an emergency and I had to be off.”

“It’s okay,” you shrug, folding your hands together.

The woman is looking at you. There’s something in her gaze that makes you squirm. Her eyes linger just a bit longer before she aims them at the purse, admiring the embroidery as she feels it beneath her thumb.

“Yes, I do like this one,” she says.

“I brought cash this time,” the man booms and reaches into his pocket, “five, I believe you said.”

“Yes,” you accept the bill from him, his skin rough as his fingertips touch yours, “thanks. Erm, did you need a bag?”

“For this? No,” she wiggles the purse playfully and reaches for the man, her son, with other hand. She caresses his knuckles as she faces him, “you were right. Very beautiful.”

He smiles broadly, proudly almost. It’s just a purse. You hide your discomfort as you grip your arm at your elbow.

“Thank you,” the woman chirps back at you, sending another grin in your direction, “you might see us again.”

She hooks her arm once more through her son’s and leads him to the next booth. You peer after them as her attention clings to the purse as she continues to feel it between her fingers. She leans into his arm as she speaks to him quietly. They seem close, it’s sweet. Your own mother had never been so affectionate.

You look away before the scene can pluck in your chest. It doesn’t matter. You’re grown up now. That’s all behind you.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #fic #dark fic #series #dark!fic #au #marvel #avengers #mcu #hidden treasure

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seren1tyhaze · 11 months

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road snacks

PAIRING: haechan x afab reader

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

SUMMARY: a cross country move with your boyfriend is exciting and sometimes a little more steamy than you thought it would be

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I officially present my first Kinktober 2023 entry! This is another piece I had finished but was trying to finish other wips but don't want to hold off posting things that are ready anymore. Please enjoy prompt number 16 "Public" :)

WARNINGS: explicit smut, public sex, soft Haechan who is actually not very soft

PLAYLIST: Lost in the Light by Bahamas, Yacht by NCT 127, Malibu 1992 by COIN, Daylight by Matt and Kim, Catch by Epik High + HWASA

The sun is starting its descent in the horizon, bright rays stretching across the sky as you stretch your arms across the dashboard in a deep stretch. It’s nearing the sixth hour of the long first day of your road trip and your energy is starting to fade. You’ve been up since early this morning, taking on the first few hours of driving before swapping with your auburn haired boyfriend currently tapping his thumbs on the leather wheel car beside you, humming lightly to the music filtering through the sound system.

Leaning back in your seat, you sink down, letting your eyes slip shut as you lean your head against the window and let the sun warm your bare arms and face. The music is calm and filled with beautiful harmonies, lulling you to sleep for the first time on the journey. You had promised each other you would help whoever was driving stay awake, but with plans to stop at nightfall at a hotel, you figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a short cat nap.

You don’t know how much time has passed when you feel a light brushing of fingers along your exposed shoulder and you reluctantly push your eyes open to see an apologetic gaze from the handsome man next to you.

“Babe, I’m so sorry, could you hand me something from the cooler?” Hyuck asks, applying some pressure to your shoulder to massage it with his fingers.

You melt into the touch, nuzzling your cheek warmly against his hand before nodding, unbuckling your seatbelt to carefully lean between the front two seats and open the cooler in the back. Travelling together has been a dream, stopping at different tourist spots on the way, letting him take pictures of you on his film camera, and charting out which cities along the way had all-you-can-eat hot pot.

“Water? Ginger ale?” you ask, wedging your waist between the seats to get a better angle.

Suddenly you feel Hyuck’s hand on you, causing you to jump and your upper body to lurch forward, trapping you between the seats.

“HYUCK!” you squeal, craning your neck to try to get his attention.

“What?!” he whines back, laughter seeping in as you feel the car slow down, easing his foot off the gas to reduce speed.

Without further explanation, he spreads his hand out over your ass, kneading with his fingertips slowly, just as he had been doing to your shoulder a few moments before. Despite the awkward angle you are currently curled into, you sigh and feel your cheeks start to heat. Despite all the alone time on the trip so far, there hadn’t been much time for anything beyond quick kisses or spooning in bed in the weeks leading up to the move. You’ve both been so busy and exhausted that every night your eyes have slipped shut the minute your heads hit the pillow.

“I’m sorry, what am I supposed to do when you’re on display for me and I’ve been horny for days,” he adds, voice dropping into a gruff tone as his hand moves between your thighs that are pressed together from the position.

“I thought you wanted something from the cooler,” you reply, trailing off as you feel him slide his fingers slide up the seam of your leggings, getting dangerously close to your core.

“You know what, I am kind of hungry, now that you mention it…” he replies, applying more pressure to your ass with his thumb, glancing up in the rear view mirror wickedly as he pulls off the highway and into a deserted corner of a rest stop.

As he puts the car in park, you wiggle trying to free yourself from the awkward position, feeling your calf starting to cramp. You let the lid to the cooler drop shut, knowing he’s definitely not thinking about that drink anymore.

Hyuck turns around in his seat, moving his hands to your waist, making contact with your bare skin from your shirt riding up just below your breasts. He pulls you gently so you are no longer wedged between the seats but keeping your ass close to his face.

“Now, how about that snack,” he murmurs barely audibly as cool air sends shivers up your spine when Hyuck pulls at the waistband of your leggings, exposing you fully.

“Donghyuck!” you cry out, arms tensing up and teeth digging into your bottom lip. The sun is setting slowly and a hazy dusk covers the sky. Anyone walking by would definitely be able to see and your cheeks burn at the thought of someone tapping on the window or pulling out their phone at the sight.

He only laughs, dipping his head down to press kisses at the thin lines of the bear tattoo on your lower back, laving at the skin there with his tongue as he always does. His hand slides up your chest, massaging you there and taking your nipple in between his fingers to squeeze it gently. A moan bubbles up in your throat and you dig your palms into the back seat below you, letting your head drop down.

Hyuck keeps kissing your skin, brushing his lips over and over, making you squirm. He gently lifts your hips up to give him a better angle, pushing your thighs open gently and lowering his head between them. You can feel his breath cool across your dripping core, arousal building in you and your temperature starting to rise in the cramped car.

“Baby, please,” you groan, turning your head to try to make eye contact with him as he continues to tease you.

“Begging? We’re begging now, are we? I thought you were scared someone would see,” he chuckles cruelly, sitting back and dragging a finger suddenly through your arousal before pulling it up to his lips and loudly sucking on the wet digit.

You groan in annoyance, feeling frustrated at not being able to move and have a sneaking suspicion he’s going to edge you despite the urgency of the situation.

“Please Hyuckie, I need your mouth on me now,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper, almost drowned out by the soft music still playing in the car.

His eyes darken at the sound of the nickname in a lust-filled tone and his hands return to your ass cheeks, spreading them lightly to give him better access. His mouth is suddenly on you, tongue dragging along you to gather your arousal on his tongue, swirling at your clit. Your legs start to shake with pleasure and he tightens his grip as he slides a hand up your back to push your ass up further.

You don’t realize you’re holding in your moans until you taste blood in your mouth, having punctured your lip lightly. You know you aren’t going to last long after weeks without sex so you push your hips back, grinding against his lips for more friction.

You can feel him smile against you, pulling you even closer to him by the waist, moaning against your core and tasting every inch of you. He was starving, nose bumping up against your clit repeatedly and sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Your mouth drops open to warn him of your impending orgasm but there’s no time as it crashes over you, a strangled cry falling from your lips that surely could be heard by anyone parked nearby. His grip on your waist tightens as you try to pull away, refusing to breathe until he’s worked you through your pleasure with his wicked tongue.

He finally breaks away from you with a messy sounding smack of his lips and you don’t need to look back at him to know that his cheeks are flushed and silky strands are dangling on the sides of his forehead. He pulls your leggings up for you and gently pulls you back into the passenger seat, slumping back into his own once you’re settled.

You’re out of breath and your arm hurts slightly from being pressed in an awkward position for so long. Your chest is heaving underneath the thin material of your shirt and you sigh, finally bringing your eyes up to meet your boyfriend’s gaze.

He’s smirking deviously, as he always does, and his legs are spread wide, cock visibly hard in his loose sweatpants. There’s a slight sheen across his forehead and his lips are still wet. You flush at the sight of him, heart pounding in your chest as you reach forward to close the space between you. You can taste yourself on his lips and moan into his mouth as your tongue makes contact with his. You run your fingers through his hair, dragging his head back to break the kiss and meet his eyes again.

“Now, is my boyfriend going to let me have snack time too? Or is he not going to share?” you ask menacingly, shoving your free hand down the waistband of his pants suddenly to grasp at his cock.

All he can do in reaction is moan, letting his eyes roll back as his head gently hits the window as you tug on his sweatpants and lower your lips over his lap. As much as he craves eating you out, you know blow jobs are his biggest weakness and it was your turn for payback in the darkening parking lot on the side of the highway.

This trip might end up taking longer than you both had planned if your quick snack breaks turned into full course meals, but neither of you really minded.

#nct smut #nct x reader #nct fanfic #haechan x reader #haechan x y/n #haechan x you #haechan smut #kinktober #nct kinktober

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cowboybrunch · 7 months

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writerblr intro

hi! i'm sav (she/her). i'm a twenty-something poet turned novelist.

i mostly write character-driven stories with unreliable narrators and complex villains. if that sounds like your kind of thing, hop in!

i love tag games (please tag me please please) but it might take me a while to get to them

feel free to say hi! let me know what you're reading! tell me about your WIPs! and my final demand: have a great day!

Poems/Journal Dumps

WIP Intros:

Burden of the Reluctant Death (revising)

“Energy,” he says finally, so quiet that I strain to hear him. “The universe is saturated with it. It’s how I can read your thoughts, how I can travel through shadows. When someone dies, their soul is… recycled. Turned into sparks that Mortae can use for various purposes.” “That’s a comforting thought.” He turns his attention towards me, letting the coin fall. “Is it?” I nod, biting my lip as I try to find the words. “Nobody is ever really gone, then. Just returned, like water evaporating from the ocean and coming back down as raindrops.”

Character Introductions

Tag

Judas Wept (finished)

A prequel to Burden of the Reluctant Death that follows Elias as he tries to balance loyalty, love, and duty.

He does not remember his first thought after he dies, likely something so inane that even white-knuckle sifting through his wretched brain leaves him with nothing but a resounding headache. He does, however, remember his second thought: Christ alive, that sucked, and his third: Why is there a beautiful woman straddling me?

Posted here

Tag

Dust to Dust (first draft in progress)

A murder mystery with necromancy, ghosts, politics, and an absolutely non-sentient skeleton.

The rattling of bones warned her approach. She kept the skeleton with her when she was nervous, and she was nervous more often than not, try as she might to deny it. Nobody else would’ve been able to tell; her anxiety manifested as bursts of irritation, often lashing out at whoever (or whatever) was nearest. Robbie had known her for far too long and was not fooled. Most thought her immature and youthfully rebellious, a phase she’d grow out of— or not. It was of no consequence. She was not the heir, only the younger sister. Her fits did not matter. She also had greater necromantic ability than the crown prince. This did not matter either.

Posted here

Tag

You Were Warned About the Forest

You were warned about the forest. Mama told you that the trees speak when the sun goes down. Mama told you not to speak back, even if they’re calling your name. Especially if they’re calling your name. You’re young though, so when the moon comes out, you think, Mama would tell me not to breathe if she thought the air would tickle my lungs. That’s how you end up here, half-blind and dead tired and not lost.

A twine game! Play it here!

Untitled Vampire Story (first draft in progress)

“You are exactly how he described you.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a neatly folded paper, extending it towards me. “The prodigy. Nicolai’s assassin.” “In the flesh.” I take the paper from her, unfolding it and skimming over the names. Seven, and none that I recognize. “Any special requests? Parting remarks, items you’d like me to leave, messages you’d like me to relay?” She grins, fangs glinting in the dim moonlight. “You’re not one for small talk, are you?” I don’t reply, proving her point. “Start at the top and go down the line. I want them to know you’re coming. I want them afraid. Your dagger in their heart will be enough of a message, don’t you think?”

Tag

#writerblr intro #writers on tumblr #writerblr

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thecutestgrotto · 6 months

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Return to Navigation // WIP & Queue

Aesthetic Divider Sets:

Blue Doodles -> Magenta Doodles -> White Doodles

Geodes

Cute Coquette -> Dark Coquette

Books -> Pink and Purple Books

Royal Academia -> Academia Law -> Softcore Royalty

Legos

Art Supplies

Firefighters

Pink Royalty -> Elegant Royalty

Bubbles

Glitter

Cute Bows

Red Decorative Lines

Rainbow Clouds

Fairytales

Pirates

Celestial Sun and Moons

Pixel Arcade

Black Lace -> Green Lace -> Pink Lace

Music and Radios

Jewel Toned Lines

Black and Purple Witchy Aesthetic

Steampunk

Black Bold Lines -> Blue Version

Rose Gold

Mermaids and Sirens

Cigars and Cigarettes

Fairies

Angels and Demons

Scrolls and Quills

Polka Dots

Hot Pink Dividers

Apocalypse

Media Control Buttons

Smoke and Fire

Science and Research

Romantic Couple Silhouettes -> More Silhouettes

Kawaii Dividers

Golden Elegant Décor

Swirls and Spirals

Cute Crayon Doodles -> Winter Crayon Doodles

Nazar Amulets

Window Scenery

Deep Red and White

50’s Diner

Cruises

Dark Gray Dividers

Circus

Cute Technology

Mafia Aesthetic

Fancy Restaurant

The Roaring 20’s

Fireworks

Classical Theatre

Wizard Core

Opera Aesthetic

Norse Mythology

Vintage Aesthetic

Mid Century Modern

Gloomy Lighthouses

Dark Sirens

Greek Mythology

Pink Decorative Lines

Sea Monsters

Major Arcana Tarot Cards

Makeup and Beauty Products

Hanging Laundry

Coins

Currant Red

Four Leaf Clovers

Miami Aesthetic

Sun and Ice

Cityscapes

Scene Core

Navy Blue and Gold

Cassettes and Vinyls

Highways and Roadwork

Pronoun Friendship Bracelets

#master list #navigation #headers #dividers #post dividers #banners #graphic design #canva pro

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y-rhywbeth2 · 9 months

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Lore: Elven Culture #1

(An incomplete compilation.) Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess and it's borderline impossible to cover everything. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

--- How to flip somebody off in elven culture. Random elven pan-cultural highlights ranging from marital traditions to poker.

Key elven philosophical concepts that inform their entire cultures. Farming, architecture, opinions on undeath, stages of life (Astarion's 200 years too old to be acting like an ardavanshee, but there we go)

Default elven society, including the family units (Clans and Houses), nobility, and the absolute monarchies with the divine right of kings that're tasked with herding cats.

Forewarning, this is a long post! And I still cut stuff... I was going to include the specifics of the seven individual surface elven cultures, but it was getting too damn long.

---

Random little things before we get into the wordy stuff:

The equivalent to giving somebody the finger amongst elves is to crook the middle finger inwards towards oneself and then bring it upwards in a diagonal movement across the body. For the greatest show of insolence, the elf in question may then hold eye contact and slowly lick the tip of that finger. I have no context for how this come to be, or why it's insulting, but I'm sure it's quite the story.

Elves rarely make their piercings out of metal, instead preferring to craft them from the bone of their ancestors and departed loved ones.

The elven term for their own people is Tel'Quessir ("of the people," or simply "the people). The name refers to the fact that all elves are inherently spiritually linked to each other, the Seldarine and the Weave. They are capable of a form of low-level telepathy where they can share emotions, surface level thoughts and reverie with each other. As a result, non-elves who are not part of this interconnected whole are N'Tel'Quessir or N'Quess - "not of the people."

The elven spirit, or soul, is referred to as ues. The ability for elves to link their minds and share feelings and thoughts is a state referred to as "communion."

The elven term for "stick-in-the-mud" is irrquarlan - which I'd imagine is often used by moon and copper elves to refer to sun elves.

When an issue is considered to be "black and white" - as in a choice lacking any moral ambiguity, where one is wrong and the other right - elves would say it is "sun and moon," as in anybody with working eyes can tell the difference between sunlight and moonlight.

The elven equivalent of "no shit sherlock" is “Trees grow, no?”

Elves have a gambling game called kholiast, involving a deck of over 1,000 cards. The hands are determined randomly by dice roll, and the point system would apparently "drive even the most dedicated Candlekeep scholar completely mad." Needless to say, moon elves love it and probably invented it.

Haven't found much on elven coinage, but the one familiar in human lands is the "blueshine" coins; silver coins with a blue-green lustre bearing the image of a crescent moon (the holy symbol of Corellon Larethian). Presumably equivalent to a silver coin in any currency.

While they can be made of the materials used in reality, elven bowstrings may be crafted from spider silk (especially if of dark elven make), elven hair, and sometimes magically-treated spun silver.

Elven fashion varies by specific culture, location and individual tastes. The trend is for loose and flowing garments with no footwear (except for the sun elves, who refuse to go out in public without some kind of shoes). An alternative to shoes is to use some kind of minor magical accessory that allows one to hover just above the ground, able to glide around without getting one's feet dirty or damaged. They tend to have few or no taboos about nudity, so garments may be quite revealing. Elves believe that their dress should be a reflection of their home nation, and the peace and prosperity that it cultivates.

The generic term of reference for ones committed romantic partners is one's "mate." Elves practice marriage, and the terms "husband" and "wife" have been seen, although it seems "consort" is just as - if not more - popular.

Elven marriages may be sealed through the use of one or two lower level High Magic rituals;

Quamaniith, "the vow made tangible," causes a vow made to be woven into physical form. In the case of a wedding, it's about the size of a fist. It usually takes the form of a stone, carved with inscriptions relating to the vow, though artistic mages may craft a figurine. When used for marriage vows, the created object is called an Aestar'Khol, a "marriage stone." Should the two divorce, or betray their vows, the stone will shatter. There is no other way to damage it, it will always remain perfectly unblemished.

U'Aestar'Kess, "One Heart, One Mind, One Breath" - this ritual creates a permanent passive mental bond between an elf and another living being (who may also be an elf), and it sees use most often as part of marriage rites. It allows the linked beings to know instinctively when their partner is in danger, detect and sometimes share their mood, and if they concentrate they can communicate telepathically.

Due to the fact that elves don't sleep, instead spending four hours in reverie, an elven home will not include a bedroom. Personal rooms resemble something closer to studies and sitting rooms; furnished with comfortable chairs, lounges and divans, furnished with personal affects and whatever projects the owner might be working on.

The other side effect of the reverie is that since elves have a full 20 hours of activity, can see just fine at night, and don't necessarily have fixed sleeping hours, elven communities don't fluctuate in activity levels. Villages, towns and cities will be as busy in the dead of the night as they are at every hour, and elves have more free time than others.

Elves have perfected birth control. While technically the magic rituals involved in this came about for practical reasons - including ensuring a child would not be conceived in harsh conditions like famines, plagues and wars, where its birth would cause suffering for both it and its family - elves now just use it as an everyday thing when they don't want to get pregnant. No elf will be having children if they don't want them, those who do want them will only be conceiving them when they intend to, and attempting to change their mind will be considered an infringement of their personal freedoms and bodily autonomy, and be met with hostility.

Linguistics: The elven language is called Lalur, "the Singing." All elven languages are written in the Espruar script, which has two forms. One features more loops and curls, and the other features a series of curved lines, dots and dashes, which has come into fashion more recently. Another elven language is Seldruin, which is almost extinct. It's the language used in the casting of elven High Magic, and is written in a unique script called Hamarfae.

Local dialects, informal and formal registers and drifts occur all over the place.

Elven accents are usually described as "musical" - they tend to pronounce "s" softly, drawing it out and their voices shift up and down the vocal register more than is usual. Elven vocal chords are odd, allowing them to reach over an octave-and-a-half, which they can sustain for longer than a human could. Elven vocal chords are capable of producing two completely different notes at the same time. The overall effect of the elven voice and accent is likened to chiming, or little bells.

Elven songs are usually either wordless vocalisation, or feature multiple overlapping voices singing different lyrics. The typical "mood" of the music varies by culture: for example, sun elves prefer solemn songs with gravitas; wood elves enjoy a good rhythm; moon elves prefer something fun, whimsical, and sometimes bawdy. Some elves have a rare genetic quirk that allows them to use their vocal chords to speak two different things at the same time; the "secondary" voice is much fainter, and limited, but in music is allows the singer to produce a layered, echoing quality.

Elven musical performances feature galadrae - three dimensional illusions depicting scenes to go along with the song, not dissimilar to what one might see at a modern concert.

Musical instruments most often seen are woodwinds and strings, especially harps (which are strongly associated with elves). Elves are the only people thus far who have worked out how to build their instruments to be capable of sustain. Elven music has been compared (out of universe) to Enya, Loreena McKennit, Genesis and ELO.

Music and song is an important part of romance in elven culture... alongside erotic dances, apparently. But anyway, courting is accomplished by writing each other love songs and singing them to each other, or by composing poems for similar effect.

Non-elven languages are rather charmingly referred to as Glahkery, which translates into something like "strifeful sounds."

Key Philosophies: An important part of elven cultures is the concept of laraelever - technically referring to undamaged forest, "as it should be." This does not mean nature should be "pristine" or untouched by humanoid life. It means that the way the world is found in its untouched state, unmodified by another's desire, is how it is meant to be. The lives of others should not impose on the world more than they need to. The natural world is to be without blight, unburnt and unharmed by careless logging, overhunting or depletion of resources.

It also applies to the elven approach to life and the passage of time: things will generally occur when they're ready and grow/proceed at the speed they're intended to. One should never rush. Non-elves and younger elves tend to find this attitude incredibly frustrating, while "adult" elves find them dangerously impatient.

This may also be a part of why elven cultures tend to value independence and individual freedom - that one must "accept life as it is", implies you can't force things to be anything else.

The "way life is supposed to be" does not include dark magics that tamper with natural cycles, and the elven word for undeath is mormhaor - "corrupted death." Undeath is a blasphemous attempt to impose one's will on the world and force it into a shape in the most horrific way possible, and is heavily tied to the loss and violation of free will, and its believed that undeath destroys the soul (whether this is correct or not in D&D varies by source). The state is generally considered worse than death - the elf is cut off from their people, their gods and their path, and denied their chance for spiritual enlightenment and the afterlife. The sole acceptable form of undeath exists in the baelnorn; a form of elven lich that was created willingly and is sustained by positive energy instead of negative, in the name of continuing some duty or other for the sake of their people. They are sponsored by the Seldarine, and tolerated by the elven deity of death. Elves respect their sacrifice, but are usually still uneasy around them.

This philosophy appears in the rest of their societies in the way that they build their homes and furniture; a chair may be "constructed" of wood that was carefully grown into shape and harvested with careful consideration to the timing, rather than by unnecessarily cutting down an entire living tree and taking more wood than is technically needed and whittling it down to shape.

Elven architecture is built to complement its natural surroundings, blending in with it. The design concept is that a building should seen as much a part of the landscape as the trees or mountains and enhance their beauty. To help these buildings blend in, elven doors are designed to disappear into their surroundings, and they can be incredibly annoying for outsiders to spot (elven children grow up learning to see them, and so elves don't have this problem).

Buildings are preferably constructed by growing trees into shape rather than by constructing from timber or stone. If they are made of stone, they're still usually "grown" by shaping them with magic, creating a seamless mineral structures.

From non-elven perspectives, an elven city resembles a garden or park more than a settlement. They favour building in the trees themselves more than anything else (for example, the city of Suldanessellar in Baldur's Gate 2 is built on platforms built around the trees, high in the canopy). The higher constructions are linked by bridges and swinging ropes.

Ground dwellings are typically built for children, the elderly, and the disabled, and others who might be unsafe with heights and getting up and down them. It's also where elven realms that have contact with outsiders build their inns, taverns, warehouses and businesses. Elves don't clear the area a great deal when building their ground dwellings, their roads and streets are built around pre-existing natural structures and can meander a lot.

The ground level and higher parts of the city may be linked by teleport magics and enchanted platforms that function as lifts/elevators.

This preference to leave things untouched doesn't mean that elves never alter the world for their own desires - especially since obsessive, eccentric artists are a staple of the elven population. Wealthy Houses are known to make roofing materials out of precious stones. Some cities, such as Leuthilspar, get artistic with their roads. The main road there is magically constructed from some kind of glassy, clear crystal and is nicknamed the Diamond Road.

Each building typically belongs to a single Clan or House (often the building is an entire living, ancient tree), and if they belong to a culture that builds tombs, they will also have a family tomb. The rest of the city, outside of residential buildings, is not considered owned by the elves but simply under their care and stewardship. It belongs to the other lives as much as them. Elven communities often have neighbours from other fey races; dryads, faerie dragons, treants, fauns, nymphs, pixies, etc. Elves and fey tend to be relatively close, and the elven and seelie fey pantheons are often worshipped by all of them.

Elves do not farm in pastures and fields - it's more that they cultivate the world around them without disturbing it too much (I don't remember the technical agricultural jargon here.) They'll try not to disturb the rest of the ecosystem too much, but elven farmers will nurture the plants they desire while removing harmful plants and pests. They don't introduce plants or disturb the soil, merely encourage what's already there for healthier and higher yields of whatever grows. A lot of outsiders can easily stroll through a farm without realising it. Farmers are the only elves who count the passing of years, due to the need to keep track of crop yields and the ages of plants and animals. The equivalent of a year to elves is a grouping of four years known as an aeloulaev, or more commonly as a pyesigen - "four snows" (plural pyesigeni).

While Houses might have their lorekeepers, who preserve and record history, the typical elven opinion on time tends to be that "history is the weave of things outside of life, not for those still within its loom." They see history in their reverie, they don't need to worry about it in their waking hours.

Yet another elven philosophy is of the Road of Life: a multi-staged, twisting spiritual path every elf walks, and one with many potential branching paths to explore.

It is, in part, a shared path because all elves are part of the greater whole that is the Tel'Quessir - but at the same time, no elf can walk the path for another. All should care for the community and support fellow elves in being able to walk their path, so that the community can support them as they walk theirs; “We are on this shared path together, but at the same time all of us are finding our own way.”

Elves under 100 years old are walking the first section of the road. Their life experience and perspective is the equivalent of a human of the same age. They don't yet perceive time and think in terms of the passage of decades and centuries as a "mature" elf does, and from their elder's perspective are incredibly (annoyingly) impatient. Due to this gap in understanding, young elves often find themselves more comfortable in the company of humans, who share their feelings and perceptions.

It's the elves in their first stage of the road who are usually found adventuring and living in human cities, they're "whimsical dabblers, ‘flighty’ and inclined to plunge into something new or [grow] tired of something and move on without feeling the need to shoulder responsibilities, or [care] overmuch about consequences," "...almost like the humans in their passions of youth, and they adapt to their more transient surroundings. They eat over-spiced animal flesh and other abominable foods; they wield simpler, cruder, combat-oriented human magics; and they even mate with non-elves."

These younger elves, in the throes of rebellious youth and lack of patience, may be prone to selfishness, ruthless ambition and disrespecting their elders as they turn their nose up at elven values. This particular phase is referred to as Ardavanshee - "the restless young ones."

Older elves mostly leave the youth alone to make their own mistakes, assuming they'll grow out of their crueller and selfish behaviours with time and experience.

An elf under 90 years old is not considered experienced enough to be allowed to hold leadership positions.

All elves will begin their journey on the road with a basic magical education during childhood: Magic is an everyday part of elven cultures at every level of society, and every elf grows up surrounded by it. Even the copper elves, who have little interest in arcane magic, surround themselves with druidry.

Basic martial training in traditional elven martial arts is also part of the standard for all elven cultures, involving the bow, sword and rapier - elven blades tend towards being long, very thin and flexible. Elves have a long and bloody history of conflict, and every one of them is be expected to be able to defend themselves and their home, should the need arise.

Whatever other education their family sets for them, elves have childhoods much like any other race's children. They learn their history through creative retellings form their elders and are let loose to run around and engage in physical activities - climbing trees and swimming. They're taken to play in the outdoors and encouraged to take interest in the natural world, learning of the animals and plants they share the world with.

Reaching the elven age of majority, and the second stage of the path, occurs some time in their second century of life (120 years old, on average). As they mature and outlive the human lifespan they tend to settle into the elven ways, and focus on their spiritual ties to their communities and faith.

Mature elves typically take things very slowly. They spend a lot of time in contemplation, consider all facets and nuances in a problem, and try to predict all potential consequences that could be born of a choice (even those domino effects that may occur decades after the fact). They prefer to implement these choices very slowly, watching what ripples are caused through the course of years and responding accordingly - they may continue, stop, or make revisions as they go.

Occasionally an "adult" finds themselves drawn back to adventuring and a faster paced life outside of the elven homelands. This is accepted as simply a natural part of that elf's particular path.

The other branch on the road is one where an elf finds a passion and devotes themselves to it; fine art, playwriting, magic, architecture, the martial arts, literature, faith, music, whatever. They become hyperfixated on whatever has caught their eye; they keep the company of others who share their interest and talk about it to the exclusion of almost everything else (others are warned to beware engaging an elf in conversation about a topic dear to them, because they will tell you every single detail there is to know and will not stop).

Elves will dedicate months and years preparing for their projects; spending time in reverie and contemplation as they meditate on ideas, praying to the gods for guidance, and traveling leagues to gather materials and discuss with experts or observe others' works for inspiration.

The last stages of the road are stages of seeking spiritual enlightenment; they reflect on their long lives and many, many experiences with the world and contemplate the bigger picture and the nature of the universe and the People. They will begin to feel the Seldarine calling to them in their reverie, summoning them to the afterlife in Arvandor (Sehanine Moonbow's call, in particular).

The mythical final stage, occurring past 700 years of age, is one where an elf's contemplation successfully leads them to enlightenment. They become at peace, and their understanding puts them in perfect unity with the universe. These elves are faced with the choice of returning to Arvandor to join the gods, or to remain in the mortal world and use their wisdom to guide their people. Thus far the only elf said to have achieved this state was the elven queen Amlaruil, who chose to stay behind.

---

All this philosophy aside, elves still run businesses, have class and wealth divides and squabble amongst each other for power and prestige like anybody else does. The common elf is a priest, a guard, a farmer, a hunter, a cook, a maid, a tavernmaster... In daily life, most of the daily function of the realm involves cultivating the plants that grow in it (farming, construction, maintenance) and security (scouting, guarding, patrolling).

Although, elven society is steeped in magic all over the place, so in regards to things like maids and household chores, elves are more likely to simply use magic to clean the house and lessen the amount of physical labour involved.

---

Society (Houses and Clans, and the Government):

The concept of the Merchant Clans and Noble Houses aren't unique to drow; these family dynasties are part of larger elven culture, be they categorised as high, wood or dark. All elves are part of a larger extended family, known either as a House or a Clan, from which they take their surname.

Elves will generally be loyal to their Clan and House before their nation, and they have their own laws that members must follow, generally set by the matriarch or patriarch (the later only existing in non-drow cultures). Some have multiple leaders, ranging from a duo (House Nightstar is governed by twin sisters) to a council of elders. Each clan/house has different methods for choosing their leader/s, some are hereditary and others are elected. For larger Houses that span multiple regions, there will be a hierarchy with local leaders who answer to a family head that oversees the entire bloodline.

Elven nobility belong to Houses, which are generally known for each having certain political ideologies, and they often specialise in training their members in specific skills.

The elven concept of "aristocracy" is granted by a ruler, who makes that elf and their clan a Noble House as a reward for some exceptional service to elvenkind (this is very hard to achieve). The status cannot be revoked by a ruler, nobles can only be exiled and stripped of their House name by their own family.

Some families restrict their membership, and will not acknowledge the spouses or children of their relatives who are of certain elven cultures, non-elven races or half-elves. As a rule of thumb, moon elven culture would frown upon excluding anybody of elven blood from the family. Everybody tends to make an exception for drow - you are not bringing a dark elf into this family tree. Houses may adopt others into their family, and it's also possible for a House to adopt N'Quess into their ranks, usually as servants (so one could find a human cook who happens to be a member of an elven House).

Houses are generally associated with a specific elven culture, although the family usually contains a mixture of backgrounds. House Le'Quella, for example, has prominent mixed moon elven and green elven ancestry. The copper elves have mostly abandoned the concept of Houses, though some prestigious and historically important ones remain. Green elven cultures have long forsaken the concept, along with most of the trappings of the elven society that caused them thousands of years of suffering. Sun elves pay greater attention to their elders and important ancestors, and consider their Houses more "legitimate" than moon elven or wood elven Houses, and take House politics and affiliation far more seriously. Due to this, their Houses usually hold greater status than those of other elves'. Within the vast majority of dark elven societies, House affiliation and prestige is a matter of life and death, and being without a House to protect you leaves you open to enslavement and death.

Each House has two colours associated with it (sometimes they have more, less strongly associated colours), as well as an insignia (for example House Aelorothi's colours are pale blue and green, with a red swan for a crest. House Starym's colours are silver and maroon, with two falling silver dragons on the crest.) It seems like Clans may also have colours and insignias, but that may only be for the most prestigious of them. Even within the larger Houses, there will be members of the House who are nobility, and those who are common servants and footmen.

Clans and Houses are not tied to specific realms, and members and family units may be encountered anywhere in the world. "It's a mistake to think of elven Houses as equivalent to human [noble] Houses [...] in some respects you can almost think of an elven House as a small, extremely long-lived organisation with blood-ties."

Some Houses have existed for over 10,000 years, and these houses usually boast the highest status.

Status is a fluctuating thing; it depends on many factors such as wealth and prestige, the actions and reputation of its members, its relationship with other houses (feuds and alliances), how many powerful and talented mages - especially High Mages - it hold in its ranks...

Elven Houses may have smaller, related Houses attached to them called Septs, much like human dynasties have cadet branches. Septs are formed when a noble marries a commoner and takes their clan name, rather than having their lover marry into their House. A Greater House has many Septs, and a Lesser House fewer or none.

Arranged marriages do - or did - exist. They're primarily practiced as part of House politics, mainly by sun elves, and this historically caused some irritation in the time of Myth Drannor, when the Houses started using arranged marriages to call dibs on promising mages to bolster their own family's retinues and reputations. When elves marry, the elf of the less prestigious Clan/House will be considered as marrying into their spouse's more prominent Clan/House.

Surface elven Houses are as prone to intrigue and politicking as their Underdark equivalents, but they are significantly less likely to murder over it.

Most surface elven realms are city states, ruled by a Coronal, who is "speaker among the trees with Corellon's voice and bidding."

While this means that Coronal has absolute authority, the assumed role of the ruler is to keep the peace and maintain harmony between the various elven peoples and Houses within their realm. On an individual level, elves won't necessarily respond well to attempts to meddle in their personal lives, and sometimes trying to organise the masses is like herding cats.

The Coronal's word is law, but the entire realm may discuss and debate it before that word becomes law, and the Coronal cannot pass a law before at least a month has passed since its proposal.

While elves must accept the law of the land once made, mass migrations of entire clans and houses are known to occur in response to an unpopular proclamation as the elves leave for somewhere they don't have to listen (assuming the response isn't something more along the lines of an assassination...). While they might move to another elven settlement entirely, these elves won't necessarily leave the geographic area, they may simply settle on a patch just outside of the Coronal's jurisdiction and govern themselves. Sometimes elves just build an entire demiplane (small alternate universe) and move there instead.

In larger realms, such as the former empire of Cormanthyr, the Coronal oversees the realm and the individual cities within are been governed by a local council made up of the heads of the most influential Houses, who govern the minutia of daily life in their own city and have no influence outside of it.

Coronal is not usually an inherited position (especially in the modern day). How one achieves the position varies by place. In Cormanthyr, this was determined by blade-rite. The applicant draws an enchanted, sentient blade from its sheath, and the sword judges their intentions for the power they seek. If it decides they don't have the Tel'Quessir's wellbeing at heart and will abuse their power, then it kills them on the spot.

Rulers are advised by a council of elders, who as always are usually the family heads of the local Houses.

Larger surface elven society saw a slight shift towards matriarchy in the reign of Queen Amlaruil Moonflower on Evermeet, and women usually wield the most influence in elven politics.

The entirety of elvendom was technically ruled by a (popular) royal family at one point, situated in Evermeet. However the queen has vanished in the last century, and it seems the monarchy no longer applies. Even when she was alive, some of the elves were merely humouring the notion and didn't pay it much mind. Loyalty came mostly because she was likable and her people felt she cared for them and served them well.

Nobility is defined as the Houses in "good standing." Those who possess more "wealth" - although elves don't value things like gold the way others do, so they don't put the same weight on it - and those who have a fancier family history, which gives the family more weight when councils convene to make realm-wide decisions about enterprises and social policies being made for the good of all.

Some particularly arrogant Houses feel they have "claim" to a particular patch of forest, in the same way a human noble might claim estates, but nobody else would agree with them, and collective elven society considers the world outside of their front doors to be public property that happens to be under the People's care.

While no house is beholden to the realm it resides in, and owes no duties, society expects the elven aristocracy to provide warriors, funds and resources to the wellbeing of the realm as a matter of honour. In peacetime this means providing the guard patrols and hunting parties, and providing for the sick and elderly of their communities who require aid.

---

While the dwarves and some human cultures can give them a run for their money, elves are quite possibly the proudest people on Toril. Theirs was the first and longest humanoid empire, theirs is the greatest grasp of magic, theirs is the longest lived of the common races of Toril, theirs is the blood that runs in the veins of a god... Suffice to say, the People tend towards being arrogant and stubborn. It never occurs to a number of elves that their ways might not be the way, and between that and their resistance to being governed when the rulers want to change things, the dwarves have invented a saying regarding attempting to change their minds on something: "If you want to tell an elf what to do, be sure to bring your axe."

Where the halflings and gnomes blend in, elves (and dwarves) are the most likely to stand out as distinct, separate cultures within human cities. On average they're proud of their history and their ways of life, and won't be trading them for others. How aloof they are exactly will depend on factors like personality, and how fairly treated they feel they are being by their neighbours.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #elf tav #This took so long #Shoot me.#Please.#two sourcebooks. tweets. forums. youtube.#all it cost me was my sanity

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mama-qwerty · 17 days

Text

WIP Wednesday

Yes, I forgot, AGAIN.

Today's wip isn't necessarily a wip as in I'm actively working on it now, but something I wrote a while back that I'll likely never finish. It was my first time playing with Scarlett and Dread and I hadn't ironed out all the details on them yet. (Scarlett's species in this one is left to the reader's imagination, as I'd not quite hammered it down yet, and they'd shared a *ahem* romantic relationship. Referenced but not shown.)

Mostly I wanted to make Dread a jerk.

Rated T, I guess? I dunno.

~~~~~

Dread smiled at her, but the smile was sharp and mean, like the look in his eyes. It wasn’t a look she was used to seeing directed at her.

“I’m afraid I’ve grown bored with you, Scarlett,” he said with a shrug, turning away to stand with his arms crossed. “It was fun, but it’s over.”

Scarlett stood, her brows furrowed. “Bored with me? What are you talking about?”

He chuckled. “I just can’t keep up with the charade any longer.” He turned back, that insufferable smirk on his lips. “Pretending to care about you is so exhausting. It no longer interests me to keep it up.”

Icy shards stabbed into her heart, and Scarlett worked very, very hard to keep the tears that threatened from appearing. Dread loved seeing weakness in others, and she did not want to give him that satisfaction. “Pretending to care.”

“Oh, you were a good lay, one of the better whores I’ve had, but the upkeep is so tedious.”

That word was like a knife to her heart. Scarlett had never laid with a man for money, and she prided herself on being better than that. Dread knew that, which was probably why he used that word to begin with. “I am NO whore.”

He laughed a little harder, shaking his head. “Of course you are. Only instead of coin, your pay is pretty little words whispered in your ear.” Dread stepped closer, a look of pure malevolence on his face. “You’re beautiful, Scarlett. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, Scarlett. I would be nothing without you, Scarlett.” He stopped close to her and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I love you, Scarlett.” He pulled back and laughed again. “Had I known how easy it was to bed you I would have done it a long time ago!”

Hurt and anger were sparring it out within Scarlett, and she let anger win. A deep, fiery rage built within her. How dare he. How dare this echidna stand here and laugh at her, betray her trust, and call her a whore. She wanted to scream at him, attack him, hurt him like he had hurt her.

But she stayed calm. Her face stayed stony neutral, betraying none of these feelings. She stared at him, her ocean blue eyes boring into his violet. The ones she used to love so much, but now wanted to gouge out of his sockets with her own hands.

She and Dread had been lovers for the better part of a year. It had taken time to build to that, as she had trouble trusting and lowering the defensive walls around her heart. But he had been persistent, and finally won her over.

And now it would seem it had all been a game to him.

The walls went back up. And Scarlett shut down.

“It’s a pity, really,” Dread said as he reached forward and caressed her head. “I always loved running my fingers through your hair.”

Without thinking, Scarlett pulled her little dagger from her belt. Dread drew back, his hand going for his cutlass, but before he could draw it, she grabbed her long braid and sliced off the last four inches. Her eyes never left his.

“Knock yourself out,” she said, her voice flat as she slapped the cut braid into Dread’s palm. “I have duties to attend to.”

And with that, Scarlett turned on her heel and stalked out of the captain’s study, back straight and head held high.

Dread watched her go, an honest look of pure shock on his face.

~X~X~X~

A week later, and Dread sat at the helm of the Angel’s Voyage, looking out over the sea. A soft breeze blew over the water, and the sun touched the horizon, turning the sky and ocean lovely shades of pinks and oranges and purples.

The crew lounged on the main deck below him, a rare night when all chores were done, and there were no pressing matters to attend to. The lot sat near the bow, chatting and sharing a bottle of rum between them.

His eyes kept wandering back to Scarlett. His first mate.

And the ache that had appeared in his chest a week ago gave a squeeze.

He was the great, legendary Captain Dread. Most feared pirate on the seven seas. Ruthless and cutthroat. He would kill without a second thought.

But the idea of being in love scared the piss out of him.

Which is why he had said those things to Scarlett. Those awful, terrible things. Things he knew had to have hurt her. She may not have shown it, but he knew. Every word was calculated, chosen to deliver the maximum amount of pain.

Because he was afraid of his feelings for her. Afraid they made him weak.

So he had to cut them out. Cut her out.

He thought it would be easy. Push her away from him and these weak feelings would go away. He’d feel like himself again. Be the fierce captain everyone feared and respected again.

But that’s not the way it worked.

When she’d walked out of his study that night, a pit had appeared in his chest. It was hollow, and empty, and felt like a wound that refused to heal.

And every time he looked at her, it got worse.

He contemplated kicking her off the ship entirely. Letting her go the next time they made port somewhere. But the thought, the mere idea that she would be completely out of his life made that pit in his chest feel like a gaping hole. His heart had hammered like a war drum, his chest tightening, and he felt for all the world as though he were dying.

Just at the thought of Scarlett leaving.

He didn’t like this. Didn’t like feeling like this. He had ended things with her to keep himself from feeling like this. But everything had gone wrong and now he felt as though part of him were missing.

Dread watched from his vantage point as the crew chatted. As they laughed. As she laughed. Her shorter hair barely brushed her shoulders now, and she pulled it back in a simple ponytail to keep it out of her way as she worked. It bobbed and swung with every movement of her head, and that ache in his chest flared.

He missed the long braid. It had hung down to the middle of her back, and she would sometimes pull it over her shoulder to squeeze if she was feeling particularly stressed. But it was gone, sliced off that night a week ago. He still couldn’t believe she’d done that. Just chopped it without a second thought, and slapped it into his hand. A parting gift, he supposed. A physical representation of how she cut him out of her life.

He’d kept it. After the shock wore off, he’d sat and stared at that length of hair for a long time. Then he carefully brushed and re-braided it, tying the loose end with a little strip of leather from his own quills. It now sat in the drawer of his night stand, carefully wrapped in a silk scarf.

Truth be told, it was soothing. The soft texture, the lingering scent of her skin and soap. He sometimes found himself just sitting and holding it, stroking it with a thumb. Thinking of her.

She was beautiful. She was fierce. She was stubborn and kind and infuriating and smart and insecure and clever and funny and brave and . . .

And now, she sat on the deck, patches of color burning high on her cheeks as she drank and laughed, and a soft smile spread on Dread’s lips as he watched her.

Memories surfaced. The two of them sitting on the deck, late at night, talking about nothing in particular and watching the stars move overhead. The look in her eyes as she gave him all of her attention and made him feel like the center of her world. The sound of her laugh as she let loose one that was loud and free and completely unhindered by any feelings of self-consciousness.

The feel of her hands on his muzzle, caressing him as she spoke softly into his ear. Her softness when she hugged him, her scent filling his nostrils. And when they made love, and the rest of the world melted away the moment he was in her arms.

He loved her.

He shouldn’t.

But he did.

And it scared him.

Her laugh broke him from his thoughts, and he flicked his eyes down to her. She leaned against their navigator, Liam Parker, as her laughter filled the air. Her eyes were closed tightly, and the patches of color on her cheeks turned darker as she blushed.

A flash of jealousy flared through Dread, and he swallowed. She used to laugh like that with him. Used to lean on him like that.

Now she shook her head, pointing at Batten Rouge. The bat snickered and waved a hand toward Scarlett, and Dread listened hard to pick out their conversation.

“. . . not how that happened, and you know it, Batten!” Scarlett said, her voice like the sweetest bell in Dread’s ear. “I did not start a war between ships!”

“I said ALMOST, sweetie!” Batten responded, a little laugh in her voice. “That was before Sails joined the crew, and I’m sure he’d love to hear it.”

Sails was the little two-tailed fox who’d come aboard a few months ago. Ironically, that was Scarlett’s doing. She had a ‘good feeling’ about the boy, even though he couldn’t have been more than 12 years old.

Now the fox turned with a smile to Scarlett, seemingly interested in the tale.

“Ugh, fine!” Scarlett groaned, before turning to the boy. “This was about four or five years ago, when we were at the port at West Island. Some big guy offered me a drink and, you know, free booze, so I accepted. We chatted a bit, before he started to get, shall we say, handsy, and I, being the polite lady I am, asked him to remove said hand from my leg. He refused, so I decked him.”

Laughter erupted at this revelation, and Dread smiled. He remembered that. Scarlett was usually good with people—she could read them like no other he’s ever known—and her wit usually kept her out of trouble. But when her ire was up, when she let her temper out, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Batten leaned forward. “Only it turns out Mr. Handsy was the first mate of the Black Pearl! Their whole crew surrounded us and wanted Scar’s head on a pike for ‘disrespecting’ him. Cap’n Dread had to get involved to keep them from tying her to their anchor and dragging her along the bottom!”

He remembered that, too. It wasn’t unusual for crews of rival ships to get into skirmishes, and in most cases he liked to let them handle it amongst themselves. But that night, he’d raced down to the pub and positioned himself between the rival crew and Scarlett. That was before they entered a romantic relationship, but even then, he felt unusually protective of her.

Dread watched as Scarlett’s laugh died at Batten’s retelling. The color was still high on her cheeks, and she flicked her eyes up toward him. His heart nearly stopped as their gaze locked.

The smile dropped from his lips, and he forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Scarlett blinked first, tearing her eyes away as she turned her head. She said something he couldn’t quite catch to the rest of them, and pushed herself up to hurry down to the crew cabins.

Dread’s heart clenched.

He turned to look out over the water again.

~X~X~X~

Scarlett stood in the captain’s study, her hands clasped behind her back. She was struck with a feeling of deja vu of that night a month ago, when he had ended their relationship.

Shattered her heart.

She’d done a good job of keeping herself under control while on the job. Staying professional when she had to deal with him, and never allowing her personal feelings to interfere. It was as if nothing had changed, as far as the crew knew.

But at night, it was a different story.

She cried herself to sleep most nights. His words—those hurtful, painful words—echoed in her head in the dark, and they still stung. They still cut through her and tore at her heart, ripping it to shreds as she lay there. And then she would fall asleep to carry through the next day, pretending she was okay.

The walls were back up now, and she regarded him as her captain. Nothing more.

“The crew would like to know when we plan to make port next,” she said, her voice even and polite. “Supplies are running low.”

Dread stood in a similar pose, his hands clasped behind him with his back to her, looking out the large window that faced out the back of the ship. He didn’t respond for a long moment, and Scarlett was going to repeat her question when he finally spoke.

“I hear you’re thinking of leaving.”

She wasn’t expecting the sudden lurch her heart gave.

“I have been considering it, yes.”

Another moment of silence.

“You’d abandon your ship? Your crew?”

“Neither are mine, Captain,” she said, and she almost slipped and let some snark into her voice. She pulled it back, and returned to the neutral tone. “I’m just the first mate. A ship can function without one.”

The echidna nodded, his back still to her. “That’s true, I suppose.”

Silence feel upon them again, and Scarlett’s heart began to race. She wasn’t sure what she felt so anxious about. They were done. He’d made that very clear. The things he’d said had very effectively killed any feelings she had for him.

But every time she looked at him, her heart twisted. She couldn’t stop thinking of the times they’d shared together. The long talks at night. The laughs. The love. He had made her feel like there was nothing else in this world he wanted but her.

And then he had crushed her heart beneath his boot.

She couldn’t stay here.

“Captain?” she called. “The supplies?”

Dread lowered his head, as if thinking. He still would not turn to her.

“I will take that under consideration.”

Scarlett’s brow furrowed. What was there to consider? Their supplies were running low. They needed to restock so they wouldn’t starve. He would have immediately charted the closest port at this news in the past.

There was only one reason he was stalling now.

“You’re not going to let me go.”

It wasn’t a question. Captain Dread was a man who kept what he wanted close. Almost obsessively so. And now, he still seemed to be possessive of her. Even though he didn’t want her anymore.

“Dismissed.”

For some reason, that single word answer squeezed her heart even tighter.

“Understood.”

Scarlett turned and walked out the door.

~X~X~X~

A month later.

Dread eventually did make port, but refused to allow Scarlett off the ship. He made up ‘important matters’ to discuss with her, and keep her occupied while the rest of the crew went to restock their supplies.

He was terrified if she left while in port, she’d never come back.

Their working relationship had devolved into nothing more than flat, toneless discussions, with none of the fire and energy they’d had before. There was no banter, no snarky back-and-forths. No joking. No life.

He was miserable. And despite her attempts to hide the fact, Scarlett was miserable, too.

Dread was barely sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her. Heard her. Felt her. His dreams were filled with her. In some they were still together, and the warmth of her against him made him cry in his sleep. In other dreams they were like now, strangers, avoiding each other and hurting all the while.

He often sat in his quarters, holding her cut braid for hours. Her scent was fading from it, and it hurt his heart to know that soon he would forget what she smelled like.

Agony. He was in agony.

But he couldn’t do anything to fix it. He’d hurt her too badly, too effectively. She hated him now, he could read her well enough to know that. And even if he decided that loving her was worth the risk, worth the pain and fear, there was no way she would agree to take him back. Not after what he had said. She wouldn’t trust him, and honestly, he wouldn’t blame her.

So Dread moved through life, feeling like a hollow shell. His heart was broken, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Now the echidna stood at the helm, watching as a storm rolled toward them. Thunder echoed over the increasingly rougher water, and lightning flashed in the distance. He could alter course, but it was a big storm, dominating the entire sky, and there wasn’t much he could do to avoid it. They’d just have to weather what they could.

Scarlett was on deck, readying the ship for the oncoming storm. Securing barrels and other supplies, checking the anchor, and keeping an eye on the dark clouds before them. But there was something about the look on her face Dread didn’t like.

She had an intuition about her, sometimes getting a bad feeling before trouble started. She had that look now.

“What do you feel, Scarlett?”

It was the first time he’d used her name since that night. It felt both foreign and like home on his tongue. She moved to the bow of the ship, looking out over the water, toward the storm. She shook her head, looking back at him.

“Something’s coming,” she said, her brow furrowed. “And it’s not the storm.”

Dread’s brow furrowed in response, and he stood taller, his senses on high alert. If Scarlett said something was coming, then they’d be ready.

“All hands on deck! Stay alert, crew. We won’t be surprised.”

Another five minutes passed, and nothing happened. Scarlett paced the deck like a caged lion, clenching and unclenching her hands in her agitation. Whatever was setting off her intuition, it must have been bad.

Dread wanted to go to her, to take her hands into his and calm her. But he resisted. She would not accept his comfort now.

Suddenly, she stopped in mid-pace, and hurried to the bow once again. She leaned over the rail, and for a split second Dread thought she was going to go tumbling over. Then she pulled herself back and turned to yell,

“KRAKEN!”

~X~X~X~

The ship rocked under the weight of the kraken’s tentacles. It reached from below, curling its long appendages over the railing of the Angel’s Voyage, searching for anything to drag down to its snapping beak.

The crew fought tirelessly. Krakens were unpredictable, but could sometimes be scared off if they received too much injury to their tentacles. So every available crew member hacked and slashed and bludgeoned the leathery hide of any they could get close to.

The storm hit as they continued to attack the monster currently trying to drag their ship to the bottom of the ocean. Thunder boomed overhead, and lightning flickered almost constantly. The Angel’s Voyage was under attack from both sky and sea.

Dread swung his cutlass in wide arcs, slicing at the closest tentacle of the undersea foe. A loud, low rumble of a growl reverberated all around the ship as the kraken gave voice to its displeasure at this reception. The massive tentacles smashed and splintered wood as they fell upon the ship.

Scarlett moved like a whirlwind, fighting the monster that threatened her ship, and working hard to keep the rest of the crew out of danger, especially Sails. She’d taken the boy under her care, watching over him as she taught him life on the open sea.

The beast thrashed, the crew fought, and the storm raged.

Finally, after an eternity of fifteen minutes, the kraken began to withdraw. One by one its giant tentacles slipped back over the side, into the churning water below. Only two remained on the deck, and the crew stood back to watch them vanish over the side.

That’s when a bolt of lightning struck the water nearby, and the kraken panicked.

One tentacle jerked at the sudden jolt, slamming across the deck and catching Scarlett in its path. It smashed her against the wall of the wheelhouse, knocking the air from her lungs and bringing stars to her vision as her head smacked against the wood.

“Scarlett!” Dread cried, and started working his way toward her when the tentacle curled around her legs, dragging her toward the rail as the beast descended into the ocean depths. “NO!”

She was hauled over the rail in a heartbeat.

Dread tossed his hat aside, clamped his cutlass between his teeth, and dove into the water a split second later.

~X~X~X~

Scarlett tried hard not to panic.

She hadn’t had a chance to get a good lungful of air before being hauled underwater. The kraken retreated deeper, away from the storm and pain it suffered on the water’s surface.

The light quickly faded the further down it dragged her, and she was soon plunged into complete darkness.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, fast and terrified. Her lungs burned. The cold water was making her numb. The tentacle wrapped around her legs squeezed tight.

She was going to die. Soon. There was no way she could get herself out of this. She had no weapon on her, and her muscles were not listening to her commands.

With one last prayer for her soul, sent up to whatever deity was listening, Scarlett closed her eyes, and exhaled what little air was left within her. Seawater rushed in to replace it.

Her body protested. It jerked and convulsed. And then was still.

~X~X~X~

Dread swam like a man possessed. His eyes reflected what low light there was underwater, and he watched as the kraken continued to dive deeper. Scarlett hung from its tentacle, her arms raised above her head as she trailed the beast.

Closer. He had to get closer. He swam faster.

He was going to save her. He had to. Had to. He would snatch her from this beast’s clutches and haul her back to the ship. She’ll be okay, and he’ll apologize, he’ll get down on his goddamn knees if he had to and beg her forgiveness. He can’t lose her, he just can’t, he couldn’t survive without her.

As he watched, Scarlett’s body jerked and convulsed.

No.

She went still. Limp.

NO.

With a burst of strength, Dread closed the distance in a heartbeat. He grabbed onto the tentacle holding the redhead, and pulled his cutlass from his teeth. With one mighty swing, he sliced the tip of the tentacle clean through, releasing black ichor into the water around them. The severed tentacle clenched for a brief second, before relaxing completely.

Dread yanked her free from the dead flesh, and turned to swim for the surface. She hung in his arms like dead weight, and he fought back the panic that threatened to overtake him.

It was too late. He was too late. She was gone, he’d failed her, he’d lost her, she was dea—

The echidna pushed those thoughts away. He refused to believe it. He just needed to get her to the ship. That was what he focused on.

Dread pushed himself harder than he’d ever done before, and after a few more agonizing seconds, he breached the surface and gasped in a breath.

“She’s not breathing!” he called up to the rest of the crew. “Pull us up, NOW!”

Sails and Batten flew down immediately to haul their captain and first mate back on board. Dread tossed his sword to the side as he gently lay Scarlett flat on the deck. He leaned in to listen to her chest, and his brow furrowed when he didn’t hear anything.

“Catfish,” he called as he rolled her over and grabbed her from behind. “Bring blankets. Lots of them. Move!”

The large cat hurried off, as Dread clasped his hands together beneath her ribs. He gave a few sharp squeezes, in a desperate attempt to bring up the water she’d inhaled.

He fought his panic back. If he wasn’t focused, if he wasn’t careful, he could snap her ribs like toothpicks with his strength as he tried to save her.

The rest of the crew stood back, watching with wide, fearful eyes as Dread tried to revive Scarlett.

Precious seconds ticked by. Dread kept his jerky, sharp movements. Scarlett didn’t respond.

“C’mon, luv,” he hissed, and the icy tendrils of panic began to wrap their way into his mind. The longer this went on, the less likely she was to come back. His squeezes became more hurried. “C’mon. Bring it up. C’mon, luv. Please. Scar, please.”

Still nothing. She hung in his arms like a rag doll, her hair plastered to her face, her skin cold.

Dread’s lip pulled up in a pained grimace. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Not like—

Her body jerked suddenly, a gurgling sound coming from her throat. She opened her mouth and vomited seawater out, splashing the deck with a horrible retching sound. Dread lowered her to her hands and knees, resting a hand on her back as she continued to hack and cough and spit out the water from her lungs and stomach.

“There ya go,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Get it all up. C’mon, luv. Breathe.”

She did. She pushed herself up, sitting back on her ankles and drew in a long, gasping breath as she opened her eyes. Another few coughs and she pulled in another breath, her chest heaving hard as her body shivered from the cold and shock.

Catfish had returned, his arms full of warm, wool blankets. Batten grabbed the first and draped it around Scarlett in a hurry.

“Let’s get you warmed up, sweetie,” she said, and grabbed another blanket to wrap around the shivering redhead. “We need to get her out of this storm.”

Dread moved in before anyone could say a word. “I’ll take her.” He scooped Scarlett into his arms in a bridal carry, looking over at Catfish. “Bring those to my cabin. The rest of you start getting the ship secured so we can weather the storm. I’ll be back quick as I can.”

The echidna carried the woman into his cabin, quickly laying her on his bed. Catfish dropped the pile of blankets on the edge of the bed before hurrying back to the deck to help the others. Dread pulled every blanket up and covered Scarlett with each one.

“Just rest, luv,” he said, his voice soft. He gently brushed her wet hair off her face, and resisted kissing her by sheer willpower. “You’re safe now.”

He didn’t want to leave her. He had barely avoided losing her just a few moments ago, and the thought of leaving her alone now made his heart clench.

But he was the captain, and he still needed to make sure the ship made it through this storm.

Without another word, Dread rushed back out to the deck.

~~~

And that's where I petered out. Mostly I just had these few scenes in my head and didn't know where to take it after that.

#wip wednesday #knuckles the dread #my writing

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simplegenius042 · 5 months

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Music Monday

Tagging @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @strangefable @strafethesesinners @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @cassietrn @g0dspeeed @aceghosts @turbo-virgins @starsandskies @shellibisshe @wrathfulrook @carlosoliveiraa @rhettsabbott @onehornedbeast @voidika @imogenkol @yokobai @derelictheretic @minilev @shallow-gravy @titiagls @afarcryfrommymain @megraen @softtidesworld @inafieldofdaisies @purplehairsecretlair @florbelles @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @skoll-sun-eater @cloudofbutterflies92 @red-nightskies @sleepyconfusedpotato and @thewanderer-000 + anyone else who wants to join in.

Three songs for one OC (or rather one group), one WIP and on companionships. Respectively for Wings And Horns, A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore and The UnTitledverse. Listen and read below:

Wings And Horns is an Original Work I'm planning to write, which involves a pair of angels chasing after a pair of extremist demons who are trying to destroy the "Soulmate System"; a divine system designed to romantically pair souls together throughout lifetimes and reincarnation. Archangel Metatron and his companion, an Angel of Death named Azriel, are tasked with preserving the system, while a Demon from the Sloth Ring known as Xiang Ba'al and his adopted daughter, a Sinner soul by the name of Jezebel, start a campaign to abolish the Soulmate System due to the flaws that had personally affected Jezebel. "Carousel" encapsulates everyone's place in the system, how while it is well-meaning and capable of bringing joy to some, it does leave others at a disadvantage and gives a lack of choice in their destinies.

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"'Round and 'round like a horse on a carousel, we go Will I catch up to love? I could never tell, I know Chasing after you is like a fairytale, but I Feel like I'm glued on tight to this carousel

Come, come one, come all You must be this tall To ride this ride at the carnival

Oh, come, take my hand And run through playland So high, too high at the carnival

And it's all fun and games 'Til somebody falls in love But you've already bought a ticket And there's no turning back now

'Round and 'round like a horse on a carousel, we go Will I catch up to love? I could never tell, I know Chasing after you is like a fairytale, but I Feel like I'm glued on tight to this carousel

This horse is too slow We're always this close Almost, almost, we're a freakshow

Right, right when I'm near It's like you disappear Where'd you go? Mr. Houdini, you're a freakshow

And it's all fun and games 'Til somebody falls in love But you've already bought a ticket And there's no turning back now

'Round and 'round like a horse on a carousel, we go Will I catch up to love? I could never tell, I know Chasing after you is like a fairytale, but I Feel like I'm glued on tight to this carousel

Why did you steal my cotton candy heart? You threw it in this damn coin slot And now I'm stuck, I'm stuck Riding, riding, riding

'Round and 'round like a horse on a carousel, we go Will I catch up to love? I could never tell, I know Chasing after you is like a fairytale, but I Feel like I'm glued on tight to this carousel."

Next song I'd say is less for the OC in The UnTitledverse I chose this for, by the name of Madame Callaghan, who is the director of C.Y.P.R.U.S, a multiverse organization that kidnaps children and trains them to be assassins and hitmen (amongst other unfavorable things), but more so for both Madame Callaghan and her expectation and relationship with her "children" as well; Mordecai (The Huntsman), Urijah (The Nihilist), Theodore or rather Theo (The Copycat) and lastly Candace (The Combatant). I tried to encompass the main figureheads of C.Y.P.R.U.S with this one.

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"Time of the essence Do not let me down (Down) So many people in one place It's time for us to make a presence

Time is of the essence I won't let you down (Down) So many people in one place Oblivious, just like you say

So just trust me this one time I know you won't regret it I know you are sick, but so am I

And I will be there for you Through time as it tick, tick, ticks

And I will be there for you

My darling, I know there's certain things that you should know I know this comes with a price that I'm willing to pay Be ready Something terrible is coming (something terrible is coming) (Tick, tick, tick, tick)

Everything I've worked for, and everything I do You know that there's a reason that I do these things for you I do it for the thrill, I do it for the fun You've taught me there's a twisted usefulness in everyone Let me prove my point, it will not disappoint Just give me the word, I am ready, I am poised Isn't this what a true friend would do? I promised I would be there for you."

This song relates to Marissa "Ress" Bishop and Ortega "Ore" Brantley's bond with their Fallout companions in A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore. Ore has been around long enough to make companions during the events (though slightly altered) of Fallout (1997), 2, 3 and New Vegas, while Ress has been around to bond with her companions in Fallout 3, New Vegas and 4. After Fallout (1997) and Fallout 2, Ore takes an "keep at arms length" approach with human companions in 3 and New Vegas, because he's outlived the likes of Elrand Brant (The Vault Dweller), Ian, Tycho, Katja and likely John Cassidy and Vic as well (either to age or circumstances) including Elrand's granddaughter Finidy Mona (The Chosen One), whom had been killed by Ore's father, Arcane Urias. Ore mostly connects with non-human companions as they are either a Ghoul or a Super Mutant and have a longer lifespan, until he makes a connection with Ryder (Courier Six). Meanwhile, Ress has the luck of gaining companions and keeping in contact with them in less than a decade, and due to her upbringing with the Bishop Crime Family, has a need to socialize and keep her companions close. She understands that due to her father, Urias', biology she'll likely outlive most others just like Ore, so she takes it upon herself to make as much meaningful relationships as possible to remember fondly over. The reason Ore and Ress gravitate towards these companions is either due to a sentimental reason or even because nearly all companions are as odd and outcasted as the brother and sister are.

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"Hey, everybody loses it Everybody wants to throw it all away sometimes And hey, yeah, I know what you're goin' through Don't let it get the best of you You'll make it out alive

Oh, people like us, we've got to stick together Keep your head up, nothin' lasts forever Here's to the damned, to the lost and forgotten It's hard to keep high when you're living on the bottom

Oh, whoa, oh, whoa We're all misfits living in a world on fire Oh, whoa, oh, whoa Sing it for the people like us, the people like us

Hey, this is not a funeral It's a revolution after all your tears have turned to rage Just wait, everything will be okay Even when you're feelin' like it's goin' down in flames, oh."

#music monday #wip: wings and horns #oc: archangel metatron #oc: azriel #oc: xiang ba'al #oc: jezebel ba'al #the untitledverse #oc: madame callaghan #oc: mordecai callaghan #oc: urijah callaghan #oc: theodore “theo” callaghan #oc: candace callaghan #c.y.p.r.u.s #series: a radioactive calamity of love bombs & gore #fallout #oc: ortega “ore” brantley #oc: marissa “ress” bishop #fallout companions

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