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melit0n · 5 days

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Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 6

- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.

Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious (you're already here!)

- Obessive!Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 6.9k

- Warnings (for chp): None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/150657787

“So, are you sure you don’t want to tell me about this little love story of yours now?”

Helen giggles softly behind you. It echoes loudly in the cracking concrete bowels you trek through.

“Yes. I can assure you, the only way you will be hearing it is if you come back to Greece with me.” Something snaps under someone’s foot, either glass or the dried remains of some bug.

You both know very well it’s a thinly veiled act of persuasion, a not-so-subtle play on your curiosity. So, somewhat determined to get whatever she had been keeping secret out of her, you put on your best pout and turn to her.

She walks right past you.

Shaking her head back and forth with a hidden knowing smile, she replies, “Making sad faces will get you nowhere, I am afraid.”

“So mean…” you grumble. Considering Helen's typical openness in her thoughts and experiences, you were genuinely intrigued. While it wasn’t mandatory, it was rare she’d hide topics she’d happily chatter about if given the chance. That said, your main aim–hidden under glass and dust–was simply to keep a conversation going. You’ve learnt very quickly that you don’t like the silence here, either. For both of your benefit, you’d much rather keep aimless chatter bouncing off the walls instead of some distant radio show. Keep your mind focused on replies and not the sickly sweet stench of flowers blooming in the middle of winter.

Of empty sockets that stare right at you.

Helen shoots a hand out, “Careful.” Puzzled, you send her a confused glance.

However, the moment she puts a foot down on the wood, you get your answer: the floorboards creaking and groaning loudly with the simple weight. While it wasn’t unexpected–every step you’d taken for the last hour or so had been accompanied by a loud squeak–what catches your attention is how far the wood visibly bends. That, and how damp it is. Damp enough that the moisture shines under the light of your torches.

Stretching your own leg out to test them, you’re unsurprised to now physically feel how deeply they bow under your weight; whining something foreboding with each kilo you put down. Through the soles of your shoes, you can practically feel the fibres cracking.

You sigh to yourself, half out of exasperation and something else you can’t quite pin down.

Looking up from the rotting floor, you’re not surprised to see the rest of the story was in a similar state.

More household items are scattered across the main hall: old stuffed animals poking their saturated heads out of screeching doors. Legs, maybe once holding up sturdy tables, lean against the walls. Sodden, deflated cushions lying haphazardly on the floor slowly melt into the woodwork; plush becoming indistinguishable from the flooring.

All create a waterlogged tapestry of the past.

The wallpaper, colours faded and mixed with old graffiti not unlike a fresh watercolour, reappear in diseased patches across the walls. Even vines from downstairs creep and crawl through the crumbling structure, anchoring themselves to whatever they can find. From the withering leaves, however, you guess they aren’t having as much success as they are downstairs.

A floorboard wails loudly from beside you. “This does not look too good.” She steps forward–really only a half-step–and begins to test the strengths of the planks in front of you. Then, she takes a full one forward with sounds from the floor that have you partially reaching your hands out, as if to catch her. You watch with a building level of unease as she attempts to spread out her weight.

Even the air is heavy. Heavy with the calm before a storm: petrichor and an electric buzz that lets you know you shouldn’t be here. Somehow, it overpowers the dust–which you’re sure sits in foetid clumps wherever the rain and wind sees fit–and worms its way into your lungs.

It’s nothing like the air downstairs: while that was fresh, still holding hints of petrichor, this was thick. Like oil. It’s somehow worse than the stagnant air from the basement.

Eyeing the wood, you hesitantly do the same. “Yeah.”

Something viscous is at the back of your throat. Tastes like how decaying autumn leaves smell.

The thin walls–either on this floor or one of the many others–waver in the wind, and you’re starting to affirm to yourself that Jeanne’s promise of the place being ‘structurally sound’ was another one of her half lies.

Four floors high, including the ground floor–five with the addition of the basement–and you’re sure you’d snap your neck. Bleed out on that ugly cream carpet with wooden wings splayed out beside you. Your only consolation is that you’re pretty sure that the main structure is made of solid concrete, sitting silently under the wood.

The gaping plaster wounds in the walls–rippling wooden muscles and creaking metal bones taught underneath–make you doubt yourself.

At best, you’d break or twist an ankle. At worst, you’ll be a bloated carcass strangled by weeds. A rotting warning to all those who enter.

No way in Hell is this safe.

You take a few more cautious steps forwards, ears perked for the tell-tale noises of crumbling wood that would rather collapse than hold your weight. “If the rest of the floors are like this, I say we stop.” One creaks loudly, a bit too loud for your taste, and you take one backwards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we fell straight through.”

Helen’s head lowers to stare at the floor, probably contemplating whether the risk of going crashing through four or five stories was worth taking the chance. “I think,” she takes a step forward, graceful as an onyx chess piece slid across the board. “We will be okay.” She turns to you, optimism in her eyes. It makes your shoulder sag. “We just have to keep our eyes out for any wood that is especially dark, or looks wet on the surface.” Another step forward, and you sigh as you begin to follow behind, dutiful as ever. “Is that okay?”

Kind of hard to do when all the wood looks wet, you think. Even so, you keep your nervous thoughts concealed beneath a cool facade. “Whatever you say,” you feel the cold of the water sink into your soles. “You’re paying my hospital bills if I break something, though.”

It’s sarcasm, but she still takes it somewhat seriously. “It would be my fault, so I would not mind.” She shrugs, before pausing, her weight spread between a few different planks. Then she raises her flashlight.

The centre-piece window–which never fails to draw your eye–is broken: jagged teeth glinting in the light.

A soft hum glides up her throat, “The wind and the rain from the North probably comes in here quite harshly: it is no wonder this place is so wet. Either way, I am surprised this place hasn’t fallen like, what is it- paper mache?”

It’s a simple description, one you’d easily take for an answer if not for one simple fact: both windows on the other floors were broken. Both windows faced North, as all the rest of the windows above you.

So why weren’t those as dilapidated as this one?

Wearily, you take a few more steps, trying to follow her invisible pattern of semi-promised safety. “But what about-” that is, before your feet knock into something. Something solid.

Expecting the worst, you look down with a strained look on your face. You’re met with the sight of a porcelain doll. The pale, once pretty, type you almost always see in charity shops.

And horror movies.

Part of its silky pallor is cracked and smashed in, leaving an empty void where half its face used to be. Curly blonde hair frames what’s left of it, fading blue eyes rolled absently to the side.

“Are you scared of it?”

There’s a bit of blush on its face, too. Faded, like everything else is at the hands of time and neglect, but still there.

“What?”

It reminds you of something freshly dead. Eyes and body empty, yet still holding onto the warmth in its fingertips.

Helen crouches down in front of it, repeating herself. “Are you afraid of it?”

You’re surprised the wood holds her weight.

Before you can say anything–let a garbled and probably incoherent answer out of your mouth–she picks it up. Handles it more like a living baby rather than a porcelain resemblance. When she cradles its head, resting stiffly in her palm, one of its eyes rolls. Rolls out of its vacant skull to stare right at you. Glossy and unblinking and reflecting flashing blue and yellow that blinds you.

Beneath light fatigue and a growing sense of alarm that refuses to go away, something rings.

“You’ll get a demon or something attached to you if you hold on to it.” You joke, eyes darting up from the glass one you’re sure sees right through your skin. Or, maybe, sees right past you.

She takes your avoidance as an unspoken yes. She isn’t wrong: if you saw that thing at the end of your hallway in the middle of the night, you’d happily give your apartment up to it.

She fiddles with the stained lace that edges the sleeves and the hem of the forget-me-not dress. “Why?”

It’s a good question–like all of her questions are. You roll thoughts around in your head, seeing how they taste on your tongue. You’d say it’s something embedded in you; embroidered into the intricate tapestry of each twitching muscle and thumping pulse of your heart. You’re afraid of the doll the same way something in the back of your mind, a knowing voice neither old nor young–simply alert–tells you to be afraid of the dark. Tells you to be wary of things that creep and slide.

Tells you to be fearful of things that try to be human.

“Probably because I’ve watched too many shitty horror films with Jeanne.” You reply. Helen simply shakes her head, and you think she knows you aren’t telling the entire truth. Either way, she doesn’t bother to pry a more self-aware answer out of you.

Gingerly, she places the doll back down where she’d found it. Its eye rolls back up into its head, having seen enough. For a few brief moments, you don’t blame it. The untouchable night that resides in its hollow head is probably a more comforting view compared to the sodden floorboards.

Both of you carry on with your hushed agreement to explore the other apartments. Helen glides across the floor with wisp-like grace, barely making a noise, while you stumble over each creaking floorboard and spend every two seconds wondering if you’re going to fall.

You stagger through a few different apartments, eyes skimming over whatever was visible and then moving on, more focused on not falling than searching for anything of interest.

After traversing the hall somewhat aimlessly–chattering to Helen along the way–you find your way into another apartment. One side of the floors has swollen, and the entire place reeks of festering mould.

A question strikes your mind, worming its way out of your mouth as the conversation threatens to fall flat. “Hey, Helen?”

With growing confidence, you carefully step forth. The living room is lifeless; void of any furniture. It also happens to be the side where the floors rise–something very old and very slow trying to breach the surface–so you make the decision to leave the bedroom unexplored. You value your ankles a bit more than that.

“Yes?”

The kitchen is in a similar state. Woodlice crawl between the splitting wood, and a low wind meanders through the rooms like a death rattle. Between what remains of a cabinet and the wall, a cobweb hangs, weighed down by the ever present moisture that seems to loom over the entire floor.

Its weaver is absent.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Considering her lack of reaction to your joke earlier, you’d say her answer would be a no. Either that, or she wasn’t afraid of the dead leaning over her shoulder.

“I think so. To believe in ghosts, you have to have a belief in some sort of life after the one you live, yes?”

Eventually, you find a somewhat sturdy path towards the bathroom and storage room. Much to your displeasure, the bathroom is locked tight. Even though the wood crumbles under your hands, it refuses to open. In fact, after a few tugs, the doorknob comes right off, small screws clattering to the floor.

Almost as if to spite you, the lock stays intact.

“What do you think of it?”

So, you end up trying the storage room. It’s gutted of all furniture.

“Of what?”

The air is stagnant. Brackish. You guess it hasn’t been opened in a while.

“The afterlife. What do you think comes after all this?” Backing up, you attempt to follow your steps back out into the hall.

“I am not entirely sure,” she hums. As each floorboard keens under your weight, you realise that Helen is practically silent as she walks through different apartments. You only really know she’s doing so because of her voice; ebbing and flowing like a warm summer wind from the hallway. “I believe each living thing has a soul, but I am unsure on how long that soul can last.” Her voice becomes louder, “but, I think it may stay after it does not have a body to support it.” and then quieter. You don’t see her walk past your door. “Perhaps they stay because they forgot to do, or say, something before they went. Maybe they stay because they miss home too much.”

Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you can’t spot her. She must’ve already gone into another apartment.

Looking down, you find a stuffed animal imitating you. Or, rather, you it.

You scoff, walking out into the hall and examining the different doors. “What’s home to someone who’s already dead? You’d think a ghost would want to go wherever they please since they have no physical restrictions.” With long strides–you’re sure you look like some sort of awkward stick bug–you pass the elevator. The twin doors are wide open, and even your flashlight can’t illuminate the rubber veins that crawl along its throat.

“Home is not always a place, I think.” Her voice is closer now.

Each door is in varying states of decay: those closer to the window in the hall are mere fragments, while those nearer to the main stairs retain some semblance to actual entryways.

Your eyes catch onto one near the elevator: number forty-six. It’s one of the few on the floor still holding on to its once shining number, this floor being numbers thirty-three to forty-eight. Although, the four is crooked–slanted to the left like a loose skull–and the six is ever so slightly lower than it should be.

“What else could it be?”

With a jostle of the knob, you also realise it's one of the few doors that’s locked. The weight in your pockets brings a smile to your face, and you can only hope you have the right key.

“A person.” Her voice has moved again, now on the opposite side of the hall.

You pause, if only for a second.

You’d never really thought of it that way.

With warmed metal under your fingers, you wonder if you’ve ever seen home inside another person. Your thumb glides over engraved numbers, hidden from your eyes underneath years of rust and oily fingers.

Maybe in Jeanne? Or Helen? Noah? A past lover?

“If you were to die,” you bring a key closer up to your eye, the number indistinguishable. “Away from ‘home’, do you think you’d try to find your way back? Or would you find somewhere else to haunt?”

Maybe…maybe in him.

“I would want to go home, definitely.” Floor six, apt eighty four… “When I do pass, I think it will be nice to be where I grew up. I would want to see the sea again, too. I would not mind staying there after I have passed.”

If so, home is long gone. The grass is dead, and there’s no soft light in the windows anymore.

Just flashing blue and glass in between in your fingers. In your skin.

“And what,”…Floor eighteen, apt two hundred and seventy-nine…not this one either. “What if you’re the type to see home as a person?”

She stays quiet for a few moments.

…Floor three…

You squint.

“Then I trust I will find them, and them, I.”

…apt forty-eight. Shit.

Your shoulders fall.

“Just…uhm, let me know when you make a decision about coming with me, okay?” Helen’s voice fades and flickers like candlelight. There’s almost an echo: a second whisper layered underneath her warm tone.

Wait a minute.

You look back down at the key. Apt forty-eight.

Slowly, your head turns to the left.

The last door by the stairs.

You frown. “Yeah, no- of course.” Answering absentmindedly, you begin to stalk over to the door. You trace invisible lines with your feet, and all seems silent.

Easily, you find yourself in front of number forty-eight, your light greeting the door: a circular glimpse that pierces through the darkness.

You feel like you’re sensing a pattern.

It’s closed, and, with a gentle tug, you find it locked as well.

Half expecting another talking radio, or maybe a miniature desert for this one, you hesitate to even use the key you had been wanting to make use of. You turn it over in your hand: there’s nothing special about it, nor the door itself. Both are in similar stages of disrepair, the door swollen with water and the key elongated with rust. Looking at it closer, you doubt it’ll even open the lock. Hell, the lock itself has probably rusted shut. Either that, or the knob will fall right off, just like the bathroom door’s did.

You look between the door and the key.

Well…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

The key slides in, and the mechanism opens with a quiet click. Seems the building has decided to grant you a bit of good luck.

The door opens with an ominous creak. Loud and anguished.

When light finally enters the morose cave, you’re more than pleased–although admittedly a little disappointed–to see nothing abnormal. No radios, no luscious ferns, and best of all, no buzzing flies.

Plus, it seemed to house more furniture than the last. The windows are layered thickly with grime and algae, and, even with your torch light, the whole place still feels utterly drenched in darkness. Blinking, it’s as if a thin haze–a light mist–hangs over the room. Or maybe just your eyes.

Tentatively, you step forward, keeping a careful watch on the floor.

The floorboards whine underneath you, rising and falling like valleys and hills under your feet.

The first thing that catches your eye is a large, embroidered armchair in the living room. Like the doll, it has dark, frilled edging–colour indistinguishable–at the end of the fabric. While it’s faded, the colours of the threads bleeding into themselves, you can just about make out a floral pattern; deep viridian in the centre, framed by jade and mulberry.

The legs are made of sturdy wood–not cracking and splintering like the floor–which curls inward at the feet like a snail’s shell. An endless spiral unfurling from itself. It’s exactly the type of chair a grandfather, or maybe some old-money, rich man, would have sitting by the fireplace. You can practically see a soft cat curled up on the seat, slowly nodding off as the wood cackles and crumbles into cinders.

Quietly, you wonder if anybody in this building had a cat. Or a dog, for that matter.

A board bends underneath you, and you take a step back before continuing.

Someone must’ve, right? Your own apartment had a policy on them: no pets allowed aside from fish–and the odd reptile, though that depended on how much paperwork you wanted to fill out–but maybe this one didn’t.

The door to the bedroom opens easily.

You wonder if they had to leave them behind when those chemicals got out. If they did, you hadn’t seen–nor heard–any once loved strays on your way here. Then again, nature, aside from her plants, seems to have abandoned this place. Left it to the hands of Time and the ever changing faces of the seasons.

Much to your surprise, the main bedroom is almost fully furnished. The bed frame is still intact. Well, you think it is, until you notice it’s leaning on one side. Looking closer, you find one leg had rotted off, the rest in a similar condition. There’s a tall wardrobe on the left wall and, opening it, you find it empty. That is, if you don’t count the dust. Running your index finger over the flat surface, you find it comes off in one thick clump that sticks to your finger. Reminds you of the gum people always stick under the desks.

With a look of disgust, you wipe it off and continue looking around.

A soft wind coming from the smashed balcony doors is the only noise you can hear.

You wonder what Helens’ doing.

Then, there’s something in the air. Nothing like the dust or the scent of chocolate, but a noise. It’s some sort of chime; light and soft like the call bell downstairs.

You cross through the main bedroom entryway, intrigued and more awake than you had been a few minutes ago.

Who knows, maybe it’ll be this floor’s anomaly.

You wonder where it’s even coming from: quiet as a breath, it disappears behind each thump of the blood in your ears. Maybe from the storage closet, or the bathroom? Whatever–wherever–it was, you determine it must be close.

Doing a double take, you quickly discover that the kitchen floor was very close to caving in.

Ah.

Well, now you know why the ceiling was dipping on the other story.

Seems the bathroom and storage room are off limits, then.

Ding.

You turn your head. There it is again.

With only one other traversable room left, at least in this apartment, you find your way into the second bedroom. It’s smaller, and without a window it feels as if you’re staring into the endless throat of space.

The wood hums endless tunes underneath you, and there are shapes dancing in your vision, trying to convince you that they’re stars. Stars, and not hooded eyes of indistinct figures.

In the centre, backed up against the far wall–painted a stormy grey–is a cot. It used to be white, paint now peeling off of the wood and curling like angry fingers. There’s a small heart carved into the headboard. It’s obvious it wasn’t a part of the original design; scratchy, as if done with some knife instead of a well-trained machine.

You like it better than the carbon copies, though.

Above it hangs another reminder of one of the parent’s handiwork: something halfway between a traditional wind chime and a baby’s mobile. Falling apart as it is, you can still see the wood carved with pure love and twine threaded with nothing but adoration. Sanded wood and glass clink together, the wind from the hallway their conductor.

There’s a few animals carved into twirling plaques, as well. At least, you think there is. There’s what looks to be a bird with a comically large beak–maybe a woodpecker?–and another that just looks like a homunculus with stick legs.

It’s so utterly odd looking that it gets a chuckle out of you.

Asides from that, the only one that vaguely looks like anything living is one near the centre; a pig. It has sharply drawn trotters and floppy ears that cover its eyes. It spins endlessly in some subtle wind you can’t feel, glass frosted with the endless damp that coats everything in place of dust.

But, from the darkness, something whispers.

You pay it no mind and continue staring at the cot and the home-made baby mobile. Each chime sounds like a baby’s wail: soft and nothing. It sparks something unknown in your chest. Maybe it's mourning. For who and what, you don’t really know. Provoked by some sort of empathy, perhaps.

You’re about to call for Helen–considering the large lack of somewhat interesting things here, you’re sure she’d like this–when there’s another whisper. It's closer this time.

What is that?

At first, you try to shove it off–there’s more broken windows than unbroken in this place. In the dark, it doesn’t take long for a person's mind to convince them that the wind is undead whispers, after all.

There’s a humming in your ears. Not the sharp ring that usually finds you in calm silences and in the warmth of a sunny street, but constant all the same. It ebbs and flows like a breeze; the low mumble of a class yet to start: the distant hum of cars on the motorway: the eerie clatter of trees in the beginnings of a summer storm.

It’s not distracting or intrusive like those invisible flies downstairs–buzzing ceaselessly around your ears–but not like the voices from the radio, either.

Sceptically, you walk out of the second bedroom with a growing frown on your face. The elastic of the mask’s straps dig into the back of your ears.

Staying still, quieting your own breaths and trying not to focus on the constant thumping from the walls, you attempt to decipher what’s being said.

You come up fruitless. It just sounds like an endless string of gibberish to you: too quiet to pick up and too muddled to unravel.

Maybe you need to get your ears checked, too.

Sliding your flashlight under your arm, you press down on a part of your ear, temporarily blocking out the noise. All you hear is the faint thrum of your body: each pulse of your heart, each twitch of your crooked fingers. Taking them away, the noise reappears.

It’s somewhat of a relief to know that the noises weren’t phantoms created by your tired mind. But still, it begs the question of what, exactly, it was. Let alone where it was coming from. It could be an apartment on this floor, or maybe on one of the others. The staircase wasn’t exactly closed off, after all.

Even so, you’re still sure it's close. A thin wall or two away close.

So, you lightly step back to the main bedroom, expecting to pick up on some sort of change.

Nothing happens.

A gentle gust of wind scrapes against the broken glass, and for a split second, you try your hardest to convince yourself that is all it is; the wind.

A gust pushes you forward and, wondering if the noise was coming from the bathroom or storage room, you try the kitchen.

Well, you get as close as you can to it without falling through.

Still no change.

Mind busy with the hushed buzz, you temporarily disregard your fear of the boards underneath you and peek out into the hallway. As you swivel your head left and right–half searching for the source of the noise and half looking for Helen–you find nothing but air and rotting walls.

Your light illuminates the staircase, almost hoping to see someone hiding in the darkness. It’d scare the shit out of you, Helen or stranger aside, but you’d rather find an obvious source than be left–quite literally–in the dark.

You find no one.

Then, you try the other end of the hall. The lambent glow of the moon seems centuries away.

Still no one.

“Helen?” Your voice cracks in your throat. “Helen! Do you,” You swallow something down. A clump of twitching nerves and bile. “Do you hear that?”

You wait a few moments for a response. You’re greeted with heavy silence. It’s deafening; somehow worse than being told a direct ‘no’.

Wearily, you step out of the doorway, out of your damp burrow, and into the hallway. The creaking of the floor–of the walls–feels so quiet.

Has it gotten any louder? Are you getting any closer?

Your light darts in and out of the different apartments. “Helen?”

Or is it getting closer to you?

“Helen! Where are you?”

Passing by another apartment, you still can’t manage to find her. Either your eyesight is going, or she’s suddenly become one of the best hide and seek players you’ve known since primary school. That has to be it. She must be hiding from you for some reason, ready to jump out at you any moment.

Inside, you’re divided. Part paranoid, part annoyed–what if she just left you here?–and part confused. Both at the noise, and her sudden disappearance: you don’t remember her being a relative of Houdini.

“I’m meant to be the one doing the scaring here!” You raise your voice, hoping to reach her. The faint whispers are your only response. “Jeeze, do you really hate me that much?” You try to play on her empathetic side, draw her out with offhanded self-deprecation that always makes her rebuke, but even that wields nothing.

Brows furrowed, you begin to make another round. This time, you hastily search inside the different apartments too, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silky hair or the toe of her trainers.

You examine another apartment, almost skidding on the wet wood. There’s the flat face of a table leaning against a wall–legs missing–and another grimy, smashed window.

After practically running up and down the hallway, you can’t help the way your heart jumps in its marrow cage when you realise the volume of that uncanny noise hasn’t changed. At all. It’s not louder, nor quieter; just that same, off-putting, low mumble.

“Helen! Come on, this isn’t funny. Just come out already.” You say it with a worried smile on your face and end it with a pathetic half-laugh.

Where could she be? You know you’re only skimming the apartments, wandering in and out of each room like a pacing animal, but with how many you’ve searched, you should’ve seen something by now. Plus, with how long you’ve been calling out for her, she would’ve come out of whatever dank hole she was hiding in.

If you were searching for Jeanne, you would understand. Unless you were gravely injured, she would continue playing her game for as long as she could. She was a proud winner who liked losing as much as she liked getting an injection: doing her best to avoid it by any means necessary. But this was Helen. Helen who doesn’t like silence. Helen who hates the dark.

There’s nothing in the next apartment, either.

It strikes you then and there that the only other reason that she wasn’t responding was because she was hurt. Hurt to the point of being knocked out.

With the revelation, it doesn’t take long for your mind to dive into a worried spiral. What if the floor finally gave way? What if she’s already on the ground floor? Neck bent like your fingers. Face contorted with some unheard screech you’d been too distracted to hear. Broken and soulless, and bleeding and turning that ugly cream carpet red.

Suddenly, warm air blows over the shell of your ear, something teasing that sends a sharp spike of fear through every muscle.

You jolt, veins thrumming with fear and relief, “Helen, you-”

Your flashlight illuminates nothing but air.

That jumbled mumbling, that damned whispering, has risen: gotten louder without you even noticing it. It pounds against your eardrums and buzzes under your skin. It feels so close, yet so far, echoing out from every crevice. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.

With a war drum in your chest, you beg yourself to just calm down. All you’re doing by overthinking is making things worse for yourself, and probably Helen, too. It’s just the wind–just a creation of your overly-active imagination. Just that stupid, stupid effect Noah was talking about.

What scares you, though, is that you begin to hear words.

Last time you checked, the wind didn’t speak to anyone other than those fated for tragedy. As far as you were aware, you were no Orpheus.

It’s like the radio all over again, yet somehow worse.

Thick, clotted air fills your lungs. Inhale and exhale. Stop yourself from getting so worked up: just inhale and exhale-

-But it’s so loud.

You have a walkie-talkie in your pocket, don’t you? How about you put it to use? That’s what it’s-

-Louder.

If she’s hurt, you’ll probably have to call-

-And louder.

You knew you shouldn-

-and louder.

“Shut up!”

All goes quiet.

After all the noise, it feels wrong.

In the blink of an eye, the class quietens, the motorway stands still, and the trees omit themselves to a vow of silence.

There’s only you. You, your flashlight, the keys and your panicked breaths. It comes out in mist-like puffs in front of your face.

You don’t remember dropping your flashlight. You don’t remember pressing your hands to your ears, either.

You take a few deep inhales. “I’m losing it. I’m absolutely losing it.” Bringing a hand to your eyes, you rub them, as if trying to dispel the lingering fingers of some sort of mania. You do it much more harshly than you really meant to. Feeling the soft tissue squish and scrape against the cavities of your skull, you hope it brings some sense back to you.

You crouch down to grasp your flashlight again. You see your face, distorted, in a puddle on the wood. With your back constantly to some sort of darkness, you feel yourself teetering on some sort of edge, standing stock still as not to fall. Still as those looming trees that pray to Gods your mind is too young to even know the name of.

A red hot blanket of indignation drapes itself over your fear for a moment. Whoever the Hell this was, whatever dim-witted asshole and their friends, was going to get an earful. Maybe even a right hook, if you were feeling ballsy.

You scan the halls up and down, keeping a careful ear for any sort of movement, any sort of amused giggle. You almost expect a TV show presenter to appear with a bunch of cameras or something. Even something as outlandish as that would ease your mind.

Anything that gives you a logical explanation as to what you just heard.

You begin to even search the walls, almost expecting to find grinning eyes staring at you from behind the rotting pipework. What an absurd thought.

Then you see something move.

It's from the corner of your eye, and you pray to see Helen, or just someone, there.

You don’t.

A chasmal wound sits before you, cracking at the edges like spindly fingers clawing their way up the walls.

Something skitters. Something dark and fat. Something with beady eyes and tiny feet.

There's droning under the floorboards. A muted thrum that, for a few seconds, only your feet can pick up.

Then you see a tail.

And a foot.

And a snout.

And you realise with horror that there is something in the walls. Something that is speaking to you.

At first, it’s as indistinguishable as ever; that same endless murmur from before as thousands of voices speak over each other.

But, slowly–like a church choir–they all come together, whispering in their whiny voices one great chant.

“We are small. We are many.”

And you finally begin to understand the words.

“We have teeth. We have tails.”

And all you can really do is stand in silent terror.

“We were here before. We will be forevermore.”

Over and over and over they repeat it: an unending mantra accompanied by chattering teeth and pattering feet.

You can’t even bring yourself to move, body completely unsure how to react. It’s like the flies; worming their way into your ears and resounding off of your skull.

There’s laughter there, too. High-pitched, shrill sniggering. Sniggering of a thousand strangers that you’re sure are mocking you.

And they just keep getting louder.

What are you even meant to do? You have to be hallucinating at this point–encouraged by a weird mix of sleep deprivation and sloping paranoia.

You feel like you’re in some type of morbid comedy, and the joke is absolutely on you.

It doesn’t take long before your synapses finally snap into action, forcing your legs forwards. It begins with a brisk walk and easily turns into a jog. You aim for the staircase, unsure whether you’ll be going up or down.

Abruptly, their chant changes, a few voices slow to catch onto the shift.

“India, Tango-”

It almost makes you stop dead in your tracks: even more confused with the seemingly random words they begin chittering.

“-Kilo, November-”

You refuse to listen, just blocking it out. No need to make yourself more fearful than you already are.

“-Oscar, Whiskey, Sierra-”

And you’re almost at the staircase, when-

SNAP.

-The floor finally collapses under your weight.

“Y/N!”

You feel your head slam against the wet, wooden flooring. For a split second, no longer than a blink, everything goes blank.

Then there’s a strain in your ankle. And water soaking into your hoodie.

And you are very much so awake.

“Γαμώτο- Y/N? Y/N! Are you alright?”

Your brain throbs underneath your sweat sheened skin. Something wet slides down your cheek, and you wonder if it's blood. Looking up, partially balanced on your hands, all you can really do is stare at Helen with a mixture of utter horror and confusion. You open your mouth. Your jaw whines like one of the doors, and you taste wood on your tongue. “What the fuck.”

She hooks her arms under your shoulders, mumbling apologies under her breath as she drags you forward like a limp corpse. Easily, your foot is freed. Back on your feet, you wipe any residue off of your hands and face with frantic fingers.

Turning and looking down, you see that your luck had quickly run out: the wood had finally broken through.

Knowing that there’s concrete under it doesn’t bring you as much comfort as you thought it would.

A cold buzz overtakes the hot pain.

“Is your foot normal? Does it hurt?”

You swing your head back around. “Where were you?”

Her face twitches in surprise, not expecting your harsh tone. “Where were you? I was asking for you to see if you wanted to go up to the next floor to see if it was like this one. I couldn’t find you so I went up to see if you were there: I came down when I heard the wood snap.”

You watch her for a moment, thinking. ‘I came down when I heard the wood’, not ‘I came down when I heard you calling for me.’

Did she…did she not hear you?

Did she not hear that?

You think your ankle should hurt a lot more than it does. You think there should be pain jumping up your leg when you put your weight down.

“I was…” Swallowing, your eyes search the floor for something you don’t know the name of. Your flashlight has skidded to the foot of the staircase. “...I was in the last apartment by the staircase.”

Her brows furrow. “Why did you not come out when I asked?”

Your mouth is dry.

You desperately want to explain it to her. Tell her you’d be calling out for her for the last who knows how long, stalking up and down the hall. Tell her that there is something in the walls and you fear they know things you’ve tried to bury. However, the moment you re-run the memories, think over how to even begin to describe what just happened, you realise you sound mad. The epitome of it.

As supportive and believing as Helen was, there was no way she was going to believe you.

“I just…”

There’d be that look on her face. It’d be there for a second, but you’d still see it. It’d be on Noah’s face when she tells him–clear as freshwater–as well.

“...got scared by some rats.”

You may be human, and it may be right to accept help when you’re hurting, but you still refuse to be seen as mad.

Sick.

Her face softens. Still somewhat annoyed–for a fair reason from her perspective–but lesser so.

Nobody likes not being believed, after all.

“Rats?”

You nod.

“I have never liked rats,” there's a smile in her eyes. You think it’s meant to comfort you. “Maybe we should leave if there’s more?”

You hope you do. You pray to Gods who have long averted their gaze from this place of endless night and thumping walls to allow you to leave.

“Hm…well, we do not scare easy, do we? We aren’t afraid of the dark or,” she pauses for a moment. You don’t know if it's for effect or not. “Rats, are we?”

Something in you wilts when you realise she’s trying to encourage you. Encourage you to go through with things. To overcome what she thinks is just a minor fear.

You spite August winds and cigarette smoke for sewing your mouth shut.

There’s an attempt at a smile underneath your mask. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah.”

Smoothly, her fingers intertwine with yours. She feels blisteringly warm.

“Is your foot and ankle okay?”

You can’t bring yourself to lie.

-----------------------

In all their ‘nonsensical’ murmuring, the words the Things speak do have some meaning behind it, if you look close enough.

IMPORTANT: If you, or any of your friends, are going urban exploring, and stumble upon a building like this (incredibly damp, rotting wood, mould etc.) do not enter. Please do not risk an injury, or your life, for the sake of an experience or some cool photos. Further, if you visibly see your friend get injured, actually check them over to make sure they're genuinely okay.

On note of updates: expect an update every three weeks on a Friday. If it doesn’t come then, expect it on the Saturday, and, if it doesn’t come until then, expect that I’m busy and won’t be able to update until next week. As much as I’d like to write to my heart’s content, I unfortunately don’t have all that time :’]

- Γαμώτο = Damn it

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thewalkingwillowtree · 1 year

Text

Safe Haven

Series Part Listing Found Here

Neteyam x Original Na'vi Female Character

Summery: Seeking refuge, Xilä and her father venture to the lands of the Omatikaya clan, in the hopes that the Toruk Makto would be generous in allowing them to stay. This is her story about not only finding her strength, but finding love.

Warning: This story contains smut, violence & abuse (please don't read if these topics will affect you)

Some characters have been aged up. Neteyam in particular is 23.

Xilä is my own creation.

Part 4 - Breakthrough

During Xi’s four week mandatory stay in the healer’s tent, she had seen many patients come and go. Some were weary and completely avoided her, while others made polite conversation.

In her third week she became restless. Her only source of entertainment were the few times her newly proclaimed friends visited or in observing the Tsahìk in her element. The art of healing had become fascinating to her.

And so ever so shyly, she’d asked Mo’at if there were small things she could help with. Things to keep her busy.

Everyday after breakfast and the slew of medicinal tonics Mo’at would lay out for her, Xi would sweep the tent, clean out chambers and tidy bed rolls before being scolded back to resting. Tsahìk had noticed her interest and would ever so often offer up information about the ingredients or tonics she was using- Xi was entirely intrigued.

But her time was up now. By the end of week four she already knew at that point she was practically only taking up space in the Tsahìk’s tent.

So when Neteyam had told her she was not going to be staying with her father yesterday, Xilä had her doubts. First thing this morning though, when he came to collect her for their daily lesson, he told her to pack her things.

Xilä never owned many possessions before. Yet in such a short amount of time, she now had a pair of pretty boots, not one but three whole outfits that were specifically made for her and a small growing collection of little trinkets that Tuk would usually surprise her with during her visits.

Neteyam led her to Salveen’s tent again that morning- him carrying her packed things in a satchel he’d swung across his body.

When they entered, Xi was surprised to see a gruff looking male Na’vi who stood next to an excited, smiling Salveen. The elderly woman quickly smoothened her hair as though trying to make a good impression and then held her joint palms under her chin, her eyes misting slightly.

“Xi, well you already know Salveen, but ah- this is Jxo,” Neyetam said gesturing to the elderly male, “Salveen’s mate.”

The intimidating man gave her a surprising kind smile and polite nod, which she returned.

“They’ve offered to let you stay here, with them,” Neteyam finished.

“What?” Xi asked, in disbelief. “As in...to live? I- but, won’t I be intruding?”

“Never! You are welcomed here. My D’avi is all grown up now and has her own mate and home and I- well, it will be up to you of course, but my Jxo and I would be ever so happy if you stayed. Will you at least come see the space I set up for you?” Salveen rushed out, walking over to pull back a hung up privacy curtain that was not there yesterday.

“It’s not much right now, just your bed- I wasn’t sure if you preferred a hammock but Neteyam said you’d like this better, he mentioned you get cold often. I promise we’ll fix it up nicely. Jxo’s a woodworker, so he’ll build you something nice to store your things in and you tell us whatever else you need and we’ll- Oh darling, what is it?” She broke off, seeing Xi’s expression.

Xi was emotional, she felt choked up and was trying her best to stifle it. “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head with a tiny smile, “Thank you Salveen. It is perfect.”

She walked into the little space and grinned at the neat nest of furs, blankets and leathers. Pretty flowers were strung from the ceiling and there was a odd bright device, which illuminated the space in a soft homey glow. Xi had learnt it was a human contraption called a lamp.

“So…you will stay then?” Salveen asked, with a hopeful smile.

Xi, glanced from her to her husband who was still quietly observing them- his gaze soft upon his wife- to Neteyam who leaned against a beam with his own encouraging expression towards her.

“If you will have me, then yes.”

“Ohhh Jxo! She said yes! Well um- okay, let’s get you settled then.” Salveen was a whirlwind- she practically attacked Neteyam to get her satchel of belongings from him, immediately ushering Xi back into her little nook to help her move in.

Neteyam and Jxo shared matching amused looks then moved back into the centre of the tent to allow the women their space.

“You have no idea how happy you made my mate,” Jxo said gruffly.

Neteyam laughed, “Thank you again, for agreeing to this.” Turning serious he said, “Jxo, Xilä’s father…” he didn’t exactly know how to word it. “He’s not allowed to visit. I don’t want him near her.”

Jxo eyed him for a moment then nodded. “Understood,” he said simply, tapping the handle of the knife on his hip in response.

This was why Neteyam liked the elder. He was a man of few words but he was honestly the best.

Neteyam was greatly surprised at how fast a learner Xi was. In the following three weeks since they’d started her lessons she quickly adapted to the labyrinth of the Omatikaya forest.

She was a determined student. Anything he threw her way she was eager to learn, eager to put her best foot forward and every time she shocked him with her ability to succeed.

They had fallen into a simple routine which suited his schedule. Early every morning he would pick her up from Salveen and Jxo’s where he would more often than not be coaxed by the elderly woman to stay for breakfast.

From there they’d head straight for the forest where they would cover whatever lessons he had planned for the day. They usually shared a late lunch while practicing her English skills, then he’d walk her back to her tent before heading off to perform his other responsibilities.

All that being said, she still pissed him off. She got under his skin for some reason which he was quickly realizing that quite frankly, he found her attractive. It was mostly also her constant notion to obey and submit to his every suggestion or request- irking every fiber of his being.

He gave up trying to get her to stop saying sorry. Sometimes he felt like she was a lost cause but then she’d say or do something to prove him wrong.

Right now, as he corrected her stance as she held a bow, he bit down the need to snap at her. She was flinching at every brush of his fingertips.

It annoyed him that she didn’t trust him. He was not her father. He was not a monster. But he had to remind himself of his own father’s words. About having patience, about being nice.

“For shits sake, would you stop doing that? I'm not going to hurt you!”

And of course…she flinched, again and of course, she apologized.

It was moments like these that he never understood why his father chose him of all people to show her the ways of his people. It made him question the Jake Sully’s sanity.

Neteyam was a soldier, a great warrior. He thought himself a great teacher too, since he also trained many warriors beneath him. But this was different. He couldn’t be the hard-ass he usually was with his trainees. She was not like most of his students- she was not like any of them.

Xilä was soft, sensitive. Delicate.

He also had to keep reminding himself that she had a bad past- he wasn’t sure she ever knew what kindness was before she got here.

“Look, you’re going to need to start fully trusting me okay? I can’t keep walking on eggshells around you, worried that every time I touch you, you think I’m going to hit you or whether I’m going to hurt your feelings with every word I say. We’ve been in this together for more than three weeks already, Xilä.”

She put the bow down and faced him- her gaze averted. “If you think your words hurt me, they don’t. Say what you wish. I promise, it will not bother me,” she shrugged, not even seeming bothered.

“Why? Because you’re so numb to all the shit your father has said to you?”

She flinched again and shook her head silently, hurt written all over her beautiful face but Neteyam wasn’t deterred. He was frustrated, he needed to get her out of her own head- it was time to finally fix this. Otherwise, what was the point?

“It's true though isn’t it? You let him walk all over you and now you’re letting me do the same thing?” He stepped closer and she automatically backed away, arms wrapping around herself, head bowed in submission.

He followed her, matching her for every step she took. “Well see, I call bullshit…they do hurt you. Don’t they?”

She said nothing.

“But you can stop it. You can do something about it....You want to know what I think? I think you’re strong. I think you can get out of this fucking spell your father seems to have you under….Nothing to say? Fine. Let's play a game, shall we?”

She remained silent, but he could see that her breathing was becoming erratic. He knew she was shutting down.

“If I yell at you and call you names, what are you going to do about it? Hm?”

Silence.

“If I get in your face like this, what do you do Xilä?” He asked harshly, as he closed the distance between them.

“If I grab you and shake you, what do you do?” He gripped her arms in a firm but gentle hold. “Look at me Xilä, what are you going to do about it?!”

“Stop. Please- I- I don’t like this game.”

“We’re not playing right now sweetheart! You need to wake up! You let your father treat you like shit!”

“N- no,” she whispered.

“Yes, you do.”

“No.”

“Get mad Xi.”

“NO.”

“Come on. Do something!”

“NO!”

“Yell. Scream. Hit me dammit!”

WHAP!

She slapped her hands against his chest hard. “Let me go!” She hissed angrily as she shoved him.

His grip on her fell away at another shove and furious tears filled her eyes as she began yelling at him.

“Stop it! Stop it! I hate you!” Shove. “I HATE YOU.” Shove. “I hate you so much!” With one last shove she began to hit, slap and punch his chest, screaming curses of hate at him.

Her fists beating against him caused no actual pain to him, but he could see the anguish it was causing her. Over and over she pummelled him and he let her at it. This was good, he thought- she needed this.

When the fight left her, she sagged against his chest- fingers tethered in his warriors belt for balance as she breathed heavily. He was shocked to see that her face was dry. Not one single tear had fallen.

“Xi,” he cupped her cheeks and raised her face. “Look at me please... Eyes, Xilä.”

She peered up at him looking so broken, it tugged at his heart.

“Hey, it’s okay. You can cry.”

She sniffled, “But I can’t...It’s a Na’vi’s sign of weakness, remember?”

“No. No sweetheart it’s not. I am telling you right now it’s okay to cry. Forget whatever bullshit your excuse of a father has-”

“Neteyam.” The moment the first tear fell, it was like a dam breaking.

Her head fell against him and she cried, bitterly.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he soothed, drawing her closer, stroking her hair a few times before cupping the back of her head with his large palm as she sobbed silently.

He held her for a long time, whispering soft words in her ear, letting her have her moment.

When her shoulders finally stopped shaking, he murmured, “You did good sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”

She looked up at him with puffy eyes, a purple nose and stained cheeks. “I don’t actually hate you. I don’t know why I said that,” she rasped.

He chuckled, “I know you don’t…and I don’t think you meant it for me,” he said, wiping away one last escaping tear.

“Oh,” she replied, understanding what he meant.

“We’re going to have to work on your punching skills though,” he teased, rubbing a palm over a pec.

She gasped, horrified, pressing her palms against his tear soaked chest in worry. “Oh my Eywa…I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“Not even a little, we’ll fix it though, don't worry. You’ll be a badass in no time.”

“Bad-ass…and that’s a good thing?”

“Oh definitely,” he replied, stepping back to pick up her discarded practice bow. “Now, are you up to giving this another try?”

She wiped her cheeks, determination peaking through as she strode forward to claim the weapon.

They had a breakthrough that day. Pretty much after that, there was a shift between the two. It wasn’t an instant fix of course, but in the following week, Neteyam noticed the subtle changes between them- the changes in her.

She no longer shied away from his touch or accidental brushes. She also took his teasing or tough corrections in stride and would occasionally jibe back at him.

Xilä trusted him.

Tonight was Xilä’s first communal feast. To say she was nervous was an understatement but Neteyam thought it was time- she had put it off more than enough- she needed to socialize outside of her small circle.

She'd been here for two months already!

“You ready?”

“Mhm.”

He smiled at her anxious fidgeting. “Xi. It's just dinner alright?”

“Right,” she nodded.

The clearing they entered was packed with Na’vis, Avatars and humans. Clusters of friends and families happily chatting and laughing as they ate. Neteyam was right, there was no segregation.

She stuck close to him as he weaved his way through the seated crowd.

Neteyam spotted his brother joking around with his friends and made a beeline for them. “Skxawngs,” he greeted them all, with a smirk as he crouched in front of his brother.

“Hey bro. I seriously don’t know how you two haven’t met yet but this is Xilä,” he tugged on her hand for her to crouch next to him and get comfortable, his tail running along her ankle encouragingly. “Xi, this is my brother, Lo’ak.”

Lo’ak jerked his chin in acknowledgment, barely glancing in her direction. “Hey man, where the hell have you been? We had training with dad. He’s pissed.”

“I know but there was an accident on my patrol shift, I got tied up. I’ll make up for it tomorrow,” he responded, trying to brush it off.

“He said he wants to talk to you,” Lo’ak said, jerking his chin towards their father.

Neteyam nodded and looked back to scan the crowd. “Xi listen, I hate to leave you right now but I’m going to be just there for a second okay?” He pointed over to where Jake Sully and his wife were seated.

“Okay,” she replied, staring at him.

“Okay, okay?” He asked, double checking, reaching out to give her hand a little squeeze.

“Yes,” she replied with one of her beaming smiles.

“Lo’ak will keep you company, right bro?” Neteyam jokingly ruffled his head and the younger brother pushed him away with a scowl, grumbling a “not a fucking babysitter” under his breath, but she heard anyway.

Xilä couldn’t help but follow Neteyam with her eyes as he made his way to his parents. She felt anxiety slowly creeping the moment he’d left her side...but this was good right? She had to learn to not always rely on him.

“....so pale and look at her ears-”

“Nah man look at her eyes.”

“...such a freak.”

“I dunno, she could be kinda pretty if you squint.”

Xi bit her lip as she heard the obvious whispers of Lo’ak’s friends muttering and snickering among themselves.

“Shut the hell up up assholes!” Lo’ak hissed at them before turning back to her. “...Aren’t you gonna eat?”

She shook her head in response and looked down at her feet so she could hide behind her curtain of hair, tucking her knee into her cheek.

Lo’ak sighed out loud as if annoyed. He grabbed a large leaf then began filling it with some of the dishes he and his friends were sharing out of, then scooted closer to her and nudged her thigh.

“Look, I’m sorry about them. They're just being skxawngs, I’ll talk to them. Have a bite, I’m sure you’re starving. If my brother’s the one training you, it probably means you burned a shit load of calories. I should know,” he joked.

“Thank you,” she said with a forced smile as she accepted the meal. Lo’ak was so very different from his brother she thought.

The food before her was unlike what she was usually served in the healing tents- although still extremely delicious, Mo’at had had her on a strict nutritious eating plan. Even the meals Salveen was now preparing for her were in keeping with the healer’s orders.

She took a hesitant bite of the meat and instantly lit up. It was probably the most delicious thing she ever had in her life. She tasted the cooked fruit next and up went her tail- sailing happily.

“You act like you’ve never had food before,” he said mockingly yet amused by her behaviour.

Xi licked her lips and deflated a little. She had forgotten she was in public for a minute there.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” She asked.

He seemed genuinely surprised by her straightforwardness, so he returned the gesture. “Not really, no.”

She glanced over at Neteyam for probably the tenth time since he was gone. “Well that’s okay. I’m used to it, but at least you’re being honest upfront. What do you call this meat? It’s good.”

Lo’ak frowned. He didn’t expect that response. “…Uh, it’s fish not meat,” he said offhandedly, “and what do you mean you’re used to it? Do people usually not like you or something?”

She swallowed another bite of the fish, deciding it was officially her favourite. “Well yes, they usually do. It is the way it has always been. That is why I am used to it,” she shrugged.

“The hell…” he muttered. “I’m sure you're exaggerating right now…you’re saying it’s always been that people don’t like you? That’s a fucking lie if I ever heard one…what about back home? In your clan? No friends your age?”

“There aren’t many Na’vis my age back there and if you really think about it, who wants to befriend the daughter of the man they all already hate?”

Xi hummed when she ate another bite, “Do they serve this fish every night? I like it.”

Lo’ak stared at her incredulously. He had never been so wrong about a person in his life he thought foolishly.

He’d met her father numerous times since their arrival two months ago and decided that he was a foul sad excuse for a man- no wonder his people had shun him. He’d seen the way the man was slowly testing his father’s patience and wondered why he was even allowed to stay in the first place.

Lo’ak heard the rumours of the strangle wild girl and he had to admit maybe he did judge too quickly. He had flat out refused every time Spider invited him along to visit her when she was staying under the watch of his grandmother.

He guessed he could chalk it up to being childish because it seemed everyone in his life had suddenly taken an instant liking to the strange girl.

She was all they talked about at home for almost a month straight.

His parents were constantly asking for updates about her health from his grandmother and then it was them always asking Neteyam about her lessons. Lo'ak purposely zoned out any conversations once he heard the words Xi or Xilä.

Even Tuk, Spider, Kiri had all befriended her with no hesitation- he didn’t get it. He didn’t try to.

Quite simply put…Lo’ak was jealous.

“My brother obviously likes you, he spends all day with you,” he said, trying to show her that she was wrong.

Xi frowned, feeling a tad guilty. “Your brother has no choice to spend his days with me, your father appointed him as my-”

“My brother likes you. Trust me alright,” he said with an eye roll. He did a double take when he spotted something on her arm as she raised it to swat at a flying insect.

“So where’d you get the bruise?” He pushed, popping a handful of sweetened seeds into his mouth.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, shifting so that the almost faded mark was hidden from view- it was barely noticeable anymore, it surprised her that he could even see it.

“Your father do that a lot? Leave bruises?”

She frowned, “I thought you didn't like me. Why do you care?” Xi was annoyed by his invasiveness- they had just met for Eywa sake, who even asked questions like that to people they didn’t like?

“Because. I changed my mind. I like you. I think we should be friends,” he said with a wild grin.

“What?” She exclaimed, her head snapping towards him. “You- you want to be my friend?” She asked, confused. “Just like that? Why?”

He shrugged. “Why not? I think it would be a good idea anyway. Freaks should stay together, no?”

“Freaks?” She frowned. She’d heard the word freak, whispered behind her back before. Lo’ak’s friends had said the same thing not even ten minutes ago.

“Yeah, like a weirdo- not normal,” he smiled, wiggling his fingers at her.

She gasped- just noticing. “You have an extra finger!” She cried, reaching out to touch, then immediately pulling back, sheepishly.

Lo’ak laughed out loud at her reaction and she felt herself flush as a few people looked their way.

“Yeah, got an extra toe too,” he said, showing her.

Neteyam glanced back at the sound of his brother’s laugh. He and Xilä were both grinning. Lo’ak was obviously making her laugh too from the way he could see her shoulders shaking. He was glad that they were getting along.

“Neteyam.” Fe’ska, one of his mother’s good friends and a respected member of their council, crouched next to him, as he stooped before his parents, chatting with them. “Forgive me for intruding,” she smiled, glancing at his parents and then him.

“You are always welcomed Fe’ska,” Netiri said, squeezing her friends hand in greeting, Jake nodded politely.

“I was wondering whether you had an answer as yet Neteyam…about what we discussed a few moons ago,” she shot Neteyiri and Jake an apologetic look.

“I am not rushing of course, it is just..my Leati is quite eager for the match and I admit my husband and I are too. The council of course will also be relieved to know that you are in a secure match and that as Jake's heir- on the right path as future Olo'eyktan.”

Three pairs of eyes fell upon him expectantly and Neteyam swallowed. Every sentence that came out of Fe’ska’s mouth had him itching to flee.

“I apologize, I hadn’t given it any further thought yet but I promise I will try to,” Neteyam said dutifully.

“Well, that is all I ask. Leati will be most happy to hear from you. You know she can be a bit shy,” she laughed.

Neteyam chuckled at that, because in truth, Leati, Fe’ska’s daughter was the least shy person he had ever met.

When Fe’ska eventually left, his mother shot him a disappointed look. “Have you truly not decided yet? Leati is a lovely girl. What is taking you so long?”

“Neytiri,” Jake murmured in disagreement and she huffed but nodded.

Neteyam’s ears folded downward, he hated disappointing his parents. “I am sorry mother, I only want to be sure.”

Neytiri caressed her son’s cheek. “A bond between a man and a woman is for life. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be sure. I am sorry if I made you feel pressured.”

“It’s fine,” he said, standing. “I’m going to have my meal, I will see you back at home.”

Jake and Neytiri bore matching frowns of concern at their son's retreating back.

Dun Dun Dunnnnnn. *Hides*

So this is a little bit of a filler, more to come in the next part.

But heyyyy. We've got Lo'ak! Yay! A rocky start I'll admit...but at least he and Xi are friends now.

As always, let me know what you guys think :)

Ps. I'm sorry our boys were meanies today.

@jakesullyfatjuicypeen @granddearduck @riatesullironalite @strawberri-blonde

#neteyam #neteyam x oc #neteyam avatar #neteyam fic #neteyam x reader #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam sully

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thepoisonjackal · 1 month

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Figured I should introduce my silly little tav at some point, so here is Evangeline! She's a drow wild magic sorcerer/college of valor bard. Mostly a sorcerer though. More info about her below. I also have two durges that I will introduce later down the line.

Evangeline is very friendly and helpful, especially to strangers in need. She can be a bit naive, as she tries to see the best in everyone, but she can be overly trusting and get herself in bad situations. She travels a lot, not staying too long in one place, as she is often driven out of smaller towns and villages. She understands that most people aren't going to trust her right away so she tries to use her logic and kindness to show her trustworthiness. Being a wild magic sorcerer, though, she can be pretty chaotic and childish. It's hard to get her truly mad, though she may get frustrated, but if she does get extremely upset she may cause large magic surges. She calls them "incidents" and her mother called them "tantrums."

She likes playing violin, practicing swordfighting, singing and dancing, woodworking, telling and hearing stories, and eating sweet things. She follows and worships Eilistraee, but isn't the most religious person. She does sometimes asks her for guidance and comfort when she's feeling lost or alone.

She doesn't like violence that causes people to get hurt but does love exploding things if it doesn't hurt people. She will fight hard, though, if she has to. She also has to lie a lot, mostly to get herself out of bad situations, but found that she is a very good liar. She has mixed feelings about this part of herself.

Her mother took her and escaped the Underdark when she was only a year or two old. While escaping, a drow mage hit her with a spell. Instead of killing her, the magic absorbed into her bloodstream, making her blood magical and turning her into a sorcerer. Her and her mother lived outside a small surface village in an abandoned hunting lodge. Evangeline stayed with her mother for about 80 years until she left her home village to see the world. Currently, she is nearing two hundred.

I did actually play her in a D&D campaign, but it didn't last very long. I was happy to give her new life as a BG3 character and get the chance to develop her more. I wouldn't mind playing her again in a campaign or one-shot, but we'll see!

#dnd #bg3 #bg3 tav #drow #fantasy #art #original character #oc #oc: Evangeline #elf #dnd art #my art

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hyperlexichypatia · 3 months

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**Cracks knuckles and wades into The Discourse**

"Can atheists be culturally Christian?" is entirely the wrong question.

Of course they can! Plenty of people don't believe in the religious doctrines of Christianity, but still do things like celebrate Christmas or Easter, have church weddings, and other culturally Christian activities. Take for example, me -- I'm a Deist who is also culturally Christian. Christianity is the religious lens I understand best, even if I don't necessarily agree with it.

Plenty of atheists and broadly-secular people who live in majority-culturally-Christian places, like most of the U.S., also are often oblivious to the Christian basis of their cultural practices, and may think of culturally Christian practices are "universal" or "secular" or "for everyone." This comes up every time someone brings up the inappropriateness of public schools/places celebrating Christmas, when people come out of the woodwork to insist that of course Christmas isn't religious, they know plenty of secular people who celebrate it! (Note: This is often blamed on ex-Evangelicals, but I don't think that's fair. Ex-Evangelicals know what Christianity is. This is something I see more from people from secular families in mostly-secular areas who don't think about religious diversity because it's not relevant to their lives.) (Additional Note: Do not @ me with "WELL, ACTUALLY, Christmas is PAGAN--" No. Your history is oversimplified and bad. You are not celebrating Yule. You are not celebrating Saturnalia. You are celebrating Christmas, a heavily secularized Christian holiday with some cultural influences from European Pagan traditions.)

Additionally, many atheists/secularists/non-religious-people whose primary reference point for religion is Christianity (whether because they're ex-Christians themselves, or just because that's what they know from cultural osmosis) make broad, inaccurate assumptions about All Religion based on their projected understanding of Christianity, e.g. "I'm not religious because I don't believe that an omnipotent God controls everything in the universe and rewards or punishes people when they die." Okay, cool, but not all religions teach that, not all religious people believe that, not even all Christians believe that.

So, of course atheists can be culturally Christian, maybe without realizing it or thinking about it. Anyone who says they can't isn't paying attention! And that's why "Can atheists be culturally Christian?" is entirely the wrong question.

The right questions are "Is it reasonable to assume by default that anyone who lists their religion as 'atheist' or 'none' must actually be culturally Christian?" and "Is it reasonable to blame anything you don't like on 'cultural Christianity'?" and no! It's not!

Sometimes simply does not have a religious affiliation. And that's okay! There is a tendency to interpret "none of the above" as "Oh, so, the default thing, but a milder version of it," and that is... not accurate.

There's this vague sense that non-religious people aren't really a religious minority, that they're really just play-acting at being religiously marginalized, because after all, they're actually just non-devout Christians. Discrimination against non-religious people doesn't necessarily look the same as discrimination against religious people (like, there aren't atheist holidays that people are being denied time off work for), but it's still very real, and falls the hardest on non-religious people with the fewest cultural ties to Christianity, the very people erased by "Atheists are just cultural Christians" discourse.

Furthermore, the traits and beliefs and ideologies and biases that get called "culturally Christian" are often not actually unique to Christianity at all. Certain concepts, like an emphasis on redemption through death, are culturally Christian (although even that one is sometimes found in other religions), but to hear the people calling everything "culturally Christian" tell it, no other religion, culture, or philosophy on Earth has ever believed in virtue ethics, valued hard work and stigmatized "laziness", or been judgmental about petty infractions. Nor, I can't believe I have to say, is "Christians do it, so it's bad" a good argument against things like freedom of conscience or disability rights (neither of which are even especially popular among Christians).

The problem with way people are talking about "cultural Christians" isn't that atheists or other non-Christians can't be culturally Christian (of course they can) or that Christianity doesn't have pervasive influence in majority-Christian societies (of course it does). The problem is that people are using "culturally Christian" in inaccurate and nonsensical ways.

#discourse #comparative religion #religion #christianity #atheism #cultural christianity #usually on forms if there's not a 'deist' option I put 'catholic' because I'm closer to a 'bad catholic' than I am to atheist/agnostic #I guess I could be agnostic since I don't “know”#but that feels too certain about not knowing #I'm more like #there are known unknowns and unknown unknowns #remember that one?#I don't often talk about religion and spirituality from a perspective of myself #I more talk about social issues like religious freedom #but I felt like I should list my own standpoint #I am quite culturally Christian actually! But that's only tangentially connected to my opinions on rights etc!

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magicfootballstuff · 2 years

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Trophy Girlfriend (alexia putellas x reader)

Summary: The biggest challenge of dating the world’s best footballer is finding space for all her trophies.

———

“Another one?”

Alexia returns home from training still in her kit, with her boot bag slung over one shoulder and a shimmering trophy in her hands.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she says, setting the trophy down on the coffee table and pressing an apologetic kiss to your lips as she takes a seat next to you on the couch.

Your shared apartment is full of trophies and accolades, a few displayed on shelves to see, but most are crammed into boxes that you’re rapidly running out of the space to store. It’s perhaps the only disadvantage to being in love with a superstar footballer - that you’re soon going to need a bigger apartment to keep up with all the awards she keeps winning.

“What’s this one for?”

“Footballer of the year,” she tells you. “According to some local magazine. It’s not a big one, but they surprised me with it at training.”

You turn to look at her, resting your hand on her thigh as you tilt your head to the side and plead, “Could you maybe try being less good at football?”

You share a laugh, and she says, “You know I don’t do it for the awards.”

“I know.”

You lean into her side and she wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you close.

“Anyway,” she murmurs, her lips grazing the point where your hairline meets your forehead, “there’s only one award that matters. Best girlfriend, and you’re the winner of that.”

You lift your head to look at her, to find her smiling sheepishly at you. You’re mostly unimpressed by her attempts to make up for yet another trophy cluttering up your space.

“And if there was a trophy for cheesiest pickup line, you’d have just won it, mi amor.”

“Good job that award doesn’t exist, because we wouldn’t have room for the trophy,” she jokes, nudging the newly acquired one on the coffee table with her big toe.

“If you win any more, I’m going to have to build you a trophy cabinet,” you muse aloud.

Alexia’s eyes darken and you can tell you’ve lost her to a train of thought.

“What are you thinking about?” you nudge her.

Her lips curl up into a mischievous smile as she says, “Just imagining you in overalls doing some woodworking.”

“Does the thought of me wielding power tools turn you on?” you ask, lowering your voice.

“It’s definitely motivation to go and win another one of these.”

You mentally store that piece of information for later, knowing you can have a bit of fun with Alexia’s apparent thing for handywomen.

“Speaking of winning,” Alexia continues. “I’ve been invited to another award ceremony the week after next.”

“I really do need to get to work on that trophy cabinet then, don’t I?” you say with a sigh.

“There’s only one trophy I want to show off.”

“If you say me…” you warn her.

“Be my date?” she asks you, linking your fingers together and bringing your hand to her mouth to graze your knuckles with her lips. “Winning these things is only fun when I get to share it with you.”

“What’s the dress code?” you concede, adding as a joke, “Black tie or lesbian handyman chic?”

She gets out her phone and pulls up a photo of a glamorous silver and black dress.

“This is what I’ll be wearing,” Alexia says, showing you. “Do you have a tool belt that matches?”

You grin at her, already practically drooling at the thought of an evening hanging off the arm of your glammed up girlfriend.

“I’m sure I can find one.”

#woso imagine #woso x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #established relationship #fluff

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fukuzawa-armeddaddyagency · 2 months

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Updated headcannons!

Having Shion around has softened dad up. He isn't nearly as strict as he used to be.

He has two king sized beds pushed together to make room for any little ones that need a sleepover with Dad - along with the large crib that now has permanent residence in the bedroom

He has started trying to take walks by himself. Doing his best to practice self care when he has a moment.

He already bought wedding rings for him and Shion. He's just waiting for the perfect moment

Fukuzawa has special ordered adult sized baby EVERYTHING since some of the kids started regressing

The friend cabinet and blankie closet have gotten bigger and are now constantly being restocked to keep up with all the new kids.

He's been slowly baby proofing everyone's bedrooms since @ultradeduction got stuck under a bookshelf

Speaking of bookshelves - woodworking is another new hobby. He hopes to be able to build new furniture for the house one day.

He has found tons of joy watching his older kids become parents and is very excited to watch them learn as the babies get older.

#bsd rp blog #bsd fukuzawa #fukudadwa

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boundinparchment · 9 months

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Dream a Little Dream of Me - LIV

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Fic is rated explicit; MDNI. Mind the tags. Chapter on AO3 here.

A blast of heat greeted you as you stepped into the House of the Hearth. Early twilight cast shades of pink and orange against warm wooden paneling, echoes of laughter dancing down the halls. You could already smell dinner wafting from the far reaches of the large house. If you closed your eyes, you could just make out the out-of-tune violin being practiced upstairs.

Arlecchino’s passing comment at the bank was followed up with a proper invitation. One you knew better than to avoid or turn down. Zandik didn’t entirely seem pleased but even he knew you were more bound by social conventions. If you were to stay, you might as well attempt to make other bonds.

You knew little about this particular division of the Fatui other than Zandik’s remark about espionage and that loyalty was an interesting facet of cognitive development for children.

A housekeeper took your cloak and lead you to Arlecchino’s office at the back of the house. Wide windows dressed in heavy drapes provided a view to gardens long-since buried in snow and trampled through by both wildlife and children. The furniture looked only slightly out of place and bore the uniquely detailed style typical of Fontainian woodworkers and upholsterers. The table between the couches held a tea set that was, although plain, clearly made from one of the best guild-families; it was accompanied by a large stand of desserts, colorful, fresh, and familiar.

Around you, floor to ceiling bookshelves held various tomes, the age of some betraying the woman standing behind her desk. Another oddity you were beginning to recognize among the top-ranked Fatui leaders.

“Perfect timing, maestra, although I’d expect as such from someone of your skill,” Arlecchino said, her smile softly carving her face. “Make yourself at home.”

You settled into the sofa nearest you, the fire in the hearth on your left spilling its warmth onto your feet. The Harbinger handed off a letter to the housekeeper before she took a seat across from you, legs crossed as her hands reached for the teapot and poured.

“Before I recount the important details of Fontaine’s changes, there is one that I feel you, and many others, were owed a long time ago.”

She picked up a cup and saucer and held it out to you, black fingers curling so her nails wouldn’t scratch you. You took it, the smell of lavender teasing your senses, and watched as Arlecchino pulled something from inside her jacket and placed it on the table.

Metal glinted in the firelight and your blood iced over. You turned your head to look the Harbinger square in the face, eyes narrowed.

“I thought your compositions sounded familiar but your piano playing made it difficult to place. Once my children confirmed you had taken to another instrument, it didn't take much more than an ad placed for a cellist in the national orchestra. The Steambird does love its gossip and a renowned cellist leaving the tour in Sumeru after a devastating scene of destruction is quite...attention-grabbing."

Arlecchino took a sip of her tea before she spoke again.

“Not that it truly matters, although the Doctor was always a bit touched with paranoia. You are owed accolades in your own right and if the Doctor is keen on keeping your visage to himself, then so be it.”

“Then why is that signet ring on the table?” you asked, your tea untouched in your lap.

The last you saw of that accursed thing, he was playing with it as you signed your non-disclosure forms and waivers. How many bruises had that thing wrought? How many scars?

A trembling ache sat in your rib cage. Deep down, a part of you hoped you get to slice your claymore through him, bit by bit. Make him regret hurting you, hurting everyone. It was never a conscious thought but when you practiced, sometimes the training mech wore his face in your mind, and you worked yourself to exhaustion.

Zandik never asked. With many things, he didn’t need to. Spite recognized spite and of all people, he knew how to use it to fuel one’s goals.

“When I arrived, I caught wind that he had a new contract with a violinist. Talented young man. Your patron recently took to darker circles, was far more open about his…activities to others. When one gets away with something for too long, they get careless. I'll spare you the rest but the poor boy did not die a dignified death. Even at the end of a spear, your patron whined and blamed others, thinking it would save him.”

Between your fingers, the handle of the porcelain cup snapped and hot liquid spilled across the fabric you wore. Unsteadily, you placed the cup and saucer on the table and reached for a cloth napkin, dabbing your outfit.

You’d wanted to kill him.

Ever since you finally developed the proper strength and had the means, you’d silently hoped that one day, you’d take up the chance. Hurt him for all that he robbed you and others of, for all the pain and lasting marks, for taking your own passion and throttling you with it…

Gone, just like that.

The flood of rage, hot and boiling, faded as relief washed over you, certainty taking hold. He would never harm a single person again. No one would die again.

But maybe if you hadn’t left, that violinist would be alive. Others after you would have been spared. You could have endured it. Wouldn’t that have been better? At least no one else would have...

Vision blurry and shoulders shaking, you were unaware that Arlecchino had moved to sit beside you, her steady hands taking the napkin from you and dabbing the fabric in your place.

“What good is justice when the guilty all walk free?” she whispered soothingly.

You couldn’t cry, not here, not properly. Even if Arlecchino knew who you were, where you came from, you liked the privacy and anonymity your mask gave you. That something kept you from the rest of the world while Zandik got all of you.

You managed a shuddering breath as you focused on the warmth of the fire, Arlecchino’s voice, and the way your boots moved when you flexed your ankles. The Harbinger, satisfied you at least weren’t melting, rose and folded the fabric in her hands gently.

“He was not the first of his kind, nor the last. Many of the children I’ve come across suffered similar or worse. At the very least, he will no longer hurt another.”

Which was all you could have asked for, in the end.

Arlecchino whisked away the broken cup and wet saucer back to the tray, used the napkin to wipe up the remnants on the polished wood, and placed a new one in front of you without hesitation. Practiced motions that only came with experience.

“I—"

“I hated this set anyway,” the Harbinger said as smoothed her pants and sat down. “One cup won’t be missed.”

You nodded but didn’t bring yourself to take the cup just yet. Hands still shaking slightly, you didn’t quite trust yourself not to break this one, too.

“Fontaine loves to pretend they have everything in order and Monsieur Neuvillette tries, certainly. Lady Furina tried but lacked the confidence in her skills and abilities. Plenty of people, including the perpetrator behind the serial disappearances, got away with the harm they caused due to those blindspots. Systems fail, maestra. No one intends for them to, but they do.”

“They failed those victims for a decade,” you said. “They failed every single person who trusted the ones who put a roof over their head.”

The venom in your words was intentional but it was burning you from the inside out; you couldn’t keep it in forever.

You recalled a case where a boy killed his parents when he discovered they were selling the children they took in when they got too old. More and more young women went missing, never to be seen again. Performers, the best of the best, suddenly without the partner they rose to fame with; shared looks across a crowded room said everything one needed to know about what transpired.

“It is why people like us must step in,” Arlecchino sat back and took a sip of her tea. “Play the roles no one else can or wants to.”

“Because Celestia won’t?”

You recalled the long trip from Sumeru, during which Zandik recounted the structure of the world, the true nature of the Heavenly Principles, and the Descenders who tried to dismantle them. Celestia and the Principles were meant to be guides and when those guides failed, when people were desperate and shaken with a fear of something greater than the divine…

That, too, was a system that failed every single time. A usurper who thought they understood the culture of the people they ruled over, out of touch.

The Knave gave an enigmatic smile over the rim of her cup before she took another long sip.

“It brings me great joy to see Columbina find another who shares her passion for creation. I am not sure how you convinced that madman to allow you to accompany him, but I’m glad for it.”

Although you could not bring yourself to remove your mask, the warmth of being seen kept you cozy until you arrived back at the Palace and in the sanctuary of your rooms.

“Where are you taking me?”

All you received in response was a chuckle of amusement as the forearm beneath your hand tensed for a brief second.

From the moment you’d awoken, Zandik had a lightness to his step that only came with a major breakthrough in his research. In the privacy of your rooms, he had been liberal with his affection that morning, flashing a wolfish grin when he pulled you back under the covers. He had a surprise, he said, but it had to wait until after dinner.

You still bore the reminder at the base of your neck, hidden beneath a high collared blouse.

His excitement took the edge off the knowledge that the ball was tomorrow night. Only that afternoon’s rehearsal stood between you and the moment of truth.

As soon as you’d cleared your plate, Zandik tugged at his cravat and covered your eyes with it, careful not to tie it too tight. He slid your veil back on, muttering something about ensuring no one else saw the color in your cheeks, and guided your hand into the crook of his elbow.

You’d lost track after the first few turns and a stairwell down which Zandik carried you himself. Judging by the muted sounds from his boots, you had to be in one of the wings of the Palace, but only on the first floor, same as the throne room and your music room. Most of those corridors had soft runners and there had only been a single flight of stairs. But with the continued turns, you had no idea where, precisely, you could be on the main floor.

The air grew a little humid when Zandik’s steps slowed and the carpet gave way to hard stone again. He said something you recognized as an order just from his tone and receding footsteps. Carefully, you were lead down three steps before a set of doors (mostly glass, you guessed, from the way the material clattered slightly) closed behind you.

You turned your head as you were guided further into the space, footsteps echoing. Around you, the air was heavy but crisp, filled with scents both familiar and exotic. The freshness of a Rainbow Rose lingered amongst an airiness you only smelled once in Mondstadt.

“You can look now; we shouldn’t be disturbed. Now where did…”

Zandik gently touched your hand and pulled away, leaving you standing by yourself for a moment as he walked elsewhere. You lifted your veil and pulled it back before you slid your fingers into the knotted cravat. The fabric slipped down your neck. Tugging your cowl back to free your hair, you looked around the room illuminated only by the moon and the distant aurorae.

A greenhouse.

All glass, you could see the freshly fallen snow and the ice crystals that bloomed over the windows. Beds of flowers you recognized from home were intermixed with Glaze Lilies, their flowers yet to open for the evening, and Cecilias moving to a breeze of their own.

Perhaps a solarium was a better word for the space than a greenhouse, you realized. It was clearly well-manicured and maintained, meant to be seen.

From behind, you heard the telltale whisper of a spin-crystal gramophone and the click of the needle sliding into place. A crackle, and then familiar notes trickled through the air as Zandik returned to you. Your response to the music was almost instant, your ears conditioned over the last few weeks to know the initial note by heart, and you looked at him, confused.

“Columbina helped with the recording device. You’ll be too busy conducting tomorrow night. I thought you should enjoy your hard work properly,” he said.

He removed his mask and gloves before he held his hand out, palm up; your skin met his with the ease at which the sun rose every morning. His touch was warm, his fingers calloused from experiences both chemical and physical, as he led you in the steady one-two-three rhythm of the waltz.

It felt like you were there, in the concert hall, except instead of waving a baton you were observing. Artists often stepped back from their canvases to make sure everything was within perspective and scale. Without the additional depth to the sound only found in person, you could focus the larger parts and the flow of the music.

“The passion of the musicians is palpable, even in a recording,” you said. “Waltzes aren’t complicated; it’s only six basic steps, but having such dedicated colleagues certainly helped…when they were focused.”

Zandik chuckled softly as you flowed through the room. Your other hand, the one not clasped in his, rested on his shoulder blade and you felt his muscles move and flex. The touch at your waist sent a jolt through you when he pulled you closer.

“Are you aware of the litmus test, such as it is, for a perfect waltz?” he asked, blue eyebrow arching inquisitively.

“If there is one, I certainly never learned it. They trained us on the practical knowledge of playing the music, not dancing to it.”

“A shame. It used to be said that a couple dancing a waltz should be so delicate, smooth, and most importantly, swift that the flame of a candle in the lead dancer’s hand should retain its flame the entire time.”

“That’s only as good as the dance partner, though,” you shot back. “Seems more of a party trick.”

Zandik murmured.

You were uniquely aware of your torso pressed against his, the way his fingers wrapped around your hand, how hard and warm he was beneath your other hand. He followed your lead with an exact precision you only ever experienced with a fellow musician.

The time signature was not up for debate and he did not seek to fight it, fight you.

As the solarium spun around you, all you could think of was Zandik’s lips, red eyes beneath blue lashes watching from between your legs, bodies united in a way that, once upon a time, you would have considered shameful. But who was there to judge you now, save the full moon and the man before you?

Your hand left his shoulder long enough to find the expose strap of his harness across his chest and tug him to you as you angled your head to capture his lips. Cautious once, twice, before you became searing hunger and your tongue met his with a fervor that bordered on starved. You interlaced your fingers with Zandik’s, still firmly gripping his harness with your other hand; you were no longer dancing, and instead swayed to the music as it swelled, Columbina’s vocals overtaken by woodwinds.

Zandik’s hand on your waist dipped lower, grabbing your behind and pressing you firmly against him. He loosened his grip on your hand to cradle the back of your head, seemingly determined to coax your very soul from your lips. That creeping ache took root again as Zandik met your desire at every turn, a pit of fire growing in your chest and working down to curl in your lower belly.

Terrifying and freeing all at once.

You broke the kiss, parting only far enough for Zandik to press his cheek against yours. The last of the notes faded out and you could only hear your breathing over the low static of the gramophone. You swallowed audibly as the hand in your hair trailed down to your cheek, Zandik’s bare thumb brushing your swollen lips.

A match, lit after so many failed strikes, burned within you when you met his gaze again; its flame licked at unwavering patience and dedicated curiosity, determined to retain its light.

“I believe there is merit in understanding the movements of the body just as much as the structure of the music itself,” he whispered. “When you’re ready, we can put that hypothesis to the test.”

#dottore #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #dottore/female reader #il dottore/female reader #dottore x female reader #il dottore x female reader #genshin impact reader insert #soulmate au #merry christmas here's my last update of the year

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