#you are weak and you will not survive next winter

[stimkydukc]

oh, so the tumblr ceo decided to lead with the wile e coyote bullshit instead of any of these supposed more serious threats because ???????????????????

i see now. thank you anonymous tumblr user; i am sure you are very unbiased, especially since the only threat i can think of on my page is my "hate trans people? kill yourself" post

i wonder why you might consider that a threat!

i wonder i wonder i wonder

(edit: added image description)

[homunculus-argument]

I'm fascinated by the logic of those Return To Nature "your ancestors would be ashamed of how weak you are" kind of dudes. Like you really think that? You think that your ancestors would see you, being nobody's slave and nobody's serf, survived into adulthood, reaching 30 while still having all your teeth, having never had a child you didn't want or buried one you wanted to keep, never had to starve through the winter wondering how many of your kin will be alive next solstice? Like do you really think they would hate you for not having suffered like they suffered?

I mean I know mine would, but they were a bunch of bitter and petty crabs in a bucket who would seethe at the idea that someone else had better luck than they did, without ever getting the chance to ruin it out of pure spite. No idea what you did to offend yours.

[curlycow01]

Only you

Pairing: Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: You and the Winter soldier escape hydra together, and feelings for each other are revealed along the way

Meanings: солдат - soldier

Read part 2 here

Out of all the test subjects Hydra gave the serum to, only you survive. You and Soldat were the perfect soldiers of Hydra, their greatest weapons. They brainwash you both, but they overdo yours, and break your mind, making you forget all the memories pre serum, the life you previously had.

Hydra sends you both on missions to assassinate high level targets and you both end up saving each other's lives a lot of times, creating this weird dynamic. Even through the fragments of your mind, you seek the Soldat's presence, his powerful stance and intimidating silence, drawing you to him as your only sense of comfort.

No matter how many times Hydra wipes his memories, his feelings for you don't go away. When he realizes he cares about you, he's determined to find a way to save you.

Decades pass and one day Soldat returns from a mission. Looks like he didn't complete it as his metal arm had sustained heavy internal damage. He seems a bit off as you observe him from a corner. Alexander Pierce enters the room and asks him for the mission report.

The soldat doesn't reply, lost in thought. Pierce hits him on the face, the sound echoing through the room. You feel a flash of anger. "The man on the bridge" he says quietly to pierce, his face having a genuine expression of curiosity. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment." Pierce answers. "I knew him" Soldst's voice had a hint of faraway recognition. Pierce is clearly not happy. "Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time." he takes a small pause. "If you don't do your part I can't do mine, and Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves.

The Soldat's face was sad, he pressed his lips for a second before speaking in a defeated tone "But I knew him" Pierce sighs in frustration and gets up from the chair. He looks at him for a moment before turning to the scientists "Prep him" One of them spoke up "But he's been out of cryo freeze too long." "Then wipe him and start over" Pierce answers.

Your heart skips a beat as you hear those words. Pierce leaves. the scientist push Soldat back in the chair. Machines attach themselves onto his head, cackling with electricity.

You grip the railing tightly as his horrific screams echoed through the room, his naked chest heaving with heavy breathing. Guards come and escort you elsewhere, but his screams were still ringing through your ears.

Hours later

You opened your eyes and stepped out of the cryo freeze, to see the scientists panicking and few armed guards shuffling around uncomfortably.

The head Doctor spoke up "This doesn't change anything. We still have one supersoldier left. The Asset's failure, though frustrating, is not a complete disaster. Captain America is dead. The collision of the helicarriers killed both of them."

Your blood runs cold as the sentence sinks in. A small gasp escapes your lips at the fact that he's gone. He couldn't be, you didn't want to believe it. The Doctor notices your gasp and turns to you with a darkened expression. "Look at this" he says in a mocking tone "You've grown feelings for him, have you?" he scoffs " Having emotions makes you weak. We've lost the Soldat, but we can still use you, make you the next perfect soldier"

You're frozen in place as the Doctor reveals the truth. "Wipe her" he commands the guards in an emotionless voice. You're still rooted to the ground as the guards approach you. They roughly push you into the chair and lock restraints around your wrists.

Your heart is thundering in your chest as the electrocuting machines on either side of your head are switched on with a small hum of electricity. Adrenaline courses through your veins as the contraption starts coming close to you. You shut your eyes tightly, bracing for the pain.

You feel the cool metal closing around your head for a second, then a huge wave of blinding pain shoots through you, it's like the voltage of an electric chair dialed up to 11. Your cries of pain fall on deaf ears, and you barely survive the first wave. Tears streak down your cheeks as you waited for the second wave. But it never comes.

You slowly open your eyes, still blurry with tears. You can't hear much due to the ringing in your ears, but you can make out that the machine's stopped. A loud crash breaks through the ringing, and you try to blink away the tears to see what's going on.

You see the soldat plowing through the guards and the terrified scientists. The way he was landing his punches was in pure rage, nothing like you've ever seen him before. You try to move, but you were tightly bound by the restraints. Your breathing was still ragged, the first wave left you with little energy.

Gentle fingers brush against your cheek, you snap your head from the restraints to see your savior. "солдат?" your voice is low and hoarse as you gaze into his piercing blue eyes, which were laced with concern. "Bucky" he says as he starts freeing you from the restraints.

You try to stand, but your knees were wobbly, Bucky swiftly grabs your arm to steady you. His eyes scan you for any other injuries. "I should have gotten here sooner" he says grimly, his hand wrapped around yours protectively. "They said that you died" you say slowly, looking up at him "They said the crash killed you, but you survived. Why didn't you run?"

"I couldn't leave" Bucky answers, his gaze softening as he continues "Not without you. Not when you were still trapped." His metal arm reached up and brushed some hair that had fallen over your face, this action made your stomach flip. The atmosphere between you two changed.

"So, uh" you say awkwardly, breaking the silence "Where do we go now?" "I have a place in Romania. We should be safe there." He answers.

"Great" You're trying to sound like you're okay, even though you were anything but okay on the inside, all of these emotions swirling inside of you. He could never know you think he'll never feel the same

You started walking to the exit, but Bucky caught your arm. You turned to him "Aren't we leaving?" He took a deep breath before speaking "Before I killed the Doctor, he said that you had grown attached to me and" he paused for a moment and blinked slowly "that you had feelings for me"

Your breath slightly hitched as he finally learnt your secret. "He also tried to insult you, but I snapped his neck before he could finish the sentence" Bucky takes a step closer to you. "Is that true? That- that you have feelings for me?" he asks slowly. You only nodded, not knowing what to say.

"How long?" As you're thinking what to say, you suddenly realize that he's standing close to you, his lips only inches away. how you would love to- woah. Wait a minute. You snap out of your thoughts and rasp out "A while"

His flesh hand reached out and lightly traced your jaw with his fingers "Why didn't you say anything? he asks softly. You hesitated for a moment "I- I thought you didn't feel the same, because hydra removed emotions-" "Hydra couldn't take away this." He interrupted. His hand stilled and pulled away from your jaw. "They couldn't take you away from me. They didn't change the way I feel about you."

His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Before you could realize what's happening. his lips were on yours. Your lips perfectly molded his, moving in sync. His other hand moved to the back of your head, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss.

His muscular frame covered you completely as his tongue brushed against your lip, silently asking for entry. You parted your lips slightly, allowing his tongue to slip inside. His tongue danced against yours as his hand moved through your hair.

You both pulled away after a few moments for air. Bucky's metal arm was tracing circles on your hip. "I'll never let them hurt you again" He whispers "I'll always keep you safe." He looks at you with utmost love and affection in his sky-blue eyes.

"Do you think we can make this work?" You whisper back, taking his hand in your own "The world won't accept this. They won't accept us. "Screw the world" Bucky replies firmly and squeezes your hand in reassurance "I don't care about the world, what they say or want, I don't." He intertwines his fingers with yours.

"I only care about you"

[sweetbonniebel]

Jaes's hen jēdar

God's of the sky

One

Daemon x reader, Rhaenyra x reader (platonic), Qoren Martell x reader

Synopsis: The history of House Targaryen changes with the birth of y/n Targaryen the child of Baelon the brave and Gael the winter child.

Note: I will be changing the timeline a bit, in the show Rhaenyra is born in 95 AC but I will be going with the book date which is 97 AC. I will be changing some aspects of the tv plot in favour of the books.

Masterlist Next->

93 AC Red Keep, King's Landing

„Mother, I do not understand why you are doing this! I do not need to re-marry I have two sons!” The spring Prince raised his voice at his mother, her disapproving expression tamed the anger bubbling in his chest. 

“My love, Alyssa died nine years ago. I grieve my child's passing more than anyone. I have lost nine children Baelon, nine. I am happy that the god's gave me all of you and many grandchildren. But we have to continue our line. With more blood of the dragon our dynasty is secure. Me and your father are the prime example of that. Our house thrives thanks to our sacrifices.” The ailing Queen Alysanne responded hands tucked in front of her abdomen.

"What sacrifices?!” Baelon raised his voice "You love father and father loves you. That is no sacrifice! That’s your duty and you have fulfilled it because of the love you hold for each other. You married father despite the wishes of grandmother and the hand. I should be given that right.”

Alysanne sighed deeply and sat on the comfortable chair in her solar.

“I know you still love Alyssa and the gods were cruel to take her away. But Gael is different, she is... you know how she is. Gael will be happy with whatever you give her. But what you need to do is produce heirs, to ensure the safety of our house.” 

„Mother I-" Baelon started but stopped, he sat on the queens bed. His large palms tangled in his silver hair. „I feel that if I marry Gael I am betraying Alyssa. Betraying her memory and what she means to me.”

The Queen looked with sadness in her eyes at her oldest surviving son. She sat next to the prince and took his hand in hers.

„Alyssa is resting with the seven. She looks from the heavens at you and your sons, I think she would understand. She was my smartest child after all.” Alysanne jested and Baelon let out a weak chuckle.

„I am build for the happiness or misery of our kingdom.” Baelon muttered after a long silence. The prince took a deep breath and nodded his head, he knows his mother is right. With Aemon’s death, he became the heir and to ensure his line survives he needs heirs. Despite his healthy children Viserys and Daemon, the gods were cruel.

“I will do as you wish mother.” Baelon whispered and kissed the wrinkled cheeks of his mother and departed from her solar. 

„I know you will my love. I hate to see you miserable but dark times are approaching and we must do everything in our power to prevent that.” The good Queen said. „I hope you find some happiness with Gael.”

„What does she think of this?” Baelon finally thought of how his sister of five and ten must feel about this.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Baelon the brave nodded and left his mothers solar to search for his youngest sister. The winter child Gael was unlike any of her siblings, her head was in the clouds. Because of Alysanne's dependance on Gael the princess was very sheltered and kept away from court. She liked to embroider and draw, but her works were... disturbing. Gael drew and embroidered macabre scenes of dragons killing different creatures.

Princess Gael was sitting beneath the weirwood tree, her hands moving skillfully on the embroidered dragon. Baelon looked at the winter child with a pitiful gaze.

„Gael?” The spring prince asked, the girl did not move. He noticed that her lips moved and yet no sound came out. „Gael?” He asked again, moving closer.

Baelon gently touched his sisters shoulder, her head jolted upwards abandoning the embroidery.

„Oh, brother.” She whispered quickly resumed her task not looking at her brother. They sat in serene silence, he thought of his sister Daella. They were similar in a way, both sheltered and shy.

„What are you embroidering?” He asked.

„It is father's dragon.” She answered simply, but the drawing didn't show only Vermithor, it breathed golden fire upon a green army. A pregnant silence fell between the two of them. Baelon sat next to his sister, their shoulders touching.

„Gael… I wanted to ask you.” Baelon started „Are you happy?”

Gael looked up at her brother a confused expression on her delicate features.

„I don’t know.” She muttered „Mother is sad, so that makes me sad. She said I will be happy with you.” Baelon winced at the mention of their union. „I wonder... Viserra wanted to marry you but father and mother objected." Gael muttered her voice thin.

"Viserra did not want to marry me for love, she wanted to be Queen."

Viserra was very alike to Saera her elder sister. Both beautiful and bold but vain and cunning.

„I did not wish to marry Viserra, father and mother agreed that what she did was wrong. I hope you know that.” Baelon responded thinking of Viserra with guilt. Perhaps if he had acted differently during that fateful night she met a different fate. A happy life in White Harbor instead of a broken neck.

„I do not wish to be Queen.” Gael whispered looking up at her brother.

„I know” Baelon answered.

...

Gael stood before a mirror as a maid fixed her violet wedding dress. She picked at the skins of her fingers in nervousness. 

“Child, stop that.” Queen Alysanne mused as she picked up on her daughters, nervous habit. “I know you are nervous but there is nothing to be nervous about. Your brother Baelon will treat you with utmost respect and you will be his queen someday. The greatest lady in the seven kingdoms.” The queen caressed her daughters pale cheek. Gael’s expression saddened, her hands trembling as she looked at her mother.

„Alyssa should be his Queen... Mother I-„ Gael began, she took a deep breath to calm her herself. „I dream of dragons.” She whispered, Queen Alysanne looked expectantly at her daughter expecting more.

„That’s natural daughter, you’re the blood of the dragon.”

„No mother you don’t understand!” Gael raised her voice, the Queen flinched. Her daughter has never raised her voice before. „These are no ordinary dragons, they’re beasts mother. They are not our dragons, none of them.”

„A nightmare my love.” Queen Alysanne whispered, caressing her daughters pale hands. „You are just nervous.”

Gael trapped the Queens’s hand in her own, with such strength Alysanne winced in pain. Scared eyes of the Queen searched for the calm orbs of her daughter only to find misty ones.

„Blood will flow.” Gael whispered letting go of her mother’s hands. Her eyes turned from misty to a bright violet, her breath steadied and she straightened herself.

The ceremony passed in a blur, the high Septon said the vows and the two Targaryen’s repeated. Baelon threw his cloth around Gael bringing the young girl into his protection. A chaste kiss followed and the crowd erupted in applause.

„It will be fine, Gael” Baelon whispered to his new sister-wife. „We’ll be okay.”

...

93 AC Dragonpit

Five months after the wedding of Gael and Baelon Targaryen the spring prince died of a burst belly in the tower of the hand. The princess pregnant with her first child wept bitterly at the pyre of her husband and brother. She caressed her swollen belly as she held her mother's hand. 

They stood among the rest of their house, the King standing at the feet of the pyre of his son, the bronze fury overlooked from the hills.

“Dracarys” The wise king commanded, his steed lit the corpse of the prince with dragon fire. The stench of the burning flesh of her husband was enough for the young princess to expel the contents of her stomach. 

...

“It’s been almost two morrows since her royal highness started the labour. She’s losing consciousness and blood, if the babe is not delivered soon it will die.” Maester Runciter informed the King and Queen of the delicate state of their daughter. Gael’s screams haunted the red keep, her voice sore from the hours of agonizing labour. 

“What do you suggest we do?” The Queen said worried, the maester hesitated before speaking. “Seven hells, speak!” 

“We would have to use the forceps to remove the babe from the canal, it may injure the infant but save it’s life” The maester muttered looking at his bloodied hands. 

„And Gael?” Alysanne whispered staring daggers at the maester.

„If we act quickly and remove the babe from her belly she might live but we are not certain. She has lost blood and her body is weak.”

“Jaehaerys…” The queen wept clutching her husband’s hand. The king was pale with fear, another child would be lost but a grandchild could be gained. He looked at his wife and then at the maester. 

“Do what you must..” The king ordered weakly.

Alysanne rushed to the chamber where her daughter was screaming in agony. The queen got on the bed caressing her daughters damp with sweat hair. 

“Mama?” Gael whispered weakly, her hands strongly clasped her mother’s dress. 

“Yes my sweet, it’s me.” Alysanne cried with a faint smile on her lips. She stroked her daughters cheek and kissed her forehead. Before she could raise her head Gael’s hand grabbed her hair. The winter child stared intently at her mother.

"The death of one gives an heir and god's beware she will bring despair. Red eyes with needle and thread change our death." Gael , absentmindedly whispered into the air, fear and anger boiling in her violet eyes.

Alysanne stared in shock at her daughter, it’s as if time stopped. She looked deeply into her daughters violet eyes. Her ears rang, the trance was interrupted when the cries of a babe reached her ears.

��A healthy girl, your grace.” The maester uttered holding the bloodied newborn. The midwife’s took the babe and swaddled it in fresh cloth. 

The Queens attention turned towards the crying babe, as her gaze left her daughter, weak hands slipped from the queen. The princesses breath shallowed, her eyes turning misty. Gael lost consciousness.

“Gael? Gael!” The Queen screamed, her lungs burned. Worry overtaking her body. She cried, her hands clasping her daughter. Blood and sweat staining the queen’s blue dress.

"Your Grace, the princess is weak but she might recover. Only time will tell now." The master said checking Gael.

Outside the chambers king Jaehaerys and his offspring gathered around him. Gael's scream of pain and Alysanne's cries haunted the Red keep.

“Your grace ‘tis a girl.” A maid walked out of the chamber, her eyes glossy with tears. “The maester wishes to know the name.”

The old king stared at the infant, wisps of silver hair, thin brows, full cheeks and piercing red eyes. He caressed the ample cheek of the baby and in turn she giggled. The king smiled at his granddaughter, her little fingers wrapping around the bony finger of Jaehaerys.

“y/n” The King muttered.

...

The winter child suffered from childbed fever, her daughter y/n was born small but healthy. To prevent the infant from catching the illness she was taken to separate chambers. Maester Elysar visited the princesses chambers twice a day to change the wet rags that cooled her body and provided small doses of milk of the poppy to alleviate the pain.

Princess y/n was visited often by her kin. Her two half-brothers Viserys eight and ten and Daemon four and ten watched their little sister curiously. Viserys's wife of two years Aemma stood faithfully at his side. Their cousin Rhaenys one and twenty with her husband lord Corlys Velaryon watched the squirming child.

"Her eyes are red." Rhaenys stated staring at the little princess. Daemon picked the infant from her cradle and held her securely in his arms.

"Quite fascinating isn't it?" Viserys mused, the rest nodded.

"Has there even been a Targaryen with red eyes?" Aemma questioned caressing the chubby cheeks of her sister in law.

"None that I'm aware of." Corlys the eldest answered "I have never seen red eyes, not even in Essos."

"Perhaps the blood of old Valyria is strong in her." Daemon said rocking the infant in his arms, the child smiled gleefully.

"I do not think it is a good omen." Aemma whispered caressing her pregnant belly.

"An omen of what?" Daemon said quick to anger.

"I do not mean any insult good brother, it is just peculiar." The Arryn answered cautiously glancing at Daemon.

The King and Queen entered the nursery putting an end to the conversation.

"Your Graces" Lord Corys said bowing his head as the monarchs approached their grandchild.

"How is little y/n?" Jaehaerys asked taking the little princess from Daemon's arms.

"A true dragon grandsire." The prince answered, following his sister's every little move.

"Are there no eggs to be put in her cradle?" Alysanne questioned glancing over her kin.

"Not that I'm aware of grandmother." Viserys answered truthfully.

"She has no need for an egg my love." Jaehaerys interrupted his sister wife, his deep purple eyes focused on the princess in his arms. "One I pass she will mount Vermithor and take him as her steed."

The room fell silent after the King's statement. With peace and quiet princess y/n fell asleep and the room began to empty, Daemon was the last to leave.

Hours later Gael entered her daughter's nursery. Drenched in sweat her linen tunic clung to her body, long silver strands were stuck to her pale face. She approached her daughter's cradle and placed a kiss on her head.

"I am so sorry..." She whispered as her eyes were glued to her child. y/n slept comfortably as the cool air of spring chilled the stuffy room. Gael glanced at her daughter for the last time.

The waters of blackwater bay were cool, they brought comfort to Gael as she stepped into the water.

It was said that Princess Gael passed away from childbed fever. But that is only half true, after the death of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne it was revealed that Gael suffering from fever she walked into Blackwater bay and drowned. Alysanne's youngest and most favored daughter, Gael, committed suicide in 95 AC. Gael's death broke Alysanne, for she had outlived all but two of her children. No longer able to bear living at King's Landing and the Red Keep, Alysanne returned to Dragonstone, where she had spent the happiest days of her life. Despite the sadness that overtook the court after princess Gael's passing the realm rejoiced over the fruit of her demise. -From the dragon bringer by the feather and quill of Grand Maester Roland.

[elliewritesfantasy]

Escape in the Night

A/N: I never thought I would be posting fanfiction on this account. However, Baldur’s Gate has captured my attention and my inspiration for months now. I don’t even know if anyone will see this, but I enjoyed writing it, and that’s all that matters.

Some protective dadstarion for you all. And strong boss Tav. Female Tav x Astarion.

Snow fell in great white clumps, blanketing the forest in an eerie silence. Cold crept up your fingers, reaching further with every moment that passed. You remained crouched under the boughs of an old maple tree, the bare branches leaning under the weight of the snowfall. You were burdened with your own weight; a greatsword hung between your shoulder blades, a relic of your paladin oath long forgotten among other worries, and a bundle against your chest. It was the one spot of true warmth on this winter night. Your baby. Astarion’s baby.

Armelle.

Boots shifted, crunching snow and dirt.

“Astarion?” His name was barely a puff of air from your mouth.

“I’m here.” He appeared next to you, and knelt. His silver hair shone even on this starless night, a mess of curls barely tamed. His eyes searched your face, his hands clenched around his longbow.

“Where are the vampires?” you asked.

“They’re close. I need to get you out of here.” Astarion placed a hand on your shoulder, guiding you to your feet. “I’ve lost a lot of my vampiric senses, but not all.”

“I wish they would see reason.”

“I know.”

You had found a wish scroll for him long ago, as part of your promise after the defeat of the netherbrain. The wish scroll brought him not only the cure for him vampirism, but the promise of a wide open future free of having to hide in the dark. It brought him hope and the freedom to finally say that he could marry you without feeling like he had trapped you in a vampire’s nest for life. And it had brought him his second-most precious gift of all - the wrapped child you clutched with the strength of a mother’s fierce love.

The vampires didn’t know Astarion was cured. They thought he had sired a dhampir, the offspring of a vampire and a powerful being with hungers rarely fully sated. A dhampir would be an asset to their coven, and they wasted no time in searching you out in the two weeks you have had her. You hadn’t meant to have your baby on the way to Waterdeep for a companions’ reunion. She was early. A surprise. But you were already so far from home, it wasn’t worth it to turn back.

Maybe that was a mistake.

“Y/N.” Astarion broke you from your thoughts. “Waterdeep isn’t far. If you run, you can make it while I hold them off.”

“I can’t leave you.” Your soul burned with your paladin’s oath, and your hands itched to strike the vampires down with all of your holy might.

“Just for a second. I’ll meet you there I promise,” Astarion said. His lips lifted in his slightly crooked smile. “If we can survive the Absolute and the attempted end of the world, we can survive this.”

You steeled your nerves, drinking in his familiar confident expression, though it wavered just a bit as the bundle on your chest let out a small, sleepy whine. “Alright”

“I can smell you. I can smell her.” The crooning voice of the vampire master Kazimir cut through the dampened night. Your heart quickened.

“Run.” Astarion notched an arrow, his breath coming in quick, clouded puffs. “Run!”

You didn’t hesitate. Your boots dug into the snow, into the frozen mud and you sprinted with all of the strength left in your body. The lights of Waterdeep twinkled on the horizon. It wasn’t much farther. You could make it.

“Ah, not so fast.”

You skidded to a stop, your throat lurching with fear. Kazimir stood before you, red eyes shining with glee.

“I can’t let you go, not with that creature you have.”

“She’s not a creature,” you growled. You drew your greatsword.

“Oh, but she is. And what a delicious creature she would be to have. She should be raised by a real vampire, not a pithy elf and a weak spawn.” He drew his own blade, a wicked sharp rapier. “Hand her to me peacefully, and I will let you return to your spawn without fuss.”

“No.” You swung your greatsword in an arc, poised to strike.

“A shame. Then I will have to take her from you.” Kazimir lunged forward, blade catching on the woolen edge of your wrap. You lurched back, narrowly escaping his rapier. You raised your sword, letting the anger in your stomach explode outward, lighting the weapon with a golden light. The vampire hissed and shrunk back instinctually at the light. With a cry, you leaped forward, bringing your sword down in a blazing arc. The vampire recovered just in time, spinning out of the way of your smite, his cloak billowing out behind him. He vanished among the trees, flitting between them like a ghost. You reeled, then recovered, and grounded yourself in the snow. You had to be ready.

Your eyes searched the darkness desperately, your eyes struggling to perceive anything beyond the falling snow.

“Behind you!” Astarion ran from the trees, an arrow whistling through the air. It found its mark in the shoulder of the master vampire. He screamed, turning from you to Astarion.

A blast of blue light blinded you all in an instant. A dimension door appeared just to your left with a familiar hand reaching through it.

“Gale!”

“Come with me,” Gale emerged wholly, his hair whipping in the wind of the portal. “Quickly!”

“But, Astarion-“ you looked back the silver elf now fighting Kazimir with his dagger, locked in an expert hand-to-hand battle.

“You have something more important to think about now, eh?” Gale gestured to you once again. You closed your eyes tight, sheathing your weapon. With one last glance at Astarion, you let Gale pull you through the gate and into the candlelit drawing room of his tower.

Shadowheart was the first to run to you. “Y/N, what happened?”

You couldn’t answer, your body wracked with violent shudders and shakes. Some of it was from the cold, some from the fear that made your very soul twist. Shadowheart wrapped you in a blanket. Through a tendril of consciousness, you managed to pull aside your wrap to check on your baby. You collapsed into a chair at the sight of her, eyes still closed, asleep. Safe.

“I’m going back for him.” Gale began furiously searching for a scroll through the precarious stacks upon his end tables.

Shadowheart laid a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t risk it. What if the vampire comes through this time?”

Gale shook his head. “I can’t leave him to that master. I remember how strong Cazador was.”

“We have to trust him,” Shadowheart argued.

You could only sit, your arms holding your baby to you, her head cradled in your hands. A prayer of safety rang through your mind again and again. You had been a thirty minute run from Waterdeep before, and with the fight, maybe it would take him an hour.

“Please, I need you,” you whispered. Gale and Shadowheart retreated, letting you hold your child and warm by the fire while your brain was wracked with thoughts.

Please. Please.

I should have stayed.

Please.

The door to the drawing room burst open. You ran to it immediately, blood rushing in your ears.

“I’m here.”

“Astarion.”

He was here, his armor streaked bright red with blood. His hair was clumped with gore, and a cut on his cheek shone. He drank your face in hungrily, then reached for the woolen wrap, pushing it aside to reveal the perfect girl curled at your chest, her fine, newborn-soft silver hair glowing in the candlelight. Astarion placed a hand on her head, giving her a soft kiss right above her brow. He pressed his forehead against yours, tucking you both into his chest.

Even years after his cure, the feeling of his body warmth was novel. You soaked it in.

“He’s dead,” Astarion said. He twined a hand through your hair, pressing you into his shoulder. “He will never bother us again.”

“I can’t believe you killed him.” You drew back, studying his face.

Astarion laughed, his brows crinkling. “What, you doubted me? Hero of the world, slayer of the netherbrain?”

“You know it was my sword that landed the final strike,” you teased.

Armelle stirred, drawing Astarion’s attention. Oh, how much he had changed. From only being able to care about his own survival, to dedicating his whole existence to the survival of two others. It scared him more than the impending end of existence did.

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” He traced Armelle’s rounded, flushed cheeks, taking in the hair that matched his own, the nose that matched yours. “I have everything that I need right here.”

[archonsbane]

BEAUTY IS TERROR

The gods crafted all mortals to have weaknesses, and foremost of many of Il Dottore’s is you. So when you ask him to be your companion to an annual winter ball, he is powerless to refuse. 

pairing. prime!dottore x reader, implied segments x reader, implied harbingers x reader, implied dottore x pantalone 

cw. gn!reader. reader is the tsarita’s child. reader referred to as they/them. dottore is a warning by himself. mentions & thoughts of violence + murder + human experimentation. drinking. biting. biting hard enough to draw blood. a bit suggestive but not nsfw. 

wc. 15k

an. first ever fic! hope you enjoy :D the title is from ‘the secret history’ by donna tartt. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away. 

He remembers the first time. He had been a child then, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, so unknowing about the world. His parents were fighting — they always fought, about money and work and him — and his father, a big man with small-set eyes and a hard mouth made for scowling, had begun to go on one of his drunken rants, prompting his mother to scream louder. He was crouched behind the stairwell, watching their shadows flicker and dance with the candlelight on the yellowed walls of their home. 

How hard he prayed that autumn day. His lip quivering, hands clasped together, every atom in his body searching for a hint of mercy from those who claimed to love him, both gods and parents. Stop, he would chant in his mind, stop, stop, stop. As brown and red leaves fell outside, as day turned to night, he prayed. He had never prayed so long or so hard until that day. The shouting never stopped and the gods remained silent.

Autumn reigned outside, and his faith died with the spring. It was a season of rot: the rot of the earth without, the rot of faith and soul within. He sucked in a harsh, shaky breath as the walls trembled from the screams. For a moment the house pulsed as though it had a heart. If it did, it had long been poisoned. 

He slipped out when the house went quiet, his parents dragged to exhaustion by their fight. There was no real goal in his mind, only that he wanted to run far, far away. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him, the wind in his hair, the distant call of birds at his back. He ran and ran and ran, and sooner or later the sun found him alone in the woods and free. 

Not for long. His parents found him three days later, surviving only on berries and the leavings of other beasts, grass-stained and muddied, yet cleaner than he had ever felt. He had shed his faith like a dirty coat, and his shoulders trembled with new-found purpose. That little rebellion earned him the worst beating he ever took in that house, but it no longer mattered. 

The next two times were far less pleasant. Even after all these years, they still rankle him. It had been a dark, starless night when the villagers came to cast him out. For his ‘madness’ and ‘monstrosity’, or whatever the hell they were shouting at him. He was too busy trying to not die to listen to all that. Some carried pitchforks, other crudely-made cudgels, and bats, yet all carried torches. It was like all the stars had come down from the sky to enact upon him his inevitable destruction. Inevitable, but Dottore did not believe in such silly lies anymore. He would take his fate and crush it with his hands and build a new one from smoke and ash. That house was the chain that tethered him to that broken old village. He burned it down that night, his parents still inside, and the chain broke; it was more than liberty: it was rebirth. He likes to think he was born on that ashen grass surrounded by the house’s fire and brimstone remains, sweaty and stained with blood. The Tsaritsa claims all the Harbingers are her children, but he knows he is not a holy child, just a creature forged from Hell. But Heaven imparted on him a farewell curse: the jagged scars that run down the left side of his face to his neck, smoking with resentment and remembrance. He left before the villagers could find out he was, in fact, not dead. 

Sumeru Akademiya, he thought, would be different. All the scholars were mad for knowledge, he had heard. So was he. He had expected to find a treasure trove of opportunity. He found old gray sages scared of their own shadows and peers who could not tell the difference between madness and truth. It was a shame, really. Nothing is as pitiful as something with wasted potential. But he had long learned if life did not go as planned, he would carve his way through, as a river changes the earth. And so once more he ran. 

The next time, fate would not catch him running like prey pursued. The Fatui had given him the opportunity to create the enhanced humans he knows could surpass the Heavens above. The next time, the gods above would meet their equal: a mortal man who, too, has learned the divine act of creation. 

“You’re thinking again.” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and back into the planes of reality. “Am I really so boring of a companion that your mind has to wander off?” 

He frowns, tapping at the armrest of his chair. Sometimes the memories come back to him unbidden, especially when he wants to think of anything but the present that sits in front of him. You sit across from him (it was his intention that he sit as far away from you as possible), legs informally crossed, your elbow resting on one knee and your chin cupped by your palm. You look nothing like the feared heir to Snezhnaya you normally are. Your grin is as pure and unfiltered as the spring sun, amplified by the fire roaring in the hearth, the look in your eyes warm and guileless. It’s a facade, unnoticed by the untrained eye. Your teeth are bared like a beast’s and your gaze is as sharp as a predator’s. When it pleases you to play the darling child of winter, you do. But he knows better. You like playing this little game with him — with all of the Harbingers, really, he’s seen how you’ve attached yourself to them, not only him, and it makes his chest tighten with some unnamed emotion — teasing him and complimenting him and following him around like some malignant ghost from the children’s tales. You’re a cruel little wolf like that. You play with your food before swallowing it whole. 

“You, boring? No.” Never boring. As irritating as your frequent visits are, he will always be kept occupied by one of your antics. “Unexpected? Yes.” You barged into his wing of the palace unannounced in the night, having completely evaded all his guards and segments, and casually sat down on his couch with a tray of tea and biscuits that seems to be a pacifying gift.

You pout mockingly. “Still haven’t forgiven me?” 

Irritation flickers against his skin. He readjusts his mask and scoffs. “It’s been five minutes, I require much more time than that.” 

“How ‘bout your gift?” You clasp your hands together. “Please? It’s your favorite. I got it from Lonnie.” Your leg bounces, an anxious habit of yours. What could possibly make you nervous? Certainly not his presence, you had made that clear, with all your unabashed visits to his lab, his foreign workshops, and now his own rooms. 

“I’d really rather have whiskey.” 

You raise a brow. “I didn’t bring any, and there aren’t any glasses.” 

“There’s a bottle in my drawer. Under the…” He trails off. He keeps indulgent snacks underneath a false bottom, just because, but you seem to already be aware of it. You slide out the wooden plank and hold up the bottle, the brown turned golden in the light of the fire. “... of course, you know.” 

He reaches for the tea cup on the coffee table, hot in his palms, but that never bothers him anymore with all the modifications he’s made to his body and swallows it all in one large gulp. Black tea with a twist of lemon. Four sugar cubes. His favorite. Somehow that makes his mood even worse. You hand him the bottle as you sit back down (closer to him now, which he does not fail to notice). He pours into his teacup until it almost sloshes over the edge.

The moment of silence stretches for a moment too long. He really wishes you’d just get on with it and end his misery, he wants to sleep or work or do something that removes the stain of you from his mind. Your face flickers like a flashlight in his peripheral vision, ghostly in the smoke. Your eyes glow terribly bright, a godly trait from your mother. It’s as beautiful as it is eerie. He transfers all his weight to his left foot, then his right, then back again. You wait for him to finish drinking, your gaze never leaving him. 

“Have you forgiven me now?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. He swirls the whiskey around in his cup. The grandfather clock in the room ticks and tocks and he wishes for time to go faster just so he’d be rid of you already. “Do I have to?” He��s always dealt insolence back tenfold, ask any of his segments, or the poor, cursed souls who lie in his personal mortuary, many of whom have committed lesser crimes than breaking and entering into his personal space. “You really think you’re that special?” 

“Yes.” 

He wants to strangle you and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your stupid face. He wants to carve out those eyes so they’d never make him squirm under their gaze again. He wants to — he does not know what. 

He scowls and runs a hand through messy curled hair. “Five minutes, before I have my segments drag you out.” 

Amusement flickers across those too-bright eyes. You know that he knows he won’t. You let him pretend anyways.

“Wonderful!” You say happily, like a child just told they could play in the playground for a little while. “I need a favor.” 

There’s an unexplainable drop that he suddenly feels in his chest. He had expected you to be here simply to annoy him or make fun of his sleep schedule (that does not exist) or something stupid like that. Why, he cannot say it out loud. His company has never been termed as pleasurable anyways, as much as you continually seek it out. This is expected, it should have been. 

You place a cream-blue envelope with gold lining on the coffee table. He tears it apart, secretly smiling at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. The tattered paper has elegant calligraphy that marks it as from some noble-born priss, one of the many in Snezhnaya whose names he has never bothered to learn. They wrote that they were cordially inviting Their Imperial Highness to… 

His eyes narrow. “The Sokolov Winter Ball.” He waves the paper in front of your face. “No. No. No. Absolutely not—”

“—yes, oh, come one now, it’ll be fun—” 

“—you know how much I hate these things, and all those useless, simpering lords and ladies hate me—” 

“—they’re not simpering. Some of them are nice, like Duke Romanov’s daughter, and anyways, you’ll be with me the entire time and they won’t dare to insult a Fatui Harbinger to their face.” 

He slams the paper down on the table. The teacups rattle from the impact. He leans forward, chin raised in defiance. “No.”

You cross your arms and lean into the couch. “Too bad. I command you to go.”

"Can't you ask the others? Why torment me, specifically?" He gestures wildly with his hands to emphasize his irritation. 

You place a hand on your heart, eyes blown wide for extra effect. "Torment? Dear Doctor, you sadden me so. Can't I spend time with my favorite Dottore?" 

"Oh? And here I thought Gamma was your favorite."

"You're my favorite of all the non-Gammas. Anyways, I can’t really take an eleven-year-old to the ball."

"Just take Theta and be happy with that." 

"But I want to take you." 

There’s a desperate lilt in your voice that weakens his resolve. Could you really? This wasn’t just another one of your jokes, was it? He hates balls, hates the moronic socialites of Snezhnayan society, but absurdly, hope becomes a twittering hummingbird in his heart. 

He grits his teeth. "I should file this as some sort of abuse of power." 

He wants to deny you, he does. He knows he can’t. He feels the insidious truth squeeze at his black heart. 

You reach out and pat his head condescendingly. "You do that, dear." 

"Is there anything I can do to make you take someone else?" He waves his hand at nothing. "I'll give you my entire secret stash of chocolates." It's hidden beneath the false bottom of his desk. A very obvious hiding spot, but he doesn't think anyone should care much for a simple stash of chocolates. He prides himself on it, for all its insignificance. He's collected chocolate-covered hazelnuts from Mondstadt, boxes of assorted chocolates from Fontaine, white almonds encased in matcha-infused chocolates from Inazuma, and choco pies from Liyue. 

"Er," There's a strange, sheepish smile on your face. "No." 

“Will you leave even if I still say no?”  

“No.” And then, in a hushed tone barely above a whisper, the final blow to his resolve: “Well, yes, if you really don’t want to go. But consider it, at least? I want to do this with you.” You don’t look at him as you say it, you don’t turn that captivating gaze of yours on his body to make him squirm. Your face is turned towards the fire, the glow of it making your cheeks red. He almost believes you. He wants to believe you. 

You sigh at his silence. “You can get something out of this.” 

He raises an inquisitive brow. “Like?” 

“Archons, I don’t know. A favor for later. More funding. More… resources. Whatever. Anything I can wrestle out of the others.”

It’s a good deal, he muses. Your influence as heir apparent is not one to be undermined. Moreover, the other Harbingers are strangely fond of you. They would bend for you, and not just out of duty. 

A pause, and then, with a world-weary sigh he puts his face in his hands. He does not want to see your ebullience, it would hurt his pride too much. “Alright.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back and stuff them down his throat, but it's too late. 

A joyful sound leaves you. He hears the rustling of cloth and excited steps on the wooden floors before he’s enveloped by the warmth of your body. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, and your head rests on top of his head.

He flinches slightly. You pull away but your hands remain on his shoulders. He hates, hates how his heart leaps to his throat, how every atom in his body starts to vibrate with life. He cannot, will not, let you have this power over him. He tugs on his heartstrings like a puppeteer and wills his heart to turn to stone. 

“You’ll have a fun time, I promise.” You disentangle from him your hair falls over your eyes, and without thinking, he lifts a hand and brushes it away. You grab his hand and entwine your fingers together. “You won’t regret this.” 

“I’m there to accompany you and leave as fast as possible,” Dottore replies wryly, but his heart lurches. 

He cannot explain to himself why he allows the moment to go on longer than he should. You both stay locked in position, half-hugging with your hands intertwined. Your eyes are half-lidded, your eyelashes fluttering with a mix of embarrassment and playfulness.  His gaze trails from your lashes to your lips, red as cherries. His throat feels suddenly parched and his cheeks flush with warmth. From the fire, he tells himself. 

The grandfather clock chimes midnight. 

You watch with amusement in your eyes as he jumps back, elbow hitting the armrest, swallowing the noise that threatens to escape his body. Suddenly all the irritation comes rushing back up to the surface of his skin. Many a man has fled from that look, from the green children Arlecchino supplies them with to veteran soldiers who have faced blood-soaked horrors on the battlefield. 

You blink innocently. 

He rubs at his temple, glaring at the fireplace in order to avoid looking at you. You quickly school your lips into a languid smile and start to ramble on about the details — white tie, no theme, dinner, and a ball, don't be late, and remember your manners — and his mind has started to drift to the experiments he needs to finish. There's a particularly annoying disease that's been sweeping through the masses, and the Tsaritsa charged him with taking care of it. He's already gotten a dozen test subjects but one particularly insolent one destroyed a week's worth of research while trying to escape. Then there's a whole batch of delusion prototypes in need of a field test, and it's almost time for his segment's monthly inspection. 

"—and you need to learn how to dance." 

His head snaps up. "You're kidding—" 

"Nope," you say, cutting him off. Archons, one day, he swears to himself, he will make you shut up (How? A voice inside asks. He has no answer.) and his life will be all the better without your grating voice sniffing at his heels like a hungry dog. "You'll be taking classes with me starting next week. Mother says it's about time you learned, too. Everyone else knows." 

He scowls at you. You've got him by the hook — no matter what, the Tsaritsa's will cannot be questioned. A thousand times he deflected, making up excuses or sending segments in his place. He does not think it ever fooled his Empress, but she never pressed on it. She would forgive them a thousand little times over, but when she was steadfast in her resolve, her will was as unconquerable as a glacier. 

“Fine. Just get out already.” 

Your little chuckle rings in his ears. “Mother might call in the army to search for me if I linger.” 

Oh, thank Tsartisa. “Then go,” he says dryly. He really, really does not want to be accused of high treason today. Your mother was terrifyingly overprotective.

You roll your eyes. “That’s no way to see off a guest, but I’ll forgive you from the kindness of my heart.” 

For his personal gratification, he launches a throw pillow in your direction. You catch it with one unamused brow raised. You throw it back and it hits him in the face. 

You put on your boots and your cloak and slip out the door, gently closing it with a click. The fire is still roaring, but the room feels much colder now. There’s a strange, hollow place in the room he cannot help but feel that your shape should be filling. There’s a dull ache pounding in his chest. 

He rubs his eyes and moves to his desk, his perpetual sweet tooth aching for that chewy heaven in his taste buds. He almost thinks he's opened the wrong drawer when he finds nothing there, but with a flash of anger, he realizes there's a note in your familiar handwriting. 

Sorry. I'll pay you back. :) 

You insolent little minx. You ate all of it. 

He sighs and pulls back his leather chair. He falls into the soft fabric, all the tension in his body dissipating into the air. He’s too tired to be annoyed. All the energy he exerts in your presence could do that. He sinks deeper into the plush chair and stretches his legs underneath the desk. If there’s ever been a miracle in his life, it’s that his spine hasn’t broken yet from all of the bone-shattering positions he puts himself in. 

He’ll have to adjust his non-existent schedule now. The Doctor operates on impulse and instinct, rotating between experiments and whatever’s captured his attention, sometimes not leaving the lab for days on end or going out and doing more… personal research. He’s begun digging deeper into Ruin Guards, and what he’s found has fascinated him. You would like it, he thinks. He’ll have to tell you all about it one of these days. 

Archons. What have you done to him? Slipping through the iron walls of his heart and plunging yourself deep into the myocardium. You’ve infested his body like a disease, and now it seems all thoughts and actions have been dedicated to you. He hates it, he enjoys it, he cannot tear you out of him no matter how hard he tries, and he’s tried. Oh, so many times. 

Now that you’ve left, he allows his lips to curl into a sneer. That moment — the entire night, really — was just a weakness he has not yet stamped out. He wishes he could tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped doing that infuriating flutter whenever you’re near. He sucks in a harsh breath and taps frantically on the armrest. He is so, so fucked. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away, yet it seems you’re the one divinity he cannot escape from.

The morning before the first lesson finds him sleep-deprived, exhausted, and in an absolutely foul mood. The previous night (or, rather, three a.m. that morning), a Chaos Core went wild and exploded. It was the last in his stock. He sent Beta to hunt for more, but it would be a while until he returned with a sufficient amount and he had to put a hold on his studies ‘till then. One of his test subjects had also been spitting out defiance after defiance as of late, dragging his research longer than it should’ve gone on. He killed them, of course, sometimes you just have to cut your losses and be done with it, but it wasted so many days spent conducting test after test. The thought of it makes him furious all over again, but he cannot be in a mood today. 

Dottore has never found out the secret of looking as though he’s just waltzed out a Fontainian perfume commercial like Pantalone, but today he looks worse than ever when inelegantly he rolls out of bed. His appearance has never bothered him before, not with his mask covering the worst of it, but his hair sticks out in so many directions it looks as though he’s just been hit by lightning, his skin is sickly pale, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. He drags a hand down his face and moans in exasperation. He knows you won’t care, but court conduct requires just a little bit of dignity from him. 

A much-needed shower and eye drops solve the worst of it (or so he hopes). He still looks like Death himself has come to haunt the palace’s hollow hallowed halls, but that was his common appearance anyways. 

The Fatui and the servants who go in and out of the palace keep their eyes trained on the ground as he passes by, a manic grin that shows sharp ivory teeth on his face. It’s an effort to keep up the appearance running on three hours of sleep, but the memory of that night rattles around in his mind, and he will not be that weak again. Just for fun, he turns his gaze on one of the new-bloods. The way they flinch brings a sliver of confidence back to him. 

A familiar figure makes him pause in his tracks. His grin is genuine now, and he feels this is a wonderful restart to a day that has, so far, been miserable. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Regrator.” 

He does not have to see the front of his head to know Pantalone rolls his eyes and stares pointedly off to the distance before turning around to face him. He looks as youthful as ever, still looking like an early thirty-something, as he has for the entire time Dottore’s known him. The smile on his face is polite and patronizing. 

“Dottore,” Pantalone forces out. He folds his fingers together across his stomach. “How… lovely to see you.” 

“Is it?” He gives the man a mocking smile and tilts his chin up with his hand. “Lovely, but so cold. Where are the happy smiles for me, my lord?” 

Pantalone scoffs and crosses his arms, half-turning away. “A wretched creature like you doesn’t deserve one.” So he’s dropped all formalities, then. This would be interesting. 

Dottore places his hand over his chest for dramatic effect, in a comically similar way that you had all those nights ago. “I thought we were getting along so well. You wound me, Lonnie.” 

“Good. I hope it kills you.” 

A faux gasp leaves his mouth. Pantalone’s eye twitches. He turns to leave, but Dottore wheels ahead of him and blocks his path, stretching his arms wide. As much as you annoy him, he can’t say he does not understand what you feel when you do. Pantalone, his favorite target, always elicits the best emotions that keep him entertained for weeks after. His rotten heart beats with energy. 

“Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone,” he says, in a child’s sing-song voice, “Won’t you indulge me just this once? You’ve been so busy, you’ve barely had any time for me and our oh-so-enjoyable meetings this month.” 

Pantalone looks close to pushing him out of a crystalline window. Dottore hopes he does not, the Tsaritsa does love her windows. 

“It seems you’re the one who does not have time today, Dottore,” He says, “You’re expected for your dance lessons in about, oh, five minutes, aren’t you?” 

Dottore hisses, his mood turning sour all of a sudden. “Who fed you that morsel of information?” 

“People like to gossip,” Pantalone shrugs, amused and unkind, “but if you must know, it was Theta who told your maids who told the guards who told my maids who told my secretaries who told me.” Damn that Theta. Dottore makes a mental reminder to reboot that impertinent pillock’s system without you finding out. “You really must hurry,” he continues on, oblivious to how Dottore glares a burning hole through the pillar behind him, imagining the ‘scolding’ he’ll give his segment when he sees them, “You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, do you? I feel enough pity as it is that you’re their chosen partner. I can’t imagine why they would choose you…” 

“... over you, my dear Regrator?” 

Pantalone simpers, but an emotion Dottore knows all too well flashes across his eyes. They’ve known each other for too long and too closely, no matter how much he tries to hide, Dottore can break down that steel skin of his and pry out the truth from his chest. “I am far more handsome, and sociable besides.” 

“But they chose me.” 

Pantalone levels his gaze to Dottore’s. The corners of his mouth are curled down, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his narrowed gaze is sharp as a knife. He says nothing.

“You’re jealous,” Dottore says, jumping well over the line that all of the Harbingers put between their facades and the truth. His grin is wolfish and triumphant. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

Pantalone glares at him and turns to leave. “I have better things to do than be jealous of you. Good day, Dottore.” 

Dottore takes long strides to stand in front of him, blocking his path once more. Before Pantalone can open his mouth and spit out insults that could have him thrown into the far northern military camps if it were any other person, Dottore leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear, “I know,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, “things like being jealous of them, too.” 

He whistles a happy tune through his teeth as he leaves, the Ninth Harbinger paralyzed behind him. He does not pay any mind to how his skin has been set aflame or how his heart beats wildly in his chest. 

Yes, if he could only be that way with you, everything would be alright. He cannot understand why it’s so different from you. It’s the power, a voice whispers. It always circles back to that. Only three people stand above him now: that rat bastard Pierro, your mother, and you. You and your irritating smiles and your irritating laugh and your irritating jokes. You unnerve him with the way you hold his life so carelessly in your hands. A single touch, a mere look, and you could send him spiraling down to the depths if you so commanded. Everything he’s achieved in his life undone. In this pack of wolves the Tsaritsa calls her children, both by blood and bond, there’s a clear hierarchy in which you stand above all others. 

He and Pantalone can devour each other whole, but when it comes to you, he’ll have to force the bitter taste of defeat down his throat. It’ll take everything in his power not to gag. 

He’s ten minutes late when he finally arrives at the Queen’s Ballroom. The ballroom is beautiful, made of marble and gold furnishings. The floor is polished hardwood arranged in complicated swirling patterns that mimic the winter winds. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the nature of the north: galloping wild horses and sly foxes, wolves prowling through the green underbrush, golden ivy snaking at the edges as clouds raced on a blue sky. The crystal chandeliers are unlit and unneeded, the pale light of the morning provides enough to see clearly. This part of the palace is rarely ever open, the Tsaritsa is not one to throw balls and parties like so many of her aristocratic subjects do, so the doors stay locked. Of course, any exception can be made for winter’s favorite child. 

He barely even notices the dance instructors wheedling about in the corner. He immediately finds you, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window. One leg is crossed over the other. With the morning light coming in through, you’re bathed in the brightest living gold. For a moment old prayers come crowding to the forefront of his mind. For a moment all that time spent on his knees seems to be reasonable, if only it had all been dedicated to you. For a moment you’re baptized by the sun, for a moment you’re holy. 

The cocky smile on his face, a remnant from that moment with Pantalone, crumbles. His breath hitches in his throat. Oh, shit. 

You turn to him, mouth pressed in a thin line. Your pointed steps ring across the floor as you stalk toward him, and he cannot help but feel like a trapped critter. He wants to fight or flee or do something —

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” you murmur, reaching for his gloved wrist with the lightest of touches. He swallows at the sensation of touch. “I was starting to think you had flaked out on me,” you say teasingly.  

“Oh, no, I was just… occupied with another business,” he mutters, looking back at the entrance. A smirk cannot be restrained. You raise an eyebrow and he shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s alright now.” 

Your answering smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. The two of you walk side-by-side toward the instructors on the other side of the room, close enough for your shoulders to brush against each other, a united front. He realizes, quite abruptly, that you were nervous too. 

The dance he has to learn is the Varsovienne Waltz. Their instructors are a pair of siblings, boy and girl, who look very much alike with dark eyes and dark hair. They regard him with the fearful respect most everyone regarded him with, taking care not to seem too patronizing. 

He first learns the fundamental dance positions. He thought he was mechanical, awkward, and unsure for the first time in years (Archons, how do you manage to coax these emotions out of him?). You said he was doing well, and the instructors affirmed so, but he cannot tell if that was genuine or from a place of fear. 

And then comes the actual dancing. 

They demonstrate it beforehand. Together, the pair of siblings glide across the floor with the gracefulness of swans fluttering about in the lakes. You had already learned this dance as a young child growing up in the icy walls of Zapolyarny, and so after the instructors had finished, you request to dance with one of them, if only to test your muscle memory. You take the role of follower, prompting Dottore, who guesses he would be assigned the role of leader, to imprint each step and twirl into his mind. 

He hates the sick feeling of anxiousness brewing in the pit of his stomach as he watches you dance. But it does not go away as he watches you laugh and toss your head back, not a hair out of place. It’s not a surprise you’re so good at this, each move perfectly executed, your angles a wonder of geometry. This kind of life was your birthright. But not for him, not for the boy who had grown up in an indigent village on the borders of Sumeru. His history is not what bothers him, though, he had shed it from himself like a coat a very long time ago. What bothers him is you. 

Vexation pools in his mind the longer he watches. He begins to impatiently tap his foot against the floor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. This was your life, not his. Dancing is not something the Second Seat of the Fatui Harbingers should be doing. Such a frivolous and foolish activity was not meant for a man of his nature. Heavens, what was he doing here? Hundreds of years ago you couldn’t have dragged him into the ballroom kicking and screaming if your life depended on it. Now he stands here, awake at six-in-the-fucking-morning operating on barely any sleep for you and your dance lessons that’ll be put into use for only one night. One night! 

You could do this to him. You could force him to take dance lessons like some twelve-year-old lordling. You could tear down the meticulously made steel and calcium walls that surround his heart with a sharp smile and bury yourself within the bloody tissue. You could make a home there, familiar and warm, floating above a poisonous black rot. Only you could coax half-forgotten emotions out of him that he thought he had sealed away centuries ago. Meeting you, he thinks, has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to him thus far. 

He wants to turn to leave but finds his feet rooted to the ground. 

He barely notices you’re done before you saunter up to him, hands your hips, your mouth pressed into a thin, worried line. 

“Are you alright? You look…” You cock your head to the side. “... not good.” 

“I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he rasps, extending a gloved hand. “Can we get on with it now?” 

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. A moment passes before you decide to stay silent and take his hand. 

The girl instructor lifts the needle on the gramophone and the record begins to spin. The music is a sweet, simple melody. He has never heard it before, but memories of days spent exploring the surrounding forest of his village catapult to the forefront of his mind: dipping small toes into warm springs as he ate sticky sunsettias, the juice running down his fingers, the warm, incessantly lovely sun on windblown hair. He shakes his head like a wet dog shaking off water. 

He does not realize just how much tension his body holds until you hum as he spins you around, your back to his chest, his left hand on your hip, and his right hand cupping yours. “You need to relax,” you say. 

“I am relaxed,” he replies stiffly. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Your Imperial Highness,” he mutters, a sardonic smile on his face, “I think I am much more qualified to say what my body feels more than you.” 

You purse your lips but say no more. The look in your eye tells him you don’t believe him at all. 

The next three hours are agonizingly slow-paced, yet somehow when he reaches the end of it, are a blur of colors and shapes and unintelligible music as though he had been shot past it all. He would not be surprised if the gods somehow made time move slower then faster then slower than normal just to play another cruel trick on him for their own amusement. 

He isn’t terrible, and his rarely-used combat experience has finally found some employ, but he lacks your practiced poise or the easy grace of the instructors. He moves less like a human and more like some forest creature, his physicality more wild and jagged than it was elegant. The instructors tell him his lordship took to the dance more easily than most, and with a few more sessions could be flawless, but he does not pay any mind to them and instead places his gaze on you. Something unpleasant lurks behind your carefully-blank expression. His mind lurches with the sudden urge to find out what had gone wrong and go back in time and fix it. Trial and error is something he is intimate with, and his mistakes do not bother him, so long as he fixes them. He realizes, suddenly, that he wants to please you. 

Pantalone does not need to push him out a window, he’ll very well throw himself from one after this. 

“Walk with me,” you say, slipping an arm through his. Your expression is almost quiet. He has no choice but to let you lead him out the door and into the hallways. The guards at the door bow their heads and murmur the appropriate greetings. He does not miss how their eyes land on their interlocked arms for a second too long. People will talk. 

You both stroll through the hall in strained silence. He flexes his fingers. 

“Are you alright?” 

His head snaps to the side, his ears unbelieving. He had been bracing himself for a reprimanding, for jeers, for mockery. Not this. “Pardon?” 

Was that pity in your eyes? His jaw clenches. Anger, black and brutal, burns within. “Are you alright?” 

He tries to disentangle himself from you, but an iron grip keeps him locked in place. He forgets how truly strong you are. “I’m fine.” 

You sigh and look at the arched ceiling, as though exasperatedly asking it if it could hear his words. “Dottore, I’ve known you for a very long time. You overestimate your ability to lie to me.” 

He grits his teeth, forcing the words out of his throat. “I am fine. I have weathered much worse than dance classes, Your Imperial Highness. If you found some fault in my conduct or wish to admonish me then please, don’t drag it out.” 

“Admonish you?” Your eyes widen, startled. “What? No, I’m just—” 

He barks out a laugh, self-deprecating and cruel. “What? Pitying me?” 

“Worried about you.” You stop. You step forward and face him, eyes bright and shining, the corner of your lips curled into a frown. “Don’t be mean.�� 

Worried. You were worried about him. His anger ebbs away and morphs into soft bemusement. You don’t move from your position, instead, you cross your arms and tilt your chin up in defiance like an angry child. He almost believes you’re genuine, but he knows better than to argue with that stubborn jut of jaw. 

He huffs, willing up his signature grin. It’ll be easier to make you happy if only to get this over with. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.” He flicks your forehead and thrusts his fists into his pocket and starts to stride forward. “I’m quite alright. If you’re wondering about my less-than-stellar performance, it’s the three hours of sleep I got.” 

You roll your eyes and scurry after him. Before he can escape, you grab his hand and lead him toward a wing of the palace he has been in only a few times before. Your own. 

“No, no, no, you’re not escaping me today.” A childish groan escapes him and makes you giggle. “You can sleep after this, but humor me for a bit and have breakfast with me.” 

“You didn’t have breakfast?” 

“Did you?” Fair point. 

He wants to go back to his room and sleep until sunset, but he cannot help but feel a spark of interest. Most of the time you simply hang about his laboratory and annoyed him, but for you to actually invite him to something as simple as breakfast with seemingly no other motivation than to spend time with him was a break from your norm. A very unfamiliar break. 

All his instincts call for him to flee. 

“Alright,” he says, against the better judgment of his head, “just this once.” 

The imperial family’s apartments are bigger than the Harbingers’, and much emptier. The hall is big and white and echoing, with wide hardwood flooring that was arranged in an intricate repeating diamond pattern. There are paintings of you and your mother, silver embellishments in the likeness of frost plastered on the walls, the furniture was elegant but plain, and the windows had no curtains. The only hint of your personality is the vases of your favorite flowers. Everything had an eerie, deserted look, haunted by the ghost of you. There were barely any people, only two stoic guards posted at the entrance and a maid that scurried past them. He never realized just how isolated you were from the rest of them; no wonder you sought the Harbingers out so often. 

Breakfast appears with instantaneous magic: fried bacon, sunnyside-up eggs, blinis, and biscuits. His stomach rumbles at the sight. He hasn’t had anything to eat that was more than trail mix in close to thirty-six hours, not that it bothered him significantly, he was used to getting distracted by his studies and forgetting to nourish himself. Thankfully, he had improved his body long ago so that it could weather mortal flaws like hunger. 

He wolfs down a slice of bacon while you slather a blini with butter and honey. He rarely eats with company if not forced to. Outside of that, he only ever eats with his segments on the off-chance they’re all free, which is simply a microscopic natural disaster filled with food fights and whining and endless bickering. But breakfast with you is a quiet affair. You eat with calm, methodological grace. He subconsciously looks at you, noting your dining habits, wondering if this was your favorite food. You catch him staring and send him a bemused smile. He looks away, suddenly interested in the tapestries that adorn the walls, feeling heat rush to his face. The windows are open and he can hear the world outside: birds twittering about, the recruits at their morning drills, servants rushing to do this and that. A stillness settles within his bones that he has not felt in a very, very long time. Part of him wants to rip it out, but another part shushes it. He is tired, sleep-deprived, and busy. He still has experiments to do, reports to check, papers to sign. But right now the sun is coming in, soft as a caress, and you are sitting across from him and smiling.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you say suddenly, your words cutting through the silence like a sword. “but you seemed really out of it earlier.” 

He raises one eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his bacon. “Is this a therapy session or breakfast?” 

You kick his leg beneath the table. “Archons, ‘ttore, I just want to be nice.” 

Nice. Inwardly, he laughs. He absently pushes the runny eggs around on his plate. “Hm. There were just a few things on my mind, nothing to worry about.” A pause. “I’m very surprised you haven’t teased me yet for my horrible dancing skills.” 

“Ah.” You prop your arm up on the table and rest your cheek on your fist. “Actually, I was expecting they’d be just as bad as your harmonica skills. But you’re actually okay. Not good, but you’re getting there.” 

He splutters. His mouth opens and closes, much like a fish, before he erupts. “My harmonica skills are amazing! You’re just deaf or inane or have horrible, horrible taste.” He pokes his silver fork in your direction. “I’ll have you know I was the best harmonica player in Sumeru, thank you very much.” 

You bite on your lower lip, vaguely amused. “Really now.” 

He leaps to his feet and leans forward, hands on the table, a flurry of feathers and cotton cloth and fury. “Yes, really now! If you weren’t heir to the throne I’d have you chopped up into little pieces and sold to the butchers for that.” 

“I think you’d miss the pleasure of my company too much to do that.” 

He harrumphs and jerks his head away. “You presume too much.” 

You laugh. It’s warm and comforting and familiar. He wants to never hear it again. “You’re so pretentious. Can’t you admit you’re just a little bit fond of me?” 

“Fond? I—” The word coils around his throat. No, he wasn’t fond of you. He was simply slightly more tolerant of you than everyone else. “—no. No, I’m not.” 

He isn’t, really, he isn’t. All these little moments were just lapses of mortal weakness he has yet to stamp out. Something else to add to his itinerary of things to modify. This acquaintanceship with you was getting too bold and too powerful and one of these days he’s sure it’s going to come crashing down on him. 

“I think you are.” You dangle your fork between your fingers. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” 

He waits for you to continue. But you don’t. You sit there and stare at him, twirling your fork, those eyes bright and big and full of inexplicable warmth. One corner of your lips curls up into an absurdly endearing lopsided smile. He banishes the thought from his brain. The silence stretches, on and on and on, until it becomes a blanket that suffocates him. 

He taps his fingers against the table. “You’re madder than I am.” 

“You of all people should know the difference between madness and truth.” 

“It’s not the truth.”

You peer up at him and cock your head to the side. “Is it?” 

You stand and circle around the table, dragging one finger on the wood. He turns his head to the door and away from you. You hover next to him, just a breath away from his skin. He fights to shove back down the shaky breath that threatens to escape him. He does not know why he doesn’t just move away, putting those barriers back up that he allows you to shatter over and over again. The pieces are on the ground, ready to be gathered and assembled once more. He is a scholar, he knows how to eliminate weakness, how to tear down and rebuild over and over again until his product becomes perfect; he can build on the evident fragility of his resolve when it comes to you. 

All it takes is discipline. He must throw you back as he throws back enemies on the battlefield. He must deny you any more ground. 

One hand intertwines with his while the other holds the pulse of his wrist. His heart begins to beat itself to death in his chest. He relents and turns to look at you, your face carefully blank, but he has known you for too long. Something stirs within your eyes, something hungry and wolfish.

You bring his hand to your lips and gently turn it over to expose the scarred skin peeking out from in between his sleeve and his glove. His wrist is barely an inch away from your mouth. You lean forward and bite, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. 

He jerks away, eyes widening with incredulity. “You—” 

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. There is no hint of remorse or disbelief for what you just did in your eyes. You smile at him, affable and innocent as a puppy. But there was nothing puppy-like in your eyes. How could he have let himself forget? You wild little wolf. His wrist throbs, but to his surprise and disgust, the sensation was not at all unpleasant. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to see what that would be like.” 

“You wanted to see what it would be like to bite me?”

“To mark you.” You move forward as he moves back, a twisted iteration of the waltz you danced earlier. “I don’t understand why you don’t let me in. Did I do something wrong?” His Adam apple bobs up and down as his back hits the wall. “Tell me, please.” 

He looks at you and runs his tongue over his teeth. Every coherent thought evaporates within the confines of his brain. He cannot let you know the truth. He cannot. 

“Get away.” His voice is hoarse. 

There’s the slightest hesitation in your muscles before you take a small step backward. In one swift motion, he lurches forward, grabbing ahold of your shoulder and your chin. He leans over you, red eyes blazing underneath the mask. Something cruel and sharp slithers in his veins and buries its fangs into his anatomy. He does not know who he is angrier at — you, or himself. You for being an inescapable prison where he was the prisoner. Himself for never trying to escape or not trying enough. 

He grazes his thumb against the outline of your lips. “You insufferable little brat,” he spits, “the other Harbingers may allow you to do whatever you please with them, but that weakness is not inside me, and you cannot root it out. You—” He squeezes your skin. “—you cannot conquer me, no matter how much you try.” 

Will you have him thrown out of the Fatui for this? Locked up in the deepest cell? Will you ask your mother to impale him on a glacier, forced to slowly wither away? He watches and waits for your response.

You smile and easily disentangle yourself from his grasp. You lean forward, one hand on his shoulder, your lips brushing against his ear. 

“Liar.” 

He does not think he’s upset you, but you’ve abstained from interacting with him outside of your dance lessons, which themselves have become awkward and brief. You regard him with the same absentminded politeness you would a waiter or a maid, your eyes glazed and the candor of your voice mild. Ever since that night, you’ve made no move to tease or touch. Even as you dance, your bodies locked in a tangle, every time skin brushes against skin your new-found coldness burns like ice. 

He tries not to dwell too much on your last conversation, on the phantom throbbing of his wrist where your teeth had bit into his skin. 

His life has become strangely empty now. There’s a hole in the shape of you begging to be filled, but no material could ever replace your flesh and bone. No one’s barging into his laboratory to annoy him or sneaking into his apartments at odd hours of the night. All for the better. 

Except it isn’t, because now it’s the night (or rather, morning) before the ball and he can’t seem to sleep and the past few weeks have been absolutely insufferable. He’s irritable, much more than he normally is, prone to commonplace mistakes, and worst of all, unfocused. His segments have noticed, even the younger ones, who have been increasingly more competent than him. He knows that they know the reason why; he sees the various looks of disapproval, amusement, and disgust. Zeta even had the gall to make fun of him for it, to his immediate regret, as Dottore scolded him with such ferocity they all went quiet in a rare show of obedience. Perhaps he should scold them more often. The resounding silence, if it happened more often, would undoubtedly improve their research and his moods. 

He stares down at the unfinished reports on the metal table, acutely aware of the laboratory clock ticking away the minutes. Another and another and another go past. He’s been staring dumbly at the thrice-damned half-empty papers for two hours now. He can feel Theta’s bemused eyes burning into the back of his eyes as he mops up the blood from their latest failed experiment. Suddenly the sloshing of the water is too much for him to bear. 

“Go. Leave that for the maids,” Dottore barks. He hears swift footsteps before they pause right at the door that leads into the segments’ living quarters. 

“You should sleep,” Theta says. Dottore turns in the swivel chair and shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not saying that out of, urgh, concern,” the segment hurries to correct, “only that, don’t you have something to prepare for tomorrow—” He shoots a glance at the clock. “—I mean, today?” 

“None of your business.” 

“We’re the same person if you hadn’t noticed, so yes it is my business.” 

Dottore rubs his eyes and stays silent. There’s too little energy within him to bicker right now. Theta is still rooted in his spot, smirking silently. He crosses his arms.

“Maybe,” he continues, with a mischievous lilt in his voice, “if you’re feeling too tired to attend, I’ll be glad to—” 

It’s almost comical how fast Theta goes flying into the metal cabinets. He lets out a groan of pain. Dottore does not even comprehend when he stood up and punched him. He only knows the way rage flared in his chest, that wild emotion that he could not name roaring in his ears. He had been the one asked to the ball. Him, over Theta. Theta was your favorite of all the adult segments, for who-knows-what reason, the segment that was him during his final year in the Akademiya. You always claimed it was because he was the most fun to be around (Only the Archons can understand your definition of fun) and so it was him you often asked after. 

But this time it’s Dottore that you wanted, and he would not let anyone take away what was rightfully his. (Your voice seems to whisper in his ear, as though you were standing right beside him, “I want to do this with you.”)

The second he realizes his thoughts, he’s tempted to shoot himself with one of the expertly made and modified Fatui guns. It’s the tiredness, he reasons to himself. The lack of sleep was poisoning him with irrationality. The last time he slept was… well. Approximately four days ago. 

He remembers the last thing he said to you, and thinks of your wolfish eyes and predatory grin. You cannot conquer me, and your sly answer, Liar. How is it, he thinks, that he has barely seen you in weeks yet your presence has enlarged and completely overtaken him? The scholar in him wants to pry around for answers, but another part, a mortal part he thought he had killed long ago already knows what the answer is. 

He wonders if you still actually want him to be your partner. With the way you’ve been ignoring him these past few weeks, you might truly prefer taking one of his clones instead. The only adult segments in Snezhnaya right now are Theta and Zeta, the latter of which was on the other side of the country doing research on the mysterious disease. Theta was the only true threat to his position… unless, of course, you decide to ask one of the Harbingers or your subordinates instead. 

To his surprise and mild disgust, uncharacteristic fear grips his heart. Shit. If you took someone else to the ball, he would lose the reward you had promised to grant. He needed it — Tsaritsa only knows how much people, especially certain bankers, love to get in the way of his research. 

The thought of you swaying in another person’s arms tonight almost makes him punch Theta again. 

Theta is rambling about something insignificant, still scrambled on the floor and clutching his bruised face, glaring daggers at his creator. Dottore would have paid more heed to a rat squeaking in the corner. Dottore jerks his head to the door. A dismissal. 

An annoyed sound leaves Theta’s artificial throat. “Looks like I touched a nerve there, Prime. Scared I’m gonna steal them away?” 

“No.” 

He huffs. “Whatever. It’s just one date, I’m always gonna be the favorite.” 

Dottore wonders if he can get away with Theta’s permanent deactivation without you finding out. Probably not. “It’s not a date.” Until now, he had never thought of it as such. But Theta speaking it into existence makes his heart thump. “It’s—it’s a business agreement,” he insists, privately cursing the stutter, “an acquisition of advantage.” 

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been applying that skin cream Pantyliner gave you every night? Even though you’ve never opened it until now?” 

“A certain image is required of me, not that your rat ass would know.”

“Honestly, it’s hilarious watching you fall over yourself for them.” 

Dottore hisses. “I’m not ‘falling over myself’ for them.” 

Theta grins, all that sharp teeth flashing in the fluorescent lights. “Sure.” 

“I’m not!” He sounds indignant, like a child protesting their involvement in mischief they were very much involved in. 

Theta rolls his eyes as he stands and disappears into the other room, snickering. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Prime,” he calls after. 

Dottore sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m not,” he says softly, almost desperately, though, of course, no one hears it. Just the empty air, eating his words. 

He sighs again and glances at the clock, still ticking away. It’s half past three in the morning. You had agreed to meet at six in the evening. You had told him on the day of the last lesson, very aggressively, that under no circumstances should he be late, which he was infamous for being. If he slept now, he could get some much-needed rest before the ball. 

It’s a fitful sleep, though any sleep is better than none. He oscillates between the waking world and darkness, his body simultaneously feeling like it has been doused in fire and thrown into the icy-cold bays of Snezhnaya. Three-quarters after one o’clock he’s woken, gently and fearfully, by one of your subordinates. In a quivering voice, she tells him you had sent an entire team to “ensure full preparedness”, which he knows really was just to say, “don’t show up in a fucking lab coat”. He reluctantly lets them pull him around in a flurry of various outfits for him to try in a long, awkward, and agonizing two hours. He allows them to style his hair, clenching his teeth all the while, thinking about how furious you be if he harmed one of yours as his fingers twitch. In the end, the effort is barely seen — it’s really just a cleaner, shinier rendition of his usual hairstyle. 

They don’t do makeup. They know better than to cross that line. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, has ever seen what's underneath the mask. 

The outfit they chose, in the end, was appropriately glamorous, though not as fancy as something Pantalone or Signora might wear. The royal blue fabric is soft against his skin, though his cravat seems tight around his neck. Strange, since he was the one to do it and did not deviate from how he usually did it. He tugs on the white fabric and realizes his hands are shaking. They haven’t in centuries, not since his expulsion from the Akademiya. White hot rage sears through his bones. You are the reason behind this resurfacing weakness. He has no doubt about it.

He almost wants to dive back into bed and flake out on you; it would be terribly amusing, but ultimately pointless. The consequences are not ones he wants to bear. 

He does not want to see the looks his subordinates will undoubtedly give him once they catch him on his way to the foyer of the imperial family’s private apartments, where you had agreed to meet. It was a revolting thought: The Second Seat trudging through the halls like a tamed dog The thought of it makes him want to puke. He’s already heard the multiple rumors of your relationship, has heard the giggles, has seen the coy smiles. He wonders if the other Harbingers experience it as well. 

Instead, he takes one of the palace’s secret passageways known only to the top three Harbingers, Pierro, you, and the Tsaritsa. The narrow stone hallway is dusty and dark, rarely used and reserved only for emergencies. He can see well enough with the enhanced vision he gave himself when he moved to an artificial body. He knows there are many more passages snaking through the walls that he does not know about, yet for all his explorations and the hours spent poring over the palace maps, he has never been able to find them. He supposes they’re for only you and your mother. Zapolyarny Palace was a strange place, filled with magic of a thousand years past. He’s heard rumors of ancient spells and complicated runes imbued in the walls of the palace, keeping out any who dare intrude.  

The passageways are filled with twists and turns, with multiple ladders and stairs and secret doors he had long since memorized in his mind. He emerges from behind a tapestry and steps into the deserted hallway adjacent to the foyer. 

Truth be told, he likes this part of the palace. He keeps his private estate and rooms in a similar sparse fashion, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to decorate. But he feels that the emptiness here is intentional. The beauty is quiet, serene even, as silent as the first brush of snow. Especially when the Empress is in one of her moods and true frost conquers the walls and floors and snow impossibly starts to fall indoors. When that happens, suddenly, the palace is transformed into a winter wonderland, conjured out of childlike whimsy. 

You await him at the bottom of the staircase. 

He pauses mid-step, the breath caught in his throat. He has never seen you so… dressed up, before. He knows you like going out on this excursion or that: to the opera with Pantalone or taking a pleasure barge with Columbina, and when out in the public’s eye a level of regalness was expected in your fashion. But alone with him, usually shut up in the labs or in his private estate, you wore simple clothes that allowed freedom of movement. 

But tonight you were glittering, doused in jewels he knows could fund him for years. The moonlight slants in through the windows, making you shimmer. He has never seen you look more ethereal, as though you had just stepped out of one of the Snezhnayan fairytales you so loved. And although he never grew up in Snezhnaya, looking at you he feels as though he has read those fairytales, has spent nights under the covers living in every word in his head. He looks at you and sees magic.

He realizes, suddenly, that he wears the same colors as you: royal blue and white. And then, just after that punch to the head, he remembers: royal blue and white are the colors of the imperial family. 

He swallows an emotion he does not want to touch with a hundred-foot pole. 

“Hello,” you say softly, terrifying warmth blooming in your eyes, “you aren’t late.” There’s a tease in the words. 

He harrumphs and looks away, trying to conceal the growing red in his cheeks. He thanks the Tsaritsa she does not keep her palace well-lit, even at night. “You ought to have better expectations of me. I know I’m not known for punctuality but I know when something is important.” 

You smile. It is blank and careful. “Well then.” You extend your hand. “Let’s go.” 

He takes your hand and lets you lead him to the awaiting carriage. Suddenly the room is too hot and stuffy and your body is too close yet too far. He wishes you’d press yourself closer but you haven’t in weeks, not since that fateful day. He almost misses it, before he catches the feeling and inwardly scolds himself.

Not for the first time, he wonders what game you’re playing at. You had declared, though indirectly, that you could conquer him, yet had made no move to do so. He squints at you from underneath the mask. Your face is set in a neutral, almost air-headed expression. It was the expression you used during boring meetings that you couldn’t care less about. Was he boring you? Exasperation and aggravation flood his mind. Him? Boring? He supposes he hasn’t been trying to poison you as of late. And anyway, it was you who came to him. He had never sought you out before if not for business reasons. Was he expected to make some kind of move? 

The ride to the Sokolov estate is coated in a heavy, awkward silence. Or at least, he thinks so. You don’t seem to notice. Or care. Zapolyarny Palace is situated outside the capital city, so the carriage ride takes more or less an hour. The hour is the longest he has ever experienced, except perhaps the hours he spent dancing with you. You say nothing the entire time, simply stare languidly out the window, your chin cupped in your hand. Midwinter already rules over the land, not that it really mattered when it seems two-thirds of the year saw snow. From time to time you put your hand through the open window and catch a snowflake. There were fleeting moments your eyes would meet, there would be a pause, then a quick aversion and you would both retreat into the invisible walls you had built around yourselves.  

He wonders if you expect him to apologize. 

The silence is enough to suffocate. 

Then, blessedly, the manor materializes in the distance. He almost breathes an audible sigh of relief. He has to restrain his body from jumping out of the carriage as soon as the door is opened. He exits the vehicle first and extends a helping hand to you as you shuffle out, like a proper gentleman. Not that he was one. 

You smile at him. Still, blank.

The Sokolov Winter Ball is an event for aristocrats by aristocrats. There are barely any Fatuus in sight, exempting the noble children who had joined to cur favor and prestige, though such children were few and far between. Though the Tsaritsa rules over all, there is undoubtedly enmity between the nobility and the Fatui; the two factions are caught in an uncertain back-and-forth of power, constantly at each other’s throats and on the verge of bloodshed. In public, members of both groups were expected to be cordial and pretend there was equality among them. So Dottore did get a certain satisfaction in seeing the lords and ladies of Snezhnaya bow before him, even if it was really to you rather than him. 

He almost falls asleep internally as you go through the motions of socializing, him following behind as he has nothing else to do: trivial small talk, false fawning and compliments, pretending to care about the latest gossips sweeping the city. You did seem to actually care about the latter, one of the many characteristics you shared with Pantalone. He, on the other hand, was utterly uncurious to the silly little lives of the people. 

They mostly pretend he does not exist. Not rudely, but fearfully. They understand Dottore is not exactly in the best of moods and offer only commonplace courtesies. 

He wonders how long you can go treating him like this, like some distant, half-hearted acquaintance and not… whatever he should be to you. He has never, ever been the slightest bit interested in socialization, but he wishes, just once, you would turn your head to him and chat. Even if the talk was the silliest of topics, even if he did not care a wit about them. He simply wants to hear warmth flood your voice once more, wanted to hear your ringing laughter.

He flinches slightly when he fully realizes the thought that had crossed his mind. 

“You should smile more,” you say to him as you wheel around the ballroom, trying to avoid another mother who hoped to introduce her dashing children to you, undoubtedly in hopes it will blossom into marriage. The thought of you marrying one of these pathetic pups stirs fierce vindication in his chest. “You’re scaring them.” 

“I am smiling,” he says, frowning. 

The utterly annoyed look you give him makes him laugh, the sound deep and full of heart. 

A little later, when the clock strikes nine, Duchess Sokolov practically materializes in front of the both of you with an element of surprise even Arlecchino would admire and only scheming, middle-aged women can conjure. Your startled half-smile makes her smile in turn, the look of it sly. After a session of unabashed bootlicking, where she complimented almost every piece of your body, from your feet to your eyelashes (the only other person he has ever heard say such things is him), she asked, with a grandiose show of humility, if Your Imperial Highness would do us the honor of opening the dancing with my son? 

If anything, Dottore admires her gall.

His body moves before his mind can comprehend what he is doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, smiling widely, making sure his sharp teeth are visible to anyone who dares steal you away. 

"The geir has already promised their first dance to me, Your Grace." The words come out wild and aggressive, like the barks of a wolf. "I'm afraid your son will have to wait his turn." If I let him have one. 

The duchess pales slightly and steps half a foot back. "Forgive me Lord Harbinger, I wasn't aware." 

You laugh and press your gloved hand to your mouth, a lovely gesture.  "Oh, please excuse Lord Dottore. He's a very particular person. I'll be glad to dance with your son after."

The Duchess visibly brightens and blunders away after numerous thanks, eager to tear away from Dottore's burning glare. You slip your arm through his and weave through the sea of bodies to the center of the ballroom, the party guests skillfully parting to let you pass. He does not think he is imagining your smirk.

As you near the center, Dottore ignores the hot flash of anxiety in his stomach. It has been so long since he has felt that emotion or other adjacent ones that it takes a moment for him to recognize it. Memories of those torturous hours spent dancing, and dancing, and dancing again resurface in his memories. Though not as graceful a dancer as you, he had reached a level of acceptable elegance towards the end that received glowing praise from the instructors. You had smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. It had left a strange empty feeling lingering within him. 

What reaction did he even want from you, anyway? He thinks the instructors weren’t lying; the fear in their eyes was minimal. He would most likely never dance again after tonight. So, it truly did not matter what you thought of his dancing. It did not matter. He had gotten over the anxiousness that came with socializing a very long time ago, and it is not the crowd that is making him nervous. So what is it that he fears?

He feels himself getting more and more agitated as you both pull yourselves into position: two hands outstretched and intertwined, his hand on the small of your back, yours resting on his shoulder. He feels the sharp, curious eyes on the both of you as the music starts.

“Relax,” you whisper. 

“I am relaxed.” 

“No, you’re not.” You squeeze his shoulder. “Your body is so stiff.” 

“I’m doing fine,” he grits out. 

“You’d do even better if you’d stop fidgeting and relax.” 

How could he relax when you’re so close? He can hear your breaths and count the lashes of your eyes. Your eyes already shine naturally with unnatural brightness, but beneath the light of the chandeliers, they seemed to gleam like the faces of a diamond. 

“Is something wrong? You’re staring quite intently.” Your voice evaporates his thoughts. He swallows nervously and looks away, his gaze darting around the room, hoping to see anything but you. “Dottore?” The tone of your voice has been nothing but level for weeks, so the sliver of genuine worry that escapes into the words makes his heart jump. 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

He moves as though he’s in a dream, lost and dazed. He cannot explain to himself why he leans in closer, or why he squeezes your hand cupped in his. He messes up — once then twice then thrice, missing a step or taking the wrong turn even though he memorized the entire routine in his head the night after your first lesson. It cannot be his memory, flawless as it is. 

It’s his heart, his Archons-damned heart, thumping against his ribs. It’s your inquisitive eyes on him, your cold skin pressed against his. It’s the way there is something genuine and vulnerable living in the light of your eyes. It is the way there is a very dangerous mortal emotion flooding his veins. It is the way he cannot help but want to press closer, wants to take you into his arms and sweep you off your feet this night, and many more. 

It is an utterly terrifying thought. This is what he is scared of, he realizes with a jolt that earns him a questioning look from you. This closeness, this… intimacy. Your hands on his skin, warm enough to make him believe you’re both human. 

How long has it been, he wonders, since he has wanted to stop running away. 

The music reaches a crescendo quietly, as though from far away. For all he can hear is thump, thump, thump, his mind all but submerged in the fervent tide of his own beating heart. 

When the dance ends, he needs more than one hand to count the mistakes he’s made. You had gracefully saved him from each mistake, maneuvering your body in such a way that the flow of the dance was upheld. As he bows to you, the crowd bursts into rapturous applause.  

Before he can even blink, numerous lords and ladies have already swarmed the both of you like angry bees, buzzing with life. Each vy for your next dance, the questions flying so fast you barely have time to plaster on a polite smile. You’re generally a sociable person, but your eyes widen as the crowd presses closer, each bothersome member trying to be louder than the next. Your gaze lands on him.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, scowling at the crowd. Briefly, he remembers you had promised a dance to the son of Sokolov, and then decides he could give less of a fuck about that. 

“Their Imperial Highness needs space,” he snaps. The response is instantaneous; he almost laughs at the way one girl jumps almost a foot back, banging into a boy behind her.   

You grace him with a thankful smile. He thinks he would kill all of the people in this room to earn it again. 

“I need air,” you declare, more to yourself and him than anyone else. Before someone can get in the way of your plans, you hook your arm through his and lead him out into the gardens. 

The Sokolov estate is massive, though not as big as Zapolyarny. The hedged gardens sprawl north, east, and west, with the manor at their backs. Though there are lots of small flowers here and there, it is mostly made out of small trees and shrubbery, unlike your own gardens back at the palace, which were bursting with all kinds of plants. It was hard for most greenery to withstand the cold so far up north, but the Tsaritsa had scoured the land for every flower that could grow in Snezhnaya and created for you your very own Eden. 

The glow from indoors lights up the pathways but slowly grows dimmer and dimmer as you both wander down the winding stones. He has no trouble seeing, a perk of inhabiting a modified body, and, it seems, so do you. A godly trait, perhaps. He would love to thoroughly study you one day, though your mother would probably not approve of it. 

You walk in companionable silence, arms still linked together. He wants to say something. What, exactly, he does not know. 

The manor has all but faded into the distance when you stop at a quaint marble pavilion, the night outside cool and still. There is a large pond next to the pavilion, bright and silver as a knife in the moonlight. Faintly he hears the chirping of crickets in the underbrush, the gurgling of water from a nearby miniature fountain, the honks of swans. 

You cross your arms and lean against the railing, eyes glazed and unseeing, lost in thought. He hovers behind you, uncertain as a child with an angry parent. The breeze cards its fingers through your air and makes it flutter with the wind. The air is sweet, and even the annoying chirp of the crickets softens into a mellow sound. You remain silent, your gaze trained on the water.

In the steady stillness, all those emotions from the dance rush back into his heart. Rage — at himself, at you, at the world — burns through his chest. How could he have been so stupid? So weak? He thought if only he played the game right, if only he took the correct steps, he would escape unscathed. He had not realized he never stood a chance. 

Gods and their goading, tricking everyone into believing fairness was not a shadow on the wall, fickle and false. He would have never won. 

You cannot conquer me, he had declared to you, already conquered. The more he writhed from your grip, the deeper your claws sank in. And if he ever does escape, it will be with claw marks on his soul. In this game you both play, he has played and lost. Defeat is a bitter taste on his tongue. It happened again. The gods have bested him again. 

And you. You did not even know it. You still gaze thoughtfully at the pond. He resents the way you still stand so serenely as his entire world comes crashing down around him. 

He has always been a man of action. He never waits, never stays still. Yet here he is. Staying still. 

When the silence swells into something unbearable, he says, "Am I really so boring of a companion your mind has to wander off?" He levels a cool gaze at you, hoping to mask the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his teeth grind against each other, and the way his heart thumps and thumps inside his chest. 

You turn your head to look at him. Your answering smile is amused. "You could never be boring, Dottore. Not you."

"Is that why you've been ignoring me for weeks?" The hurt slips into the words before he can catch it. He winces inwardly at himself, embarrassed at the sordid display of emotions. There's a flicker of pleasure in your eyes as the words soak in. 

You shrug like a child denying their wrongdoings. "I thought… I thought you’d be inclined to dissect me and damn the consequences if I approached you again outside our lessons, after our last encounter." His wrist throbs with the memory. Mischief slips into your voice. "Why? Did you miss me?"

Yes. "Hardly." 

"Really."

He scowls. "I barely noticed your absence." 

You rest your chin on your fist. “Mhm. Theta told me you were miserable without me.” 

That stupid, loose-lipped segment was asking for deactivation. Dottore truly does not know where the young segment got his penchant for gossiping. It was something that he, Prime, never did. But it did stem from spite, which is where ninety percent of his decisions originate from. “Theta, as you know, is a serial liar.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Anyways, I don’t think he’s lying. Pantalone told me you’re behind on submitting your financial reports,” you hurry to correct when he gives you a look, “more than usual, I mean. And I heard from a little dove you’ve gotten nothing done these past few weeks.” He makes a mental note to lock Columbina out of his lab. It’s a futile pursuit, he knows she’ll find a way in through Archons-knew-what means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try. 

He arches a brow, though you can’t see it through the mask. “How arrogant of you to assume you’re the cause behind my recent… difficulties.” 

“I don’t think it’s arrogant to be correct. Or maybe it is. Would certainly explain the reason you have oceans of arrogance.” 

“Haha. What evidence do you have, anyways?” 

“Gut instinct.” 

Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is scraping and throaty. “You would make an absolutely dreadful scholar. You need evidence, my liege, before you go around making such far-fetched claims.” 

You say nothing. You slowly walk towards him, a wolf on the hunt, smiling all the while. He stays rooted to his spot, frozen. Watching. Waiting. There is a part of him, a concerningly large part of him, that longs to feel the warmth of your skin again. Another part wants to eviscerate that part. But he stands still, and he knows, oh he knows why. 

Was it truly such a miserable fate to be conquered by you? To be desired by you? He wonders if deer run only because they want to be caught by the wolf. 

You lift your palm to his neck. Your thumb pokes and prods underneath his jawbone. He leans into your touch, baring the hollow of his throat. You’re so close. You could do what you wanted, and a sick feeling tells him he would let you. You were poised to maim, to kill, to devour. But you don’t. You simply continue to press against his skin with the flat of your thumb. 

He realizes too late what you’re looking for. 

Your devilish grin is equal parts terrifying and utterly gorgeous. Mischief truly becomes you, he thinks dimly. “There,” you say softly. “Tell me, Doctor, why is your heart beating so fast? Hmm? And—” You remove your hand from his throat and his heart screams for you to place your hand on his body once more. You grip the edge of his mask, tilting it slightly up. Enough to imply your intentions. “—May I?” 

He does not mean to nod, but his body moves of its own accord. 

You let it fall to the ground. He has never considered himself to be the most handsome of men, even before the scars. And he has never cared much for his appearance. But suddenly he is aware of his rough skin, of the jagged lines that cut through the left side of his face. He wants to pick up the mask and hide once more. But the way your eyes sparkle as you take him in, all of him in, makes him feel crafted by the gods themselves. You gently brush your thumb against the bottom of his eye. 

“Dilated pupils,” you whisper. “Whatever could be making you anxious, my lord?” 

His eyes narrow and his scowl deepens, but he does not move. “Maybe I’m coming down with an affliction. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or my drink was poisoned. Maybe your presence is so foul it is enough to kill me.” 

You laugh softly. He wants to record it and play it over and over again until his heart beats to its rhythm. “We both know that’s not true.” You caress his scarred skin with your knuckles. “Do you think I can’t tell? This is my mother’s domain, after all.” You do not say that foul, four-letter word. But you let it hang between the two of you like the blade of a guillotine. 

He's doomed himself, he knows. Human connection is not something the Second Seat should trifle with. Attachment is humanity's weakness, to be exploited and used for his own gain. The burn scars on his face remind him there is always, always something else the gods could take away. But though he has cheated death for these past four hundred years, he cannot cheat his own humanity. It is something he can never escape. It terrifies him. It beckons him closer. He thinks of your smile and your laugh. 

Your smile transforms, though your lips do not move at all. It becomes brighter now, something true and warm. He wonders how long you've been waiting for this. The sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. A voice, unbidden, whispers in his ear: there are things worth burning for.

The breeze has stopped, he realizes. As though the very world is holding its breath. 

Oh. Damn it all to the Abyss. 

He closes the distance between the both of you and presses his lips onto yours. 

You taste like wine and chocolates and all things addicting and sweet. Your lips are softer than he ever dared dream of. The shocked gasp that leaves your mouth makes him smile against your mouth. He jumps at the opportunity faster than you can react. He surges forward and grabs your waist, pressing your chest against his. His teeth graze your lips and he can see your eyes widen as he bites down, hard. Your resounding whimper makes his chest bloom with pleasure. He understands, truly, he does, why you play your game with him. With all of them. To have you weaken in his grasp, to finally, finally elicit the same vulnerability you seem to conjure so easily from him, is an experience he will never forget. There is nothing in all of the world that is as addicting as stripping monsters into mortals. 

It seems like an eternity before you finally pull away, his hand still on your waist, a silver string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your eyes are blown wide and our fingertips brush against your lips, against his teeth marks. They come away red with blood. 

“You—” The word catches in your throat, and you splutter out weak noises before you regain your voice. “—you fucking bastard!” 

If I have to burn, you burn with me. 

He shrugs, grinning. “See? It’s as you said. I’m never boring.” 

His heart thumps with equal parts terror and euphoria at what he had just done. There is a part of him, smaller now, but still there, that still flinches in his head, utterly consumed by terror by what he has just done. To announce his heart’s desire so brazenly, so thoughtlessly. Yet it was a fair exchange. He had forced you to offer up your own heart as well. Catching you off guard was such a sweet sight, it excited him more than anything had in these past few years. If he had known the sensation of kissing you would be so sweet, he would have done it long ago. 

“Fuck. Fuck. What the hell?” Though he does not believe in karma, your panicked state cannot be described as anything but. “I didn’t think you’d…” You shake your head, laughing weakly. “Fuck.” 

You bury your face into his shoulder, still cursing softly. He debates pulling away, but instead, he wraps his arms around you. You seem so small, so fragile, like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. He hums as he traces soothing circles on your back.  

"Did you miss me too in the past few weeks?" He asks impulsively. It is out of a desire to satiate his curiosity more than anything.

You draw in a shaky breath. He feels you smile against his skin. "Of course I did." The reply vindicates him.

Beat.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, looking down at your head. 

He nudges you. Had you fallen asleep somehow? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’d ever done. 

He does not catch what you say, what with the softness of your voice coupled with it being muffled by his chest. But you stir in his arms, still unable to look at him. 

“Is everything alright?” He repeats. 

“No.” A pause. “I’m a bit afraid.”

“Of what?” He asks, puzzled. 

“That if I look at you, my heart is going to burst from my chest.”  

It starts as small chuckles, then wheezing, the bellied laughter as he doubles over. Now you were the one holding him in your arms. There’s nothing funny about what you’ve just said. It’s not even a joke. But wasn’t it, in some twisted way hilarious, after all this time, how the scales have balanced themselves? 

You stare at him, incredulous, your previous anxious state shed like a snake skin. You disentangle yourself from him and slap his chest, hard, which only causes him to double down in his fit of laughter, clutching at his sore sides.

“What’s so funny?” You say shrilly. “Don’t laugh at me! Dottore!” 

“I’m not sorry,” he says after recovering himself, wiping a tear from his eye, laughter still laced in the words. 

“This isn’t funny!” You pout and stomp your feet on the ground indignantly, like a child. “You’re so mean to me.” 

He smiles. “Always, my dear. What did you expect?” 

You sigh. The sound is drawn out for dramatics. You cross your arms and turn your body away, chin up, a comical imitation of an irritated housewife. “I should’ve just taken Theta.” 

Suddenly the smile dies on his lips and his body is flooded with an ugly, twisting rage. Stupid Theta. Always ruining everything. “You don’t mean that,” he says coolly. “I’m the one you wanted to take tonight.” 

That evokes a sly smile from you. “Aww, are you jealous, my dear Doctor?” 

Definitely. He scowls. “Of course not.” 

“You seemed jealous back at the ball, too,” you tease. 

He recoils as though the words materialized themselves into the physical plane and slapped him in the face. “Of those low lives? Never.” 

“So, you wouldn’t mind going back to the dance I promised the son of Sokolov?” Urgh. He had hoped you’d forgotten about that. Anyways, it’d be a bit awkward to go back now. You’ve both been gone for so long you might as well ditch the party. And if you insisted on going back… well. He wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be forgiven, of course, and people fear him too much to make it an issue. He wonders what excuses you’ll have to draw up when you inevitably apologize to the Sokolov family for leaving so early. 

“It’s not worth your energy.” 

“But I only danced once tonight!” 

“It was good enough.” 

“You were not that good. I kept having to cover up your mistakes.” The words, though snarky, hold no actual venom. Though, it does prickle him. The overachieving scholar within yearns to be more than ‘not that good’. And anyway, who is Il Dottore, if not someone who goes above and beyond? Your smile urges him to take the bait. 

He does.

“Then,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, extending a gloved hand, “would you allow me to make up for it?” 

You place your hand in his.

Dancing has never seemed fun to Dottore. Little things (well, little socially acceptable things) have. It’s a waste of his time, in his opinion. The constant pursuit of knowledge has been his entire life. Even when he was mortal, he never understood what happiness such frivolous activities could elicit that books could not. Yet he does not recall a time he has ever felt such soft, weightless happiness as he does now. As he sways with you to invisible music in the sweet grass of the night. You mess up, and he does too. You trip on stray roots. He is unbalanced on the uneven ground. He blames it on your shared jumble of nerves. You giggle and smile and blame him. But you continue to dance, letting him spin you around as the moon bathes you in silver. Now all those years running from divinity seem so silly. How could he ever fathom running away from this? 

It disgusts him somewhat that he’s fallen into… whatever he could call this… so easily. All that time spent battling you, battling himself, all evaporated in a single night. All that effort turned to cinders. He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. He does not think the game has ended, no. You’ll play it again and again and again, until time reaches its empty end. He does not know whether he wants to devour you or be devoured by you. He does not find the latter as unappealing as it once was. Who could have guessed that pain could be pleasure? He pitied — no, he still does pity — mortals for their sad, forever-yearning hearts that beat for contentment, for companionship. Yet he finds that same weakness in him. It is utterly terrifying.

But as you spin in the moonlight, your laughter ringing in his ears, and his heart thumps and thumps, he thinks it is utterly, utterly inescapable. 

[sserpente]

A/N: What if you accidentally pickpocket the wrong person? What if that person… is a rogue vampire elf who will demand something in return? Something… red? (Astarion's not ascended in this one)

Words: 1180 Warnings: mentions of prostitution

Your stomach was rumbling. How many days had it been? Three? Four? Truly, it had never been this bad before. Ever since Gortash had become archduke, the city was drowning in chaos and misery. Benevolent and generous people who’d usually slip you a coin or two walked on now, avoiding your quiet pleas to spare some change for a starving woman.

You didn’t want to do it but what other choice did you have but to pickpocket people? In the dead of winter, merchants rarely left their food out for too long and the taverns were not busy enough to slip your hand into a bag or two.

The streets were your best bet now that the sun was retreating and lit torches threw their warm light on the cobblestones, creating eerie shadows wherever you looked. Your victim would have to be someone rich, someone who could afford to part with currency. Someone like… him. Heavens, he was gorgeous.

A noble, for sure. He was elegant. Full white hair, pointy ears indicating he was a high elf, no doubt… clean and sophisticated clothing. Surely his pockets would be full and he wouldn’t miss a couple of gold coins disappearing to fill your belly with food tonight.

You approached, snaking past a passer-by to wait for the right moment. The elf turned… giving you just enough movement to dip your fingers into the small pouch attached to his belt. One, two, three, four… five gold pieces should be enough to buy yourself a warm meal tonight and perhaps some bread to feed you for the days to come.

“Why, you insolent little…” Panic washed over you when he spoke with a start. The elf’s gaze met yours as he flipped around—red orbs boring into your own, anger flickering in his. His hand snatched your wrist in a tight grip before you could yank it back and flee.

“You have picked the wrong target, darling.”

“I’m sorry… s-sorry, don’t… don’t tell the Steel Watch, please! I’ll leave.”

But it was a different kind of hazard this stunningly beautiful elf was radiating. Red-eyed elves were rare in itself but there was something else—something that told you that you had just made a very grave mistake in provoking this particular stranger before you.

“The Steel Watch?” The elf laughed. “I have no interest in reporting you to the Steel Watch. But in all honesty… you could help me out with something else.”

He was charming—more than you would have liked to admit. There was a sweet tone of seduction in his voice that went down like honey, so much so that you almost wanted to agree with him. But if there was one thing you had sworn to yourself, it was that you would never sell your body to ensure your survival.

“I… no. I don’t do… that.”

“What?” Anger appeared on the elf’s face. No, you realised… it was actual appalment. “I didn’t mean… I am talking about your blood, dear. You smell delicious.”

The thought of him being a vicious murderer on the hunt for the next thrill crossed your mind like a slap in the face—but your theory was rapidly disproved when he flashed you a disarming smile. Fangs. He was a vampire.

Your eyes widened, fear now fuelling your body more than the adrenaline ever could. You twisted your wrist, desperate to break free from him. But the relentless hunger had made you weak.

“Now, now, darling, no need to be scared. I am very, very… nice,” he said slowly, purring each and every word.

Dragging you after him before you could utter another word of protest, he slipped into the shadows and a dark side alley. A rat fled as you stumbled against the wall, abandoning the rotten carrot it had been gnawing on.

“I told you, I’m sorry. Please… don’t kill me,” you breathed out.

“Kill you? I’m not going to kill you. I just need a little taste. I was going make do with a drunk tonight but this… this is much better.”

He sighed when you squirmed, resulting in his large body pressing you even further against the brick wall. Your dirty dress scraped against the rough material. You lifted your head, biting your lower lip.

“How about this? You let me have a little nibble and in exchange, I’ll let you have the gold pieces you were going to steal from me. I’m not much for charity but I can work with a little… transaction.”

He would… was he serious? You blinked at him, surprised at yourself for even considering his words. If you accepted, would this truly be any different from selling your body in more intimate ways?

“I promise I’ll be gentle. You won’t feel a thing.”

“You know, most vampires would have ripped my throat out already,” you said. Your voice was a little shaky but you stood your ground. You had no choice, after all.

The stranger smiled. “I’m not most vampires, darling. Besides, I’m only a spawn, so you should consider yourself lucky. So? What do you say to my little proposition?”

“I…” Your stomach growled again, making the decision for you. “F-fine.”

“Excellent. My name is Astarion.”

You told him your name with a stutter following his seductive smile. Each and every muscle in your body tensed when he leaned forward, brushing your hair out of the way to reveal your neck to him.

One moment you could feel his hot breath against your skin, in the next you felt his sharp canines breaking it to draw blood. He’d held his promise. The initial pain subsided so fast that you questioned whether it’d been there to begin with. His mouth closed around the wound he caused, sucking your life essence out of you sip after sip after sip.

It felt… good. You’d expected it to be uncomfortable, to be dancing on the edge of unconsciousness or even death but this… perhaps he’d been just as hungry as you. Perhaps he’d been just as desperate as you. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Your eyes fell shut as you gave in to the soothing sensation. Astarion moaned against your neck, a wordless sound of approval of your taste. You couldn’t help but feel flattered when he finally pulled away and licked his lips, a small trickle of blood staining the right corner of his mouth.

“Hmm… thank you, darling. That was…”

“Astarion! Astarion! Where the hells did he run off to now? I swear if he’s stealing scrolls from Rolan again, I will…”

The vampire rolled his eyes all the while you kept catching your breath from this unusual and strangely… erotic experience.

“I’m coming, Gale. Gods, the man is a nuisance.” He paused. “I shall hope to see you again, darling. You were delightful.”

Astarion slipped away gracefully, leaving you to sink down against the wall but before he did, he gently placed the entire gold pouch he’d been carrying in your palm with a sly smile.

Against all reason… you were hoping to see him again too.

[blingblong55]

Perception- 141 x M!Reader

Based on a request

M!Reader, angst, mentions of blood,

The Gulag was the government agency in charge of the Soviet network of forced labour camps 

You are a well known member of Task Force 141. Although on field you are known for being the violent and viscous way you fight enemy soldiers, many on base don't really mind calling you names. In a way, you have become the freak of base. Ghost himself fears you at times, mainly because he has see you kill men with your bare hands and act as if it was nothing. He has seen the blood of the enemy dripping from your body and how you act as if it was normal. The team has so much respect for you though, they understand you are there for the mission, that you'd kill if it means to reach the goal.

Nothing really stands in your way when it comes to combat. But before you had become the man you are known as today, you were normal. A man of honour, never wanting to hurt anybody, no matter the circumstances.

----

What changed you, was 12 years ago, you were 2 years into your service when in a mission you were captured. Although the Soviet Union had fallen, Russia still held prisoners in infamous Gulag. You and a few of the other men who were also captured were tortured. Day and night was a living hell. The conditions were always horrible, men dying ever other hour due top weather and physical strength.

One night, you and three other men tried to escape, but because of a guard dog, you all failed. You fought back though, kicking, scratching and punching the guards. When one of the men saw you fight, he knew where they'd send you to next.

"глупый гребаный человек, думает, что может убежать от нас." a soldier spoke, some laughed as the other beat you senseless. They had broken your old self to the point that you just didn't care how you survived. For three hours straight every soldier that wanted to, would go and kick you, punch or even throw rocks at you.

Sometimes at night when you feel your most vulnerable, you feel for the cigar burns they left around your body. At times, you look in the mirror when you are shirtless, the deep scars that were scattered all over your body. Each touch took you back to the three years you were held in.

The winters were unbearable, at times, some of the men that would sustain injuries would die or have body parts be amputated. Others also died from hyperthermia, and somehow you survived the easy deaths.

On the night they sent you to a new part of the camp, they made sure to tattoo a symbol on your chest. A large skull a sword that pierced the top of it. All the prisoners were in cages, it ranged from the smallest of men to the biggest of all. You were well in your early 20's, so your shape was not so bad, even after all the days you spent without eating.

Once they clothed you properly, they threw you and a few other men into the fighting area/stage. Rich people watched from the stands as you all looked at them, you were all new. No one knew what the hell you were thrown in for.

Until you spotted the tools for fighting. And eerie sound came from speakers, the crowd clapped and cheered as soon as the prisoners started to fight each other. You, with some luck held a small dagger, a man much smaller than you sprinted to you, a sword on his hand.

If this was the way of getting out might as well fucking fight, you thought. You quickly dodged the man and soon stood behind him, you slashed his throat and took the sword from him. For hours on end, the smallest and even biggest of men fell to their demise. Blood was soaking the floor beneath you. Only 10 men survived from 50. You being lucky number 3.

And for many nights the routine was the same. Get beaten to sleep, trapped into a cage and wake up early, eat little to nothing and by sundown fight for your life.

In your time of fighting, you learned a few tricks, go for both weak and big. You did things you aren't proud to ever admit. You killed more men than any of the task force ever dared to do.

One night as you slept another prisoner escaped his cage, you woke up to being held by a knife at your throat.

"ты убил моего гребаного брата" the man spoke. (Translation: you killed my fucking brother)

"этот слабый ублюдок на это наткнулся" you answered coldly. (Translation: this weak bastard stumbled upon it)

"Я убью тебя" (Translation: I'll kill you)

"Нет, если я убью тебя первым" and thats when you grabbed the knife from him, stabbing him in the eye and then his throat. Before the guards came, you threw the night far from your cage and pretended to sleep. (Translation: Not if I kill you first)

----

You still have nightmares about it, but they aren't ever too bad. This mission that you were on though was a hard one. You and the rest of your team were captured. Price took the situation under control, trying to make negotiations with the enemy. In your years since being freed from the gulag, you hadn't spoke Russian or even heard it until tonight.

"Говорю тебе, сегодня вечером мы договоримся об этом, а завтра они проснутся мертвыми." the soldier said from the other room. (Translation: I'm telling you, we'll settle this tonight, and tomorrow they'll wake up dead.)

Your blood ran cold. Your breathing started to get out of control, you looked around the room, none of the other men knew what they had said. Gaz was the one who noticed your shift in behaviour, "Mate, whats wrong?" he whispered which caused all the other to look at you.

"I won't die, not by fucking Russians." your hands slowly shaking, you tried to steady your breathing, and thats when you realised you were back in a cage. You knew you were trapped, but it was as if you were young again, fighting every night for a spot to live.

"What does that mean?" Soap asked.

"Nothin'" you answered. You have to escape, you can't live like that anymore. You looked around the room and saw a poster, the same kind that was at every fight. You started to feel dizzy, and thats when Ghost noticed it, you were having a panic attack.

"Price, we have to get him out, now."

One look at Price understood why, Ghost shifted closer to you, he positioned himself in a way that would help him rub your back.

"s'alright mate, I won't let that shit happen twice." Ghost knew about what happened to you years ago, he accidentally found the files Laswell and you worked hard to bury. But not once did he push to know more, at times when you felt comfortable, you would open up, and he'd listen to the stories of those days.

But you couldn't listen, you didn't really understand the words that came out of his mouth when he tried to reassure you. Your hands digging at your skin, trying to feel your skin brought some good.

"Gaz, you untie me, and I'll untie you." Price ordered, soon the two men were up. They untied Soap, who untied Ghost. And he knew you best, so he opted to untie you once the Russians were taken down.

And once your eyes met Price, Ghost and Gaz untied you, Soap holding close as they all comforted you. Your breathing was starting to go back to normal. But still, the memories and the horror that place brought you were no fun.

The constant nights where you wished to just end your life, that maybe I'd be best if you die by your own hands and not by someone else's, especially not in front of the all the wealthy people who would watch the fight as if it was a sport.

The memories will forever stick to you and the regret you carry is who makes you the soldier you are today.

-----

A/N: I wanted this to be longer, but my ideas ran out, sorry

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Tags: @xweirdo101x

[7ndipity]

Army of One

Jin x Reader

Summary: You've struggled with depression for a long time, but Jin will never let you fight on you own...

Warnings: angst, depression, mentions of scars but nothing detailed, not proofread

A/N: This is kinda messy, but I’ve been going through some stuff and just wanted to get some of it out, and decided to share it on the chance that maybe it’ll make someone else feel a little better or comforted too. It’s loosely inspired by my favorite Coldplay song of the same title. Love y’all💜

Masterlist

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

It was well past midnight, everything washed in grey-blue light, the only sounds that permeated the space around you was the distant white-noise of the traffic outside and the faint sound of your own breathing.

“Hey.” His voice was so soft you could almost miss it, not wanting to disturb the peace around you.

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing up?” He asked.

You shrugged.

“Couldn’t sleep.” You kept your eyes fixed on the window in front of you.

The view over the city had been one of your favorite parts about this place when you’d first moved here, able to sit and watch thousands of tiny lights flicker through the streets below, each one its own tiny universe.

He sat down next to you, careful not to disturb you. “You wanna talk about it?” He asked, already knowing the likely answer.

“Not really.”

He nodded. He knew you weren’t always comfortable sharing what was going on in your mind. He was the same way, it was part of what had made him feel so at ease with you early on, the two of you understood what it meant to communicate without speaking, through half-smiles and quiet hums of acknowledgement. It was for this same reason that you had also made it easy for him to open up, to let the mask fall and show his vulnerable sides.

You had given him a safe place to show his true self, but he noticed that you held back from doing the same, at least in full.

You had told him a bit about your struggles, about the shadows that haunted you, clinging and lurking close, no matter how hard you tried to ignore their cold, clammy grip, waiting to pull you down at the first sign of weakness, but you had tried to protect him from the worst of it. You hadn’t wanted him to know about the days when they won, when you could barely drag yourself from your bed, when everything seemed to fade out as if viewed through fogged glass, close enough to see and hear, but never able to make full contact, the warmth never able to sink in.

The first few times it happened you had tried to hide it, saying you just weren’t feeling well or that you were busy or whatever else was fague enough to sound convincing, at least to you, but Jin was far from clueless.

He’d noticed how tired you were sometimes, the distant look in your eyes, but he hadn’t wanted to pressure you to talk about things you weren’t ready to share yet, you’d only been dating a few months after all, but after your third day of single sentence texts, he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d shown up at your door with food and an overnight bag and the statement that he refused to leave you to suffer on your own.

A statement that had turned into a promise.

“The flowers have started to bloom.” Your voice almost startled him, pulling him from his thoughts.

“I noticed.” He said, watching you attentively.

“It’s spring.”

It’s a simple statement, but Jin understood its underlying meaning. Another winter passed, another year survived.

His hand came to rest over yours where it brushed over the faded marks of the past, reminders of the storms you weathered before and survived.

You’d been through enough autumns, waiting to wither away like the leaves around you, that you had started to believe that they didn’t faze you anymore, until you noticed the tremble in your hands as he held you, reminding you that you were still very much connected to this world.

Do you ever regret it?” You stared down at your intertwined hands, the way his fit so neatly over your own.

“Never.” He said without a moment’s hesitation, with a certainty that you feel reverberate in your chest.

“Even when I’m like this?”

“Especially when you're like this.” He said, leaning closer to lend you some of his warmth.

“Why?”

“Because, you’re worth fighting for.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You are to me.”

You still struggled to believe it, but that was his truth. If he could, he would go into battle for you, fight till his hands were ragged and bloodied to protect you from the things that hurt you, from the thoughts that ambushed you and tried to lure you away in the middle of the night.

But he knew he couldn’t fight this battle for you, not entirely, but he did the best he could to help you, to arm yourself against the darkness. He gave you his time, his strength, his patience, his love. He would give you everything he could think of, until he feels you revive, until you win.

“Thank you.” He said softly, bringing his face to rest against the juncture between your neck and shoulder, breathing you in.

“For what?” You ask, staring out at the ocean of lights spread below you.

“For staying, even when it was hard." He said. "For fighting for yourself, and for us.”

You said nothing, squeezing his hand as the tears you’ve been fighting back finally began to slip down your face.

He pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as he wiped your face.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

Taglist: @sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow @coffeedepressionsoup @main-bangtansmauyeondan @feminympho @a-gayish-unicorn @dfqcsqueen @mother2monsters

[itsagoodluckkiss]

My Firefly

Pairing: Ace x Reader

Warnings: Major character death, hurt no comfort, full of angst, pure depression

Words: 863

Note: As always, english is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes. No beta reading, we die like men in this one *cough*. I write with female reader in mind but this has no mentions of gender, take it as you want. No use of Y/N. This was inspired by Sufjan Stevens' "Fourth Of July". I cried writing it. I'm sorry. You've been warned.

The evil it spread like a fever ahead, it was night when you died, my firefly.

What could I have said to raise you from the dead, oh could I be the sky on the 4th of July?

You’ve come to realize, sometimes, love is just not enough. And you’d have to live the rest of your life with that realization. You stood above your dead lover, his once warm body that held you through the harshest winters, now laid cold on the bed, waiting for the time to go to his final resting place. You had cleaned him, covered his fatal wounds, dressed him in the clothes he wore when you first met him, abroad the Moby Dick. His body and soul had gone through enough disgrace. The least you could offer him now was peace.

That night at Marineford, you died alongside Ace. Your body was just a shadow now, cursed to roam the earth until the day you would see him again. When his weak body was cradled into his brother’s arms, his eyes fell on you across the battlefield. And he smiled. He smiled before he crashed to the ground. The guttural screams of Luffy were slightly louder than your cries as you cursed the world around you.

Everything was a blur after that. You knew you had helped his brother escape, Ace’s will had to live on. After the Red Hair Pirates stopped the war and the marines initially refused to return the bodies of your captain and lover to put them on display, you were ready to snap. You weren’t able to even say goodbye to him! How much more could you bare? ‘Luckily’, the bodies were retrieved and you could bury and grieve them properly.

And now there you stood, caressing the face you’ve come to love more than yourself, knowing it would be the last time you did.

“Such a funny though to wrap you up in cloth… do you find it alright, my firefly?”

You couldn’t stop your eyes from welling up, hot tears running down your cheeks. You doubted they would ever stop. You sat beside him. He looked like he was sleeping and you could almost see the slight smile on his lips he wore when he left you. Your head rested on his shoulder, your hand running above the place his heart was supposed to be. Instead of a strong heartbeat, it was dead silent.

“What wouldn’t I do for you to be here now… I’m sorry…”, you sobbed.

It finally hit you for good. He won’t come back to you like he promised. You’d never see those brown eyes again. You won’t get to hug his form or kiss his lips again. Where would you stand now if not next to him?

“I can’t… Ace I can’t… I can’t do this, Ace…” , you screeched, choked out by your sobs.

You know what he would say to you. That you had to survive, to hold on tight, to live a life with no regrets. You didn’t think you could do it. Your mind takes you back to that one night.

“I regret meeting you so late, firefly… Wish I’d known you sooner. I think you would have saved me a lot of nightmares.”, you said with your head on his chest, his hands wrapped around you, in a comforting embrace as you both laid on your shared bed in the room of the ship.

“Don’t think about this now, yes? We have forever ahead of us. It will always be you I come back to”, he smiled down at you, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.

“You want stay with me? Forever?”

“There’s nothing in this world I want more. I never thought I would find someone that loves me like you do. And I love you with my whole heart as well. I want you to live on with nothing dragging you behind, and I’ll try my hardest to give this life to you.”

“You have no idea how much I love you, Ace…”, you were on the verge of tears at his sweet words, you hand slipping into his, your fingers intertwining. “Forever then?”

“Forever.”

But forever would never come now. And you relied too much on that future. Now you had nothing. Nothing to hold on now, nothing and no one else to live for. And you would live in this cruel world from now on, with the regret that you were too weak to save the love of your life. Until your very last breath.

Your hands cupped his face, caressing his cheeks as you placed your lips on his for the last time. One last goodbye, until the day you would see him again.

Now you sat alone in front of his grave where your home was buried. Your fingers dig in the fresh soil, as if wanting to be buried next to him. His body was carried with care to his last stop. But you didn’t have anywhere to go now. Your head looks at the stars, as if waiting to see your own up there. Your home was Ace. And you’d wait for him.

“Goodbye, my firefly… Until we meet again…”

[linkito]

kiss prompt #20: on a scar.

this is also scarian. i'm thinking hhau :3c and grian's newly acquired scars (which i guess doubles as #21, on a place of insecurity?)

Grian knows it’s silly to be so insecure over something ultimately so inconsequential, but it’s an amalgamation of several things, really, only made worse by the emergence of these new scars across his face. 

And it’s also horribly ironic, given that he’s neglected his wings for months on end, letting them gather dust and debris, secretly hoping that perhaps it’ll be enough to make him less desirable to the humans who seek out his feathers. It’s ironic that now he’d let something like facial scars bring him down, something that blatantly displays the damage that has been set on him. 

No one would want damaged goods, after all, right?

He ought to be happy about that, right?

Maybe he would feel that way if he had any say in their development, if it had been self-imposed like the time he’d desperately torn out his feathers, trying to hide the vivid purple that stained his body, but— 

It’s Scar’s steady hand that snaps him out of that sea of thoughts before it can spiral, his calloused fingers gently tracing over Grian’s cheek, giving the scar tissue the same tender treatment, almost like nothing at all was different. 

It’s a silly thing to be insecure about. To be insecure about it would be hypocritical. He’s never had a problem with the scattering of scars across his partner’s body, after all— why would he? It’s one of his favorite activities to trace over them, to map them out over his skin… much like Scar is now. 

“Scar,” Grian starts, but he stops at that, unsure of how to proceed. His voice is strained and hoarse. He feels like he can’t actually breach this topic, not without inadvertently insulting Scar with anything he could possibly say. 

It’s shallow, it’s stupid, it’s—

It’s something permanently strewn across his face reminding him of the time he thought he was abandoned. When he was alone and scared, left with only the severe chill of winter and the taste of blood on his tongue. 

Grian doesn’t want to be reminded of that.

He doesn’t want Scar to look at him and see someone different, someone irreparably damaged after just one week spent apart. What if that makes him less desirable to Scar now as well? 

(He knows he’s being ridiculous. He knows, he knows, but he can’t help it. It hurts. It hurts so so much.)

“Grian,” Scar replies after a moment, undoubtedly recognizing the moment Grian gets pulled back under by the torrent of his endless anxieties. He presses closer, offering himself as the tether keeping Grian afloat, foreheads touching so all Grian can see is the boundless affection present in his bright, green eyes.

It almost burns to look at.

Grian can’t look away.

Wordless tears form at the edges of Grian’s vision, but then Scar is speaking again, uttering something so bizarre that Grian is at a complete loss on how to respond, leaving his tears frozen in place as his eyes widen with confusion.

“Thank you,” Scar says, once again brushing his thumb over the mark next to Grian’s eye. His touch is gentle as always, which sets something in Grian toppling, and the tears fall, one by one. Some pool at the tips of Scar’s fingers, slowly streaking down his skin.

Scar is undeterred by it, smiling softly as he leans in and kisses the marred and tear-streaked skin. Grian can’t handle it. 

“Scar, what—“ he manages to choke out before losing his voice to a weak sob, his lips quivering as Scar leans down to press a kiss to the scratch on his chin as well. “Scar.”

Scar hears the unspoken question, and he hums softly against the fragile skin. He answers, but it leaves Grian with even more questions, unable to understand. “You survived.”

Grian opens his mouth, but nothing aside from a ragged breath escapes, because how is he supposed to respond to that? 

He cannot even begin to comprehend why Scar felt compelled to thank him of all things while tracing over his scars like they were something precious— something to be grateful for? celebrated? Grian doesn’t know.

But when he looks at Scar, he sees nothing but sincerity. An honest adoration. Genuine relief that he can look upon Grian’s face at all. That they didn’t lose each other.

And although he may not comprehend, Grian finds that he wants to. He wants to see what Scar sees, because somehow, despite everything, Scar still sees something beautiful when he looks his way. 

Grian’s heart swells and with another broken sob, he falls forward into Scar’s welcoming arms.

[dirty-bosmer]

WIP Wednesday

(Wierd format cause otherwise tumblr won't let me tag more than 5 people)

I was tagged last week by @thequeenofthewinter @throughtrialbyfire

@inkysqueed @bostoniangirl21 @theoneandonlysemla and @skyrim-forever Thank you friends <3

Tagging you all again this week, and also tagging @elavoria @vivifriend @rainpebble3 @ladytanithia @sheirukitriesfandom

@wispstalk @kookaburra1701 @sylvienerevarine lets see some wips, if you've got em :)

More Slither and Writhe today. A snip of Sylawen and Thrynn make their way through Falkreath.

It was late afternoon, and the waning sunlight found them scattered and weak through the fingers of the pines. Whatever storm had been brewing reached them moribund, no more than a formless mist, but it was cold mist all the same, and it sank deeply. Straight down to the bone.  The mud sucked at Sylawen’s boots, adding a pound to each stride, and this weather was doing something awful to her skin. Her cheeks burned. Her lips flaked; she could feel the dead bits of it grappling for purchase on her lower lip, so she scraped them off with her teeth, and the thin, bleeding cuts left in their place stung whenever she licked them. I hate Skyrim, she decided then. What a dirty, ugly place filled with dirty, ugly people. And never before had she felt so dirty and ugly either. It was a good thing then that she had Thrynn for company. Juxtaposed, he was still the more unsightly one between them. Wind-chafed but optimistic, Sylawen trudged on. No matter where they ended up, it couldn’t be much worse than where she’d started, and hopefully the next town over stocked a healthy supply of ointment. The thick, pasty kind with zinc. Her stomach rumbled, not the first time that day. “I’m hungry,” she said aloud as if Thrynn hadn’t heard the rumbling, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Not that she’d much expected him to. Still sore about the whole eye-stabbing thing, he spoke little at all to her while they traveled. Stubborn baby. If she could move past the emotional distress of her abduction, why, a little bodily harm was nothing! So dramatic! “Do you know where we are?” Sylawen tried again.  “Not with any more certainty than I did the last time you asked.” “Shouldn’t you be able to… I don’t know, look at the sun and discern the cardinal directions or something?” Thrynn scowled. “What do I look like, a bird heading south for the winter?” “I merely assumed,” Sylawen said, “given you were living out here in the wilds like a barbarian, that perhaps you’d have picked up some primitive survival skills.” “And if you’d any survival skills of your own, you’d know when to shut your mouth and let a man enjoy his peace.” “Hmph!"

[bzurk]

dog eat dog world

You stalk through the decaying remnants of humanity, a ghost in a world gone feral. Every step is muffled by the eerie silence that has settled over the earth, bearing witness to its downfall. You have become a nomad, constantly on the move in search of a glimmer of civilization. As the days blur into nights and back again, you cling to the hope that there is still safety somewhere, waiting for you to find it. And find it you do. You'd rather face a thousand zombies.

You stalk through the decaying remnants of humanity, a ghost in a world gone feral. Every step is muffled by the eerie silence that has settled over the earth, bearing witness to its downfall. The air is thick with the stench of decay and smoke, a constant reminder of the destruction surrounding you. You are not alone in this desolate landscape; your loyal four-legged companions pad silently at your side, their senses sharp and ready to protect you from any lurking threats.

In the early days of the apocalypse, chaos reigned supreme as society crumbled and humanity showed its true colours. As a woman, you faced not only the ravenous undead but also the predatory living who sought to exploit weakness wherever they could find it.

In the turmoil, you found strength, protection, companionship. Trained in combat and personal protection, your canines had become more than just companions; they were your lifeline, your guardians. Your dogs sensed danger before you did, their growls and barks a warning system that kept you one step ahead. And when the danger was human, their presence was a reminder that you were not to be trifled with. In the right hands, they were a weapon, gnashing teeth and pure muscle. With each passing day, your bond with them grew stronger, and your pack expanded as you encountered abandoned dogs during your travels. These new additions integrated seamlessly, creating an ever-growing arsenal of loyal guardians.

Settlements come and go, offering brief respite before the road calls you back when unease and distrust prickle beneath your skin. You move from one to the next, never staying long enough to become anything more than a fleeting memory. Your eyes are always scanning, assessing, the instincts honed by years of military training and survival now serving a different kind of war. Each new place is a potential haven or a deadly trap, and you navigate them with a mix of caution and confidence, your dogs at your side, ever watchful.

Distrust is your armour, forged in the crucible of combat and sharpened by the betrayals you've witnessed since the world fell apart. You’ve learned the hard way that trust is a rare commodity, often paid for in blood. Your instincts, once honed in the field, now serve to keep you and your pack alive in this wasteland.

You have become a nomad, constantly on the move in search of a glimmer of civilization. But until then, you rely on your military training and hardened instincts to keep you and your pack alive in this harsh world. As the days blur into nights and back again, you cling to the hope that there is still humanity left somewhere, waiting for you to find it. Until then, you’ll keep moving, keep training, and keep surviving. For in this new world, you are not just a survivor; you and your pack, your army - are a force to be reckoned with.

In this hellscape, trust is rare, and loyalty is everything. And you’ve got them in spades.

Winter grips the world in its icy embrace, turning the landscape into a frozen wasteland. The sky is a perpetual grey, a heavy blanket of clouds that never seems to lift. The sun, when it does manage to pierce through, is a pale, distant orb that offers little warmth.

Winter is always tough. The frozen ground makes survival a daily struggle, as game becomes scarce and the cold seeps into your bones, exacerbating the aches and pains in your older dogs. Weeks had turned into an agonizing blur, as monotonous as the white sheets of snow.

Each step is a fight, the ground hard as iron and covered in a thick blanket of snow. Your boots sink into it with each footfall, making progress slow and laborious. You move through a dense forest, the trees stripped bare, their skeletal branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. Snow crunches under your boots, each step a reminder of the bitter cold that gnaws at your bones.

Your breath comes in visible puffs, mingling with the cold air. Your two remaining dogs are by your side, their breaths visible in the frigid air. Their fur is thick, but even they are not immune to the biting cold. You can see the fatigue in their eyes, and the way they shiver slightly despite their endurance. But they press on, loyal and determined, their eyes always scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.

Food is scarce. You haven’t seen game in days, and the rations you carry are dwindling. Each meal is a sparse affair, shared among the three of you with careful rationing.

(The dogs always get the bigger share. Their ribs are getting too pronounced. You worry for them in the cold.)

The hunger gnaws at your stomach, but you push it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

The forest is a maze of shadows and stillness, broken only by the occasional crunch of snow underfoot or distant howl of wind. Every rustle or snap sets your nerves on edge, but your dogs serve as vigilant sentinels. Their ears twitch and their noses sniff the air, sensing danger long before you do. They’ve never led you astray before.

Your hands are numb and your face is raw from the biting wind. You pull your coat tighter around you, but it does little to ward off the chill, pocked with holes and pushing threadbare. The dogs press close to you when you finally rest, their body heat a small comfort against the freezing temperatures.

The morning creeps in, a menacing cloak of grey and cold that blankets the forest in an eerie shroud of fog. Hastily, you pack up your camp, erasing any evidence of your presence before setting off on your journey once again. You knew there was a base out west. Visited it once, even - before the world collapsed.

As you trudge through the changing forest, everything seems to grow thicker and denser, the trees looming overhead like giants. But there’s a sense of purpose, a feeling that you’re getting closer. You had to be.

Suddenly, Rex's ears perk up and his nose twitches with urgency. Dino follows suit, her body tensed for action. Your heart races as you freeze, listening intently for any signs of danger. At first, all you hear is the howling wind whipping through the trees. But then, faintly but unmistakably, you catch the sound of human voices murmuring in the distance.

Hope flares in your chest, but you temper it with caution. You move forward slowly, your dogs at your side, every sense on high alert. The voices grow louder, clearer. You catch glimpses of movement through the trees, the glint of metal, the outlines of figures.

You crouch behind a thicket, peering through the dense branches. Your heart is a drum in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears. The dogs are tense, their muscles coiled like springs.

As you cautiously approach, the figures become clearer in your sight. Two individuals, clad in military gear, move with practised precision and alertness. Their weapons are held at the ready, prepared to fire at any potential threat. Your eyes scan their faces, searching for any hint of familiarity or recognition, but they remain strangers to you - their expressions firm and guarded. The leader of the pair, a burly man with a grizzled beard and sharp, calculating eyes, is easily recognized when he speaks in a commanding hush that is barely audible over the howling wind.

A spark of hope ignites in your chest, spreading warmth and vitality throughout your body. It's clear from the amount of gear they carry that these two must be from the base: winter camouflage fatigues adorned with plate carriers and vests full of ammunition and supplies. Knives glint in the fading sunlight, guns strapped securely to their bodies. You easily command your dogs to stay put before cautiously moving closer, using the dense cover of the surrounding trees to hide your approach.

It would be stupid to sneak up on them, these men armed to the teeth. It would also be stupid to approach plainly, only armed with the bolt-actioned rifle strapped over your back and a handful of assorted knives. People are rarely kind.

The decision is made for you when a deep growl carries on the wind, animalistic and familiar. You whip around, but it’s too late. A third man, dressed similarly in military gear, emerges from the shadows behind you, his face covered and devoid of any emotion.

Before you can react, he strikes, his muscular arms coiling around your neck and waist like a deadly serpent. He pins one of your arms to your side with ease, his grip unbreakable as you struggle against him, you raise your legs and kick off the tree in front of you, but he hardly budges.

You manage to twist your head and whistle between quick breaths, a sharp, commanding sound that cuts through the air. Your dogs spring into action through the snow, their growls turning into furious barks as they charge toward the attacker.

Their unexpected arrival catches the assailant off guard, loosening their grip for a split second. You seize the opportunity, twisting your body and throwing an elbow into his ribs. He grunts in pain, his grip slipping further. You twist and writhe, using every ounce of your training to break free, but the man is strong and well-trained himself. His grip tightens again, but you keep fighting, knowing that giving up is not an option.

You kick back, aiming for his shins, and manage to connect. He stumbles, and you press the advantage, turning and driving your shoulder into his chest. For a moment, you’re almost free, but he recovers quickly, his arm snaking around your neck, pulling you into a headlock. You gasp for air, your vision blurring slightly from the pressure.

The dogs are barking furiously now, their growls a low, menacing rumble. You struggle to stay on your feet, twisting and turning in his grip, but he’s too tall and your boots barely skim the snow. He’s trying to get you to the ground, and you know that if he succeeds, it’s over.

You can hear the snap of jaws, accompanied by a consistent growl. You both go down in a tangle of limbs, the snow cushioning the fall. You thrash and kick, trying to break his hold, but he’s got the leverage now, tossing aside one of the dogs and you flinch violently when you hear a splitting crack and a loud yelp. His legs wrap around yours, locking you in place, and his arm tightens around your neck in a full-body hold.

One dog skids to a halt by your side, their teeth bared and snapping at the air, muscles taut and ready to spring back in. You can see the other rise slowly in your peripheral.

The two of you are locked in a tense stalemate, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, his arm around your jugular and your dogs poised to strike should he move.

“Call them off,” he growls into your ear, his breath hot and ragged, yet still steady, unphased.

You can feel your strength waning, the cold seeping into your bones. The man’s grip is unyielding, his hold like a vice. Your dogs circle, their eyes locked on the attacker, ready to pounce at your command.

“Fuck you, let me go!” You screech, but it comes out more of a winded rasp, wheezing from your chest. He squeezes harder. Your dogs snap at his legs in warning. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Jesus,” the sharp sound of a new voice cuts through the tense atmosphere, causing your struggles to cease instantly. Footsteps crunch heavily in the snow as two men emerge from the trees, their weapons drawn and pointed at you and your captor.

“Call 'em off,” demands the older of the two, his gruff, gravelly voice rumbling like a predator's growl. As his piercing gaze meets yours, you can feel the weight of his intense stare bearing down on you.

Your eyes briefly flick to your dogs, then back to the two armed men in front of you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you assess your options. Three against one are not great odds, but you know your dogs would protect you with their lives if necessary. You hesitate, weighing your choices. Concede and hope for mercy, or go down fighting and take your dogs with you.

In a split-second decision, you whistle short and sharp and immediately the two dogs drop to their bellies, acknowledging your command. The pressure around your neck eases as your captor's grip loosens, but his arm remains firmly in place. You can breathe more easily now, but the threat is still palpable in the tense atmosphere surrounding you.

“You bit?” The beast behind you rumbles, his voice deep enough to vibrate against your back even through the numerous layers of gear separating the two of you.

“No,” you spit, trying to claw at his arm to release yourself.

“Fuck were you doin’ sneakin’ ‘round, then?”

The arm around your neck moved, lithe and constricting, slithering over your skin until his hand rested against the nape of your neck and shoved at the same time he bent at the waist, thrusting you up and over. You fell easily, face-first into the snow, and he moved with you agilely, sitting atop the back of your thighs with a strong hand holding you in place. His free arm divested you of your rifle and its sling before sliding over your coat, emptying pockets and pouches.

Your eyes threatened to well up, stung by the cold winter air and shame. His hands invaded your coat, cold gloves patting along your sides, your back, your waist, diving into your back pockets and ridding you of any defence. You felt violated. Bare.

“Just precaution.” The older man spoke up again, pocketing all your discarded gear. “We’ll get everyone indoors, then we’ll talk, eh? Not safe out ‘ere.” He gestured with his gun, “On your feet.”

You didn’t have much of a choice when the man behind you hoisted you to your feet.

You follow the three men through the snow, your dogs walking closely by your side, their eyes still locked on your captors. The wind bites at your face, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins keeps you warm. The older man, who had pocketed your gear, leads the way, his steps sure and steady despite the uneven terrain. The man who had subdued you walks behind, constantly reminding you of your vulnerability. You wouldn’t get the upper hand again.

The sight of the old military base was both imposing and a relief. The tall, reinforced fences were topped with razor wire, and makeshift barricades formed a secondary layer of defence. Guard towers stood sentinel at each corner, their silhouettes dark against the grey sky. Two armoured vehicles flanked the main gate, their hulking forms a testament to the base's preparedness.

The base itself was a blend of old military structures and hastily constructed fortifications. The buildings bore the marks of battle and survival, their surfaces pockmarked and weathered, but they stood strong, defying the chaos beyond their walls.

As you approached, the only person visible was a guard at the gate, a solitary figure bundled in heavy winter gear. He stood ready, one hand on a lever that controlled the gate, the other cradling a rifle. His eyes scanned your group with a mix of wariness and curiosity, suddenly lighting up when they landed on the dogs.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he muttered, “pickin’ up strays, Captain?” A dry chuckle escaped his lips as the man signalled for your group to approach.

Once inside, the difference is stark.

A sense of order and security replaces the cold, harsh environment of the outside world. You're led to a small building, where the older man gestures for you to enter.

"Inside," he orders, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You step into the building, your dogs close behind. The interior is sparse but functional, a stark contrast to the desolation outside. A table and a few chairs occupy the centre of the room, and a map of the surrounding area is pinned to one wall. A small battery-powered heater hums in the corner, offering a welcome respite from the biting cold.

"Take a seat," the older man commands, pointing to a chair at a small table in the centre of the room. You hesitate, your eyes flicking to the door and back to the man. "Now," he adds, his tone brooking no dissent.

You sit, your dogs positioning themselves protectively at your feet. The man who had subdued you remains at the door, his eyes never leaving you. The older man takes a seat across from you, his expression unreadable. He studies you for a moment before speaking.

"I'm Captain Price," he says, his voice measured. "These are my men, Gaz and Ghost. We don't get many visitors out here, especially not ones with your kind of... companions." He nods towards your dogs. "So, let's start with why you're here."

You pause, weighing your options. There's something unsettling about the way they look at you, a predatory gleam in their eyes that sets your nerves on edge. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "Need food," you say.

Price leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "And you thought you'd just stroll up to our base, unannounced, with your dogs and expect us to help you out of the kindness of our hearts?"

You meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "I would have offered to trade," you say, your voice steady. "All I need is some food and supplies to get through the winter."

Price raises an eyebrow. "And what makes you think we'd be interested?"

"My dogs are well-trained, as you’ve seen," you reply. "They're valuable. They keep out the infected. Hear ‘em from miles away, smell them from even further."

Price leans back in his chair, considering your words. "Valuable, sure. But so are people. And right now, we have to be careful who we let in."

You nod, understanding the unspoken threat. "I'm not looking for trouble," you say. "I just need to eat and feed the dogs."

Price's lips curl into a semblance of a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We’ll see about that," he says, his tone laced with something you can't quite identify. "You’ll stay ‘til we make a decision.” He stands from the seat and it scrapes across the floor in a piercing shriek. It does nothing to distract you from the sheer height of the man. “Clothes off,” Price orders, his voice cold.

You squawk indignantly.

The captain draws a sidearm from his belt, placing it in the middle of the table, effectively killing any defiance you may have had. You grit your teeth, but there’s no way you or the dogs could take these men and possibly even more outside. Trying to buy time, you ask “Why?”

“Gotta make sure you’re not bitten.”

You swallow down your pride and reluctantly peel off your layers of clothes, your cheeks burning crimson as the room heated up in more ways than one. You stop and wrap your arms around yourself when you stand in only your underclothes - a tank top, bra, panties, socks and boots.

Ghost and Gaz’s eyes never waver from your form. You’ve never felt more vulnerable in your life, but Price’s gun is still on the table just within his reach and his eyes rake up and down your form, as if he were assessing livestock.

“The top and your shoes and socks too, love. Underwear can stay.”

You slowly peel those off too, your hands too shaky to move much faster. Your teeth chatter and your fingers are impossibly cold against the fragile skin of your stomach when you peel the tank top up and over your head.

Your stomach clenches as Price’s eyes travel up and down your form, taking in your lean muscles and malnourishment, the dark circles under your eyes. You refuse to break eye contact, even when the brute of a man from the forest circles you like a vulture, lifting your arms and prodding at your frozen skin. You turn and scowl at him when he kicks your legs further apart.

“I’m not fucking infected. Can I get dressed now?” You snap through chattering teeth, arms wrapped tightly around your torso when Ghost has finished his inspection.

When it’s over, Ghost straightens up and nods. “Clear, sir.”

Price's gaze flickers to your dogs. “And the...”

"I assure you," you cut in, "they haven't been near any infected. We haven’t let any come close."

Price purses his lips in thought. "Fine. Get dressed."

You pull on your clothes with haste, relieved when they cover your nakedness once more.

"Take her to one of the empty rooms," Price instructs. "Make sure she and her dogs are secured."

Ghost nods, his grip firm on your arm as he leads you out of the room. The dogs growl low in their throats, but a sharp command from you keeps them in check. You follow Ghost down a dim corridor, every nerve on edge.

He opens a door, pushing you inside. The room is small, bare, with a single cot and a bucket for basic necessities. There's a small, barred window high on one wall, allowing a sliver of the cold, grey daylight to filter in. Your dogs settle near the cot, their eyes never leaving the door.

Ghost steps back, the door creaking ominously as he pulls it closed behind him. The click of the lock is a final, chilling reminder of your confinement. You sit on the cot, trying to make sense of your situation, the tension in your muscles refusing to ease.

You can't shake the feeling that there's something deeply unsettling about these men. Their gazes linger too long, their smiles never reach their eyes, and there's a cold, calculating air about them that sets your nerves on edge. Never mind the full military gear. Your instincts scream at you to remain vigilant, to trust no one.

As the hours drag on, the silence of the base is broken only by the distant sounds of movement and muffled voices. You pace the small room, your mind racing. You can't afford to let your guard down, not even for a moment. The dogs rest but remain alert, their ears twitching at every sound.

Night falls, bringing with it a suffocating darkness and the realization that you’re a fucking prisoner. The only light comes from the small window, casting eerie shadows on the walls. You lie on the cot, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirl of anxious thoughts. Every creak, every distant sound, keeps you on edge, your heart pounding in your chest.

Hours later, the door finally opens. Price enters, flanked by Gaz. He carries a tray with some food and water, setting it on the floor before you.

"Eat," he orders, his voice flat.

You sit up, eyeing the food warily. Your stomach growls, but your trust in these men is nonexistent. You take a tentative bite, watching Price and Gaz from the corner of your eye.

Price leans against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. "Tomorrow, we'll discuss what you can offer in exchange for our hospitality," he says. "Until then, get some rest. You'll need it."

With that, they leave, the door locking behind them. You finish the meal, every bite a reminder of your precarious situation. The dogs settle back down, their trust in you unwavering, but you can't shake the feeling of being watched, of being judged.

As you lie back down, exhaustion pulls at you, but sleep is elusive. The shadows in the room seem to move, and the silence is oppressive.

The unease grows with each passing, torturous hour. There's something predatory in the way they look at you, as if they're sizing you up for more than just your usefulness. You can't shake the feeling that you're walking a fine line, one misstep away from disaster. In this place, surrounded by walls and soldiers, you are anything but safe. You know that trust is a luxury you can never afford. Not here, not with them.

[pablitogavii]

I love you too

Summary: One where the reader is scared of the three letter word because of the way she's been raised :)

Pairing: Pablo Gavi x Reader

Warnings: mentions of smut but nothing graphic/ slight angst/ fluffy ending <3

She has been dating Pablo for some time now and they went though hell and back since the world found out about their relationship.

The survived all the gossip, judgment, obsessive fanatics and still maintained a stable and healthy relationship. They have never loved each other more, and for the first time in awhile they were both happy.

Pablo had just came back from Madrid after a game, when they made love to each other for hours next to a fire place showing to each other just how much they missed being together.

"That was amazing Gavinho.." she smiled laying on his strong chest still catching her breath while staring at the raging fire next to them.

"I love you Y/N.." he said and she felt her face getting serious as she comprehended the meaning of his words. She stayed quiet.

Nobody ever told her those three words before...in her house it wasn't common to hear people "loving" each other..it was more like they "respected" one another..so she didn't even know what those words really meant.

"Um.." he said nervously when she wasn't replying and she got up from his chest holding sheets close to her naked chest finding the best possible excuse to go home.

"I should finish that project.." she said obviously lying but he felt so embarrassed for saying like that so suddenly to her so he nodded helping her collect her clothes watching her get dressed.

Why didn't she say it back? Did she not feel the same?

When she got up, he walked her to the door pulling her waist back and leaving another kiss on her swollen lips which she gladly accepted giving him a weak smile.

"We are good..I'll see you tomorrow" she said leaving quickly while Gavi went back to bed staring up at the celling wondering what had just happened..was he pushing you hard so soon?

The next day, Pablo arrived to the training center way early not really getting any decent sleep last night and it really did show as all his teammates commented how dreadful he looked.

"Might consider getting your sleep schedule checked, kid!" Xavi even said and Pablo apologized for slacking off during training getting caught by Pedri who pulled him to the side.

"Is everything okay hermano? Is it Y/N?" he said and Pablo nodded knowing he can trust his best friend with this.

"I said "I love you" to her last night...but she didn't say it back" Pablo explained to Pedri feeling his heart breaking as he remembered wishing he knew why you didn't love him back...he wanted you to love him back so badly.

"You know how her parents are hermano, they are colder than winter..maybe she just got scared you know? But there in no doubt she feels the same as you..just give her some time to realize it" Pedri assured and Pablo nodded hoping that he didn't scare you away forever.

She couldn't sleep either neither could she function the next day at school...she kept thinking about last night and those three words Pablo used.

"I love you Y/N..." kept replaying in her head when her best friend interrupted her thoughts brining her back to reality.

"Alright, what happened?"

"Nothing..I..."

"Wanna try again? Something clearly upset you"

"He said he loves me...last night, after we made love..but I don't know what that means..so I didn't say anything...and I think I lost him forever now"

"Oh, don't be absurd. Pablo wouldn't give up on you so easily! Boy is obsessed with you..it's kinda adorable actually"

"I'm obsessed with him too...I think I might feel the same...what do I do now?"

"Wait for him at his place and tell him! You still have the key, right?"

"Yeah.." and with the last school bell she departed to Pablo's apartment to wait for him to return from his trainings.

Pablo stayed long after the training to hand out with the guys, truthfully because he couldn't get himself to lay in the bed he slept with her so many times before..it made him think about last night and he didn't want that.

"Alright, let's head home chicos!" Ansu said when it was almost midnight and everyone agreed so Pablo didn't have another choice than to go home..to his cold bed..without her next to him.

While Pedri was giving him a ride, he kept checking his phone for a text or a call but nothing came. He knew when her school ended but she didn't reach out to him the whole day...maybe she will never reach out again.

"She will call again...just time hermano" Pedri said like he was reading Pablo's mind making him smile weakly before exiting the car and getting into his apartment building.

He unlocked his door walking inside and tossing the keys to the jar before taking off his jacket little startled when he saw her sleeping on his couch.

His heart started beating fast that he saw her again as he came closer and touched her cheek softly(gif)...she was so beutiful.

"P..Pablo?" she opened her eyes unaware that she fell asleep looking up at him sleepily. He smiled nodding his head and squatting down to grab her bridal style and carry her to bedroom.

When he put her underneath the covers and walked to the closet to get changed, she started fidgeting with her fingers nervously..she wanted to say it back to him..she was ready..but she was scared...what if he changed his mind after last night?

"I love you too!" she just blurred out making him come out of the walk in closet shirtless and in his boxers with raised eyebrows.

"Um..I.." she got up from the bed walking towards him snaking her arms around his shoulders "love..." she went on her tip toes " you.." she pecked his lips "too" and the moment all that left her lips he grabbed her body making her snake her legs around his torso as he kissed her passionately.

He tossed her onto the bed hovering above her with a bright smile on his face while looking down at her glowing eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't say it last night..I didn't know.." she tried to explain herself but he stopped it with another kiss training kisses down her neck.

"I know amor....you haven't heard someone say it before..you got scared but I promise to show you what love feels like..if you'd let me?" Pablo said and you smiled nodding your head with tears falling down your face but he kissed them away capturing your lips again.

I hope you enjoyed! <33

[liyawritesss]

ᖴᒪOᗯEᖇᔕ Iᑎ ᗷᒪOOᗰ - ᐯᗩᒪEᑎTIᑎEᔕ ᗪᖇᗩᗷᗷᒪEᔕ

Ｄａｙ ３ － Ｆｌｏｗｅｒｓ

－ Dandelions - 1610!Miles Morales - Spiderman: Across The Spiderverse

－ In which Miles makes a wish on a dandelion flower he finds peeking out from the schools garden.

－ Check out more prompts and other activities on the Flowers In Bloom Event Masterlist!

Miles remembers the white puffy flowers he’d often see peeking out from the sidewalks in his neighborhood. He remembers the silly myth his parents told him at that tender age, where mystic and wonder was still the core of his innocence. Blow onto a dandelion and make a wish, and it’ll come true so long as you have faith in it.

He’d made many dandelion wishes in his childhood, but this one had to have been the silliest amongst them. He didn’t know which was more embarrassing; the fact that he was making a wish on a dandelion that seemed to survive the winter cold and be the first sign of spring to grace Visions Academy, or the fact that what he had wished for was among the most childish of things he’d ever done.

Yet, here he was, bent down at the knees in front of the school garden, holding the intact dandelion in his hand, twisting it around and examining it, the imagery of his crush sneaking into his mind as he did so. 

It was childish, silly, downright embarrassing what he had wished for, and yet, he still did it. The evidence being the now empty dandelion head and the pieces of white wisp flowing into the cool spring breeze. Perhaps there was an inkling of childish hope in him that wondered if such a wish would come true - if his wish for his crush to notice him would actually come to fruition if he’d manifested the little bit of childhood magic he held onto for times like these, where hope was diminishing and he had no other avenues to turn to.

He didn’t believe it would work. He discarded the empty stem and made his way back to his dorm room afterwards, not thinking much of the subject. His evening was spent doing homework and arguing with Ganke on how to beat the Tetris level he was stuck on. Before the night was over, Miles had forgotten about the dandelion and the wish he made.

Then, the next day, as he was exiting his third period, he was reminded of it when he saw you approach him. It crept up on him like a spider on a wall, the realization coming after a conversation was sparked between the two of you.

“You’re Miles, right? From World History?” You said, and the boy has to remind himself what speaking is and how to do so, his voice coming out high-pitched from his anxiety.

“Y-yeah, yep! That’s me!”

“I knew you looked familiar!” You said with a smile, and Miles feels like he should be dreaming, but the weakness in his knees lets him know he is well awake and struggling against everything in the universe to not make a fool of himself. 

“I know you’re a super science wiz,” you begin, “I’m ashamed to say I’m not as good as most of the kids here are when it comes to STEM.” What? You have a flaw? Impossible, he thinks, as he watches you shift your weight, a hint of nervousness in your voice. “Maybe I can tutor you in history sometime, if you’re willing to give me some pointers for my science class?”

There is nothing in the world that would get Miles to trust his voice after such an encounter; so he nods with a confirming hum to your proposal, and that seems to satisfy you enough, as a triumphant smile graces your lips.

“Great!” You chime, “See you around, Miles!”

The second you turn your back to leave, Miles Morales becomes a puddle of overwhelming emotions, heart thumping like a hammer against a wall, his school uniform suddenly becoming too hot to bear. He just talked to his crush, and didn’t make a complete fool of himself. Maybe that wish was worth something after all.

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[seahagart]

Sorry if you already answered this but who is Drifa's goddess?

She worships the goddess of wilderness (nothing canon in game) Basically since she's a paladin and paladin's follow an oath rather than picking a pantheon at the start, i thought it'd be interesting if her oath is to her temple, she was the protector of her temple for the past 15+ years which is dedicated to the Lady of Frost, Goddess of the Wilds, Maiden of Snow. Essentially goddess of the wilderness, snow, and survival.

Huge Drífa lore dump under the cut.

She was left at the temple while all of the other members slowly left, one by one, when their godess called to them to do so. Each one that left has never returned. Eventually the guardian of the temple passed, leaving Drífa to wait her turn and keep the temple until her goddess instructs her otherwise. She has waited for a long time... Eventually she stopped keeping track of how much time passed, and fell into routine.

Drífa appreciates nature, but in a 'respect what could kill you' way. She does not love animals because they're cute and fuzzy, she appreciates them because of their tenacity, and their skills. She worships the circle of life, that the strong live while the weak perish, and it is her duty to protect this. Meaning hunting is normal, but to kill for the sake of killing is deplorable. It is her duty to keep the shrine, make offerings to her goddess, and protect the way of life on the mountain. Hunters who come to collect for their food on the mountain are fine, but outsiders who come into her territory to take more than they give are dealt with.

She is cold, ruthless, territorial, but she is also kind, gentle, giving. Drífa can't help herself sometimes. She takes in a hunter who should be facing the consequences of his grave miscalculation aka he didn't respect the mountain and should freeze or figure a way out... but she gives him shelter. She should just kill the bear that keeps taking the food from her traps, and she curses it plenty, but it was a brutal winter, she sees the bear has cubs, so she lets it take her prize when she shouldn't.

When Drífa has her child, she sees this as a gift from her goddess, her next lesson in survival. Raising young. Drífa softens even more. She would not think about putting something out of its misery, or striking if it meant she will have food... But now she has a boy who loves birds and pleads with her to help it. So she does. Then its the fox still alive in her trap, she has a soft spot for foxes as she likes them for their cleverness, so she nurses it back to health when she knows she shouldnt. She gives more time to her child and neglects the offerings, the shrine, and soon is too focused on playing with her child she doesn't hear the footsteps in the snow. They are attacked, her child is separated from her, and ultimately is never recovered. She spends weeks searching only to find scraps and blood. She returns, heart broken, and brings swift death to those who did this, the warriors that moved into her shrine while she was gone. All of them are put outside as a warning to those that enter her territory. She never sees other people after this. She knows this was a punishment from her goddess, she was losing sight of her duty as the temple keeper, she wasn't respecting her place in the world, and now had to survive the worst: grief. She decided she would overcome this, just like everything else, and would survive because that's what she is meant to do.

She is taken from her mountain by the nautliod, her temple crushed and destroyed. She believes this is the sign from her goddess, forcing her to leave the mountain and pursue her next step. Eventually she is with others for the first time in years, and she sees this as a sign that she is meant to be with them, protect this group, until she can figure out what her goddess is telling her. Drífa slowly gets more socialized, learns more common, talks more, but remains the quiet, stoic presence in the party. She is starting to wonder if her goddess is punishing her because these people have so many problems.... She continues on, helping where she sees fit.

Eventually as part of her quest line, she is reunited with her son who was saved by some 'do gooders' aka saw a battered young boy in the snow and took him, not realizing mama bear was on her way to get him. They took him many villages over so Drífa couldn't track him, and eventually her son gets better, and after a few years begins his own quest to find his way back to the mountain and find his mom to see if she's alive. After much searching, he hears about a big orc in town, and he thinks maybe it could be a lead, so he shows up to demand answers, ready to do whatever it takes, only to have his bow pointed at his mom. It takes them a moment to recognize each other, but obviously after that they have a beautiful reunion. Drífa thanks her goddess, because clearly this was a reward for her well done work, and because she learned her lesson, etc.

Now the party members get to find out that mama bear is actually a mom and has a son and if they romance her, they will be a step-parent... lol