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dollarstoreartsupplies · 3 years ago

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I am,,,, once again thinking about an fem reddie Dracula AU

Where a mysterious Count contacts a solicitors company in England looking to buy real estate, and he’s odd sounding and had an interesting list of demands and no one really knows what to do with him, but Count Gray is offering them quite a bit of money so they get Eddie; a young and female solicitor (the absolute gall of her) who they decide they can do without for a bit and ship her off to Transylvania.

And she’s excited, even if it’s far and the townspeople she crosses paths with and lodges in the homes of warn her that he’s the devil, and evil, and eats their children and women- those are all the notions of simple superstitious towns folk, not a well educated business woman like her who had finally been trusted to make a sale to anyone more important than dying widows looking to downsize and she is not sabotaging that by getting the reputation of the silly little girl who ran all the way back to England because of a fairy tale.

(And part of her knows, of course, that she got sent here for all the wrong reasons, but she’s getting paid more than she ever will be again, probably, and she wants to buy her fiancé a house. Right now they’re living in a tiny, cramped boarding house room where they can’t do anything even particularly close to intimacy without people raising eyebrows and one of them gets sick from the drafty windows every winter and, well, Richie has always wanted a big yard so they could get a dog and Eddie tends to cave easily and happily to anything Richie wants, even if she’d deny that if you accused her of it.)

The count is strange. He’s ancient looking and his eyes are yellow and he never eats at meals, he just watches her, and she’s starting to wonder if she should have taken her employers advice and hired a “big, strong gentleman to keep her safe” (though, every time she thinks about that, as a concept, she sort of throws up in her mouth a little bit, so it probably wouldn’t have worked out).

But she’s sticking this sale out, she’s got something to prove and big yard with a dog to buy and, at this point, all she can hear is her mother telling her that ‘really, Edith, you are much too delicate for this kind of work, come home to me and I’ll keep you safe’ and any idea that makes her think about what her mother would tell her is an absolute no-go.

But things get stranger. The house seems empty, sans her and the Count, she hears him leave and come back at odd hours, and when he returns she often hears a baby crying and then, suddenly, the deafening absence of a baby crying.

The Count looks younger by the end of the month. He’s got much sharper teeth.

By the time she starts to worry that the townspeople knew what they were talking about, it’s too late. She’s, evidently, trapped. There’s no way out, the doors that aren’t locked are guarded by monsters that sound too big to be wolves, and certainly no one is coming in, and her one last hope, the letters she’s been sending out to Richie since the night she arrive, get uncovered on the top of the counts desk when she accidentally stumbles into his office, next to a splatter of something that looks a little too much like blood for comfort. (It hadn’t been an accident, he keeps all the doors in the castle he doesn’t want her going into carefully locked, he had wanted her to know she was trapped- a rat in the cage whose finally found the bars.)

It becomes clear very quickly something is very wrong.

It becomes clear even quicker she is going to die here.

She starts logging letters for Richie in her daily journal, less and less lucid every time with more and more I’m sorry’s for not coming home, and hides it under her mattress, the same hiding place they put love letters to one another under their boarding house bed before they left in the mornings for the other to find because confessing much of anything in a room with paper thin walls isn’t particularly smart. She knows her fiancé, and she knows that after a while she’ll get worried, waiting around for Eddie to write, and try and come find her. Nothing terrifies her more than the idea of the woman she loves storming into a trap for her long after she’s been murdered by something not human, but she knows she will, and she wants to give her a chance and an apology.

And then we’ve got Richie, who is home, and, exactly like Eddie thought, seconds away from hopping on the first ship to Transylvania every day that passes without word from her fiancé (who is a somewhat frantic writer, even when nothing is wrong, and even when she’s less than a town over; sometimes she’ll only be out for a few nights and write Richie a letter about her trip that will arrive weeks after she’s come home, something Richie does not mind in the slightest and loves to tease her about).

But, because she’s pretty sure she’s just being ridiculous and clingy (they’re incredibly codependent people, no matter how hard they try to deny it), she takes a trip down to the coast to visit her friend Beverly.

Beverly, a whole, entire lesbian, who gets a new proposal from a new man in her town every week, is more than happy to have her (her letters telling her to come have started to tinge on desperate), and it’s nice to have a friend to take her mind off things, especially one who knows about her and Eddie and is constantly attempting to get her to make wedding plans even though the two of them have, for the most part, just decided to be fiancés forever because going through all the hassle of a wedding that won't be legally binding just seems stressful and depressing.

Bev, as it turns out, has news: she’s also engaged, to one Kay McCall, a long and fascinating story that, to Richie’s surprise and delight, involves three coinciding proposals from three different women; Kay, Bill Denbrough (a renowned medical journalist who writes under the same male pseudonym she goes by), and Ben Hanscom (an American, and one of those cowboy Americans, no less).

The other two are still entirely enamored by her, in all fairness to them Bev is a particularly enamoring kind of person, but they respect her decision, and if Richie being honest the excitement of it all is fucking thrilling compared to her life currently- she’s considering telling Eddie they should move here, if Eddie ever fucking comes home.

Bev starts to sleep walk at the same time Richie receives word that Eddie’s shown up in a hospital miles from their little boarding house room, raving and feverish and falling apart.

The timing, honestly, couldn’t be worse.

So, on opposite ends of the country, Richie tries as hard as she possibly can to make sense of Eddie’s ramblings about a monster at the same time Bev gets sick.

Richie’s too busy worrying over the journal Eddie shoves into her hands, full of letters addressed to her that devolve into scribbles and ramblings that sound entirely inconceivable, which is so wrong for her Eddie who double and triple checks her letters and papers for accuracy well past what most would consider excessive, to read Bev’s letters about her worsening condition.

Kay calls on Bill (who, she knows, comes with Ben, they’ve all sort of become friends over the whole courting the Lovely Beverly Marsh At The Same Time situation, but also because its hard to find other WLW in the 1800s), and Bill calls on her long time friend, Dr. Stan Uris, but no matter how hard they try none of them can figure out why she is so weak and pale every morning, no matter how lively they manage to get her by nightfall, other than two pinprick cuts on her neck that seem newly scabbed over every time they go to wake her.

It’s Stan, whose taken to sitting with her at night as she falls asleep to talk to her, it started out as a way to observe her condition but it rapidly evolved into genuine friendship (there is a reason Beverly Marsh has so many callers, she’s just the best kind of person to be around), who sees the man climb through her window. Mike (a local doctor whose reputation was a bit in shambles around town for being a ‘crackpot’ whose research centers around the supernatural) is the one who comes to the conclusion about vampires.

But the research is too inconclusive and they’re too late.

Eddie’s fever breaks, finally, and in the privacy of her hospital bed, her and Richie decide to get married. What happened to Eddie was too close a call and they’re done wasting time- they won’t be allowed formality so why the hell do they need it? The two exchange very quiet vows, and press their foreheads close, a promise to kiss when they get home, and to them that’s a good enough ceremony as any to call each other wives.

Beverly doesn’t live long enough to receive her letter about it.

From there on things devolve. Something that looks like Beverly, blood soaked across her bottom lip and eyes red, comes back at night, so different her friends and fiancé believe they’re having visions, and upon reading Richie’s letter about the entire ordeal over her shoulder where she’d been leaning to try and soothe her crying, Eddie starts to worry that somehow the Count found he’s way to England while she was indisposed.

(He had.)

They all have to combine their efforts, the Kaspbrak-Toziers traveling back to meet them all once Eddie decides her nerves won’t be settled until she sees everything for herself, and end up having to kill the thing that’s taken the empty space in Beverly’s body so she can finally rest in peace.

From then on (mostly excluding Kay whose kind of very fucked up from having to re-kill her dead wife) it’s a race to find and kill the Count before he can kill anyone else the way he did Bev.

Richie isn’t… entirely helpful when it comes to the ‘figuring it out’ of it all, and she knows it. It’s not that she’s stupid (she would tell you otherwise but Eddie would whack her hard over the head for it so thats a pretty sure sign she’s incorrect) but she’s never done great with change or loss and when it comes to whats going on everyone just knows more than she does. Which is fine. She sort of throws herself into taking care of everything else, making sure everyone is getting enough rest and eats something and when things get especially heavy (they all really did love Beverly, and now the man who killed her could very well be out there doing it again- Eddie’s told them about the babies) she takes it upon herself to lighten the mood.

But, as we all know, Richie’s bad at taking care of herself at the best of times, let alone when she’s trying to makes sure a house full of very fucked up people doesn’t fall apart, and eventually everyone notices she’s sort of running herself into the ground and start sending her up to bed early. (It also gives them an opportunity to discuss certain things they’ve all been… particularly hesitant to discuss in front of Richie, obviously this is insanely upsetting to all of them but they can tell how guilty she feels about not being there when Bev was dying and watching Richie attempt to hold in tears whenever they talk about more sensitive parts of what went down in Bev’s last couple of days is really fucking heartbreaking, especially when she’s become the emotional backbone of this whole operation.)

But Richie just seems to get more tired, no matter how early they send her up to bed, and it’s worrying all of them, especially Eddie who's been worried about Richie since she left for Transylvania (just for… amorphous reasons).

One night, as they’re discussing their options, Richie actually falls asleep in front of them all, curled up against Eddie’s side, so extraordinarily pale that if she hadn’t been shaking they may have feared the worst. (No one has told Eddie, they really don’t think she’d be able to handle it, but they’re starting to worry that she’s looking like Bev had). Richie tries to play it off when they wake her up, dismiss herself to go to bed and pretend she’s just tired, but Eddie’s had enough- something is wrong and if she has to tie herself to her wife to find out what happened and then make sure it never happens again she will.

At this point she doesn’t even care about finding the Count, Richie is a million times more important, and right now she’s on the brink of buying train tickets and going back to their horrible little boarding house room where vampires and the undead and saving the whole country wasn’t a problem and they were, more or less, safe.

Just before she is knocked unconscious onto the floor of their borrowed bedroom upon following Richie upstairs she thinks that, it goes well past going back home. They never should have fucking left in the first place.

It takes the slam of Eddie’s body on the hardwood to alert their friends that something is wrong, and then an incredibly loud, cut off scream to alert them that something is, actually, very wrong, but by the time they get up to their room and unlock the door Eddie’s crumpled on the ground and Richie’s face is being shoved against the Count’s throat like he’s smothering her there. He flees too quickly for them to be confident he didn’t finish what he came there to start, but at the moment that can’t really focus on what he came here to start because Eddie is still incredibly unconscious and Richie is a mess, which, admittedly, seems fair, considering she’s still choking on the blood of the monster they’ve been hunting down for weeks, but for the first time since any of them have met her they can’t get her to talk and that’s fucking terrifying.

What's even more terrifying is that when they finally get Eddie awake, she can’t get her to say anything either, Richie just buries her face into her shoulder and won’t stop crying. Mike has suspicions on it all she desperately doesn’t want to be true, but she knows better than to test them tonight, and she tells herself it’s because she doesn’t think Eddie would let her, which is fair enough of an excuse it it’s own right, considering the second she was coherent enough it was as though Eddie had forgotten anyone other than her wife existed, by the time she had gotten up and come back with a wet cloth to, far more gently than any of them had ever seen her handle anything, clean the blood off Richie’s face they’d needed to take the nonverbal hint and quietly escort themselves out.

But by the next morning Mike has to face what she’d been desperately avoiding, and now Richie has a holy water puddle shaped scar burned in raised splatters across her palm.

Which isn’t, as you could probably guess, the best.

Suddenly, their already rushed time limit is even more frantic, the very thing they’d been trying to avoid has just happened again and it happened to Richie. They need to stop him, and fast, before it happens to anyone else, and, quite frankly, they need to stop him before Eddie, guilty and so incredibly livid that she keeps storming out of their meetings so they don’t see her angry cry, goes rouge and does something stupid like trying to kill him herself for revenge.

And then there's the matter of poor Richie who, after that night and the revelation of the next morning, seems to be fading away right in front of them- she keeps drifting off only to wake up screaming Eddie’s name and claiming to have seen things, the Count on a ship murdering an entire crew, a gunshot, the Count killing a child, someplace deep in the woods around a campfire, women screaming her name, she won’t eat, and she won’t sleep unless it’s not on purpose, and it’s scary for more than just her wife.

Eventually, though it takes longer than it should, they start to listen to what Richie’s rambling more closely, and when they think about it, it doesn’t sound crazy, it sounds like visions- and with nothing better to do, they follow them all the way back to Transylvania with the visions of a worse-than-dying woman, a wooden stake, and a crap shoot of a plan.

The closer they get to everything the more agitated Richie gets, and what the Count is going to do to her becomes even clearer- just a perpetual state of not-dead-not-alive that seems to get closer and closer every night they spend with him alive. It’s so much so that Eddie is desperately hesitant to leave her safe with Stan each day in a circle of holy water because of the very valid worry that one of these days they’ll come back and find her permanently changed, even now she’s listless and glassy eyed and out of words more than she’s not (the words thing, honestly, is so much more concerning than how much she’s starting to look like a corpse).

They kill the Count, eventually, but to get close enough to jam the stake through his heart Ben, loyal to a fault, one of those reckless American motherfuckers to the end, leaves herself open and the Count fights hard, before he goes.

And, well, with the Count dead but Ben so deeply injured and Richie slowly recovering from being so close to not-death, it’s only practical that they all buy a big house with a big yard and a big dog together, you know, so they have a place to recover.

Anyway this was supposed to be a very short au description and instead you get something closer to a terrible fic I sort of only half wrote and did not proof read because I’m watching a Dolly Parton movie and thats more important :)

#long post #dudes idk this is technically five pages I did not mean for that to happen #its not even GOOD cuz I didn't proof read it or PLAN #there is NO ending #but enjoy ghfjgskl #dracula au #loooook its my favorite book and Jonathan Eddie and mina richie has been in my head for like two years #fem reddie #fem losers club #this is honestly for me and me alone sorry guys #this might not even be coherent if you haven’t read Dracula #but trust me #it’s definitely better than this but I’m havin fun and that’s what matters

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peakywitch · 4 years ago

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Cassiopeia - John Shelby

Warnings: mentions of blood, war, curse word...the normal!

A/N: changed John’s kids name! also, it’ll be revised through these days, tell me if you see any mistakes! <3

word count: 2.3k

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The small footsteps of two mischievous children were heard throughout the house. It was very early, the sun was still down. The two opposing hands of the children were intertwined, guiding each other through the labyrinth into which the house was transformed when the moon rose. The old wood under their feet creaked with every step, which alerted his not-so-asleep father.

"What if he hits us?" Ben asked nervously.

"James has been telling you stories, right?"

The boy nodded sadly at his sister's question. His friend was frequently punished severely, but at the Shelby household, it was different.

"Don't worry, it's for a good cause. Besides, dad would never hit us." Winnie smiled, trying to see his brother's eyes in the dark.

A good cause? John thought, what would be so important to speak in the moonlight? He knew what his two kids were up to, but he stayed in bed, still being able to listen to the two of them talk. He wasn't going to get up, not until the sun comes up at least.

"Dad?" asked the voice of the girl, with a low and still voice "Are you awake?"

John turned his face on the pillow, seeing two heads - one with braids and one with blond hair, both disheveled - appear through the door. What the hell were Winnie and Ben doing up at such an early hour?

A sleepy voice invited them to climb onto the bed with them, Ben accepted immediately, almost jumping on his father. Winnie just sat on the end of the bed, watching John hug Ben.

"What are you two doing up so early?" he asked, as he gently combed his son's hair

"It’s Emma’s and Lottie’s birthday on Monday." Winnie whispered, not wanting to wake the smaller Shelbys sleeping in the next room.

"Yes, I know", he smiled "six years ... I don't understand where those six years have gone." He smiled wistfully. But even so, that smile showed a pride that was not visible in the moonlight.

"And we thought about whether we could bake a cake." Ben smiled.

John's eyes went to the boy's sugar-craving gaze. Then he saw her smile, which had a small window.

"So the good cause is cake, huh?" He smiled, giving Winnie a sense that his plan to be quiet had failed.

But even with a defeat, the girl smiled, as her hand traveled through the braid that John had awkwardly made.

“It's already Saturday, you don't have school. Why don't they go back to sleep? he asked, after a chat of flavors, colours and fillings.

Winnie nodded as she listened to Ben, who had been snoring from the beginning of the conversation.

"Aunt Pol, I need a favor." John asked, as he played with the toothpick between his lips.

Polly tore her eyes away from the journal for a few short seconds, seeing her nephew's pleading look. When she read the newspaper again, she spoke:

“I'll take care of the children today, John. But since you are always..."

"Actually, uh... the girls turn 6 on Monday, and I wanted to ask you if you could bake them a cake?" the doubt and confusion in John's voice led her aunt to laugh.

"When in your bloody life have you seen me bake a cake, huh?" she asked, putting the paper aside and taking the last sip of her tea.

"Yeah, well," he laughed, "I don't lose anything by trying, do I?"

Between a nostalgic chat about how they were six years ago, Polly remembered in an instant, interrupting John:

"Y/N!"

Polly's exclamation shook John's comfort, her screams were always sending him to the Calvary.

"Y/N?" he asked.

The name burned on the tip of his tongue and in the back of his head, unable to remember who it was. He had known a nurse of that name, but it couldn't be because some enemies had killed her in front of him.

“Do you remember Karl's cake? That delicacy of chocolate, hazelnut and caramel?” his aunt answered with a question, trying to enliven the memory.

How could he forget that cake.

The cake was soft as a cloud, the chocolate intense and the caramel had a few notes of salt that made your tongue dance. John had never tasted a better cake than that. Also, he had eaten three servings. Faced with the memory, he laughed:

"How could I forget the stomach ache that lasted for two days, ey?" Polly grinned "Never such a beautiful pain."

They both laughed.

John's feet were constantly changing position. He was alone in a neighboring town from Small Heath, an hour away from his home. The address Polly had given him must be wrong since it was not a bakery; it was a simple English house. It had some rose bushes in the small front garden and a bird feeder in a vibrant little lemon tree. The aesthetics of the home were out of tune with John in an extraordinary way. The striking difference between the green of the home and the black of his clothes made him feel like an outcast.

Somewhat uncomfortable and hesitant, he headed for the door. It was then that he could hear the subtle violin that came from the house, also a piano. The atmosphere was so mellow, it almost completely calmed John's nerves. With the piano in the background, he knocked on the door. The music did not stop. From what he knew, the music that was playing came from a gramophone.

A woman in her forties opened the door for him, her blonde hair was down and her eyes were tired, but still had a smile from ear to ear.

"Yes?" she asked, without moving her smile.

"Good afternoon, ma'am" smiled John, taking off his hat "I'm looking for Mrs. Y/N ..."

Mrs? John asked himself, since when did he say he was looking for a Mrs?

The woman called out the name, and within seconds an old woman appeared in front of him.

"Are you Y/N?" asked John.

"So it is, dear." The lady's smile denoted fatigue but a strange feeling of youth.

Uncharacteristically shy, John explained his situation.

"Oh, great, great!" He smiled, and invited him in.

The lady, without asking much, sat the unknown gangster on a pink sofa with flowers and black wooden armrests. John could observe that the music came from a phonograph, it had been almost twenty years since he had seen one, they were not so common anymore.

After a few moments of inspecting the curious and cozy house from that old-fashioned sofa, the lady appeared with two aprons: both pink, with ruffles and embroidery.

"Very good," the lady smiled, "put this on and Y/N is coming."

The old woman did not give Shelby time to complain, leaving him in the company of a pink apron, totally striking.

Polly, what the fuck have you gotten me into?

John walked nervously through the dining room, cooking classes? I'd had enough of Polly's teachings on how to make soup, there was no way I could bake a cake. Less than less, two.

"Are you ready, Mr.?"

The voice... the voice is different.

John turned around, seeing how a girl appeared in front of him.

"And you are?" he asked, holding out his hand.

"I am Y/N."

John was mixing a thick brown mixture, while Y/N a white. The image of the man in a suit, with a chocolate stain on his shirt, made Y/N smile every time she saw him. He had steadfastly refused to wear something as ridiculous and flashy as that pink apron, but he had been persuaded to cook the cake.

"So everyone who wants a cake... comes and has to do it too?" John asked, finishing beating.

"Yes."

"So, my sister Ada...?"

“I end up with her egg-filled apron, but yeah. The cake was made by her with my help. "

John stopped beating, glancing sideways at the baker's smile. He knew that smile, but still not the woman who wore it.

While the cake was baking, they both talked about life, war, music. Sorting things out amid animated chatter, John tried to caress her arms with his. The moles on her arms reminded him of stars.

"You remind me of war." He said, without thinking once.

The look of the young woman was a complete poem.

"You're not good with compliments, are you John?" the girl asked, trying to add laughter to the situation, uncomfortable.

"Hell, I didn't mean that, I..." a chill ran through his body, what the fuck did he just say?

"Do not worry." She smiled, finishing cleaning.

“When I was on the Somme,” John began, “when I was on the Somme I couldn't think of anything other than the smell of blood. I couldn't hear anything other than screams, in a thousand and one languages, be it prayers or calls for help. The sun burned my forehead ... I remember feeling the infinite beads of sweat that dried on my neck. But at night, when death rested and war ceased, he looked at the stars. The sweat of the day made me feel like I was dying of cold in the cruel and dark French trenches. I prayed i would come home safe and sound, or at least alive. And the smell and the screams continued, until i found Cassiopeia in the sky. Then the smell would stop, the screaming too. My body was flooded with the aroma of bread that my mother made, and a lullaby sounded in my head that I heard my aunt sing. "

Y/N's eyes were attentive to every word, unconsciously shedding tears. The boy approached her arm, and slowly traced the W that was seen on her skin. His index finger joined each mole, and he touched the stars of the Samarin sky. He felt that peace, he felt that song and he felt different.

After that, they kissed. It was a bearable kiss, momentary and fleeting but brilliant, like a star. It gave them both that feeling you get on New Year’s: that feeling that, although it is still the same, you have a new opportunity. A fresh start.

“This is how looking up the stars felt.” Said John, while his nose was touching hers.

“How?” Y/n asked.

Both of their eyes were still closed. Their breathing was slow and peaceful.

John couldn’t answer; he felt everything crumble inside of him. Slowly, the disgusting smell of blood was flooding his head again.

“Is the cake ready?” he asked pulling away from her, making the girl sadden.

“Uh…yes, we just have to write their names with icing and it’ll be ready to be eaten.”

Her eyes were trying to connect with his, but he was observing the kitchen anxiously, avoiding her eyes. They both knew that John was evading her, but he didn’t know how she felt.

He left her in the kitchen to finish her work, as he washed the batter off of his hands in the little bathroom. It didn’t matter how many times he used soap, he still saw the red dots of blood on his hands. He felt the dirt under his nails, and the sweat drops on his back were always burning and itching, no matter how many showers he took.

When he left the bathroom, five minutes later, he saw the girl getting ready to write his daughters’ names on both cakes.

With a professional smile on her face, she asked for the names.

“Emma and Charlotte.” he smiled, tiredly.

As he put his coat on again, he watched the girl write both names in pink icing. She had a little bit of her tongue out, and was frowning. John couldn’t help but smile, not realizing how peaceful he was feeling.

One minute after he put on his cap on his the pocket of his coat, the baker gave him two white boxes.

“I really hope you learned something today.” She said with a smile, he smiled back.

“This” he said, giving her money “I believe is yours…”

He was giving her eight quids. Her eyes opened with astonishment.

“It’s two pounds each cake, John. Four in total.”

“Take ‘em, really.” He said, still insisting.

“John, I will accept five, and that’s it.” She said back, trying to act tough. Jesus, eight pounds sounded bloody amazing.

“I compared you to war, c’mon. Take them all.” He insisted agin.

“Six, and if you insist again I will give you both cakes as gifts.” She smiles, feeling the victory in her plan.

John smiled, he couldn’t believe how hard headed she was. He looked away, and let out a little laugh before looking at her, directly in the yes.

“Six it is.”

And when she saw the smile on John’s face, she felt like it was all good again, just like before and during the kiss. Boy was she wrong.

“You know…” the man started “I shouldn’t have kissed you, I’m so sorry…m’ wife, well…”

Y/N’s stiffened, her blood became ice. Every cell in her body fell numb.

“Oh…” she said.

John didn’t say a word. Neither did her.

She helped him load the cakes in his car, but the again. None of them said good bye. He took off, having given the girl two quids more.

He paid for the kiss, she though, not because he was sorry of what he said.

That night, she felt as dirty as John felt. The kiss was burning her lips, her consciousness, every inch of her body. She scrubbed her body even harder in the tub, tears were building up in her eyes.

But John, on the other hand, felt peace every time he remembered the kiss. He was in bed, trying to sleep, trying to forget the war on his head. He thought of the kiss, of that bloody kiss that made him tremble and feel nervous again. He tried to understand what it felt, he tried every adjective. He found one, two hours after thinking non-stop about the girl he met that day:

Hope.

The kiss tasted like hope.

taglist: open

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@fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby

@stydia-4-ever

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frozenartscapes · 4 years ago

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Ghost - FE3H OneShot

“We need to talk.”

Dimitri’s eyes snapped open, hand immediately reaching for the dagger he kept near the bed.

“Don’t. It’s just me.”

“That’s the concerning part.”

He let out a long, tired sigh, hand massaging his head as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He sat up in his bed, normally shared with his beloved wife. But she was off on a diplomatic mission for a few days. It was when he was alone that certain people tried to talk with him.

“How did you even get in here?” he groaned with exhaustion. He honestly thought he was done with this. He honestly thought he had made peace with his past.

But she existed to prove him wrong.

“Should I even dignify that with an answer?” she countered dryly. She stood tall and proud, decked out in all her Imperial Regalia. Certainly not an outfit built for stealth, but then... It didn’t need to be.

His eyes drifted away from her face, to the gaping hole in her stomach. Blood seemed to seep unendingly from it. But she went unfazed.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Edelgard scoffed. “Well, someone is a tad short tonight,” she observed with a roll of her eyes.

He could make a joke about her height. But he didn’t bother. He didn’t need her annoyed with him. She’ll go away sooner if she’s in a good mood. Instead, he sighed. “You haven’t visited in a while,” he said, “I assume this is for a good reason? Or are you bored?”

“I can’t say being trapped in this purgatory exciting,” she stated, a grimace forming on her face at the thought, “However I do have a good reason for bothering you tonight.”

“You sound so apologetic,” Dimitri commentated, before rolling over and burying his head with his pillow, “Could this not have waited until the morning?”

“Dimitri.” He peeked at her again. That tone was serious, and more so than usual. This wasn’t a night she had chosen to merely bother him. Satisfied that she had his attention, she continued solemnly: “They’re still out there.”

He let out a long, tired breath. “El,” he began sternly. They had had this conversation before. So many times, in fact. “We took care of them. We have not seen hide nor tail of them since the war ended. Even if they are still out there, they are no longer a threat.”

He flopped back down on the bed, intent on ending this conversation. But the rattle of chains in the dark room forced him to stay invested. “Don’t,” he muttered, “Don’t do this now.”

He could see the Dead. Only those he had known in life, it seemed. Family and friends, rivals and enemies - one thing bound them in similarity and that was that they always appeared as they did when they died. Glen with a hole in his chest. His father with a thick, bloody line across his throat. Patricia almost a skeleton, beaten and broken.

Edelgard was different. When challenged about it one day, the best response she could give was that she had died four times in her life.

He sat up again, looking down on a small, pitiful girl who looked not unlike her mother. Broken chains dangled from shackles that dug too deep. Black, infected blood oozed through the tattled rags of clothing that did little to hide the horrific scars and bruises. She was stick thin, filthy, her ghastly white hair falling in messy tangles in front of her face.

She looked like the girl he once knew in childhood and not all the same.

“Dimitri,” she insisted desperately. He winced, even her voice had changed. Far too young and delicate, but raspy and exhausted from all that time spent being tortured. “They did this when no one thought they were a threat.”

He swallowed roughly, feeling a lump of guilt settling uncomfortably in his throat. Discovering this part of her past still burned his soul like a red-hot blade. He would never forgive himself for not realizing, for not pressing. He knew something was up but he never questioned her. His damn chivalry and politeness left him in the dark, and ultimately led to her dying alone on the floor of Enbarr’s throne room.

This ghost form was his least favourite that he’d seen.

“You know I have informed my allies of their nefarious practices, and I have established a National Guard specializing in searching out such atrocities. So far, they have found nothing,” he stated as confidently as he could.

For such a small child in such a sorry state, she sure had a scathing glare. “They murdered ten Imperial children right under the noses of the entire continent,” she growled, “They did so in part because those who knew kept quiet.”

“My allies are not like the nobles of the Empire,” Dimitri countered, “I trust them to tell me if something is wrong.”

“My father trusted his allies, too,” she said darkly.

“So what will you have me do?” he demanded, “Our resources are stretched thin as it is, and the peace on the continent is fragile. If I start out on a mad search of an enemy hidden in the shadows all because a ghost told me to, it could ruin everything we’ve worked for!”

He blinked, and her form changed again. This time she looked no different than she did as a student. There were no outward signs of trauma, or any injuries to speak of. When she was in this form, it often became difficult to remember she was dead.

“You cannot continue to surge forward in the light alone,” she reminded him, “One of these days you will have to set foot in darkness, and if you are not prepared for it the monsters lurking there will devour you.”

“I’ve spent plenty of time in the darkness,” he grumbled, “I’ve worked hard to drag myself out of it.”

“Commendable, I will admit,” she relented with a sigh, “But delving into the darkness to flush out its monsters is different than being tossed in to suffer with them. You cannot ignore this, Dimitri.”

“I’m not ignoring it!” he snapped, “In case you haven’t noticed, El, but I’ve had my work cut out for me ever since the war ended. Byleth has had her hands full, too. It’s almost like starting an all-out war has done more damage than it fixed.”

She said nothing at first, merely glaring at him. Her form shuddered, only for a second. A blink and he would have missed it - missed the burned skin, the deadly teeth, the glowing red eyes.

“You chose to fight me,” she reminded him in a low, dangerous voice, “You won the war. But not all victories lead to showering peasants with gifts and children clambering into your lap. It’s your responsibility to protect your people.”

“And you would have done things differently?”

“The reason I started the war was for things to have been done differently!”

She was the Emperor again, her own blood once more pooling at her feet as her school uniform shifted into crimson armour. Her horned crown seemed to sprout out of her skull.

“I never would have risked so many lives and thrown this continent into such a precarious state if it wasn’t warranted, Dimitri,” she told him firmly, “You know why I did what I did. You’ve found my old journals and letters of correspondence to Hubert. After ransacking the Palace, you know everything.”

“I didn’t ransack-”

“Regardless, you know.” She held his gaze, the fire of the Crest forced onto her burning in her lilac eyes. “Those Who Slither in the Dark are still out there.”

“I killed their leader.”

“You lobbed off one head of a hydra: more have already grown back.”

“How are you so sure?”

“How are you so sure they haven’t?”

He let out a long, frustrated breath. “You aren’t going to leave me alone tonight, are you?” he groaned as he pressed his hands to his temples.

She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “That depends,” she challenged wryly, “Are you going to let your mind rest? Or will you continue to let this guilt eat away at you.”

He sighed again, keeping his face buried in his hands. “How did you cope with this feeling, El? Surely you had guilt of your own?”

Her answer was frustratingly simple and complicated all the same: “I’m sure I did, or else I really would have been a monster. But don’t know. I never wrote it down.”

Dimitri slowly lowered his hands from his face, meeting her considerably softer gaze. “I really don’t have a choice, do I?” he asked slowly.

“Of course you do,” she replied, “But it’s rarely an easy choice.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” he began hesitantly.

“I left you some clues,” she reminded him. She levelled him a knowing look, her stance every bit as regal as it was when she was Emperor. “You’ll never find peace if you allow these thoughts to fester,” she told him sagely, “Just as you seem to think I will never rest until my enemies are defeated. You’ve always had a strong sense of justice, bending to the will of the ghosts in your head because you somehow think granting them justice through revenge will grant them peace.”

Her form flickered, and she was a schoolgirl once again. “Sothis knows I understand that pressure,” she sighed, “To be the only one left capable of doing anything to avenge the lost, and for it to never be enough. You shouldn’t let their demands control your life, or else you will lose it before you can ever call it yours.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a small grin. “So why should I even be listening to you?” he challenged, his voice feeling more vulnerable than had been in quite some time.

Her form shifted one final time, back to the girl who never left the dungeons under the Imperial Palace. “Because I’m not urging you for myself,” she said quietly.

Dimitri blinked, and she was gone. And he was alone in his darkened room.

---

AN: I had this idea concept in my head for a while now. Dimitri’s ghosts are representative of his trauma, his guilt, and his intrusive thoughts. I wanted to put a bit of a spin on it for Post-AM, in which there is a new ghost who visits him.

I personally headcanon that Dimitri and Byleth find things Edelgard left behind. I also headcanon that, even in AM, she intentionally leaves things behind. Clues, mostly. By the time the Kingdom Army is at Enbarr’s gates, she knew she was going to lose. Granted, Dimitri did unknowingly take care of a few things - killing Thales and Cornelia bring big ones. But I highly doubt an ancient civilization that survived thousands of years by hiding in the shadows and working its way into every corner of the continent would topple by killing a couple high-ranking members. The Agarthans strike me as a group with a whole host of people all scrambling to be the one on top. They might need time to recover, but I doubt they’re gone. And I think Edelgard is painfully aware of this when she dies.

So in her study, she keeps a journal. It’s hastily written, like it’s more of a memoir than a day by day log. Just the key points, what she is able to remember, what will get her motivations across. She writes letters she never intended to send to Hubert and her other supporters, all filled with hints and clues about her backstory, her plans, and where to push forward. And then she leaves it all out on the open on her desk, moments before walking into the throne room to become the monster of her nightmares.

Dimitri discovers these things, learns about what truly happened to her, pieces together missing information from what he knew or guessed. But it’s too late for her by the time he gets any of this and the guilt just eats away at him. It’s not long after the revelation that she starts appearing to him.

Only it’s not really her. It will never truly be her. He will never be able to ask her a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. He will never be able to tell her how he truly feels and know that she understands. He will never know if she is actually at peace.

But he does come to realize that he needs to finish what she started.

(Also I do have a reasoning behind her different forms, but I’m interested in what you guys picked up on before I explain myself.)

#fe three houses #fanfic #edelgard #dimitri #i'm messing around in post-azure moon stuff #bear with me i'm in unfamiliar territory #i haven't written much dimitri #i'm still trying to get his character down

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padawanlost · 5 years ago

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Do you think anakin might be narcissistic or might have narcissistic traits?

No, I don’t. But, please, let’s remember I’m not a mental health professional (I just like Google :P). Here are some Symptoms and behaviors someone Narcissistic personality disorder might display:

Have an exaggerated sense of self-importance: Nope.

“I am convinced, Master Yoda,” said Palpatine. “I know that, as a rule, I leave the strategic planning to you and your Jedi Council and the GAR war cabinet—but in this case I feel compelled to intervene. It was only thanks to young Master Skywalker that Kothlis—and before it Bothawui—did not fall into Separatist hands. But Anakin is only one man—and the Jedi cannot expect him to save the day every day.” Anakin closed his eyes. Please, please, stop talking now, Chancellor. Really. Just stop.[…]“Anakin, Anakin.” He shook his head, ruefully smiling. “I embarrassed you, didn’t I?” He felt heat rush into his face. “No, sir, I—” “Yes, I did,” said Palpatine. “You can say it. I won’t bite.” […] [Anakin] couldn’t speak for a moment. This is the most important man in the galaxy … and he speaks to me as though I’m his own flesh and blood. He has cared about me since I was a boy. “Chancellor …” He had to wait a moment before he could trust his voice. “Please, don’t ever doubt my regard for you. It’s too deep for words.” Eyes moistening, Palpatine smoothed the nap of his rich blue velvet trousers. “I know it makes you uncomfortable when I praise you in public, Anakin. Particularly to Master Yoda or Master Kenobi.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Have a sense of entitlement and require constant, excessive admiration: Nope. Anakin wanted to be accepted and respected for his achievements, nothing more.

Expect to be recognized as superior even without achievements that warrant it: Nope.

He wasn’t sure why, beyond the fact that he didn’t relish responsibility for—or power over—others. And she talked too much. And she was far too cocky, in that naive, chirpy, why-can’t-we-fix-it way, as if he and the clone troopers had never been in combat before. When it came to battle—well, he’d still take lessons from them, thanks. And she could do the same. [Karen Traviss. The Clone Wars]

• Exaggerate achievements and talents: Nope. Anakin talents and achievements are not exaggerated. It’s a fact that he was the one of the best ever.

“So you don’t believe in it?” “I didn’t say that.” Shaking his head, Obi-Wan stared at the floor. “Qui-Gon believed in it. And I believed in him. And there’s no escaping the fact you’re the most gifted Jedi the Temple has ever seen.” He looked up. “So if Yoda’s reluctant to risk you, Anakin, it’s not on a whim. He has good reason.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

• Be preoccupied with fantasies about success, power, brilliance, beauty or the perfect mate: nope. Anakin’s only recurring fantasy was saving slaves:

When the war was over he’d go back to Tatooine and see. When the war was over he’d buy any child he found enslaved to Watto and find them a home where they might live and love in safety. Belonging to no one but themselves. I should have done it before now. Wasn’t that my other childhood dream? Become a Jedi and free the slaves. Instead I became a Jedi and let myself forget. Let them convince me that it’s not our job to remake the Republic. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

I know now that I should have paid more attention to his words. But I was eager to tell him about my dream of becoming a Jedi and freeing the slaves on Tatooine. [Todd Strasser. Anakin Skywalker Journal]

Believe they are superior and can only associate with equally special people: nope

“But—” Gathering his thoughts, disciplining himself, he watched Anakin scoop up one small excited boy, too young to kick the ball, and zoom him overhead like a fighter chasing a vulture droid. The boy nearly sickened himself with laughing. “Greti, are you saying—” […]Anakin’s amusement vanished. “He wasn’t heavy. These younglings are skin and bone. I look at them and—” He clenched his jaw. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Siege]

Monopolize conversations and belittle or look down on people they perceive as inferior: nope.

“I think—” Anakin kicked his heel against the polished marble floor. “I think I hate it when I can’t stop my men from getting hurt. From dying. I think—” “What?” he prompted, when Anakin didn’t continue. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” “It matters, Anakin,” he said gently. “What you think matters.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Take advantage of others to get what they want: nope.

She sat down again. “I understand. This is war. You have to look at the big picture. You can’t afford to see the little people.” Scurrying like rodents. Sacrificed for the greater good. “That’s not true!” Anakin protested. “That’s what the big picture is. Lots and lots and lots of little people. You matter, Bant’ena. The friends you lost on Taratos Four, they matter. We’re fighting this war so no more like them will die.” He was very sweet. Very young. Full of grand ideals and breathtaking, intuitive compassion. She looked at Master Kenobi. Now, there was a pragmatist, a man possessed of a scientist’s soul. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Have an inability or unwillingness to recognize the needs and feelings of others: nope.

“Oh. That’s right.” There was still dried blood on her fingers, and a dull, throbbing pain in her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not normally this stupid. I just—” And then she felt her face crumple and heard herself sob. Her knees buckled and she began to sink toward the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she choked. “Don’t mind me. I’m fine.” He caught her before she tumbled completely. Lifted her without effort and carried her to the sofa. Boneless and unprotesting, she let him. Let her face turn to his roughly shirted, dirty chest and howled her rage and shame against him. Dimly, she felt his hand warm and comforting on her back and heard his soft voice saying, over and over, “It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe now. It’s all right.” The crazy thing was that she did feel safe. For the first time since those Separatist blaster bolts seared the air and sand of Niriktavi Bay, since she saw her friends and colleagues slaughtered, she felt safe. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Be envious of others and believe others envy them: nope

The dining hall was a paneled room with soft, recessed lighting and thick red veda cloth hangings at the windows that muffled sound and cast a rosy glow on the diners. It was just like the exclusive restaurants Anakin had glimpsed on Coruscant — just like the spots the students were used to eating in, he was sure. And, like an exclusive restaurant, seating in the dining hall was subject to an unspoken code. It hadn't taken Anakin long to realize that the best tables were by the windows and he was not welcome there. He didn't know why he felt a coolness from most of the students, but he definitely felt it. When he was looking for a seat at a table, an empty chair would be pushed aside to another table, or a datapad or a pile of durasheet notes would be quickly placed on the seat. It was clear that no one wanted to sit with him. There was a power elite in the school, and everyone else fell in around it. Yet Ferus had been accepted almost immediately, and had his pick of places to sit. Was it because word had gotten out that he belonged to a powerful family on his homeworld? You can travel to the ends of the galaxy and it will be the same — those with power do not like to share. His Master had told him that once, in a voice of weary resignation. But sometimes Obi-Wan seemed to forget that Anakin had been a slave. If anyone knew about power, it was a slave. He knew about the hunger for it, and he knew about the humiliation of getting your nose rubbed in the fact that you didn't have it. He took his bowl of aromatic stew to an empty table and sat. It wasn't that he needed company. Jedi were comfortable being alone. But inside, something burned, something deep and hot that he had hoped had been long forgotten. He took a bite of stew and tasted shame and anger. It was hard to swallow, like a mouthful of sand. [Jude Watson. The School of Fear]

• Behave in an arrogant or haughty manner, coming across as conceited, boastful and pretentious: nope.

Anakin was looking relieved. “Water would be greatly appreciated, thank you. Food, too, but I’ll wait for Obi-Wan to come back before I eat.” She crossed to the small kitchen table, put down the precious holoprojector, then nodded at the commercial-sized conservator her keepers had so kindly given her. “It’s entirely up to you. The water’s in there. Help yourself to as much as you like.” He drank three full bottles, hardly taking a breath. Noticing her surprise, he shrugged. “Sorry. My manners aren’t usually that bad. It’s just—it’s been a long, hard day.” “I can tell,” she said, disposing of the emptied bottles down her makeshift kitchen’s waste chute. “You should sit down. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look tired.” He considered his filthy clothes. “Are you sure? I don’t want to dirty the furniture.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Insist on having the best of everything — for instance, the best car or office: nope. There’s no evidence of Anakin ever concerning himself over status or material possessions.

#ask #anon #anakin skywalker #sw meta #meta: anakin #txt

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curiouscarllee · 4 years ago

Text

Hello, I'm making a list of my OCs with a bit of art and information! I am doing this because I feel as though I post a lot about my characters without ever providing any detail, so, here you go :) On top of this, I'd like to state that I am always intrested in hearing about your ocs as well, you are more than welcome to send me an ask about them or about my own characters :)

Fairlynn: My Main

Fairlynn is a bosmer, he is the Hero of Kvatch and also Sheogorath. He is a tad unpredictable and has some mental issues in regards to mirroring the mad god and myself. Fairlynn was 28 when he started with saving the world, only 29 when it ended and full of grief with Martin's passing. This drove him to the Shivering Isles in hopes that he could persuade a daedric prince to revive his beloved. That's not at all how it went down, upon noticing this realm was not one of a stronger prince, Fairlynn was tempted to leave the plane but found himself infatuated with it instead.

After a few years, the princes sensed a danger approaching, one in the form of an imperial male that had the possibility of defeating them. Therefore, they agreed to send one of themselves down to nirn in an attempt to stop it. Unfortunately, they chose Fairlynn to get the job done and yeeted him down where the bosmer began to gather enforcments in the form of other people which he thought would become allies when they grew older.. But what he didn't expect was the imperial managed to befriend every. Single. One. Of the people Fairlynn had set on course to hate the man, none of them truly did. That's the exact moment where he went, "if you can't beat em' join em'." And promptly joined the group in his mortal form without revealing to them who he was. Instead the group thinks he's just a skooma addict that is talented in the ways of fighting. They have no idea.

Ragnar

This is that imperial male stated in the last description. This man is destined to destroy the influence of the daedric princes on the mortal people, however, he has the intelligence of a box of rocks and everyone doubts this prophecy to be true. The only time one can possibly think this true is when he displays his power in the midst of battle, he was blessed by the divines at birth, each giving him power to defeat the evil of the world. He his bound to use it.. But he never uses it for good, I mean,, why would he? He could kill anyone he wants! No way he's gonna be the "good hero"! (Basically, this was my brother's character and he used mods to make him op so I had to improvise.)

Past wise, my brother and I decided to intertwine him with the lore. You rememeber the song Ragnar the Red? That was Ragnar's father. In truth, his name should be Ragnar the second or Ragnar Jr. but his mother, Matilda, said "hahahaha, no, your father was a mess and you shall not be him." and removed the second part. After his mother died of a sickness, Ragnar hesitantly moved towns in search of work. He missed his mother greatly and would give anything to have her back.

S'arra

Meet S'arra, she is a khajiit female and the heart of the group (along side another who you'll meet shortly). S'arra is the youngest, she may be sweet but she'll rob you blind if she sees a chance. S'arra came from a happy family in Elsywer, she was the child of F'awn and Ja'zaka, two khajiit with completely different sets of morals. Ja'zaka was a born bandit, he was wild and carefree, F'awn (My friends oc :)) was a gentle and caring woman, she loved to live. When F'awn got pregnant, her brother, J'ar, lost his mind. J'ar was fueled with anger towards Ja'zaka and at one point made an attempt at his brother-in-law's life. It was at that moment J'ar was kicked from F'awn's life, he ran from his home and joined a vampire clan/bandit group in Skyrim.

Only months after her birth, Ja'zaka disappeared. He ran and never came back. F'awn tried her best to raise S'arra, but one morning S'arra was taken from her by a rabid animal that invaded the town. The creature took off with S'arra and lead the small khajiit to it's den where a caravan traveling to Skyrim would soon find her and take her with them, raising her as their own on the roads of Skyrim. The caravan was killed and attacked by a certain bandit group/vampire clan (hahaha, yup, the one J'ar is in). S'arra joined the group in hopes of revenge, although, she'll keep that bit to herself. ;)

Adoren

Now this orc, oh he's amazing. He is an old man, a precious old man with a past of pain and betrayal. In order to introduce his past, we need to introduce his adpoted brother first:

Zanik

This is Adoren's adopted brother, Zanik (grandson of Nellie), a not so nice older man. Zanik was thrown out by his father a young age, more precisely, he was thrown in a river by his father in one of his father's crazed fits. Zanik can't swim, he hates water more than anything else in his life. The dunmer was washed to shore near an orc stronghold where he was picked up by Adoren and adopted by the orcs family. Zanik and Adoren lived happily for many many years, one day they went on an exploration to scout for different hunting grounds. It started to pour causing the two to take shelter in a dwemer ruin. That's when they heard soft groaning and sounds of pain coming from down one of the halls. Hesitantly, they explored. Only to find:

Kidawe

My most lore breaking character! Meet Kidawe, a small snow elf from one of the last remaining villiages of falmer! Now, yes, I am breaking the lore because, since when has canon lore stopped me? Kidawe lived on top of the mountains to the north of Cyrodiil and the South of Skyrim. His village is small and portable, in case they need to move, the tribe of elves is shrouded in mystery, they've managed to live this long and refuse to leave their mountain. Kidawe doesn't listen to that, he runs off each night in search for dwemer ruins, things he find more then interesting. The young elf holds no fear when he's in his element, and he loves to explore. One evening, while in a ruin he is attacked by a vampire/bandit named Raeferth (the leader) who pushes him to join the group, trying to convince the snow elf that his expertise is needed. Kidawe refuses and then engages in battle with the nord, he looses and ends up pinned under a fallen pillar that crushes his arm.

Upon waking up after falling unconscious from the pain, Kidawe is met with the sight of Adoren and Zanik standing over him. After many many months of trust building, the two get Kidawe to befriend them. Kidawe uses their help to fashion himself a new arm from dwarven parts found in the ruin. After a few years, Kidawe disappears. He was taken by force by Raeferth (the others do not know this). Adoren and Zanik are heart broken. They miss their friend greatly.

Adoren/Zanik Pt.2

After losing Kidawe, these two go off and join a bandit group.. Yes the same vampire clan group. Adoren thrives in the group, he his strong and more then willing to get his hands dirty. Zanik.. Not so much. Zanik is only kept around because of Adoren. They all know not to mess with Zanik or else they mess with Adoren.

After spending a few years with them, Adoren decides he can't continue this. Zanik begs him not to leave, trying to make the orc realize that this group will not let them go without hurting them. Adoren doesn't listen and leaves the bandits, later that day the stronghold is burnt to the ground. Adoren looses everything in the fire, his parents pass away, his friends and family. Instead of processing lose normally, he makes it up in his head that the reason Zanik was warning him was because Zanik had a hand in it. Therefore the two fight and Adoren punches Zanik, he's wearing a ring that catches under Zanik's flesh and pratically tears off his cheek leaving the dunmer with a horrible scar. Adoren warns Zanik never to speak with him again.

Which of course doesn't stand because after they grew up into old men, they cross eachother's paths once more. They both join up with the good guy group at different times, Adoren joins first after he finds them in his house, and Zanik joins when he is once again found washed up on the shore.

Zorlin

Not much on this boio, he was my first oc in the Elder Scrolls. He's an argonian heavy set warrior. Zorlin is silent and cut throat, he is a part of the Brotherhood and only joins the good guy group after his brother, Tu'ru is 'murdered' by Raeferth.

Tristane

There is so much on him. I'm just going to do bullet points:

Born in Skyrim 200+ years ago. He never knew his true parents and was instead brought up by a wealthy noble family. They more kept him around for labor.

He befriends 3 local kids, Mayrn (breton like him), Raeferth (nord trouble maker), and Lynik (Raeferth's brother).

They all cause problems and Tristane falls in love with Raeferth :D

One day Raeferth claims to have found immortality, Tristane instantly says "No, I'm not doing this." And leaves the friend group, trying to focus on himself.

He is then framed for a crime he didn't commit and sent to Cyrodiil's Imperial Prison. Then he is bailed out by the Emperor and sent to Morrowind.

Morrowind happens, Tristane changes from whining child to even whiner child with the ability to cast spells.

After Morrowind, Tristane travels to Solstiem where he is confronted with Mayrn and Lynik (both as bandit vampires).

Mayrn and Lynik try to force him back to Skyrim to see Raeferth and join them. Tristane, as he said before, says "no". So they kill him.

Now they don't really kill him, they use a method I made up called Soul Gem Reflection. This is something I completely made up but I like it so sue me. I can write an entire post on this alone so we're just gonne say, "Soul gem reflection is a method in which the targets soul is directed towards an object they held dear in life instead of dying. They're life essence is held in the soul gem, but they live in the object."

In this case, Tristane was reflected in his journal.

Lynik felt horrible for doing this to his friend, he felt guilty and returned the journal which he unknowingly relfected the breton in, and gave it to Tristane's family who in turn stuffed the journal in the basement.

Fast forward 200+ years and Adoren buys the manor, finding Tristane's journal inside and opening it. Surprise! Out springs a ghostly figure of Tristane who then convinced Adoren to take him along with the group!

Other Characters:

This is J'ar. He's mentioned above.

Also, here's some more character that aren't affiliated with the group:

-Baendil and Baendal are bosmer brothers, they were abandoned by their parents and instead found by cranky altmer father Kornan. They're bandits (not related to vampires at all). They're bad, not morally wrong but actually just bad at being bandits. They couldn't rob you even if you asked them to.

-I will add more later I'm sure.

#tes #the elder scrolls #skyrim #my art :)#oblivion #khajiit #bosmer #morrowind #dunmer #orc #nord #imperial #argonian

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trulyhopelessromantic · 4 years ago

Note

Hmm... Let me find my book. **rummages through my books** Nope not that one. That one's just journal prompts. Here we are: "Write about a character who thinks they have a sun allergy."

Cassius moaned. "I'm gonna die! I'm dying!"

"Stop being so damn dramatic," Laurna returned as she placed a cool, wet cloth to his forehead.

"It's...eugh. It's..." He covered his mouth as yet another, stronger impulse to throw up overcame him. She calmly passed him the plastic bucket that he could make use of though she kept her face turned away so as not to see anything.

When he felt he was finally well enough to speak again, he did softly, "I'm definitely allergic."

"Allergic!?" She turned back towards him with a look of confusion and a raised eyebrow a second later.

"The sun... Damnit but I'm allergic to it. I'm gonna be like one of those uh...those bubble people except I can't go outside during the daytime. I'm essentially going to be a vampire!" he lamented with a moan before another urge to heave came up like a wave on him again.

"What?! You're not allergic to the sun Cass."

He held up a finger as he leaned over his bucket and closed his eyes. When the feeling passed, he answered her, "I am so allergic. Hello can't you see how sick I am!?"

"Obviously I can see that," she retorted with her arms now crossed defensively, "but that's not an allergy!"

"Oh and you're...suddenly a doctor now?" he managed to snap back with less force than he intended.

The young woman rolled her eyes at him. "Common sense. Allergies make you sneeze or your throat to close up. They don't make you puke like you have the flu."

"Then...what the hell is this?" he asked softly in invitation as he swirled one hand around his head to indicate his current condition of being vastly unwell.

"Sunstroke."

"Stroke? I thought strokes were like...stopping you from speaking and damaging your brain."

"Well it's kinda like that," she agreed, "I mean your head is affected right now. But you just got too much sun and your body is reacting with illness because of it."

He took a second to close his eyes and dab the cloth back on his forehead and neck to cool himself again. "But I'm not allergic? Like...this happens to everyone?" His voice was unsure at the end. He didn't wish to sound stupid but he also didn't know the answer to his own question. He needed her response for some understanding.

"Yes. We humans can only take so much. Sorry to burst your bubble thinking you were superhuman or something."

He managed to smile a little at the jab. "I guess I'll take it. But... I'm not going to be vampiric?"

"Sadly, no. You can still go out during daylight hours once you recover from all this," she informed him smiling.

He made a face of disappointment, "Well...can't we just...bullshit it? Can't I just like pretend for awhile? Buy a cape? Create a local legend? Suddenly be spotted out and about in daylight and pretend I have no idea what anyone's talking about? Say I was living out of town and have just recently moved back? Boo Radley it?"

"Boo Radley?" she repeated with confusion and concern.

"You don't know Boo Radley?" he stressed with some concern and disbelief mounting.

"Mmmm nope," she hummed as she considered it once more but came up with absolutely nothing.

"Jeezus did you not go through the high school system!? Boo Radley? Recluse of To Kill A Mockingbird!?"

"Uh no what's that?"

"Oh my God!" he exhaled with complete exasperation as he dropped himself down on the pillows of the bed tucked behind him, "I... You friggen know sunstroke and all that shit but you don't know To Kill A Mockingbird!? Atticus Finch? Gregory Peck? Scout? Racism and prejudice!?"

"You've lost me." She shrugged and crossed her arms again.

"You're killing me here!" he sighed in defeat.

"I thought that was the sunstroke, Cassius." The look on his face as he found her smirking at her own comment was enough to fuel her to care for him the rest of the day without complaint.

#speedwriting #speed writing #sorry this took so long but I guess I needed random after-midnight inspiration to just write without much of a plot in mind lol #must be the record setting heatwave going around here where I am that brought this on #stay safe people! Don't get sunstroke/heatstroke!#writing prompt #writing request #prompt #writing #writer #shakespearevillain

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miracul0us-multishipper · 6 years ago

Text

Welcome to the Back (Part 11)

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Lila knew the situation was getting out of hand, even before she heard Ladybug reveal that they weren’t friends. At this point, she had already escaped the school and hidden outside, where she was in no danger to be seen by Sentiquill.

“Stupid Ladybug!”, she muttered as she walked home, not bothering to check up on the others or return to school. Even after she saw the Miraculous Cure flash through the sky, her pace didn’t slow. She needed time to think of a fitting lie, and the fallout of today’s akuma would be enough to deal with tomorrow. Ugh, she hated Paris! You could never know what happened next, never plan ahead!

She groaned.

To be fair, the akuma attack was actually kind of convenient this time. It gave her a chance to check up on her looks at home, prepare for the meeting this afternoon. There was no second chance for the first impression, after all!

So when she entered the TV1 tower and flashed the employee ID she’d stolen from Mireille, she looked as professional as she could get.

René Bordeaux’s office was easy to find. His name was written on the door in bright, red letters and the voice that yelled into a phone on the other side was iconic. With a confident smile, she knocked on the door. The voice fell silent, then yelled into the phone once more before hanging up. Angry footsteps advanced and the door was flung open.

“What is it?!”, a middle-aged man shouted. Lila scanned him quickly. Carefully styled, blond-dyed hair. There was a hint of grey in his roots, something he obviously meant to hide. Scared of aging probably.

His suit looked brand new, but was a little too short on the ankles, she noticed and drew her conclusions: He valued luxury and tried to intimidate with pricy clothes, but didn’t actually know a lot about fashion and likely bought whatever looked the most expensive. He had sideburns, for God’s sake. 60’s nostalgia? Probably wanted to go back to “the good old days” his dad had talked about wistfully when he was young. She wondered if he was right-wing. A Control freak, judging by the meticulously organized room behind him, and he was single given the lacking photos of a girlfriend on his desk. Or photos of anything other than himself in general. There was a wedding ring on his finger, even though Lila’s research had brought up his disastrous divorce of Evelyn Leanne, and that he hadn’t married since. His lack of reminders of Leanne in the office - reference to the photos - made her doubt he harbored any romantic sentiment for her. He was only bitter about being shunned, and about losing a perfect trophy family. Likely hadn’t accepted the divorce.

All these deductions only took her seconds to complete, René Bordeaux was an open book.

Her smile widened. So much potential!

“Oh, my apologies.”, she said sweetly. “I was looking for René Bordeaux, but if he’s not here yet-“

“I’m René Bordeaux! Why do you think would I be in this office, otherwise?!”

She gasped in false shock.

“You? But you look so young!”

The man blinked, thrown off his rhythm. His anger deflated and his raised hand dropped to his side.

“I... I guess!”

He caught himself and crossed his arms.

“Well, you have a point. But I hear that a lot, young Lady, so what do you want?”

Perfect.

“I am Lila Rossi.”, she introduced herself. “I called you yesterday, about the Journalism Junior contest you produce. A great idea, by the way.”

“Ah, yes, of course. What was that about again?”

Time to get bolder.

“May I come inside?”, she crooned. “This shouldn’t be discussed so out in the open. Wouldn’t want the public to hear of it.”

Now she had his attention. Bordeaux had made his money as a populist and paparazzi, a reporter known for his scandalous articles. He’d lost his job after the lawsuits last year, but his new position as chief editor of TV1 didn’t mean he had lost his lurid hunger for sensations - especially if he was the first one to know.

He huffed, but stepped back to let her in. The view out of the window front was fantastic, but she wasn’t here to marvel at the city. So she came straight to the point.

“I am a great fan of you work!”, she lied. “Especially your article after the Leanne-Agreste Show Disaster. Your concern about your son’s well being was very inspiring for me. I wish I had a father like that.”

She was glad she didn’t have a father like that, but Bordeaux didn’t need to know that. His brows furrowed in confusion.

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”, he grumbled, but his chest visibly swoll with pride. “What does this have to do with the contest?”

Her shoulders dropped in concern.

“Monsieur Bordeaux, I don’t know how to tell you this, but... See, Felix is in my class, and I am very concerned about him. I wanted to do my report on him, but what I found during my research worries me.”

He’s a control freak, she remembered, and he has no real sentiment towards his family. He only cares about reputations.

“He’s surrounding himself with all the wrong people, and when I - as the class representative - wanted to warn his mother, she brushed me off as if she didn’t care at all.”

Bordeaux tried to hide his interest, but there was a spark of hunger in his eyes. He was sensing a chance.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. See, our class is very... diverse.”

If he leaned to right side of politics, the word would repulse him.

“There’s people like Felix, Adrien Agreste, the mayor’s daughter or me in our class, who are well educated and come from the right families. But there are also... less fortunate people. Like Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng for example, who has great influence over your son.”

He flinched at the foreign last name, just as expected. His face had turned sour.

“What are you saying?”

“I say, Felix needs you.”, she catered to his ego. “He has no father figure, no role model. His mother lets him do whatever he wants, not caring about his future or who might take advantage of him. He has an unhealthy amount of freedoms, and just this morning, he fell victim to Hawkmoth!”

Bordeaux’s hands twitched and his eyes widened.

“An akuma was after my heir?! Who was it? I need names!”

“Oh no, he was akumatized himself.”, she informed him smugly. He muttered something about bad publicity, then looked up again.

“What was the reason? His mother? He’s ridiculously devoted to her.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”, she lied. “He was alone with Dupain-Cheng when it happened.”

She sighed, then put enough urgency in her voice to make even herself cringe.

“He really needs someone who knows what’s best for him, who can look out for him and will set him limits. He needs you!”

Bordeaux scoffed and paced through his office.

“Do you think I didn’t try to save this family?! Evelyn won’t let me near them anymore, and Felix would rather live like a pauper before going against her.”

Lila smiled.

“I know.”

Her schemes were finally going somewhere.

“But I might have a solution for you.”

When Adrien came to school the next day, he felt numb. There was no Plagg at his side, no ring on his finger, no sense of freedom in his chest as he walked up to the entrance. Everything felt hollow. How could everyone be this carefree when his entire world had been uprooted yesterday? Didn’t they feel the shift in the air, the tension in the room? Chat Noir had vanished, yet nobody seemed to mind.

“Dude, there you are!”, Nino greeted him from a bench at side, surrounded by his classmates. “We were worried sick about you, yesterday! Did you see the Akuma Attack? We were all working with Ladybug, it was so cool!”

Adrien flinched, before stomping over to them.

“Really?”, he asked, trying to suppress his fury. “That sounds awesome! I was busy looking for Chat Noir, in case you wanted to know! So he could get back to protecting Ladybug.”

If Nino noticed how passive-aggressive he sounded, he only shrugged.

“Man, didn’t you hear? It was all over the news last night.”

Adrien frowned in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Yeah!”, Alix chimed in. “Chat Noir is cancelled!”

His blood ran cold. Did they... did they know he had lost his ring?!

“Look at this.”, Alya demanded and showed him her phone, playing a video on the Ladyblog. “Nino filmed this, since I was taken out.”

His eyes widened when he recognized the scenery. It was filmed from under the stairs, but Sentiquill and Ladybug were perfectly clear to see. His Lady held the Akuma in place with her yo-yo, ordering Chat to help. Alya was snorting with anger when the hero refused, leaving Rose at Sentiquill’s mercy.

“Can you believe it?!”, she seethed when the camera panned to Ladybug’s pained face, who apologized for rejecting him before asking for his help again. “He made her beg! He let Rose be drained for ink, just so he could force her into his stupid power play! And her apology?”

She scoffed.

“I can’t believe he would ask that of her! As if she owed him anything for rejecting him!”

“Don’t forget the part where he almost killed Ladybug!”, Chloé spoke up. “If I ever see his ugly ass face again, I won’t need a Miraculous to rip him apart.”

“But,” Adrien stammered, “We don’t know the whole story! Maybe he had a valid reason to-“

Chloé laughed and pinched his cheek.

“Oh, silly Adrikins. I always forget how little experience you have with people.”

Kim nodded.

“Yeah, if you get rejected, no matter how, you gotta accept it. Doesn’t mean you gotta take any shit” - he glared at Chloé, who had the decency to look ashamed - “But you sure have no right to pressure her into anything. And demanding an apology for saying no?”

He clicked his tongue.

“That guy definitely wasn’t present for Mendeleiev‘s lesson on consent.”

“He abandoned Rose.”, Juleka murmured from the background, holding her unusually quiet girlfriend’s hand. “I’ll never forgive him for that.”

Adrien gulped.

“Well, Miraculous Ladybug always undoes every harm, right?”

“Cut it, Adrien!”, Alya snarled at him all of a sudden. Everyone fell silent. The reporter blinked, then leaned back a little to regain control of herself.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”, she mumbled, staring at nothing. “What it felt like. Just because Ladybug can cure everyone doesn’t mean she can undo what happened to us.”

Nino put his arm around her and she relaxed a little. When she looked at Adrien again, she was as composed as always.

“I’ve never been more terrified than yesterday.”, she stated firmly. “And it was even worse for Rose, judging by how much ink Sentiquill got out of her. Chat could have spared her that, but he chose not to. To him, each of us was less important than getting back at Ladybug. Just for not catering to his whims.”

She shook her head.

“If Ladybug doesn’t kick his ass, Rena Rouge will.”

“Uh, I literally said it first.”, Chloé complained. “Tell Fox girl to stand in line, Queen Bee is the one that’s going to kick that mangy cat into orbit!”

As the others broke out in a fight of who would have the best chance to beat up Chat Noir - Sabrina stood eerily still in the corner, saying something about a knife and Chat’s eyes - Adrien slipped out of the yard. It felt like the entire universe was against him! Everything came crashing down around him, no one took his side anymore-

“Adrien?”, a voice behind him asked and he turned around to see Lila. “Are you alright?”

He swallowed down his feelings.

“Yeah”, he croaked. “Just worried. Ladybug told everyone about you, classes are going to be... tense.”

He sighed. He might not be Chat Noir right now, but he was still Adrien Agreste, Bustier’s sunshine boy. He had to keep the peace as far as possible.

“You need to come clean.”, he suggested. “Apologize and tell them the truth about everything, then maybe, this will blow over soon.”

And maybe Marinette would be his friend again. This whole Lila-mess had only harmed them all, it was time to set things right.

Lila nodded.

“Of course, you are so right.”

She smiled weakly.

“I know I never told you this, but you are a great friend. Thank you for protecting me as long as you could. I really wish people would listen to you more, you’re so thoughtful!”

He looked up.

“You think so?”

She nodded, patting his shoulders.

“They can’t see it, but I do.”, she assured him. “You do so much for your friends. You prevent them from harming themselves, from destroying the harmonic atmosphere. They can be grateful to call you their friend.”

He blushed a bit, flattered. And relieved. Finally someone that appreciated all his hard work!

Lila sighed and walked towards the yard.

“I’m really sorry you’ll be dragged into this mess, Adrien.”

He stiffened. Wait, what?

“What do you mean?”

She stopped to look at him, surprised.

“Well, if I tell them the truth about everything, I’ll have to tell them you knew everything from the start. You and I know it was only for their own good that you didn’t expose me, but they... You’ll be pulled into this inevitably. Things will likely be horrible for you for a while, maybe you’ll even lose some friends. Nino, Alya, Chloé... I don’t think they’ll understand you were doing the right thing.”

His mind was running wild. No! He already had them badmouthing Chat Noir in front of him, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if they hated him as Adrien too!

“Lila, wait!”, he called when she moved to walk on. “Maybe... Maybe there’s another way. To keep everyone calm. We can think of something, I’ll help you!”

She smiled.

“You would do that for me? You’re so sweet.”

Her eyes glistened eagerly.

“I think I already have an idea.”

“How are you feeling?”, Felix asked her. They stood in front of the classroom, hesitating to go inside. But Marinette had enough of fearing confrontation. Chat, Adrien, Lila, all of them were people she didn’t want to run from anymore. It was time to walk her way and hope that her friends would have her back. But she was through with waiting for problems to resolve on their own.

“Well enough.”, she replied. “And you?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t remember much of what happened, and I generally don’t care what others think of me. But...”

He sighed.

“I did hurt people. Not consciously, but it still happened because of me.”

Marinette couldn’t say anything against that, so she simply took his hand. Whether for his comfort or her own, she didn’t know.

“Come on.”, she said. “I’m sure they’ll understand, and... It’s not like Lila will be a problem anymore, at least! So let’s get this over with.”

With that, she opened the door and walked inside. Only to see Lila surrounded by their classmates.

“Marinette!”, she called. “Just in time. I was just telling everyone how Ladybug saved me again, yesterday.”

Marinette felt her eyes twitch.

“Ladybug- You- I-“, she pressed out, wanting to throttle her. How was it possible that she just sat here as if nothing happened?! Things were supposed to be different now!

Felix nudged her hand and she looked up to him. He nodded at the rest of the class with his chin, and her eyes followed his gesture. They weren’t hanging on her every word as she had feared. No, Chloé wasn’t even listening, filing her nails with an occasional roll of her eyes. Alya sat next to an angry Nino, arms crossed. Juleka’s eyes were shooting daggers at Lila.

All in all, the class looked suspicious. Not enthralled and excited, but almost annoyed. An improvement!

“Ya better hurry to give us a damn good explanation, girl!”, Alya growled. “Because I have Lb’s statement on video, and I won’t hesitate to post it online!”

Lila gave her a surprised glance.

“What are you talking about? Did I do something wrong?”

Nino glowered at her.

“That’s a damn bold question, Lie-la! Ladybug told us everything.”

His girlfriend raised her phone, playing Ladybug’s fight against Sentiquill.

“But fine!”, Marinette heard her alter ego shout. “If it makes you happy!” Then she started to rant about Lila, who looked suspiciously calm.

“Well”, she shrugged when the sequence was over, “she really went all out, didn’t she?”

“What do you mean?”

Lila chuckled.

“I mean, just look at her face! So disdainful, so authentic! A great actress, really!”

Alya faltered a bit.

“Actress?”

“Of course!”, she laughed. “Ladybug was obviously trying to placate Sentiquill, as we all know Felix doesn’t like me since our little misunderstanding. A bummer it didn’t work, but I guess she isn’t perfect either.”

She sighed and straightened herself.

“Ladybug told me to flee, since the Akuma was after me specifically. I would have stayed with you otherwise, and helped to defend you against Sentiquill. But she knew if I was nearby, he’d go after me and then Ladybug would be distracted. She cares so much about me, her worry for my wellbeing would have interfered with her ability to think straight.”

Alya frowned.

“How do we know this isn’t another lie? It’s your word against Ladybug’s, and you haven’t proven anything!”

Pondering, Lila tapped her finger against her chin.

“Hm, let’s see... Adrien! You saw us; you can be my witness, right?”

Everybody turned around and Marinette’s eyes widened. Adrien stood at the window, looking weary but determined. Surely he wouldn’t... He had covered for Lila before, true, but to lie on her behalf...

Her hopes sunk when he avoided eye contact with her.

“It’s true.”, he stated flatly. “I saw them talk after the battle. Ladybug...” He gulped. “Ladybug apologized for saying all these things, but it was only to protect her.”

“That’s not true!”, Marinette howled furiously. “What are you even saying, Adrien?!”

He looked away, pouting.

“Stop shouting at me. It’s the truth! I saw them when I was on my way... on my way-“

“-to accompany me to Jagged Stone!”, Lila finished for him, a smug look on her face. “I invited him along because he was so rattled after the akuma attack. To cheer him up! Jagged is the best when it comes to lighten the mood, right, Adrien?”

“Uh... yeah!”, the blond agreed hesitantly, obviously confused. “Totally! I, er, can confirm.”

Marinette’s eyes burned into his spineless figure, seething with rage. This had been his chance. For someone that preferred inactivity when it came to his friends, he was all too quick to stand up for a liar.

“So... it was all true?”, Alya dared to hope. “You really are Ladybug’s friend, and you know Jagged Stone?”

“Don’t forget Prince Ali, but yes. I’d never lie to you, Alya!”, Lila reassured. “Everything I said is true.”

Felix took a step forward, opening his mouth to protest, but Marinette put her hand on his chest to stop him.

“Don’t.”, she whispered, forcibly cooling down her anger to a simmering hatred. “They win this round.”

Everything Felix could say now would only further Lila’s victim role, and they had no proof right now. It would be a waste of time.

Felix clenched his teeth, but nodded. To their surprise, the others weren’t done yet.

“I don’t believe you.”, Juleka mumbled and Lila’s face fell.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, I don’t believe you!”, the goth shouted, startling everyone. Rose was clutching her hand like a lifeline as her girlfriend looked up, tears in her eyes. “When Sentiquill went after Rose, Ladybug didn’t hesitate to do the logical thing and save me first, even if that meant making herself vulnerable. I know she cares about Rose, but when push came to shove, she was still able to think tactical. God knows I didn’t like her decision, but it was what saved both of us.”

Lila narrowed her eyes.

“Juleka, you sound like you wanted her to sacrifice Rose! Do you really care so little about-“

“Shut up!”, Rose cried out. Marinette wasn’t sure she had ever seen her this upset. “That’s not what she meant, and you know it!”

“Are you two calling me a liar?”

Juleka shot her a glare.

“I’m saying that I trust Ladybug. She’s able to do her job, no matter the circumstances and who might be at stake. She cares about all of us and doesn’t play favorites. If your word’s against hers, we know where we’ll stand.”

She nudged Rose, who nodded. Together they walked towards the door, but stopped when they passed Marinette and Felix.

“I don’t blame you for anything.”, Rose murmured to him so that only they could hear it. “I know what it feels like to be controlled like that. To be forced to hurt people you care about. We’re all used to it by now, you’re not alone.”

Then they walked out.

The class only recovered slowly. Many regarded Lila with distrust, most were unsure. Even Alya, who was only too desperate to believe Lila, had her doubts.

Felix gave her an encouraging smile.

“Looks like things are in motion.”

Marinette nodded, tearing her gaze from Adrien.

“I think it’s time to move on as well.”, she confessed. “To leave old burdens behind.”

She thought of Chat Noir.

“To make a clear cut.”

Marinette was busy this afternoon.

Doing homework.

Changing her computer’s background.

Putting the finishing touch on the cravat she designed for Felix.

Feeding Tikki a macaron she’d made for Adrien.

Preparing an outline for her report.

Ripping Adrien’s pictures off her wall.

Playing video games with her parents.

Taking the chest with her gifts for Adrien to Prince Ali’s charity for sick children.

Calling Felix.

Clearing her calendar of Adrien’s appointments.

Crying a bit.

Calling Felix again.

Feeling better.

When it was evening, she finally ran out of things to do. And that meant, she had nothing to distract her from her own thoughts. That wouldn’t do.

“I’m going out for a walk!”, she told her parents as she bounced down the stairs, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Be careful!”, her mother replied and waved. “And be back before dinner!”

“Don’t you want to take something to eat with you? Or a jacket? Or-“

“Tom.”

“Oh, right. Uh, have fun!”

Marinette chuckled at her parents difference. She’d always wanted to be in a relationship like theirs: one of mutual respect, but with room for silliness and fun. To have someone that was so different from her, but shared enough of her passions and values to match. A partnership of equals, that wouldn’t waver or fade when things got difficult. Someone who inspired her to grow. Someone who wasn’t afraid to learn from her as well.

She had thought that was Adrien. Part of her might even have considered Chat Noir - the yin yang symbolic hadn’t gone unnoticed by her. But her mother had explained her for what the Taijitu truly stood: not an eternal battle of opposites, but the harmonic completion of two contrasts, the ever changing nature of the world. Chat Noir wasn’t someone who completed her, and neither was Adrien. They had only brought her misery when they should have supported her.

She sighed as she walked through the park, the half moon rising above her. Black and white.

Her mother had often used the Taiji symbol to comfort her when she’d had one of her streaks of bad luck. It’s natural to have a hard time once in a while, she’d said. But see? The darkness recedes eventually and makes room for the light. It’s a circuit, and soon things will get better for you as well. Until then? Just search for the tiny white dot. The beacon in the darkness, it’s there!

Marinette leaned her head back, watching the darkening sky.

The light in her darkness? That was Felix. The only constant support she had these days. The one whose mere presence cheered her up, gave her the strength to keep going. It was so weird, now that she thought about it. He was so... harsh. Like a bright fire that could blind and burn mercilessly, but somehow drew her in like a moth to his flame. Like the sun, that could bring people’s worst flaws to daylight, or illuminate strengths she hadn’t even known she had. He had been both demanding and eager to give, from the very beginning. Forcing her to put her self-imposed limits aside and stand up for herself, but supporting her when he knew she needed it. In return, he had opened himself to her, learned to trust and bond with others. She’d never been more proud than when he had befriended Aurore, despite their rocky start. Or when he tried to dial his bluntness down around Marc, because he knew the boy was sensitive.

He had impressed her. Everything about him was challenging and inspiring and soothing at once. She’d never liked herself more than when she was around him. And when she wasn’t, she found herself thinking about him constantly.

Even now, musing over their influence on each other brought a smile to her lips and lightened her steps until she all but floated through the park. Now that she thought about it, she liked the feeling a lot. More than a lot. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost say she lo-

“Marinette”, Tikki called her from her purse. “I sense someone. Wayzz is nearby!”

She looked up, searching the park for the familiar hawaiian shirt. Indeed, it was the guardian himself that stood in front of the fountain, hands clasped in front of him. Curious, she walked up beside him.

“Good evening, Master Fu!”, she greeted. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s the stomach?”

The elder man gave her a sullen side glance.

“I thought we had agreed to never talk of that again.”

She chuckled and followed his gaze to the fountain.

“Did we? I don’t recall!”

He didn’t smile, but his wrinkled forehead relaxed a bit. Weird. Usually, he was a lot more eager to joke around, given he had so little company to do that with.

“Is something the matter? You look upset.”

Fu sighed.

“Sharp as always. I am concerned for you, for Ladybug’s safety.”

Her face grew serious.

“That’s a concern I can understand.”, she muttered. “I nearly died yesterday. It was that close!”

Fu nodded.

“I saw.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?”, she snapped, forgetting herself. “I needed help, and you could have given that to me!”

Her master lowered his head, eyes fixed on the water.

“Because I am weak.”, he admitted. “And a coward. And not the guardian you deserve.”

He looked so old when he rubbed his forehead, almost ancient.

“In my defense, if I had known the situation was this terrible, I would have taken the miracle box with me. Or at least the Turtle, Fox or Bee. Alas, I was only aware of Chat Noir’s miraculous turning dark, and thought that we would be enough to handle him. I didn’t expect the akuma.”

“Wait...”, she slowed him down. “Chat’s Miraculous was abused? Like... Like the butterfly is?”

Fu didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hand to reveal what he held inside. A black ring, complete with a familiar green paw print.

“His miraculous!”, she whispered in awe, then turned towards the guardian. “What did you do?! When did you do that?”

“Immediately after you purified Sentiquill’s akuma.”, he stated wearily. “And that was already far too late. I should have taken it after Syren, Frozer maybe. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

She felt a pang in her chest that she had lost her partner of almost a year, but it was overshadowed by an euphoric sense of relieve. She hadn’t noticed how much Chat had troubled her until she didn’t have to worry about him anymore. No more fear to hurt his feelings, no more dancing around the truth to avoid upsetting him. No more tantrums and reckless sacrifices. No more pressure to feel something she just... didn’t.

“I want you to have it.”, Fu continued and raised his hands when she wanted to protest. “Not for yourself, of course! Marinette, I have chosen solitude as the safest way to protect the miraculous, and for a while, it worked. But times changed.”

He breathed out, his posture slouching in shame.

“Times changed, and I didn’t. Chat Noir is the proof that I am no longer fit to distribute powers like his. But you? You have proven time and again that your trust in others is well deserved, that your choices are wise.”

His voice was full of warmth and trust.

“You have to be the one to choose a new partner, Ladybug.”, he announced firmly. “Someone you can trust not to disappoint you. It’s about time you get a say in this, don’t you think?”

She stared at the ring, so caught up in an electrifying kind of awe that she couldn’t really process his words. This was the Miraculous of destruction, the other half to her powers. If she took it, she would hold more power in her hands than should be humanly possible. What if something happened to her? What if she lost it, what if Hawkmoth got his hands on it? As long as it had no wielder, it would remain in this state and show its true colors. Everyone would be able to recognize it!

“A-are you sure you want me to have this?”, she asked with a trembling voice. Master Fu smiled.

“I have made a lot of reckless decisions. This is not one of them.”

He held the ring out to her.

“I trust you, Marinette. And I know Ladybug will chose better than I did.”

Hesitantly, carefully as if it might burn her, she took the Miraculous from his hands. It was warm in her hands, as if it were alive.

“I won’t disappoint you.”, she promised Fu, her eyes blazing with determination. She wouldn’t take this lightly, wouldn’t fail him. This time, her Chat Noir would be a hero.

- - -

Phew, done. I don't know much about Daoism, and only just started to research the philosophy behind yin and yang (or the Taijitu), but I really wanted Marinette to be more in touch with her heritage. Mama Cheng spilled her wisdom, and little Marinette sucked it up like a sponge.

#miramu writes #welcome to the back #wttb #felinette fanfic #felinette #miraculous ladybug #mlb #ml felix

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avaria-revallier · 5 years ago

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Chapter 6: Cooking dwarrows and poisoning trolls

The moment Bella sat down Dwalin was by her side. “Namad, here. Drink something. You must be exhausted. Have some of this too, you must eat properly. Bombur, how is that fire going?” The warrior fussed.

It had been adorable and sweet for the first week. The second week her mood dropped significantly. Now the third week had ended. The morning after her speech of home and family, after they had learned of how old she is, all hope was lost. They treated her like an invalid.

Dori snatched her pack as soon as they stopped for the night, preparing her bedroll next to Dwalin and Thorin.

This had become her spot now and Bella felt safe and secure yet a bit jumpy around their leader. She had to remind herself almost permanently that this is not ‘her’ Thorin. Despite the knowledge of this fact, her heart betrayed her and started to increase its beating from a steady thumping into a fluttering humming bird every time he was near or simply looked at her. Curse that traitorous heart.

Bombur wouldn’t even let her chop the vegetable, while Dwalin dragged her back to camp every time she attempted to sneak off to train. Fili and Kili avoided her completely, whispering behind her back and hastily shutting up when she strolled close. Oin came up every evening, determined to check for a possible injury. Bella wasn’t sure, how she would have managed to injure herself at all, with all those fussing dwarrows around but appreciated the thoughts. Nori took on her watch, grumbling something about her needing the sleep. She slumps down next to Ori. He was eagerly writing and sketching in his journal.

“Ori, would you be so kind and explain again the difference between those blue gem-types?” the young scribe beamed at her, closing the book.

He was the only one who didn’t treat her differently. Maybe because he knew all to well how it was to be the youngest. Dori fussed over him enough as it was. The pure thought of having to deal with ten of Doris kind… Ori shuddered.

“I would be delighted.” He started chatting away about mining and how the different gems where found in different depths and how the purity grade was determined.

Soon he noticed that the hobbit lass wasn’t really listening to him. She stared over to where the better part of the company was gathered. Following her line of sight, he spotted Thorin. The dwarven king was sitting on a fallen tree. He talked to Dwalin about something and frowned at his friend’s response.

Ori looked back at Bella. In her eyes gleams a sadness so deep Ori nearly flinched. A storm of sorrow, pain, fear and longing? raged in her green eyes, dying them nearly black. He had seen this before. In the eyes of the survivors of Moria. He reached out to her, gently touching her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asks with worry in his voice.

Bella jumped, one hand reaching to her hip, as if she was to draw a sword. Oddly there was no sword on her and the dagger from Dwalin hang on the other side. Ori frowned confused. That might have been the reaction of a veteran warrior, but definitely not one of gentle folk.

“I … I am sorry. I think I… I need some time for myself. I won’t go far, I promise. I just need to think for a bit. Tell them… Tell them I won’t talk to them for at least a month if they come after me. I just – just can’t.” she choked, turning to hide her tears and slipped away.

This whole situation felt wrong. Bella couldn’t hold back the tears any more when she reached the forrest. The trees hummed comforting in the warm breeze. The company hadn’t cared for her before. She had been just dead weight to them. Another piece of luggage they had to look after. Dwalin hadn’t been that sweet and caring, Dori wouldn’t fuss and Bombur would hand her the odd jobs. Kili and Fili acted the same by now. It was familiar but hurt so much at the same time. Ori was her save haven as is Bifur.

The warrior wouldn’t fuss over her, just handing her a knife and a block of wood. Silently they would carve by the fire. Her sculptures were never really anywhere near identifiable, but he would just chuckle and let her try the next evening again. Thorin, well Thorin was another matter. He acted cold and distant. He would watch her with his indifferent expression but sometimes it seemed like he acted out of character. Neither the grumpy and brooding king nor the stoic and steeled warrior. He would be just Thorin, the blacksmith holding her heart.

The nightmares had returned. Every night when she closed her eyes the pictures of her bloodied dwarrows hunted her down. Empty eyes staring at her. Fili and Kili, Dwalin, Bofur and Bifur. Thorin. If she had been a little bit better at that time. A bit faster. Stronger. Even now they seemed to stare at her, reach out for her, calling.

‘It is your fault.’ They whispered accusingly.

Sobbing she sat down by a fallen tree. The earth under her bare feet pulsed slightly as if it wanted to tell her ‘do not worry, I am here’. The trees whispered stories of old. Small flowers tilting their heads towards the hobbit lass. The forest reached out to her, comforted her with its presence. The last rays of sunlight broke through the leaves, coating the lass and the flowers in gold.

Shaking she exhales. Crying had never solved any problems. Placing her palms on the grass she closed her eyes, focusing on the voice of the forrest. It told her stories of cold winters and the following spring as if it wanted to tell her all will be fine. After some time, she opens her eyes. A vast field of flowers surrounding her. Giggling she brushes away the tears. It would be fine. She would make sure everything would be fine.

Humming she picks some small blue flowers and a couple of daisies. Bella would put them into Dwalins beard once back at the camp. She would have to talk to them again. She is no invalid nor a child. She could carry her own pack, hold watch at night and most definitely chop the vegetables!

Happy with her choice of flowers, she had gathered some more for Ori to sketch, Bella decides to go back.

Loud, heavy footsteps, the distant splintering of wood and a painful scream of the forrest where the only warnings. In a matter of seconds Bella was swept off the ground. A surprised squeak sounded before the air was forcefully pressed from her lungs.

‘Snap’. The sharp pain followed immediately. At least one of her ribs was broken.

“Bert, Bert! Look what I found.” The trolls scraping voice rang in her ears.

“That’s not even a mouth full!” boomed the addressed.

“Is not for eating. I found it, so I keep it.” The first troll yanked her away from the reaching hands of Bert.

“And we feed it too? Don’t bother, better eating it now.” The third troll intervened.

“I, ah, I eat plants, so you won’t need to worry about feeding me.” Bella managed to say with a smile.

“See! No struggle at all.” The one holding her chimed.

Heavily he sat down, bringing Bella nearer to his face. He stank worse than she remembered. Something between rotten eggs and long forgotten fish. The stench stings in her eyes and nose. He poked her into the stomach, forcing the air from her lungs once more.

“Funny little thing. What are you?” he demands to know, poking her once more.

‘Smile. Ignore the pain and smile.’ Thousand thoughts are rushing through her mind. Bella couldn’t panic now. She simply refused to. ‘This is not right. Smile. They are early. We are not even at the farm. Gandalf, where is he. Thorin. It hurts.’

“I… I am a hobbit.” She managed to state.

‘Smile!’ With some effort the hobbit managed to force her lips into a polite smile, as she would gift Lobelia.

“I, well, I am a wandering cook. We hobbits are quite famous for our skills and our stew is to die for.”

“Bert look! I found us a cook!” the first chimed again, pleased with himself.

A large wooden spoon landed on his head. The troll flinched, tightening the grip around Bella. With another snapping sound a wave of pain flooded her body.

“Are you saying I can’t cook? A bit appreciation would be nice. ‘Thank you for the lovely stew, Bert. That was really tasty, Bert.’ But all you do is complaining, Bill.” He rumbled, swinging his spoon once again.

“Tom, say something!” Bill demanded, looking at the quiet troll.

“He’s right… everything tastes like mutton-“ he starts, ducking away as the spoon aims at his head.

“-except the mutton, which tastes like fish.” Finishes Bill.

“Shut your cakehole.” Bert grumbles, stirring furiously in the large cauldron. “We don’t have all night. I don’t fancy turning to stone.”

In her clouded mind an idea sparked. It might be crazy, but most likely better than the risk of breaking anything else. Bella shifted slightly in the grip of her captor.

“Excuse me master Bert? I can see you really did brew a very nice stew there. As I can tell, that you are an excellent cook. If I might suggest something that might be in your interest?” she smiled, clenching her shaking hands.

“What?” he boomed, not looking up from the stew.

“Well, I am really thankful for your hospitality and would love to repay you. My mother was rather famous for her gift. You see, she could brew a stew that held special effects.” Her heartbeat increased rapidly, waiting for his response.

“And what would that be?” he glanced at her, slightly interested.

“Ah, well… you see.”

“Yes? What is it?” Tom raised one eyebrow. She had the attention of the trio.

“This is a secret family recipe…” Bella watched them lean in to her.

“Spill it! Tell us about the secret thingy!” Bill demanded, shaking her impatiently.

“Yes, yes! The stew… the special stew makes you able to walk in the sunlight. You see, we hobbits just turn into trees when exposed to sunlight.” The lie easily slipped from her lips.

“Do you take is for fools, you little ferret? Trying to poison us, eh?” he booms, snatching her out of Bills hand and letting her dangle near the fire.

“N-no! Of course not. How could I ever be so impolite to my gracious hosts?” Bella forces herself to smile once again.

Her ribs felt like they where on fire and her feet where Bert held her began to turn numb. Small black dots invaded her sight, but she forced them back. She trapped her pain und unpleasantness inside a dark corner of her mind. It would be no help at all if she would faint now.

“Drop her!” now she even began to hallucinate. That couldn’t have been Kili, as he is safe and sound with the others.

“I said: Drop her!” the shouting was without a doubt Kili!

The next thing Bella remembers is being thrown through the air and landing on something oddly familiar. Kili had broken her fall, sadly Bella had broken something as well while colliding with his armor.

In a matter of moments, she was dragged behind a large tree and ordered to keep herself hidden. The battle didn’t rage for long. Once the trolls found out the dwarrows wouldn’t attack one of their own, they grabbed Ori by the arms and legs and threatened the company to lay down arms. Which they did. The trolls stripped them off their armor and clothes, stuffing them in sacks and piling them like presents under a Christmas tree.

“Where did you throw her? I quite liked that pet. She was funny.” Bill pouted and promptly earned a whack from Bert.

Creeping forward as silently as she could, Bella made her way towards a large boulder. Between the others she could spot Thorin, Kili and Fili. Dwalin was not far and Ori was still a bit green around the nose. Bombur lay on top of the pile.

“Don’t be like that, you can get another.” Tom patted Bills back, making him spill his drink.

An argument broke out and Bella took this chance to overcome the small distance between her and her dwarrows. Sheltering herself behind her brother she takes out her small dagger and starts to loosen the ropes.

“Listen, I know you will probably hate me for this plan, but you have to do exactly like I tell you. Understood?” she whispers hardly loud enough for them to hear.

She tried to sell them her plan as well as possible. They all looked at her as if she was insane when she moved on to Nori. Kili looked so betrayed while his brother eyed her as if she was insane. Thorin was no better. He glowered at her as if she had suggested for him to marry the troll.

“For Yavannas sake, Thorin! Put your damn pride away and consider your options! Do you want to end as a troll-snack before you even laid eyes upon your mountain? I don’t want to see them die again, so get your stubborn head out of your ass and do as I say.” Bella hissed under her breath while dragging Nori to the trees.

The argument of the trolls had ended with Bert hitting the other two on the head, demanding silence while he decided how to proceed with the dwarrows.

“How good can you imitate a troll?” Bella wanted to know from the thief.

Nori looked down at the small hobbit lass. She had courage and a whole lot of that!

She had called him Thorin and not master Oakenshield as she used to. And the worst part of it, he liked the sound of that. It had a nice ring to it, coming from her mouth that is.

‘You would even like it if she had insulted you.’ The voice inside his mind snorts.

Her plan was ridiculous and really humiliating, but she was right, he didn’t want to end as a snack for a troll. He had heard only half of her words, too taken by the fact of her calling his name. Did she really tell him to snap out of it?! There was something else in her words that made him frown. Something she said sounded odd.

A deep voice asked if they couldn’t make a pie out of the dwarrows. Another argument between the trolls broke loose and every time it seemed to die down, another bodyless voice intervened and fueled it again.

“Nothing wrong with a raw dwarf! Nice and crunchy!” Bill grabbed Bombur from their pile.

Voices got loud, insults were thrown at the ugly beings, but nothing seemed to help. They could only watch while Bombur was lowered to the open mouth of the troll.

“I wouldn’t risk it if I where you.” Thorin raised his voice over the others. “That one there is spoiled. He has parasites, as we do all.”

The troll halted in his motion, looking at the dwarven king.

“Parasites?” he asks.

“Aye, parasites. We were on our way to a healer, to get rid of our little ‘problem’.” He managed to say.

Every word burned like acid in his throat. The trolls all looked at him, doubtful but curious. Thorin clenches his hands into fists, opening and closing them a few times to release the tension. ‘This’ he decided ‘will never ever again be mentioned.’ Today would leave a blank page in their records.

He kicks his nephews in the back, as good as he can manage from his laying position. Kili joins in on their little act, as does Fili. They all first hesitate but choosing between swallowing once pride and being swallowed is not that hard a choice at all.

“I have huge parasites!” “Mine are the biggest parasites!” “They are as big as my arm!” to only mention a few.

Confusion grew in the faces of the trolls. Dwalin used that chance to get rid of his bonds and slipped the small dagger to Thorin. Quickly the dagger was handed around, while they yelled at the trolls and distracted them as much as possible.

“Enough!” Bert rumbled, snatching Bombur from Bill and throwing him back on the pile. “We will kill them now and cook them tomorrow.” He decided, taking a step towards the dwarrows.

They all were ready to jump up and fight their way out, if necessary. Thorin nodded at Dwalin, who returned the nod wit a grim expression on his face.

These things had hurt his sister! She might have tried to hide her discomfort, but he saw the pain in her eyes, the stiffness in every motion and how she preferred to lean on her left leg. They would burn for what they did. Before any of them could act, a familiar voice echoed over the clearing.

“The dawn will take you all!” Gandalf called out and sun flooded the valley.

The trolls tried to shield themselves from the sunlight but there was no help for them. They became stone once again. For a moment silent ruled the company. Then cheers and laughter filled the air. They still lived. Somehow, they had managed to survive.

“What were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed!” as soon as the blonde prince had his clothes, weapons and armor back on he twirls around to his younger brother, angrily staring at him.

“You would have done the same! You saw how they handled her!” Kili defends his action, anger rising in him.

“What would mother say if she saw you being reckless again?” Fili shoots back, checking him for injuries.

“Don’t treat me like a child! If I am old enough to go on this quest I am old enough to make my own decisions!” angrily Kili slaps away the fussing hands, taking a step back and crossing his arms.

“You are far too young to go on this quest!” Fili yelled at him, shoving him a bit.

Kili shoved back and a small fight broke loose. They poked and shoved, bickered and finally rolled around the ground, laughing to their hearts contend. Thorin shook his head at their childish behavior. In his eyes they both were probably far to young to come on this quest.

Suddenly it was quiet. He looked back where he last saw his nephews. They had vanished. His heart missed a beat as he searched the area with his eyes. Bombur and Bofur were helping their cousin into his pants, Balin sorted through the scattered belongings. Nori just came out of the forest and Dori was frantically checking over Ori. The scribe seemed fine, but his brother wouldn’t stop fussing. Dwalin was fastening his axes before stomping over to Nori.

“Uncle look what we found!” a relieved sight leaves Thorins lungs. He hadn’t even realized that he had held his breath.

“What?” he grunted, trying to cover the worry in his voice.

“We found a cave, uncle. It stinks, but there is a small hoard too.” Kilis head pokes out between the bushes.

He followed them, as did the better part of the company, leaving Dwalin and Nori behind. Thorin wasn’t sure why his friend detested his spymaster so much, but Dwalin had always had a high sense for what was right and wrong. He shifts his attention back to the cave before him. A barrel with swords catches his eyes.

‘This one is a bit small to be even called a sword, but maybe she could…’

“Where is she, thief?” Dwalin grabs Noris arm, forcefully yanking him back when he tried to follow the others.

“Lost her already, eh?” Nori sneers, breaking free of the painful grip.

Had he really lost her? Was this filthy thief right? Gritting his teeth Dwalin took another step towards Nori. Staring down on the one he had hunted so many times back in the blue mountains. This scum knew nothing about what was going on inside of him. The worry and the doubt of his own skills to protect his sister nearly drowned him. She had vanished on his watch. She could have been dead!

Nori watched the tall dwarf a few more moments, before he frees him from his misery. Somehow it had become a game to the thief to anger the warrior. He played pranks on Dwalin, angered him on purpose. Nori liked how crimson slowly crept over the tattooed face, the wild look in his eyes and by Mahal, the flexing of his muscles. This sight alone was worth all the trouble that came with it.

“She is fine. After she told me her crazy but brilliant plan she went back to camp. She said she would fetch the herbs, just to make sure. If her plan would have failed she would have poisoned them.” Shrugging he looks at Dwalin, daring to step a bit closer.

'Maybe if I kiss him he would explode?’ chuckling to himself Nori turns away. ‘No, just this is enough for now.’ Ignoring the aching in his chest he leaves.

Dwalin froze. There was a short moment between worry and anger where he felt peace. In the very second he heard the soft chuckle his world went white. Leaving only himself, his One and the smell of tea and sunny days.

“Oh…” he mouthed, watching the thief departing further from him.

If you want me to tag you as well, please just send me a message.

If you like what you have read consider reblogging my story for others to enjoy too.

I am always open for asks and requests for shorts of our favorite dwarrows!

Masterpost

@lathalea

#thorin x bilbo #thorin oakenshield #the hobbit #thilbo #king thorin #hobbit #hobbit headcannons #hobbit imagine #female bilbo #bilbo baggins

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blackhavilliard · 5 years ago

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Modern Manorian AU - Royals Magazine - Feature: Dorian Havilliard

And Dorian’s feaure is finally here! Hope you all enjoy it. Manon’s feature is coming afterwards and I’m soooo excited for that ;D

Includes full interview under the cut. Read on AO3 here.

Tagging: @rufousnmacska, @heir2chaos and @gimmedafood (to say thank you for your comment!) Let me know if you want to be included or you can also subscribe on AO3 too :)

In the midst of a geopolitical crisis that had threatened the existence of the realm of Erilea stood a young king bent, broken but unbowed as he raced against time to thwart the enemy that has long kept his father's kingdom and now his own in its shadows. Now, years after the passing of the storm, King Dorian Havilliard II finds himself in reflection of the years lost and the years found as he governs Adarlan in stride.

Since the first appearance of the then heir apparent on the tabloids of the Rifthold Journal in a splendid attire fit for the handsome royal, it was a lascivious rumour of the young prince’s escapades inside the glass palace that permanently marked Dorian as that of an aristocratic hedonist whose existence lived off the extravagance and luxuries of the wealthy, knowing that he could absolutely get away with it.

While Dorian played the game of pomp and distraction amongst celebrity A-listers, prime ministers, and the one percent, a sinister plot by political conspirators had slowly been brewing – the overthrow of the Havilliard bloodline that has governed Adarlan for a thousand generations.

In the highest tower of Rifthold Palace is where Dorian prefers to spend his time perched on a deep-red velvet armchair sipping on a cold glass of what looked to be a fruity beverage as he pores over the latest fiction novel – a pleasure he shares with his dear friend, Queen Aelin of Terrasen. Their shared bookshelf, The Royal Fleetfoot Bookclub (named after Aelin’s beloved golden retriever, a present from the king one Yulemas) is Erilea’s most popular Book Club. And decidedly so.

Dorian’s misplaced faith on his father, then King Dorian Havilliard I, had been his constant companion after his untimely death that led to Dorian’s premature appointment as sovereign. But as the war raged on between the countries of Erilea, the formalities accustomed to a monarch were lost, which ultimately led to Dorian’s displacement from Adarlan. The young king was lost, angry, and untethered as he navigated the political landscape alongside his powerful friends: Queen Aelin of Terrasen, Lord Rowan of Doranelle, Queen Manon of the Wastes, and his closest friend and confidante, Lord Westfall, whom he sent as an envoy to the Khaganate in the Southern Continent. Dorian became known as The King Without a Crown.

Dorian ushers me to a leathered couch next to an occasional table where he pours a cup of brewed tea. He asks if I’d be interested in something stronger and I decline. He winks, a promise of our eventual liquored celebration after the successful sit-down.

King Dorian is charming, refined and a proud intellectual with a taste of an epicurean. Delegates from all over Erilea would comment on the king’s graceful charisma as he fulfilled his role of a sovereign in all its stringent social specifications. It’s as if the dark years of his early adulthood never existed when you’re in his presence. Dorian is adored by the masses and the politicians alike, and it isn’t hard to see why.

While we share a few niceties – he’s become quite a dear friend over the years – you can’t miss the way his sapphire eyes would steal longing glances out the open balcony. One can observe that it overlooks Rifthold Palace’s private airstrip, and soon everything makes more sense.

King Dorian’s wife Queen Manon Blackbeak rules from her kingdom in the Western Wastes, a two-hour plane ride from the Adarlan capital. After settling into their roles as respective monarchs of their kingdoms, the pair continued their relationship, much to delight of the common people, who were far too enamoured by their relationship for it to be considered healthy. No surprises there though. They’re really that pairing that’s pretty much straight out of a YA fantasy novel with their unbelievable good looks, seemingly opposite yet highly complementary personalities and the kind of sexual tension you could only dream of.

Nonetheless, despite the distance and their responsibilities, no one can deny just how smitten the king is of his wife. He assures me, in his usual playful charm, that she’s most likely missing him more than he is. I laugh. Even he doesn’t believe his own lie.

He makes himself comfortable, draping his suit jacket on the back of his armchair as he settles down and shows off his polished Derbys almost as if he’d like to take them off.

LYSANDRA: Should we both take our shoes off? I think we should both take our shoes off.

DORIAN: I thought you’d never ask!

LYSANDRA: I may not be born royal, Your Majesty, but I do know when someone just wants to let loose.

DORIAN: Gods, I want to let loose all the time. Do you think they’ll conspire against me if I do?

LYSANDRA: Judging from your friends in all the high and right places, I’d say there’s a higher chance of Aelin breathing ice than that happening. And even if they tried, I’m sure no one would get past Manon Blackbeak’s wrath.

DORIAN: She’s terrifying, isn’t she?

LYSANDRA: You don’t sound scared of the fact.

DORIAN: Are you scared of your husband, Lady Lysandra?

LYSANDRA: He’s a soft little mushy bear.

DORIAN: Exactly my description of Manon.

LYSANDRA: I really have to ask – for me, for Rowan and for your rabid fans. How did you convince the High Queen of the Witches to get married? Was it ever in the books for you two?

DORIAN: It wasn’t so much as my convincing her as her convincing me.

LYSANDRA: Oh, please.

DORIAN: You’d be surprised to know that she asked me to marry her first. Of course, it was all political expedience at that time coupled with a reasonable amount of care and affection.

LYSANDRA: And you said no?

DORIAN: Not technically.

LYSANDRA: So… technically yes?

DORIAN: I was drunk on self-loathing. I didn’t think I deserved her.

LYSANDRA: Doesn’t love usually overcome these sorts of things?

DORIAN: To some extent. We were at the climax of the war and we both needed to make important decisions for ourselves, for both our kingdoms and for the future we desperately wanted to have. It wasn’t the right time.

LYSANDRA: But you wanted to say yes to her, didn’t you?

DORIAN: Desperately.

LYSANDRA: If it helps, I was really rooting for you both.

DORIAN: So was I.

LYSANDRA: You know, I admit this is quite a treat being your very own interrogator.

DORIAN: Our plans to make Aelin jealous are succeeding.

LYSANDRA: Oh, she'll definitely be furious.

DORIAN: I've always admired her fiery rage. Despite it being extremely dangerous to those unfortunate enough to be close in range.

LYSANDRA: I've had my share of that.

DORIAN: I think we all have.

LYSANDRA: Tell us about Adarlan's relations with Terrasen. Even better, tell us about yours and Queen Aelin's.

DORIAN: It's tabloid worthy.

LYSANDRA: I'm not saying I've read all about it...

DORIAN: I met Celaena first before I met Aelin. And in some ways Aelin also met some counterpart of myself all those years ago. We were young and generally when you’re that young, you’re also that stupid.

LYSANDRA: But isn't it just a perfect time to make mistakes?

DORIAN: Not for a prince. Though, I did not care at that time. Sometimes I still think I don’t. But you want to know about Aelin. One thing, you see her more than I do, and I admit, it does break my heart.

LYSANDRA: Technology helps though, doesn’t it? I can’t remember how many times I’ve interrupted one of your virtual repartees.

DORIAN: She can get quite heated in our discussions. Especially if she has to wait a year or more for the next instalment of a book series.

LYSANDRA: What makes the great King Dorian Havilliard furiously out of element?

DORIAN: The monarchy.

LYSANDRA: Do you ever think back on the good old days?

DORIAN: Mm.

LYSANDRA: What did that consist of for you?

DORIAN: Well, I don’t know if I could really call it the good old days. As heir, I wasted away on frivolity and debauchery. Chaol once remarked on my depravity, and I could have resented him if it hadn’t opened my eyes to the truth.

LYSANDRA: Well, that’s an insight. I noticed the construction of the new palace has been coming along nicely.

DORIAN: It is.

LYSANDRA: The Glass Palace once stood as a symbol of Adarlan’s wealth and power. Now, you’ve opted to modernise the construction except for the addition of the thirteen towers.

DORIAN: The Rifthold Journal has been nagging me about their meaning since the blueprints were made public. They’re relentless.

LYSANDRA: I don’t want to be that friend but I’m dying to know…thirteen? Really?

DORIAN: You caught me.

LYSANDRA: Gods, I knew it. Rowan will have a fit.

DORIAN: As much as I’d like to take credit for being a Royal Romeo (but feel free to use that from now on), they each symbolise an iteration of hope, love and life. Every single one of them deserves their own monument.

LYSANDRA: What a beautiful gesture, Your Majesty. And it’s true. I will never forget them.

DORIAN: Sobering thought for a Yulemas special, isn’t it?

LYSANDRA: More like a winter exclusive, so we’re good there. But speaking of, I do have a serious bone to pick with you, Your Majesty.

DORIAN: Don’t tell me it’s the time I coerced you and Aedion to go on that Giant Swing when we were in Terrasen, is it? If I remembered correctly, you really enjoyed that.

LYSANDRA: We almost died!

DORIAN: And that makes it more exciting, doesn’t it?

LYSANDRA: You’d be surprised at how many people who don’t think of near-death experiences as something exciting.

DORIAN: [laughs] Am I that cruel?

LYSANDRA: Remember that snow leopard bobble head I once gifted you for Yulemas? Remind me again what you did to it, Your Majesty?

DORIAN: It was godsdamned terrifying, Lysandra. Why are the eyes glowing? Why are they glowing green!

LYSANDRA: That was the whole point of Bad Yulemas!

DORIAN: Manon fished it out of the trash anyway. She has it on my side of the bed at the Wastes. Should I be concerned with this friendship?

LYSANDRA: You and Aedion are lucky bastards, Your Majesty.

DORIAN: Touché

Lysandra Ennar is the Lady of Caraverre and the editor for ROYALS magazine.

MANON: I don't think this will go well.

DORIAN: You think? I really had to charm my way to do this, you know.

MANON: You charm your way out of everything.

DORIAN: And into things too.

MANON: Your favourite past time.

DORIAN: Are you angry? Here, let me compliment you.

MANON: Dorian...

DORIAN: Witchling.

A sneak peek of the Royals Spring Issue featuring Queen Manon Blackbeak and interviewd by King Dorian Havilliard.

#manorian #manon and dorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #manorian fanfic #manorian fic #manorian modern au #manorian mag au

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politicalmamaduck · 4 years ago

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Mother of the Rebellion

Padme Amidala survives Mustafar, and goes on the run with her babies. With the help of her four dearest friends, they sow the seeds of rebellion across the galaxy. Read it on AO3 here.

(Author’s note: After three years, I’m finally writing this again. I hope you’ll join me for the journey; I am hoping to update weekly.)

Chapter: 1 | 2

Halfway across the galaxy, Obi-Wan Kenobi commed Alderaan. He breathed deeply and trusted the Force. He had not yet been discovered, and he preferred to keep it that way. His weekly conversations with Bail Organa’s new political aide were his only contact with the wider galaxy. He had work to do that depended on the utmost secrecy. For now, Tatooine’s desert and twin suns were his only companions.

He both hoped and dreaded the day he heard from Padmé Amidala again, for he knew what she would ask of him when he did. He would do right by her children, though he failed their father. He remembered his promise to his dying Master; he trained the boy, but at what cost?

Obi-Wan did not allow himself the solace of emotion. There is no emotion, there is peace.

He repeated this to himself while he waited for an answer. He knew his contact would be busy; it was nearly noon on Alderaan. He settled in, listening to the moisture vaporators hum, and told himself that everything was due to the Force’s will.

On Alderaan, Sabé Carbonell, alias Salia Colometa, former handmaiden to the Queen of Naboo, slipped out of Senator Organa’s offices and down the hallway to her private quarters. She would not risk the Senator being implicated in anything that could harm his political career, though she knew what he discussed with Mon Mothma and Padmé before her disappearance. She could not think of her best friend as dead, even though she knew she needed to. She wept real tears at the funeral; that was not an act. The outpouring of grief in Theed’s streets moved her desperately, and she longed for the day when the streets would once more be filled with light and laughter, instead of mourning and sorrow.

When Padmé returns, she thought.

In the meantime, she looked forward to her weekly conversations with the lost Jedi Master. There was something so comforting, so soothing about him, even in this time of duplicity and upheaval.

She smiled as her comm pinged, and sought to take refuge in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice.

…

Padmé loved her children dearly; she always wanted to be a mother, a young mother like her beloved sister Pooja.

She never planned to live a furtive life, but she started down this path the minute she told Anakin Skywalker that she loved him.

She was unsure whether she had lived two lives, or half of one. Would it have been enough? Would anything have been enough?

For three years she spent her days fighting for what she believed was right, and nights entwined with the man she loved.

She knew her life would change dramatically when she realized she was pregnant. She did not expect it to change as dramatically as it did.

The Republic’s collapse, Palpatine’s machinations, Anakin’s betrayal, the Jedi Order’s destruction.

Far too many good lives were lost, including Padmé’s own, supposedly.

She needed time, but she knew every moment was borrowed. She needed to grieve, to adjust to being a mother, to find allies and build a rebellion.

She could trust Bail Organa and Mon Mothma.

She knew her sister like her own mind--Pooja would coordinate with her handmaidens on Naboo.

And Sabé, dear Sabé, the sister of her heart, her loyal decoy and bodyguard--Sabé and Tonra went to Alderaan to support Bail and Breha.

Obi-Wan Kenobi went to Tatooine, where they knew Anakin would never look.

But now it was time to begin to set their plans into motion. It would be difficult, but Padmé would do anything to build a better galaxy for her children.

She thought she was building a better galaxy all those years as Queen and Senator. She would not let those years go to waste, all the dreams and plans and legislation she left behind.

She would continue to speak out against slavery, to free as many slaves as she could. They hadn’t done enough to save Anakin’s mother, and she would regret it for the rest of her life. In Shmi’s memory, she would do everything she could to keep fighting until her last breath to end slavery across the galaxy.

Padmé spent her days writing as quickly as she could her many ideas, plans, and attempts to reconstruct legislation she abandoned in her office on Coruscant. She would not refer to it as Imperial Center. The Senate still existed, though it was entirely useless due to the Emperor’s decrees and dictates. Bail and Mon would keep fighting there, however. They would not let democracy’s light be extinguished.

But without the Jedi, without anyone to physically fight for that light, how long could they all last? How could they protect Force sensitive children across the galaxy? Padmé was certain Palpatine already developed nefarious plans for children like hers.

Padmé was not sure if she was ashamed to admit she prayed her children would not display their father’s gifts, but even at their young age, she knew they both inherited Anakin’s power. Her babies had a bond she would never understand, and they would need help as they grew older.

She needed help, though she was loath to admit it, and she was lonely.

She could risk a comm, then she would move again. She had few possessions that truly mattered anymore. She traveled as lightly as she could, though with two babies and their assorted paraphernalia, light travel was not truly possible.

Padmé had never traveled light as a Queen or Senator. There was always makeup and a wardrobe that came with her, plus the many people in her security detail, and various droids.

Padmé was fortunate that she never experienced depression until after her children were born. Those first few days were a blur of Padmé sobbing and her children wailing, all adjusting to their new life, their new normal.

Obi-Wan, kind and patient, came by her room to check on her every few hours and hold the babies, helping to soothe them.

He was as gentle as he could be when he told her what happened on Mustafar. Though Padmé had not believed him on Coruscant when he told her Anakin turned to the Dark Side, she could see the truth of it in Obi-Wan’s haunted gaze now.

In her labor and delirium she didn’t notice his wounds or the scorch marks on his worn tunic, but she did during their quiet conversations in the first few days of Luke and Leia’s lives. He took care to launder and darn them as best he could, but once they left Polis Massa, he could no longer wear a Jedi’s garb, for far too few survived Order 66, as they now knew it.

Padmé wept for the man who once was her husband.

Padmé wept for Anakin Skywalker, in all his potential, what he could have been for the galaxy.

Padmé wept for Darth Vader, cursed to live in the hell of a mechanized suit by the Emperor’s side.

She wondered what the point of living was until one of her babies cried again, and somehow, she found the strength to emerge from bed and clutch her child to her.

This continued for the few precious days they all spent together on Polis Massa, and then for the next few months Padmé hid with her children in a small apartment on a long forgotten world. It was as safe as anything could be, a nondescript planet inhabited mostly by humans. Though she would not admit it, Padmé desperately missed adult company and conversation. She missed her fulfilling career, her colleagues and friends. She missed her husband.

Each day blurred into the next in an endless cycle until Sabé commed her from Alderaan.

Padmé knew she looked exhausted and disheveled, and would not have cared save for the concern and love in Sabé’s eyes. She offered to come and help with the children, but Padmé assured her they were doing fine, and it was not worth the risk.

The next day, Padmé started writing. Sabé managed to access not only the security data from Padmé’s old office on Coruscant in the first days after the Republic’s fall, but also the many files containing draft legislation. They were safe with Bail on Alderaan, and he would put them to good use.

Padmé wished she had them, but they did not dare risk the file transfer. She wrote as much as she could remember, and made notes whenever they came to mind.

She started journaling, trying to make sense of her conflicting emotions and how she had lost the two things she loved the most. She would learn to love her children even more than her husband or the Republic. Each day they grew stronger, and each day she worried that somehow, someway, the Empire would find them.

#padme amidala #padme lives au #sabe #obi wan kenobi #star wars #fan fiction #my writing #my moodboards

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doctolka · 4 years ago

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1.5 Chapters of Article I

Just a piece of a project I’ve been working on, but really just started writing. It would be great if I could get feedback on just about everything in here. Thanks for reading

:::

Chapter 1 – Disease

23 of the 2 of Harvest, 330 B.D.

It is now two years since the incident with the traveler.

I have followed every clue, every last piece of information I can lay my hands on. And yet… I’m dying. The wasting disease seems to be getting progressively worse. I have tried the magistries of every city I have come to. I do not know why I still write. Perhaps, should another cursed man find this journal, I can save them some of my troubles.

As I write, I sit in a small pub. In the fashion of the equatorial regions, it is unnamed, as far as I know. The men here smoke a strange weed, bitter and yet sweet at the same time. Tobacco, I think they call it. It does no good thing for my lungs.

No matter. Just down the road is a town known as Sigardis, that sits just inside the Vale of Sembri. There I hope to find passage to the capital in this region.

Colvish closed his book with a sigh, leaning back in the rickety chair. He was getting worse. Of that there was no question. Whatever he had done to irk that man, he felt he had gotten more than a return for the favor.

Standing and slipping his things into his pocket, he turned with a bent head and exited into the bright sunlight. He considered himself lucky, in all honesty, that wearing goggles to filter the light was common practice here. They were a nuisance, but so too were the odd looks he got otherwise.

By what he had been told, Sigardis was about a day’s ride up the road, on wagon. That would make it slightly longer on foot. Should arrive late afternoon of tomorrow, if I wake early, and walk until dark tonight, he thought. He may have been weak, but he could still walk. For now. He shook his head. It wouldn’t do for such thoughts to take hold. But if this magistry fails too…. And it likely would; what could a backwater kingdom offer that others could not? Hope springs eternal, or so they say.

So he set off, pack over stooped shoulder, up the road to the Vale of Sembri. He would rest when he needed it, but for now he would march.

Chapter 2 – Sigardis

When light came back to the world, Colvish set off again, despite the protests of his body. He had worked fields with fever: he wasn’t about to let this knock him off his feet. The road became shrouded by the jungle as he approached the vale, promising a cooler march.

By the time he reached Sigardis, his pack weighed heavily against his shoulder, and his breath was ragged. It was difficult to tell, at first, that he was on the outskirts of the largest settlement in the area. Though the trees thinned, the brush was so tall and dense in places that the homes and farms were difficult to pick out. Soon, though, he began to hear the lowing of livestock and the distant bustle of commerce. Despite being not long out of civilization, he breathed a sigh of relief when he walked through the ramparts into the town proper.

It was a fairly busy place, though at this point in the day much of the business was beginning to wrap up; the customers avoided the heat by running errands in the morning hours. Rain came in the afternoons, anyway. Scanning the buildings to either side, Colvish finally found a shop that seemed completely devoid of customers. A tack shop. The door was open, the owner ever hopeful for another client before the day’s close. Colvish stepped inside, keeping his goggles over his eyes.

“Excuse me, sir, but could I bother you for directions?” he asked when the clerk turned toward him.

“Hmm? – Yes, of course,” the older gentleman said, looking crestfallen, “where is it you need to be going, then?”

“An inn, if you don’t mind, and where I might catch a ride to the capital.”

“There’s an inn just around the next corner, should be able to hear it soon,” he stated, “As for the ride, I could get you a deal on some tackle, and a horse to go with it.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the gold for that, sir, no matter what sort of deal you might cut. I am most sorry.”

“Ah. It was a long shot, anyhow… your best bet would be with a certain Mr. Jason Lancaster. He’s a logger, and usually takes a train of timber that way this time of year.”

Colvish nodded. Seemed about right. “Thank you very kindly, sir. I wish you a good rest of your evening.”

“And you as well, young man. Do tell any acquaintances of us, won’t you.”

Bobbing his head as he backed toward the door, he replied, “Of course,” before beginning to slip out the shop.

“Young man!” the purveyor called, “Your business is your own of course. But… do be cautious in the capital. It is a most strange place.”

“Indeed? Then perhaps I will be. Thank you for your time,” Colvish replied, turning once more toward the street.

Shade greeted him comfortingly as he stepped out of the shop and turned down the street toward where the owner had indicated the inn lay. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of the still-present trees, signaling the oncoming rain. If being wet wasn’t so unpleasant, I would watch the storm, he thought, looking toward the sky. But in his condition, he’d likely catch the chills. He really did feel as he imagined the oldest of men must feel. Creaky, cranky, tired. Not that he liked allowing that through. That wouldn’t do. ‘You’ll never get anywhere in life with a bad attitude, son,’ his father used to tell him, ‘Best to keep your tongue pleasant, and curse a fellow from a safe distance. If Colvish recalled correctly, he had told him that as often as his father had lost his temper. Which was frequently. Such was the life of a poor widower.

Colvish looked back toward the street as he began to walk. After making it this far, he wasn’t about to let his journey end with him falling and breaking something. He didn’t know if that would happen if he fell as it frequently did with the elderly. Many were the elders he knew back home that had tripped over simple things, or nothing at all, and been bedridden for weeks. He had always felt bad for them. Never had he thought he’d be experiencing similar things so early in his own life, though.

The inn was a building of the older style, its owner obviously doing well for themselves. It, like most every other building in the town, lacked even a single brick; instead using a combination of wood and stone for its walls and roof. ‘Kalip’s Dream’, the signpost read. Colvish gave this a second glance as he opened the doors to enter. What an odd name for an inn, he thought. The general ruckus of the tavern area hit him like a wall when he stepped into the room. It had been noticeable out on the street, but also ignorable.

“Excuse me miss,” he said, grabbing the arm of a barmaid, “Could you point me to the landlord?”

“Yes. Of course. Um, just over by the bar, there,” she gestured when Colvish released her.

“Thank you kindly.” He practically had to shout through the din. He didn’t look to see if she had heard him; they were both already moving toward their goals.

#roughly edited #feedback appreciated #teaser?#Feel free to tear this apart #my writing #Looking for critique #writeblr #writersociety

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simplysnexual · 5 years ago

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Got inspired by @doctor492 ‘s SCP!au with Erasermic! I don’t often post my stories so have mercy! I took some creative liberties with their abilities and such. I’m also not terribly educated when it comes to all the SCP lore.

Excerpts from a guard’s journal.

Day 1

My first day in this sector of the facility. There are 4 keter class anomalies in this sector. Two of which I am in charge of dealing with. These two are kinda...humanoid in appearance but I have yet to see more than quick glances. Training is extensive in this sector as one wrong move either means death or worse: the escape of a dangerous creature. Training has mostly been computerized and kinda boring. Can't wait to get to the hands on stuff.

Day 5

Finally onto some interesting stuff. I’ve had my first encounter with the SCP nicknamed Eraserhead. He...well I suppose it, though it does have a masculine body type. Plus its kinda weird calling such a humanoid creature an it so I’ll just say him. Anyway, he is a shadowy figure that appears to be made of an ever shifting inky mass. He has bright, misty yellow “eyes.” These eye-like features could be something else entirely their own but appear to act like eyes, blinking and fixating on whatever his attention is on. White cloth-like ribbons float around him constantly like thin snakes writhing in the air. Wispy outlines that look like hair also frame his head and face. I don't know much else about Eraserhead but I’m excited to learn more.

Day 7

First encounter with the “Voice Demon.” Yet another humanoid anomaly, this one more so than Eraserhead. The Voice Demon appears to be a 6’1” white male with long blonde hair. The most jaring and notably inhuman feature is its mouth. A wide maw stretches past the normal stretch of a human mouth, wrapping around all the way to its ears. Its, well I’d called this one a he too. He has lacerations around his throat that appear to have been stitched up and plucked at only to be stitched again. I don’t know for sure but I believe those injuries were inflicted by the Foundation…

Day 10

Something rather interesting happened today. On my usual rounds to check on the anomalies, I discovered Eraserhead standing at the plexi glass window of his containment unit. Mirroring him on the other side of the hall was the “Voice Demon.” The demon’s spirling green eyes seemed softer than his usual jaring glare. As could be said for Eraserhead. But shortly after they noticed my presence, they went back to the darker corners of their units.

Day 12

I’ve finally found out more about my two favorite SCPs. Turns out Eraserhead has the ability to not only control the writhing ribbons around him, but can also erase one function of the human body, such as the respiratory system or cardiac system. Pretty scary stuff right? A few guards have fallen to this creature’s abilities. I guess I have to be wary not to piss him off huh? As for the Voice Demon, his name is very fitting. His voice can reach beyond 177 decibels, a range passing which is dangerous to humans. This level of sound can burst cells in your lungs, shake your bones and even cause long term damage to your joints. I believe the facility tried to sever his vocal chords but found that not to be the source of his ability. I’ve yet to hear (hehe) of his ability being used or how they keep him from using it.

Day 16

First incident on my shift, A fellow guard wasn’t being so careful around Eraserhead’s unit. There's an existing rule that you don’t stick around the plexi glass viewing window of his unit. Apparently this guy forgot or didn’t listen to the warning. Dude’s respiratory system shut down and I found him after hearing his gasping wheezes. The SCP medical team took him away. I’m not sure where to but I have a feeling it wasn’t to a hospital…

Day 18

Caught my favorite two charges interacting across the hall again. I hid around the corner to see what they did away from prying eyes. They seemed to be making gestures to each other and after a bit I noticed the Voice Demon fogging up the glass with his breath and drawing things, cats and flowers and the like. Eraserhead’s yellow slits of eyes squinted like how mine do when I smile. Strange...but endearing. Humanizing almost...

Day 21

Found out what the Voice Demon’s smile looks like...Seems I made him laugh, not sure I can call it that but I’m guessing it was a laugh. I tripped on my idiot coworkers spilled coffee and kissed the floor. Once the Voice Demon made his laugh like noise, I turned to him and saw his lips had curved up and his eyes squinted. Eraserhead matched his squinting. I couldn’t help but smile myself...heh I guess I’m just as strange huh? Smiling at the strange and deadly creatures I guard from the world everyday. But hey it’s the little things that remind you of your humanity when you’re stuck in sterile white hallways all the time.

Day 25

A few guards went into Voice Demon’s unit to try to draw blood or something. Most came out with bleeding ears. Two came out in body bags after a gas filled the room to incapacitate the creature. I’m beginning to doubt the Foundation’s care for its employees…

Day 26

After reviewing the security footage of yesterday’s incident, I noticed the shifting form and writhing ribbons of Eraserhead had increased in their violent motion. His inky, ever-moving form had gone rough around the edges and his ribbons whipped as if in a tornado. Almost like...he was upset? Angered that his neighbor, maybe even his friend was hurt?

Day 31

Eraserhead and the Voice Demon are definitely friends of some sort. Yes I know I’m not supposed to humanize the anomalies but I can’t help myself. Their interactions continue and grow in complexity and frequency. It's kinda endearing to be honest. I don’t see much friendly interaction in this place. I feel just as trapped as they do sometimes…

Day 40

My first interaction with the Voice Demon. Guess I pissed off the facility or something cuz they sent me in ALONE to try to draw blood. I’d pretty much accepted my death sentence the second the doors closed behind me. But to my surprise the creature looked at me...curiously? I knelt down to try to seem less threatening and spoke to him like I would a scared child, like my siblings when they hid from a storm. Across the hall I caught a glimpse of Eraserhead’s form shifting violently again. I sat cross legged for a while, slowly trying to coax him over. I couldn’t believe it when the creature approached me and extended his arm for me. I held his wrist like I had when my little sister scraped her elbow. I spoke softly like I had to her as I took the Voice Demons blood, totally unaware of why but fixated on the sentience in his eyes.

Day 45

The facility sent me into Eraserhead’s unit after my success with the Voice Demon. They didn’t send me for blood, I don’t even know if he has blood?? I think they sent me in for the hell of it, to watch a keter class at work or see what this one did with a human actually in his unit not just outside his window. Turns out, not much. The creature merely stared me down before shifting away and turning his back on me. Without anything really interesting happening for a good while, the high ups let me back out. I’m just as much contained as they are these days. I haven’t been allowed to leave since the interaction with the Voice Demon. But I can’t find it in myself to regret it.

Day 50

I don’t trust this place anymore. The staggering number of guards lost in a month is beyond what could be just “accidents.” The measures they go to “contain” these creatures they label monsters are beyond what’s right. Nearly worse than what the creatures do themselves. A place which considers beating what I could nearly call a person into submission just doesn’t seem right.

Day 51

I treated the Voice demon’s wounds today. He seemed sedated as I worked with him as gently as I could. I talked softly to him, about nothing in general but just to give him some comfort, something to focus on. My heart nearly stopped when I heard his voice. It was only a soft. “Thank you.”. His voice was soft but raspy from lack of use. I met his gaze and that’s when I made my decision. I’m getting them out of here. Him and Eraserhead. After all, what use is it freeing a lone creature to face the world outside without a friend?

Day 55

This Foundation is run by idiots. All this secretive crap covers up their incompetence. But this plan isn’t going to go through without sacrifice. It’s worth it. Without my family around to need me anymore I’m happy to die for a good reason. I’ve faced death before just for this stupid Foundation’s fun. Tomorrow during shift change I’m cutting the power on the sector where Eraserhead and the Voice Demon reside. It’ll be just long enough for the locks to fail and let them escape. I hope they get far away from this hell hole and pathe their way in the outside world. And maybe….just maybe, remember me fondly.

This was the last entry written in the young man’s journal. SCP guard Scarleton lay dying in the glistening blood pooling around him. The red flashing of alarms briefly illuminating the hall in intervals. His dying sight was the Voice Demon’s toxic green eyes spilling over with tears as he grasped the only guard, hell the only human to treat him like anything other than a monster. One more little smile found the man’s lips as he showed his blood stained teeth, eyes sliding closed. “Go on….be free.” He let out a wet laugh and went still. A shifting black form took the arm of the green eyed creature and drug him away to follow through on the guard’s dying words.

#doctor492 #scp!au #erasermic #fanfic #erasermicscp!au #hizashi yamada #shouta aizawa

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imasimpforstevengrant · 5 years ago

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I can see you

Author's note:

First, I never thought I would write a fic after almost two years later. I had this idea after watching a fanmade video about Arthur and Harleen falling for each other. I had fun while writing this, since Arthur is a completely new character (not following the comics). Please note that this is written purely for amusement and I don't profit from it.

Second, sorry for any typos. English is not my first language (Chilean Spanish for the win, everybody!). I hope you like it.

_________________________________________

Warnings: angst, self hatred, a bit of swearing, sexual themes and stalking.

Words: 1.730

Summary: Arthur Fleck doesn't live. He barely manages to exist, devoid of any bond. Until one day, a woman reminds him of how much of a human he is.

_________________________________________

He had seen her several times, but he never had the courage to talk to her. He usually avoided her when she was too close to him.

Arthur knew himself too well to know what would happen: his hated laughing fits. Therefore, he preferred to love her from distance, without her noting his existence. It was better this way.

The first time Arthur saw this young woman was in the hallway. She was going down the stairs to the seventh floor of the building. He cherished every move she did. This stranger danced while listening to music, thinking no one would notice her. She shook her figure as she mouthed passionately the lyrics of whatever song was listening. Arthur hid near the wall that divided the halls, and thus, the apartments.

He glared at her like a predator. His mouth watery caused by the hunger she woke within him. Arthur swore he could feel her in his arms, dancing vehemently to a song. He wondered during long periods of time how it would feel to touch her skin.

His lust was a loud, thundering storm that kept troubling his already cursed mind. But in the outside, the silence suggested indifference.

It kept like this for months. Arthur had also yearned for innocent things, such as a smile or even a kind word from her. He constantly fantasized about her and the guilt and regret fought after the lustful desires roamed through his fractured psyche. This was too much for him to bear. He wrote about the woman in his journal, dedicating pages of misspelled but honest thoughts. Arthur found a new way to cope with insomnia.

It was a rainy day when his feelings took another radical turn. Arthur returned to his flat after another shitty day of work. He headed towards the elevator, pressing the button to open it. He waited patiently. The bell rang and the sliding door opened.

"Fuck!", he hissed lowly when he saw her. She was carrying a bag and had her hair done in buns. Arthur thought she couldn't be more beautiful.

"Hi" she chirped, grinning at him.

"Hi" was all Arthur could reply after his failed attempt to keep his gaze in the ground. Was she actually talking to him? The beloved stranger noticed a trace of blood in his lips and sweetly asked:

"Are you alright?"

He remained silent for a few seconds, studying her expression. It was so kind and sincere.

"Yes".

"Are you sure you're okay?" Her question echoed through his mind. Even her voice turned out to be as smooth as her appearance. Arthur inhaled deeply.

"I am, miss. Thanks for asking" he replied puzzled, trying to figure out why would she even care.

The door opened and she politely waved goodbye to him and wishing him well. Arthur didn't give a verbal answer but he certainly waved back to her.

Arthur smirked. And his gesture did not disappear until he arrived home.

He built a routine in his free time. If he couldn't be with her, he was satisfied enough to watch her. At night, he usually followed her to the now empty playground. The woman was swinging in a rope made out of clothes stretched and extended in what seemed a big, dome-shaped cage like. The blonde had the habit to exercise there, not bothered by some bystanders (mostly men) who whistled at her.

Despite the jealousy that grew within him, Arthur understood it wasn't strange. He surely wasn't the only one after her affections.

He took a liking to this new scene: watching her move as if she was practising a gymnastic routine was fantastic. Her movements were so delicate, yet sensual. She seemed to go along with the air, soaring with it.

But she didn't notice, obviously. The girl would probably had gone running and screaming for help if she had discovered him.

Arthur was wrong. He was so wrong.

One day, he sneaked around wearing his yellow hoodie to preserve his identity. He was outside the building, hiding in the shadows. There she was again: beautiful and unreachable. Her long, platinum blonde hair fell like a waterfall. Arthur was amazed. She moved her arms in a graceful way once again, to flow through it in a twirl that swinged her back and forth. The girl seemed to smile before the risky move, congratulating herself in silence on this apparent progress.

Arthur laughed out loud, amazed. But he soon clasped a hand in his mouth. She turned around immediately to his direction. Arthur felt the panic and tried to run.

She called him. Not berating him but genuinely interested. There was no violence in her voice. Arthur argued with himself over and over about if this was a good idea from the beginning. The man was walking around like a disoriented dog while grasping his curly locks, out of fear and guilt. He stood still for a while, without saying a word.

He then realized the woman kept calling him.

Arthur tightened his eyelids, fighting the urge to run away. He kept still during long seconds until he finally decided to face her. It was now or never. Little did he know that she was just a few feet away from him.

Once Arthur turned around, he almost tripped taking a step away from her. He stared at the young woman: she showed no signs of fear or disgust. In fact, she seemed curious about him. She clawed at the fence that separated the playground from the building and dead end alleys. He imitated the action, staring directly at her eyes, blue like summer sky. She smiled at him, her perfect teeth shining like pearls. And it was in this moment when Arthur could pay more attention to her attributes. The girl in question was the owner of an astounding beauty: expressive blue eyes, pink full lips which formed a sweet smile. And that was only her face. Arthur was infatuated. Her face lit up once her lips curved into such expression. Was she hypnotizing him?

He wouldn’t mind, of course.

Arthur stared at her mouth, and wonders how it would feel against his own cracked, dry lips.

But her body was another wonder. She wore a white, long, sleeveless shirt adjusted to her body shape, leaving nothing to imagination. God, if he only could trace his fingers down her hips he'd die happily.

He continued his private appreciation watching the grey shorts that left her most of her thighs uncovered. He then darted his eyes up to her hair. Her long, slightly wavy strands of hair were dyed in two different colours: the right side was strawberry pink from the half down. Same with the left side, except the colour was a electric blue. It added a dreamy touch to her.

Arthur pictured himself playing with her hair, doing little curls with it. It looked so silky.

"You've been enjoying my show, have you?"

Arthur looked up to her again.

"Yeah" he muttered, ashamed.

"Why the long face, babe? It's not like I'm upset", the woman said.

Arthur stared at her again, but out of confusion.

"Are you not upset?"

"At all" she quickly replied, "I like when people see me, actually".

Arthur felt a cold shudder in his back. It was in this moment he sensed something in his chest. He perceived it as the natural reaction to the first conversation he held with someone else without the other significant being weirded out of him. This common trait was enough to give him hope of a new, happy chapter on his mirthless life.

"Yeah... You know, I like when people see me too".

The woman nodded and leaned her face into the fence. Arthur took a deep breath and it didn't take too long to emulate the pose. She was bold enough to let him come closer to her as if she wanted him to kiss her.

"What's your name?" He hummed against her face.

"Harleen Quinzel", she answered "and you are...?"

"Arthur" he rushed to give his reply, "my name is Arthur Fleck--".

A chuckle escaped his throat.

'Oh, no. Not now, not now please', Arthur silently begged as his loving expression fade away so shame would take its place.

His brain of course showed no mercy.

The laughing fit lasted almost ten minutes. It was the first time in years that he truly believed he was going to die of suffocation. He struggled with choking more than two times every minute. Arthur wasn't completely drawn into his fit. He looked for a fraction of seconds at the girl. Harleen shocked at first. After a few moments, she joined him believing innocently he was laughing out of amusement.

"You know, you can tell me the joke so we can laugh together".

Arthur wasn't able to silence his noisy curse. He only covered his mouth, shaking his head trying to make her see the desperation in his eyes. Harleen's facial expressions morphed from fun to actual worry when Arthur's hand reached his throat in an useless attempt to breathe, still clawing at the fence with the one that left free. Her eyes widened in horror. Arthur felt too powerless to even show her the card explaining his fucking condition. It was alright if she wanted to run away. He already accepted his shameful defeat.

However, to his surprise, she nimbly climbed up the fence to help him. The stalker was too weak to keep standing but when he was crumbling into the ground, Harleen helped him to stand up.

She spoke to him, reassuringly. And she spoke so many things he couldn't process while taking him to a bench to contain him. So far she was a few seconds ago and now she stood with him throughout the painful laughter.

"I'm sorry--" Arthur tried to hide his face in his arm but Harleen seemed to understand... Or at least took pity on him.

The laughing fit finally ended and Arthur got a card from his pocket. He remained silent, disgusted with himself. The blonde took it and read it carefully. Her serene gaze towards the object comforted Arthur slowly. Once she finished reading it, she returned it to his owner. Harleen seemed truly surprised... Or maybe scared. He didn't know and felt too embarrassed to even talk to her. One thing was for sure:

Arthur Fleck never felt uglier in his life.

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