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themeraldee · 1 month

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Hii can you do one where the reader rejects homelander because she’s married? He gets mad and obsessive??

Thank you for the ask! So originally I wasn't gonna do requests because I'm very particular about what strikes my fancy. But I'm nothing if not a people pleaser so your request got my head popping up with ideas as I've not really explored the 'loving someone to a fault' part of Homelander where things take a wild turn. So this is my humble attempt - hope you enjoy!

(Also I spat this out fairly quickly so it's not very well reviewed)

The Price of Love

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 1.7k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Early Season 2. Voyeurism. Dark themes but nothing very specific. Homelander being his own warning. Mention of canon-level violence.

“What the fuck do you mean you’re married?!” Homelander sputters, caught totally off guard by your admission. His body language frazzled, his arms expressing confusion just as much as his words as his presence towers over you.

You’ve been Ashley’s secretary for a few months now. At first he took no interest in the presence of yet another busybody without a name that was surely going to crack under the pressure and either leave or fuck up beyond repair resulting in your resignation. But no, you’ve proven yourself to be reliable, responsible and most importantly you’ve got a fucking spine in you. You don’t cower in fear, shake when you talk to him or let yourself get talked into a corner. He likes that. He really likes that.

His preference for you has become so obvious that Ashley made you his go-to. Any news, good or bad, just went straight through you. And somehow, Homelander didn’t mind hearing that he dropped a point or two when it came from your lips.

That’s why he felt so blindsided by your outright rejection when he asked you out. What the fuck do you mean married?!

“I mean I’m unavailable.” Homelander tightens his hand into a fist now that his arms fell back to rest next to his thighs. He hides the lapse of control behind his cape as he clasps both hands behind his back. At this point the pose has become a bit of a defense mechanism, nobody can touch or hurt him when he’s playing a hero. It’s a whole lot different when he pours his heart out to some fucking assistant just to get it stomped into the ground.

“You’re not wearing a ring.” His tone is quiet, sharp. He nods his head towards the hand that’s currently clutching a stack of papers, the last thing you were meant to bring over before you clocked out. In Homelander’s eyes, it was the perfect time to ask you out. He’d take you out the same night. Michelin star restaurant, booked out just for the two of you. But no, you had to ruin his whole plan.

“I know, I’m sorry. I oftentimes leave it at home. I worry about it getting damaged or lost.” You clutch your papers closer to you, Homelander’s eyes lock onto your empty ring finger. It’s like you’re trying to hide it from him. The skin where your ring would be sat isn’t even smoothed out or marked in any way. So either it’s a recent marriage or you barely wear your ring as is. Homelander scoffs to himself, what kind of marriage is it if you’re not willing to shout about it from the rooftops.

“I just—what? You’ve been fucking coming onto me for ages!” He wheezes out in part anger, part embarrassment. His eyes widen at first before squinting, his eyebrows furrowing with the action. In his head he replays all your interactions and he’s not fucking stupid. He’s the Homelander. There’s no one who can read people better than him.

“Sorry? I haven’t, or I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to lead you on.” You take a step back. As much as this whole time Homelander’s been more than tolerating your presence, enjoying and looking forward to it even, now he’s acting like a whole kind of different animal. He takes one step in. Part of him relishes in the way your heart speeds up at the loud thud of his boot taking the one step closer to you. The other part of him doesn’t want you to be scared of him, just like you haven’t been this whole time, you’re meant to be his!

He raises an eyebrow.

“Lead me on?”

“You know, make you think I’m interested when I’m not.” He nearly laughs. Not interested? Not fucking interested?! Give him a break. He might not have many experiences with the most genuine of relationships but he knows attraction when he sees one. He’s not stupid enough to mistake your professional kindness for attraction, it’s more than that. He’s sure of it. Your pulse still races anytime you’re in his vicinity, your pupils dilate, you smile all flustered and sweet when he pays you a compliment and there’s definitely times he’s managed to make you wet just by saying or doing the right thing. Someone who’s not interested wouldn’t be reacting like that.

He pinches the bridge of his nose shaking his head. “Get out.” His voice rings loud and clear in the empty room.

“Yes, sir. I’m really so sorry.” His teeth grind at the way you call him ‘sir’. A habit he’s weaned you off a long time ago. Yet there you go again, reverting back to factory settings as if you two didn’t have a whole load of history behind you. He watches you scamper off, the intrusive, violent part of him has an intense urge to laser you in half for making him feel this way.

But no, he knows there’s another way. First, he needs to get this energy out one way or another. And the last thing he wants to do is hurt you.

Homelander waits till nightfall before flying around just to get his frustration out. First Madelyn, now you. What is it with women being dishonest with him! But no no no, you’re nothing like her. You do love him. You have to. He knows it. He can feel it. He just needs to nudge you in the right direction.

His thoughts get disrupted by a shrill scream coming from the alleyway below him. He pauses in the air, watching the situation with little initial interest. He lands on the building ledge where a man has a screaming woman pinned against the wall. He notices the light reflecting against the switchblade the criminal presses to her neck.

Well look at that, he can get his frustrations out and he’s gonna look like a hero. This night might just be turning around for him.

He leaves the bloody carnage behind, shaking some of the blood and viscera off his suit, bloody droplets hitting his boots instead. He’s so used to the copper tang of blood, at this point breathing it in is as natural to him as air. He’s just not particularly fond of the mess it creates.

But finally, after some physical relief, he grins to himself and with a clear head he can devise a plan on how to win you over. He’s the Homelander, who the fuck else could be more worthy of your love?

Well… He’s about to find out.

Homelander takes off into the air, shooting up up up, until he finds a happy altitude where the air is just about getting thin, but more importantly where he’s unlikely to be recorded or photographed at this time of night.

He lands on the rooftop of the building opposite where you and your spouse reside. Bleugh. Your fucking spouse. Just the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He was being patient with you. Wanted to take it the traditional way. Just like normal humans you’d meet at work, get chatting, get comfortable and start dating. So he gave you the benefit of your privacy. Wanted to see you naked for the first time when you’d undress for him. All pretty and sensual, giving him a good show. Now it’s biting him in the ass. If he wasn’t so chivalrous with you he would have long known that he’d need to get rid of the obstacle before he’d even ask you out.

He watches through the building walls. He needs to see who, or what, has you so whipped that you wouldn’t immediately offer to get divorced just to go on a date with him. At the very least it better be some good sex.

He scans your meager one bedroom apartment. Your spouse is sound asleep in your shared bed but you’re nowhere to be seen. It’s not even that late in the night. Wouldn’t happily married couples be fucking through the night like rabbits at this hour?

He lights up when he lands on the sight of you in your bathroom. Finally, some fucking reward. It’s the least he deserves after all that he’s been through. You’re submerged in your bathtub, the water level hitting halfway up your chest. You have the most pleased expression on your face, pure delight as you rest your head against the rim of the tub, eyes closed all dreamy.

Homelander palms the front of his pants, feeling his cock immediately fill out at finally getting glimpses of your naked self. It’s only then he notices that you’re not just relaxing. No. Your hand is holding the shower head right in between your legs, letting the water pressure light up all your sensitive nerves.

Then it clicks. He grins like he hasn’t in a long while. The pure satisfaction of being right. You’re not satisfied. You can’t be. It’s obvious you desperately need to escape this situation. You need him.

He carelessly unfastens his pants, surprising even himself that he doesn’t manage to rip them in half as he eagerly grips his hard cock. He strokes it harder than he ever has before, the blood on his glove just easing the glide of the harsh pace he sets himself. Homelander almost chokes on air as he watches you arch your back and whimper quietly, clearly hiding your little indulgent fantasy from your spouse.

He wishes he could tell you it’s alright, your spouse is dead asleep. They won’t notice. They clearly don’t care. He does. And that’s all that matters, you have his attention. You have an audience of one.

He doesn’t care what the reason is. There’s no reason in his book that would justify your spouse leaving you this dissatisfied that you have to get yourself off behind closed doors and not with their help.

He’s so worked up, riding the roller coaster of wildly contrasting emotions, from heart-break to euphoria, that it doesn’t take long for him to feel breathless, panting as he strokes himself to the image of you all wet, pleasured and relaxed. What really does him in, unexpectedly is the whispering plea leaving your lips. ‘Homelander.’

And just like that he cums hard, not caring where his load ends up, his grin never leaving his face as he watches you reach your sweet, sweet release.

He has to have you.

[Part 2]

Taglist (you can add yourself to be notified anytime I publish a new Homelander story)

#if people are interested I might continue this after I start & finish part 3 of the lucky winner #ahhh too many things to write #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander #homelander fanfiction #my writing #the boys fanfiction #asks!#fic request

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bibibbon · 15 days

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Todoroki Rei doesn't feel like an actual character.

Her children do, Shoto does, Dabi does, Natsuo and Fuyumi do.

However, Rei just doesn't. We learn about how Endeavor DROVE her insane with his abuse, caused what she believed was the death of one of her children, made her grievously injure another, and locked her away from all of her children for a decade.

She should HATE the guy.

Yet when Endeavor sends those stupid manipulative flowers - she sings his praises and defends him to Natsuo. Tell me how that makes sense.

People have suggested Stockholm syndrome or manipulative psychiatry as reasoning for her inane Endeavor simping despite everything. Yet if this is the case, it should be portrayed tragically, like Harley Quinn is - not portrayed "admirably" and like she is "so kind" like some members of the fandom have called her.

There's also everything to do with Dabi, and I thought surely this revelation should stir up Rei's hatred. Yet it doesn't.

She gives Endeavor a stern telling off with the rest of her children in tow (which we were all cheering at because this is the bare fucking minimum. ) The Touya backstory hits (in part from Endeavor's POV because he's so reliable as the abuser and the cause of this mess 😒. Why didn't you let Touya tell his own story, Hori!?) It scapegoats her and Touya largely to take a lot of the heat off of Endeavor. And then... she tells Shoto as the hero of the family to save Touya.

Umm...no. Just no.

Endeavor is the hero parent. This should be his responsibility - but it should never be on Shoto to save the brother who wants him dead.

Then, in the epilogue, we find her being Endeavor's carer, staring up at her dying son, Dabi.

Do we see her talk with her son, Dabi? Do we see her cry at his state here? - Nope, it is all focused on Endeavor and his guilt/ self pity.

All she is allowed to do is pose with a solemn expression behind Endeavor's wheelchair and smile cutely at her abuser when the story demands it.

The injustice at the abuse victim - incarcerated mental patient - carer of her abuser pipeline Rei's story has taken is so disgusting.

I am horrified and appalled under Hori, Rei will never be free of her abuser and neither will the rest of the Todofam (Endeavor paid for thier new house after all - he still has the power over it and them as an extension of that. Abusive bastard.)

All I can think of is how horrible it is to handle an abuse narrative in such a way - uncaring of what real people this hurts.

THIS 👆👆👆

Yes, Rei doesn't truly feel like a real character at all because of the way she is depicted.

Even though all of the todoroki backstories come from either shoto, Touya or enji we still can see and notice the horror of rei's abuse. Even with there being almost litte to no focus on rei we can still how she suffered and get a general view to how she was driven to insanity.

So just imagine if horikoshi actually allowed rei to have her own proper perspective and we see HER STORY FROM HER VIEW! @thr0wnawayy (puts some of it into deeper perspective) imagine how gut wrenching it would of been and tell me that she would somehow be okay with being enji's caretaker in the end like he isn't at fault for what happend to Touya (touya's death is literally stated to be her final straw and that she fully broke down after that). Imagine rei a young women who tried to do everything for her children and failed, she ended up hurting them even though she wanted and tried to do what she can to protect them.

Rei should ultimately despise enji completely heck there is no reason for her to like him or tolerate his existence at all. I wholeheartedly doubt that her relationship with enji can even be good in the slightest and her having Stockholm syndrome or manipulative psychiatry also to me doesn't make sense at all after the guy put her and her children through straight hell. Why is her opinion of enji somehow swayed after flowers? He doesn't do anything except send flowers (and I don't even think he has always done that) it's like she has no one. It's like the narrative is blatantly ignoring fuyumi and natsou who stay with their mother and keep her company. Heck fuyumi and natsou brought their mother clothes but somehow only enji's flowers hold any significance. What about shoto who after everything also started a relationship with his mum?!?!?

Why the actual hell does the narrative frame enji giving rei flowers as somehow more meaningful and symbolic than her children doing the exact same thing and more for her!!!!

How about we talk about how horrible rei's condition must of been if she and the doctor said that she shouldn't see enji even though she hasn't seen the man for a decade?!?!? How about we talk about how Rei literally said that she was scared of seeing enji even though its been 10 years?!?! Why does the narrative seem to ignore this moment and its exactly when this moment is ignored that her making an appearance face to face with enji holding the flowers he gave her in chapter 300 is such an underwhelming scene. I personally felt such mixed emotions with that scene.

This scene and what comes after it all feels weird to me and it fails on so many notes. Rei comes in holding the flowers enji has given her and we are supposed to interpret this as her finally overcoming her fear of enji and stepping up both as a character and parent but it falls apart because

We aren't that emotionally connected to rei (she should of had her individual arc that tied her to the family and allowed us to see her prespective)

We haven't seen the steps that led her to becoming like this

After she doesn't even properly beat or scold enji at all. It all ends up being a pathetic speech where the narrative seems to shun from putting almost majority of the blame on enji and instead she continually says its her fault (the narrative tries to paint it like it's all of her fault when It isn't she is part of the problem but enji never seems to get that much criticism)

All of these reasons are there to show that Rei doesn't feel like an actual character. She starts and ends the same and even when her son, Dabi ends up in the same position as she starts from she doesn't even speak to him in chapter 426. Actually she tries and all she says is that she has a lot to talk to him about but then enji hogs all the screentime and she stands back separated from the conversation.

Rei, unlike her family is also not written in a way to fit the families dynamic. Her character isn't logical in a way where she is supposed to hate enji after all he did. Rei also doesn't have role unlike the other members of the todoroki family.

We clearly see that fuyumi wanted a happy family and tried her best to keep up appearances.

Dabi absolutely despised his family after he learnt about his creation but ultimately even as he tried to run away he still has memories of playing with natsou and even when on the verge of death in the 2nd war arc he instinctively calls out to them.

Natsou is like dabi in hating enji and wanting to run away except he follows and accomplishes this in a different path.

Shoto is completely trapped and is supposed to be the saviour child whether that be for enji wanting him to be his masterpiece or for rei putting the title of family hero onto shoto (which she shouldn't of done at all)

Enji neglected dabi and he is the reason why dabi was made. Rei acknowledges this multiple times that what touya wanted was his father's love and attention and she even goes to blame herself saying that she should of tried harder into convincing enji to talk and spend time with his son (which she already did before but he flat out refused and ignored her)

After this rei also claims that shoto is the families hero and this puts pressure on shoto to save dabi, his brother who wanted to kill him for being enjis favourite ever though he never asked for it and actually ended up suffering for being enjis favourite.

Yes, shoto reaching out to rei was important for both shoto and her. It symbolised shoto starting to heal and reconnect with his mother whom he cared about so much and for rei it was a new hope for her and a new goal to be a good mum to reconnect with her child. However, shoto isn't the families hero. He doesn't need all of the families problems on him and he for sure doesn't need to solve them all especially when enji was the one to cause them specifically the ones to do with dabi.

Ultimately I stand by the choice that enji should of died in the first war arc giving more focus to shoto and the rest of the family members.

Enji would die in the line of duty so you would probably have a lot of people try and excuse his behaviour and this would be a good way to explore how this negatively effects the todoroki family and dabi who grows to have even more resentment and has to learn that shoto's life was full of suffering under being enji's favourite.

Rei should of had an arc that tied her into the jaku hospital arc where she learns about touya and stands up to enji at the same time while coming face to face with a lot of the new information and maybe even learning about genten himura her distant cousin. There is so much that could be done with rei and all we got in Canon was a horrible non existent arc where she is used to prop up her abuser!

In the end enji doesn't face consequences for his actions (being disabled isn't a consequence) and his whole dance in hell with dabi ain't even effective because enji hasn't experienced true hell (not to the extent of dabi). In the end enji still has people and he still has money his hell can be paradise for some people like the villains.

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hadesrise · 1 year

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𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.

summary ➳ you unexpectedly defend barty from your friends.

pairings ➳ bartemius “barty” crouch jr. x hufflepuff!male reader

warnings ➳ sfw content, foul language, sunshine and sunshine protector trope, discrimination, asshole friends, friends to lovers, badassery lol, people are a lot prejudiced in this

author’s note ➳ i headcanon him as ravenclaw, sorry. also i think hufflepuffs are scary as fuck when they’re mad. I DO NOT HATE LILY OR JAMES AND SIRIUS. please don't misunderstand that 🥲

Unpleasant whispers filled the Great Hall particularly from Gryffindor’s table as everyone watched the little-to-no-good trio take a seat on the Hufflepuff’s table and settle themselves there uncaring of the whispers, Barty sitting down right beside you while Evan and Regulus sat on the opposite side. Despite noticing the unpleasant looks being thrown at your company, you smiled at Barty after seeing how comfortable and relaxed he seemed.

“Hey, B.” You softly greeted, eyes twinkling in admiration and cheerfulness. “Nice to see you guys too, Evan and Regulus.” Greeting politely, Evan and Regulus each sent you a small smile before falling into a calm conversation with one another, which made you wonder why they’re here in the first place, but you figured it’s because Barty’s here.

“Well, (Y/n). How’s your potions class?” Barty questioned, starting off with casual conversation while beginning to eat.

The Marauders watched as you respond to Barty with a kind smile on your face and not an ounce of hatred nor distaste for being surrounded by the three most infamous persons in Hogwarts, aside from Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy, and Bellatrix Black. The softness of your expression didn’t even change. No one understands how a golden boy like you could hang out with people like... them, considering you’re the most kindest, softest, brightest person Hogwarts has ever had. You’re easily approachable and has the heart of gold that is almost impossible to be tainted, treating everyone equally while plastering on that pleasant smile of yours.

You’re practically a walking safe space for everyone. Reliable, trustworthy, loyal, patient, generous, kind, humorous, ambitious, all of them combined is what you are — a perfect person.

Or at least, that’s how others perceive you. Though, it’s not their fault for seeing you like that, you figured.

The way you’ve presented yourself in public is probably why they think of you as this perfect and divine person that is always good and never evil. You’re kind of flattered by them, but it also makes you feel as if expectations are squeezing down your throat hard.

“How the fuck does he tolerate him?” Sirius Black exclaimed in genuine confusion, referring to you engaging in conversations with a guy who clearly meant bad news.

“Language,” Remus Lupin, without looking up from his book, scolded gently. “I’m sure it’s because (Y/n) has more patience than you. He also doesn’t seem to care what other people say about him.”

“But it’s not good for him to be hanging out with him, don’t you think?” Lily Evans worriedly spoke from beside Remus as Marlene Mckinnon, who sat by her side, nodded in agreement. They knew how nice you are, so seeing you carelessly talk to Barty without hesitation makes them worried, especially when Barty’s practically apart of the Slytherins that are far from pleasant from how much time he spends with them instead of his own house. They knew him, and he definitely cannot be called a good person.

“Uhm... We don’t know for sure.” Peter shrugs, “I mean, it’s really not for us to decide who he should hang out with.”

“Peter’s right,” Remus immediately agreed, “There’s not much we can do if he’s hanging out with them. It’s not our business, and even though (Y/n)’s kind, I don’t think he would appreciate anyone butting their heads into his business. After all, he has his own thoughts.”

Even then, Lily was worried while Sirius did not understand. They returned their attention to you and Barty after hearing your laughter erupt in the Great Hall amongst murmurs and talkings of other students, seeing you playfully punching Barty’s arm and him having an overly amused and proud look on his face for making you laugh. You seem to be fairly enjoying yourself in Remus’ and Peter’s perspective, but of course, those who have a childish disdain towards Slytherin and their associates would rather be blind to it than face the reality.

You’re clearly happy with having Barty as a friend and certainly doesn’t mind who he hangs out with; endlessly friendly and nice to his two best friends, even greeting them with a warm smile. As a matter of fact, it made you seem more matured than anyone else, how you never discriminate, judge, accuse and hate anyone based on their house, rumors, or impressions. You see everyone for who they are, not what people think of them as.

Resting his elbow on the table and chin on his palm, Barty simply admire you as you talk about your day while putting some meals on his plate, making sure none of the meals contained his least favorite food. “Defense against the Dark Arts is such an entertaining lesson, B. It certainly levels up my defensive spells. I’ve been practicing them where no one will get harmed and proudly, I’ve improved a lot.” You told with utter excitement as you finished putting meals on his plate, moving to put some on your plate next. “I could show you later if you want? And perhaps, you can give me feedbacks on what I should work on.”

Barty was almost too busy admiring you, though he was quick to respond. “That’s a brilliant idea, (Y/n). Maybe we could even duel once you’ve mastered it."

You winced, “Can you not go hard on me? I’m still not confident with my duelling, you know.”

“Oh well, confidence is the key!” Barty says with excitement, genuinely wanting to duel with you. “You should try being full of yourself and think, “I can fucking do this” ‘cause it works. That’s how I got pass that bloody awful Divination class.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if it was the worst ever experience of his life.

A giggle erupted from your throat, which made Barty’s lips twitch up to form a smile. It may be unexpected to others, but to you, Barty always smiled and you witnessed every single one of those moments.

“Professor McGonagall will hex you if she hears that,” You joked while still laughing, leaning on him.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you on his side, grinning. “That’s just an if, you know.” Wiggling his brows, you giggled at his silliness and also wrapped an arm around his waist naturally, gaining a few raised brows and looks from other houses.

Evan and Regulus merely smiled at your interaction before scowling and exchanging eye contact, people’s reactions catching their attention despite being mild. It’s absolutely unpleasant, how they look at you and Barty as if you’re doing something criminal. They look at you with such disapproval that couldn’t help but cause Evan and Regulus to furrow their brows and narrow their eyes — it’s almost unbelievable how everyone loves you when you’re with your own house, Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw, but when you hang out with Slytherin or anyone close to them, you’re suddenly unlikable. As if you were the Public’s property, like you’re supposed to do what they tell you to do. It feels almost as if they want to control who you hang out with.

It’s more than unpleasant, the two Slytherin thought. It’s awful, how everyone seemingly wants you to act the way they expect you to.

Do you even realize the way those people who you consider friends look at you whenever you hang out with Barty? Have you ever looked around to see their eyes screaming disappointment? What would you think once you notice?

Barty seemed to be putting all his trust in you, nearly taking his heart out for you to carry it around; they don’t want their best friend to lose someone who’s literally the safe place and comfort zone. They were worried about Barty, but also worried for you.

Unfortunatelly, worrying made them miss the way you piercingly stared at someone who looked at Barty with disgust when he wasn’t looking, before plastering on an angelic smile to your best friend as soon as the bastard flinched and looked away.

I hope no one attempts to cut my patience off today, you thought with a smile while listening to him talk enthusiastically about the fun time he messed with Lucius’ potion so bad that it exploded on Snape, not knowing you’ll be in for a surprise later on.

“What are you up to later?” Evan questioned as the three of them strolled through the hallway and ignored the obnoxious pranksters with red and gold tie, trying to find a place where peace actually exists and no judgmental look from anyone.

“Studying with (Y/n).” Barty grins, holding up a pile of books. There seems to be little unnoticeable bounces in his steps as excitement bubbles within him.

Regulus gives him a weird look, “Are you pretending to be stupid so you could study with him?”

“What’s the matter with it? It’s not like he’ll know.”

“You are literally a Ravenclaw.”

“Don’t stereotype me, Reg. It’s getting old, you’re old.”

“You’re making it seem as if he’s that stupid enough not to know you’re just pretending.”

An offended gasp was heard.

“No, I am not!”

Evan chuckled at their playful banter.

Despite Regulus seemingly making fun of Barty’s tactics to spend more time with you, Evan knew he was internally happy for their best friend. The heavy expectations from his father has been taking a toll on Barty a lot, which caused some inner doubts to appear that almost always led to mental breakdowns that lasted longer than an hour. He never had been comfortable with anyone besides them and Pandora, and they were truly happy when you accepted Barty warmly without caring about the rumors or how people viewed him. It feels quite relieving to see Barty radiate happiness now.

However, the three of them comes to a halt in the hallway when a voice filled with dislike erupts from the courtyard, asking a particular question to a person no other than you.

“How can you even hang out with people like them?”

Barty, Evan, and Regulus glanced at one another before walking silently closer and peeking at the courtyard, seeing you sat on the cemented bench while playing Wizard’s Chess with Marlene, surrounded by your friends who were mostly Gryffindors. There’s only one Ravenclaw, the same house as Barty, yet he’s the one who questioned it.

You got distracted to his question as you tilt your head, “What are you talking about?”

The trio quickly ducks when the Marauders come running out of other hallways to the courtyard with loud laughters, definitely disturbing other students, and join you by the bench. Quickly noticing the strange silence, Remus tilted his head. “Why is everyone so quiet?”

“Because Leo asked how (Y/n) can even hang out with people like them.” Marlene explains shortly with emphasis, which let everyone know exactly who they were talking about.

The werewolf sighs, covering his face and shaking his head. “We’re talking about this again?”

Barty wondered how much had he and his friends been the subject of your conversation, guts twisting negatively.

“I still don’t know who you’re referring to,” You chimed in with visible confusion, now forgetting about the chess. Silence fills all of them, the Marauders and Lily glancing at each other as Marlene also can’t help but forget the chess, while your other Gryffindor friends look at you as if it’s strange that you don’t know what they’re talking about.

The Ravenclaw — Leo gives you a look, “Are you dense? I’m talking about Barty Crouch Jr. and his little goons.” He rolled his eyes.

You frowned, “They have a name, you know. Regulus Black and Evan Rosier.”

Barty recognized the discomfort and disapproval in your tone, how you seemingly understood quickly that Leo intends to talk ill about them. He didn’t miss the way your shoulders tensed and body language displaying a defensive gesture, which rarely ever happens. You’re always accepting and welcoming of other people with that big smile plastered on your face; when your body language changes, that just means someone had overstepped your boundaries. No one else seem to realize it.

One of the Gryffindors, Beth, rolls her eyes and gives you a disgusted look. “I don’t know how you can be nice to those Death Eater freaks. Slytherins are literally evil, look at their ancestors!”

“Yeah, they also pick on almost everyone.” Karen agreed, crossing her arms. “I mean, can’t you see how much bad influence they are? Barty’s supposed to be hanging out with members from his own house yet here he is, and look how he turned out.”

“I bet his father’s really disappointed and disgusted." Leo snickered, earning laughter from the two Gryffindor girls.

Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas pulsed their lips into a thin line as Remus and Peter frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the insults and comments that crosses the line, while James and Sirius fell silent since even though they had personal dislike for Slytherin, they wouldn’t go as far as your friends were going. Regulus is also Sirius’ brother, and he doesn’t like hearing anyone talk about his little brother like that.

When Sirius opened his mouth to defend his brother, the words end up being stuck in his throat after witnessing how your warm look morphed into an emotionless and expressionless face that made his blood run cold.

“You guys are fucking pathetic,” You snarled with a low and cold yet loud tone that had made the entire courtyard fall into utter silence as everyone — including others who were just around — look at you with wide shocked eyes. Your friends visibly flinched at the piercing harsh glare you were shooting them, calm storms of rage swarming in your eyes that usually displayed warmness and light. They could easily see the way your jaw was clenching, which was definitely a sign that they dug their own graves for strong lightning to strike them until they’re nothing but bones and flesh.

Barty also stops in track, finding himself surprisingly intimidated and a bit afraid. Regulus completely went still as Evan slapped a hand over his mouth in shock. It’s already surprising that a Hufflepuff cursed at someone, but to see you, someone who’s always smiling and accepting and kind and unbelievably patient, someone who’s the Golden Boy and practically a gift from divine beings who seemed as if you don’t even know how to get mad, so enraged? It is beyond jawdropping.

“What—” Karen speaks, but you interrupt.

“Have you ever realized how annoying you all sound when you mind my business rather than your own?” You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. “It sounds like pathetic cunts who pretend they’re righteous when all they’ve ever been are prejudiced hypocrites who judge others solely on the houses they’re in. You’re much more horrible than the Death Eater freaks you talk about.”

“What the bloody hell is your problem!?” Beth shrieked.

“You and your goons, duh.” You retorted while shooting her a look, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Mistreating Slytherins for what their ancestors did is completely childish and immature, especially when it was out of their control. If their ancestors joined the Death Eaters, then the one to be blamed is not them but the ancestors themselves.” You shifted your cold gaze to Leo and Karen, “Yes, I’ve seen the three of them pick on others and told Bartemius to stop, which he did. James and Sirius pick on Snape and other Slytherins a lot, so why haven’t you barked about that yet? Is this that thing where it’s alright when you or other Gryffindors do it, but it’s suddenly evil and horrible when it comes to Slytherin?”

Karen swallows thickly, trying to hold her head high. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?” Your mocking tone implied you believed nothing as you stand up from the bench, leaning closer to her. She avoided eye contact, fearful. “What the fuck did you mean then?” The slow tone made you even more intimidating.

“Why are you mad at us?” Leo asked, intimidated. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

You shot him a side-eye, raising your brows. “Think with your brain, Ravenclaw. Why am I mad exactly and are you certain you haven’t done anything wrong?” You plastered on a fake smile, “Honestly, I’m not actually mad, Leo. I’m enraged. My blood’s boiling within my body. I’m certain you know what enraged means as you’re a clever Ravenclaw, don’t you?”

He bit his lip and looked down in shame.

Barty’s mouth fell agape; what the fuck, he didn’t know you can be so sarcastic like this.

Sighing deeply, you stared at him from head to toe and tilted your head, the corner of your lips twisted up. “Bartemius is clearly wiser and smarter, though.” You shrugged, “At least he knows not to befriend a loser like you.”

Lily steps closer to stop you, “(Y/n)... I think that’s enough.”

“Not precisely, Evans. And don’t think I don’t know about how you think of Bartemius as well.” You look at her, unimpressed.

“We were just worried about you...” She whispered.

“What’s there to be worried of?” You snapped. “You are all treating Bartemius as if he and his friends are cold-blooded murderers. You see someone hanging out with people in green and silver tie and your first thought is they’re horrible. The reason they become evil and horrible is because of people like you. Because you can’t and refuse to believe there’s good in them, because you would rather believe they can be anything but good than actually see who they are. You can’t handle being non-judgmental.”

Remus and Peter couldn’t help but smile at the truth in your words. The others still can’t react to your unusual change.

You sneered at your former friends, “And I hope you know you’re fucking pathetic and disgusting.” Utter disdain filled your expression, “Find someone else to cling onto. I’d rather be with Bartemius than you cunts.” Barty smiles happily at that as he subconsciously slips out of the shadow and into the courtyard. Regulus and Evan follows, standing a couple of steps behind. The Marauders noticed them immediately, eyes widening.

Ignoring the tears blimming in the Gryffindors’ eyes, you turn around only to face them back again, stepping closer with a death glare. “By the way, Leo. You ever insult Bartemius like that again with that filthy mouth of yours and I’ll fucking hex you.” You threatened before stepping back and waving goodbye with a seemingly friendly smile.

Everyone watch you turn around and jump slightly after bumping into Barty, who instantly beamed with happiness and joy radiating off of him, another thing that flabbergasted everyone.

“Oh Merlin! Hey, B!” You greet with the welcoming look now back on your expression, smiling warmly. “How long have you been standing there? And Regulus and Evan too.”

“Since the beginning, although we were hiding before you defended us.” Barty chuckled, his friends smiling behind him. He was trying to seem casual, but everyone noticed how he failed to hide the smile that’s been threatening to spread fully across his face.

“Don’t mind them, B. They’re just bitter ‘cause you rejected Leo three months ago.” You giggle, feeling better and calm now that Barty’s around, shoulders relaxed and body language displaying peaceful comfortable gesture.

Barty felt his heart swell at the realization that you truly trusted him and would never change your treatment of him no matter what anyone says, finally having the confirmation that he, in fact, do like you. Who wouldn’t when you’re this amazing? He was already feeling it, but to actually realize it was the right thing to happen? He can’t fucking contain it.

He can’t help but to shake his head with the biggest smile anyone has ever seen him have, “Bloody hell, (Y/n). I really do like you a lot.”

You froze at that.

Barty widened his eyes, about to take back, when you pulled him by his nape with one hand and kissed him gently. Evan whistled as Regulus let out a chuckle and high fived each other. Barely able to kiss you back, disappointment appears in his face after you pulled away too soon.

A smirk spreads across your lips, “You’ll get more later. You’re a good boy, after all.” You lightly tugged the hair on his nape before walking away and winking at Regulus and Evan.

“What— Wait— (Y/n), come on!” Barty stutters at the praise, flustered, as he immediately rushes off to follow you. His friends both turn around to follow him with their eyes, amusement written on their faces.

Regulus smirks, “Walk him like a dog.”

Evan instantly bursts into laughter. Well, at least he now has someone who will defend him in his name.

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seat-safety-switch · 11 months

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You can put up with a recalcitrant machine for quite some time. For instance, my garage door opener hasn't gone past about 70% in the last couple decades. Adapting, learning to live with it, making compromises: it's what us human beings are good at doing. One day, though, a machine will push you just a little bit too far.

Even the simplest YouTube journey will show you hundreds of videos of people destroying unreliable appliances. Once, long ago, these were prize possessions. Trusted comrades in the fight against disorder. Slowly, as they began to age and things started feeling not-so-fresh, there was still tolerance, or at least acceptance. Getting a new one is expensive, and I can live without hot water in my dishwasher. Eventually – and no one can predict when this is – the appliance just pushed someone too far, and it was time for catharsis.

Unfortunately for all of human civilization, the indulgence of this base instinct is not done as well as it could be. Usually, these videos are low-cost, shakycam affairs, a simple drunken smash-and-giggle among bros (and she-bros, and they-bros.) What our historical record wants, nay, needs is a commitment to the total obliteration of a Maytag washer-and-dryer combo, and that's where CERN comes in.

You might be aware of CERN from all the crazy shit that the haters put in the news. They built that huge particle collider that put our world onto the wrong timeline, but they swear (of course) that it's not their fault. Regardless of whose fault it actually is (CERN's arch-nemesis, NASA?) they still do possess a particle accelerator capable of absolutely blowing the living fuck out of a partially working home appliance. And they have lots of really good slow-motion cameras to capture the moment that their victim is reduced to its constituent atoms.

Unfortunately for all of us, the damn particle accelerator broke. Yeah, I guess they only bodged it to work for the one demo, and can't figure out how to get it to be reliable. Right now, if they want to do an experiment, one of the interns has to stand inside the reaction chamber and touch two wires together, quote, "really fast" before getting the hell out of dodge. And for some reason they haven't been able to hire for that job. Maybe one day it'll be replaced by robots, which will give us a whole other host of problems to solve.

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podcastenthusiast · 2 years

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Three little drabbles featuring Geralt "Horse Girl" of Rivia and different animals, from Jaskier's POV.

---

1. Horse

Jaskier realized it a few weeks into this new witcher-following, song-composing venture. Specifically, when he went to eat the last apple and was told in no uncertain terms that it's for Roach, even though their food rations were running worringly low and they were a day's ride from the next village. Even though he's a fragile human. Even though she could literally just eat grass.

The mare outranked him. She had seniority.

He tried to befriend the horse, with middling success.

He tried to befriend the witcher, too.

At least Roach could be bribed with a carrot or a handful of raisins.

People project a lot of their own feelings onto animals, he supposed. It's a relationship designed to be unequal. As complex or as simple as a person wants it to be.

For a while, he had started to resent her a little, as pathetic as that may sound. That is, until he woke in the middle of the night and overheard a murmured, rather one-sided conversation.

"I worry about him, though," Geralt was saying. "Can't exactly just find a new bard and start calling him Jaskier if something happens, can I."

What?

"Wish he'd shut up sometimes, but... I guess it's been kind of nice having someone around who talks back."

Jaskier's heart felt like it might burst or break. Or both.

"Not that you aren't good company, old girl."

Roach gave a quiet snort.

That was all years ago, now. The horse is different, but still somehow Roach.

He is different, too, but somehow still Jaskier. Still the reliable bard his friend needs him to be.

Now, he watches from his spot by the campfire as Geralt brushes through Roach's mane. The witcher's got drowner brains in his own hair but gods forbid he has a wash before his trusty companion is completely tended to. He's very gentle with her, which is probably why she tolerates it as well as she does. He's heard tales of stablehands losing fingers to routine grooming before.

Jaskier wishes he could write a ballad about this without potentially damaging his fearsome reputation-- the unbreakable bond between a witcher and his horse. The unexpected tenderness of hands made to kill.

He reaches for his quill to jot down a few ideas. Something something the mighty wolf and the wild horse, loyal and brave companions defending their forest home together. Keep it vague enough. Maybe a folktale vibe.

Besides, Jaskier thinks with a touch of bitterness, the wolf's tongue is the real danger. His jaws that snap at anyone foolish enough to get too close, to offer help when he's caught in a trap.

...Maybe he still has some feelings to work through.

The wolf also has a heart he tries so hard to bury. Jaskier can see it. Always has.

"You spoil her rotten, you know," he remarks lightly, plucking on his lute strings. "She eats better than we do."

"It's like sharpening my swords. I have to keep Roach in good condition, or we don't eat at all."

"Mhm. And it's very sweet."

He no longer begrudges Roach her well-earned place at Geralt's side. The witcher had been alone out here for such a long time before he came along, probably will be again after he's dead and buried. Even if Jaskier does wish that he could be the one Geralt trusts with his innermost thoughts and secrets and sleepless night fears, he is glad the man has someone in whom he can confide.

They all have their roles in this story. Perhaps he ought to accept his as its scribe, and let that be enough.

But Jaskier's greatest fault, he knows, is an always has been his refusal to accept things as they are.

2. Cat

"Oh, look at that. Someone's cat has gone missing. Poor thing."

"We're here for real work, Jaskier," Geralt says, scanning a contract notice. Recent plague. Graves disturbed. Ghouls. See alderman for details. Bit dull.

"They're offering a reward. See?"

"Somehow I doubt a small child has enough coin to justify ignoring the ghouls."

"Says here you'll get their eternal gratitude and-- oh! The lady of the house will darn your socks free of charge for a full year. Any additional mending at a discount. Now that's a good deal."

"Hm."

"Geralt, as you know my favorite doublet is in a sorry state after that minor werewolf incident--"

"I told you to stay with Roach."

"--All water under the bridge now, of course, and what an adventure! Worthy of a fine ballad--"

"Jaskier."

"--as this would be. Can't you at least keep one keen witchery eye out for the cat?"

"And risk a ghoul catching me off guard? Sure."

"Well, now you're just being silly. Don't tell me you're a dog person. Or are you allergic?"

Geralt sighs, realizing now that only the truth will free him from this conversation.

"Don't mind cats," he mutters. "But they don't like me."

"Sorry, what?"

"Cats don't like me," he repeats. "They start hissing whenever I get too close."

Jaskier's expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and sadness. "Why?"

"I insulted their king. Why do you think? They've got more sense than certain humans, I guess."

It's a veiled remark. Jaskier sees right through it.

"You're not a monster, Geralt," he says, achingly sincere. Then, in a lighter tone, "Does that mean you've never pet a cat before?"

"I don't know. Maybe when I was very young. I can't remember."

Jaskier mercifully drops the subject after a quiet and thoughtful walk back to the village's tavern.

He doesn't fail to notice Geralt buying extra scraps of meat from the innkeeper, or how he sneaks away at night to set them like snares in promising locations near the village. He'd probably say it's for the ghoul contract if asked, but Jaskier knows better.

Even if he didn't, there is really no other explanation for Geralt returning to the inn on the second night, covered in claw marks, carrying a ghoul's severed head in one hand and a bag containing one squirming, hissing feline in the other.

3. Spider

"GERALT!"

Every witcher in Kaer Morhen hears the bard's scream, but Geralt reaches the room in moments, his silver sword already drawn.

"Jaskier, what--"

"Kill it!"

The bard is standing on his bed, pointing frantically at something. Geralt follows his panicked gaze and sees--

"Really, Jaskier?" He sighs.

"What are you waiting for? It's a monster! Kill it!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not a monster. Just a spider. Not even poisonous."

"How do you know?"

"I read." Geralt crouches down for a closer look at the spider. "Might look scary but it's harmless. Probably sought shelter from the cold."

"Well, then it can go right back outside."

"Jaskier, be reasonable."

"I am. Either the spider goes or I do."

The witcher looks thoughtful. Says nothing.

"Oh, thanks, Geralt! I feel so loved."

The spider crawls onto Geralt's hand and Jaskier almost screams again, shrinking back even farther. Gods, it has so many legs!

"Pretend it's a kikimora or something," he pleads. "Why won't you kill one little spider for your very dearest old friend in the world?"

"Because kikimoras have no niche. They're invasive, and need to be dealt with to maintain balance in the ecosystem. Spiders aren't like that; they do belong. A monster, fundamentally, is any creature that doesn't."

Jaskier just stares at him, speechless. He's not sure he has ever heard Geralt say that many words all at once.

Geralt's eyes remain on the spider. "Witchers aren't sent out on the Path not knowing why we kill; we're not soldiers."

"I never thought of it like that," Jaskier admits. "That spider's still fucking terrifying, though."

"Hm. I'll take it outside."

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"I know what scared, stupid people say about witchers sometimes. But I-- You do belong. You're important. Just want you to know that."

"...Thank you, Jaskier," he says. Then, quieter, "You too."

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #geraskier fic #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher fic #I'm sad i can't pet cats in witcher 3 okay #horse girl geralt

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matan4il · 11 months

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Hello, am I crazy or do the majority of news sites report mostly on what the Hammas claims, what Egypt claims, what Lebanon claims, what Iran claims and Israeli voices don't get shared nearly as much? Am I just biased or does it feel to anyone else like even the 'reputable' sources from countries that are officially 'pro-Israel' share mostly one-sided stories? I feel very disillusioned and shocked at the reactions of people on the internet. People who call themselves tolerant, liberal, human rights activists... I've lost respect for many. I truly wonder how many of them even knew anything about Israel before Hammas attacked. Sorry for pushing my feelings onto you. I hope you are as well as you can be.

Hi Nonnie! Thank you for the ask.

You're not crazy. It's partly because Hamas, as a terrorist organization, is not accountable to anyone, it doesn't have to tell the truth. Neither do Egypt, Lebanon or Iran. They can say whatever they want to, they can make any claim, and if it turns out to be untrue, no one will hold that over their heads.

And these leaders KNOW that the first report people will hear is the one that's most likely to be set in their minds.

If there's a correction a few hours later, people might hear it, or they might not. Either way, the dramatic impression and emotional impact of the initial report are likely to last if I they do hear the correction.

Take the claim about the hospital explosion, for example. Hamas right away said it was Israel's fault. (BTW, Hamas also immediately said Gaza had 500 dead. From experience on Oct 7, it took HOURS to confirm 100 dead. There's no way that within a few minutes, Hamas could accurately report 500 dead. The number could be very high, even hundreds of people, even 500 or more! I'm just saying there's no way Hamas could reliably know that within the period of time it published that number) Hamas knows it would take Israel hours to check this. In the meantime, for several hours, this false, demonizing report circulates online, on every news channel and so on. Even if a few hours later, Israel has proof that it's Palestinian terrorists killing their own, will anyone hold Hamas accountable? Is anyone going to punish it in any way? If they say it's Israel immediately, without even checking, they only stand to gain condemnation and hostility towards Israel, even if it's a total lie.

Why do news channels collaborate with that? Because they're running a business. And if there's an emotionally loaded headline that will get them rating, they will run it. And if there's a headline like that which their competitors will run right away, then instead of waiting for confirmation from a more reliable source, they will run it in order to not get left behind. When it turns out to be false, at the end of the day, they can just run a correction, and that's enough. That's considered doing their journalistic duties. Who cares that the damage to Israel has already been done?

So yeah, it's a good idea to be careful, and wait for confirmation when the only source for a certain anti-Israel story is an antisemitic terrorism organization, or an anti-Israeli regime.

And in conclusion, I think this is a really good point to tell apart people who are actually pro-Palestinian from those who are just anti-Israel. The pro-Palestinians will call PIJ out for killing its own people.

Thank you again for the kind words, Nonnie! I'm as safe as anyone in Israel can be right now. I hope you and yours are good! xoxox

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

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cerastes · 6 months

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My thoughts on Crazelyseon (aka Boss 3 in IS4):

Obviously, spoiler warning for that.

Boss 3 in Integrated Strategies has always seen some sort of mutation across the different iterations, with the main theme being "a fight in unfavorable conditions":

Gravestone was mainly a "Final Exam Of Everything" that makes for, well, strategies meant to be integrated: You need bulk, you need DP gen, you need both main types of damage, you need healing, you need bodies. You can excel in an area to make for a deficit in another, but in general, it's "a strong boss fought in unfavorable conditions", since the Gravestone map is fought with half DP speed, doubled redeployment time, and halved ATK and DEF.

IS2's Mouthpiece retained the Half DP Generation speed mechanic of Gravestone, but instead of being a fight in unfavorable conditions based on fighting against a huge stat disparity, it instead gives you few reliable tiles to work with while wrestling with the special Mouthpiece mechanic (having to kill his Assistant, the True Damage statues that also severely debuff those in range) and the Nervous Impairment mechanic. It's mainly position-heavy gameplay, with either truly stalwart static positions, or flexible redeployment strats, the latter of which are stronger, but come with the added difficulty of managing a drip-fed DP generation.

IS3's Ishar'mla, the Heart of Corruption, does away with the Half DP Generation speed mechanic and instead doubles down on the stat stick aspect of Gravestone while also using Mouthpiece's position-heavy gameplay: In Skadi Mode, Ishar'mla heals enemies and wanders around, creating the Tears of Ishar'mla, which must be deployed upon to stagnate her SP generation, at the cost of heavy True Damage to the deployed unit. If Ishar'mla gets 120 SP, it transforms into Seaborn Mode, in which it will absolutely nuke your formation with massive multitarget True Damage at immense range, which also functioning as a shield for its true lifebar. The other main "unfavorable condition" is the fact that you'll likely have no Light and thus a ton of Afflictions coming into the fight. It's one of the least consistent fights in very high Waves due to the sheer number of possible factors (such as enemy DEF +50%, your own ASPD as well as non-boss enemies' increased but your healing supremely stifled, etc).

So! What does Crazelyseon do in IS4 as its Boss 3?

My initial reaction to it was of immense distaste... But in retrospect, it was not Crazelyseon that I disliked, what I was upset at was modern Arknights' reluctance to give you useful info on the boss tooltips nowadays. They explain absolutely nothing. This is more tolerable on regular bosses, because you can just retry them, but I can't just retry an IS final boss, so all it encourages is looking up the boss beforehand, which I think is bad design. I'm not asking for a full list of what it does and when, but a basic explanation of its mechanics in the tooltip would be appreciated, especially on a boss I can't really quickly retry. But this isn't really Crazelyseon's fault, it's one of those things I don't like about Arknights as a whole. So, after a few more shots at Crazelyseon... I think it's alright.

It's just ok.

It ain't bad! But it ain't thrilling. It's very unique in that it's about setting brief moments of super burst more than Tower Defense. In fact, you're barely playing Tower Defense when fighting Crazelyseon! I think that's really cool! I like Arknights' insistence on exploring beyond the domain of its Tower Defense DNA, like with Reclamation Algorithm, or becoming a whole different kind of Tower Defense game, like in Invitation To Wine! So, the experimentation? Kisses! I like it!

Thing is, it's not super exciting outside of that, because it feels more like Big Sad Lock in many ways than it does other bosses: Can you withstand its attacks as it cycles the stage? Yes? Ok you can very likely kill it. No? You literally cannot win and there's nothing you can do about it. It's a very binary check. It's very prep-centric. The joy of a prep-centric boss is that, going into it, you have a good idea of how the fight will play out. The sorrow of a prep-centric boss is that, going into it, you have a good idea of how the fight will play out. You either know you're taking the W (metaphorical, not the terrorist) home or that you're in for a hell of a miserable time. That's the part I don't like.

Thematically, I'm mixed about it: I love the enemy selection being a smattering of faction units! Ursus, Rhine Lab, Mercs... All the enemies that aren't Collapsals outright in the Crazelyseon fight are possessed corpses of those that ventured into Sami and didn't make it, and that's super cool! But, Crazelyseon itself? Well, this is wholly personal, but I find its design boring. Yes, yes, I know it's meant to be an ~*~extradimensional otherworldly Thing from another plane of existence~*~, I just don't really care too much for that myself, so it feels boring to me. It's not that I don't get it, it's a spherical mass of eldritch colors that floats around breaking reality in Terra. If you're into that, I bet it's thrilling, but it doesn't make my heart skip any sort of beat. I Find It Visually Very Boring And The Theme Ain't For Me, especially when Eik (Boss 2) looks fantastic. I'm just not the demographic!

But, yeah, in many ways, it feels like fighting Big Sad Lock: Make sure you can survive it, have appropriate damage, have the necessary laneholding for the non-boss enemies, and... Just sort of let it play itself. Very static. It's not awful, but it's not good, either, it's alright, it's ok.

It's Fine out of 10. I don't hate it or love it. It just is.

It's just ok.

The music is very Video Game Music in a good way.

#arknights #crazelyseon

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rarephloxes · 1 year

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A Feeling So Peculiar

Elain Appreciation Week, day 7 - Free Day

Hi friends! Long time no see:))))

I've been extra busy with life and med school, but this fic has been brewing for some time now, and what better moment than @elainarcheronweek to share it? This is part 1 of what I endearingly call the Healer!Elain story. It's officially my first fic with a Taylor lyric as a title and I'm very proud!!!

Anyway, here is this fucking thing <3

(1)

A ghost slides through the flaps of a tent into its cold, vacant interior.

The space is cramped, a rough bed of furs, a small table filled with piles of heavy tomes, ink-splattered journals, and clothing. The heavy smell of mold, grass, and candle wax permeates the air, almost tangible like dust through a shaft of yellow light.

There’s a slight tremble to the hands which reach for the half-burned candles sitting sadly on the far end of the table, lighting them with slow, feeble movements, the only survivors of a dreadful day.

Hands that are not blue and translucent, but pale and corporeal, numbed from the cold but filled with blood.

The ghost doesn’t contemplate any of it, set in her chore. There are things to be done, still. It is night and she’s gone inside. Yet it repeats, a loop inside her mind, there are things to be done.

A swoosh of breath sparks a coal-smudged piece of timber which quickly develops into a sickly fire. It barely warms the minute space. It’s necessary, nevertheless. Like her, it does its job.

Tent.

Light.

Wash.

Lay.

A book with its spine cracked allows a weary mirror to lean on it, a lonely figure moving through it. The specter in the mirror finds a copper bowl, frigid water inside, a ring of humidity staining the book cover used as its resting place. A smudge of soft pink and crimson reflects on the rust-speckled surface. A braid of what used to be bright brown hair lays limp on a tired, curved spine, brown eyes with deep purple half-moons underneath - the only hint of color on once flushed features.

Her face remains impassive as her hands dip a cloth beneath the icy surface tinting the water brown.

The amount is insufficient to wash away the grime and blood of the day, but Elain will not leave her tolerably cold tent for more, so she makes do.

Alone she lingers in her chair, the only creature inside, water dripping from her hands and drawing patterns in the dirt powdering her arms.

An image intrudes her mind, for a few seconds. Warm tan hands bringing a deep bucket of water they would heat themselves with a careful touch. She thinks of the thankful smile she’d give for it. She wonders, the thought whispered like a swish of butterfly wings, of what his face would say as he cares for her. Maybe his scar would reflect firelight just so, and she would forget where she is and allow herself to blush. She welcomes it, for the minute it sparks until the next when it fizzles.

As predicted, the water is only enough for her arms and face. Once, the disgust alone would be a reason to risk outside, maybe dare the nearby stream, or else sleep would escape her stench, running away with a hand plugging its nose.

Elain plops down on her pallet, fur covers warming her body, her tight muscles consoled by the rough structure beneath. It is in no way comfortable, only it’s reliable and quiet. One of the best tents in their camp, the one privilege the High Lady’s sister has, if only because it is the only one to be had.

Most importantly, it doesn’t die or spray contaminated blood into her face. It does its job as it is, with all its faults. It stays still through the night and belongs to her.

There’s sleep to be had. Poor, fitful sleep. But it does its job as it is.

Tomorrow, she knows, she’ll immerse herself in the unforgiving cold from the stream, and a faerie will emerge, dress, and present herself to her duties at the main healer’s tent.

There’s always work to be done.

(2)

The first time Elain sees a healer, there’s a woman screaming. Loud, painful bellows that have harried maids coming in and out of heavy wooden doors with buckets of steaming water, clean and in turn, bloody towels. Nesta holds her shoulders, small fingers digging absently into Elain’s clavicles through her pink cotton nightgown. Barely a year older than Elain, yet she sees such wisdom in her eldest sister’s eyes, as if Nesta knows all the secrets of the universe at the soft age of 7. There’s no place in Archeron Hall Nesta could go where Elain wouldn’t follow. They’re supposed to be asleep, but there are no dreams to be had during a storm like the one that has been pouring down, soaking the garden soil into swimming pools for frogs and threatening to bring down even the wisest and sturdiest of oak trees.

Soon, there will be a deafening quiet, quickly followed by a babe’s booming cries. Elain thinks it just like the noise that sounds right before one of her father’s ships is about to leave the shore, taking fairy dust and bright-colored jewels to the continent, where they will be sold to queens and wizards. She knows it because Nesta is always explaining the world around them to her.

It’s Feyre, born in the bleak hours of the night, lighting tearing down the sky like a claw through silk.

Their governess catches them, huddled by an alcove, spying on the birth of the smallest of them as if they are as inconspicuous as flies on a wall.

“Come,” she demands, a small smile on the tough line of her lips, “Your sister awaits you.”

It’s the only time a healer was the bringer of fortune and good news.

(3)

Madja had her fingers pressed around Elain’s wrist.

The ancient healer’s brown eyes were focused on the time counter ticking on the wall, steady knobby knuckles cradling Elain’s palm.

If Elain had feeling in any part of her body, if even a single inch of soft, hollow skin wasn’t as numb as a reflective glacier tip, she would have been able to feel her own heartbeat fighting against the High Lord’s favored healer’s fingertips. Her wooden eyes, however, remain filmy, like coffee sat still cooling outside for too long.

The bedding should have been the downiest she ever felt, the warm hug of a thousand sheep who only survive in the mountain range closest to Dawn Court. Called Woolen Peaks, because during spring one would be hard-pressed to find a stretch of land free of the bleating creatures, also known for secreting iridescent mucus from their blue snouts. A sea of endless white.

Elain should’ve loved to have known that, should’ve giggled, and maybe even requested to see such charming animals.

Once, she might have.

There were no sounds in the bed chamber but those of instruments being enclosed in a lovingly used leather bag, which promptly vanished into the fold between worlds for later use.

“I believe tea is in order” Madja said in the rough monotone of age, voice traveling through the air, her gaze watchful like a wise tree, leading Nesta and Feyre to exit the sunlit room.

Elain was profoundly grateful for the silence, the stillness of her mind, her whole being stripped down to understanding the heat around her, registering the passage of time solely through decoding the illumination, no previous knowledge guiding her thoughts, images of old folded into drawers, only an amalgam of threads in her mind, the fear to pull at any of them curbed, until any will was pressed so flat it vanished into particles. The effort, like stopping water with a barrage of hands, to tune out rhythmic drumming in her ears.

There were the dreams, of course. Sad. Unavoidable. Drenched in foreign sentiments that left her dizzy and breathless, trembling through the aftershocks of a rumbling earth no one else seemed to notice. Those came and scrambled her meticulous system of calmness. Elain, in her excruciating bouts of clarity, hated them with a strength her strange body found unfamiliar, hated how they made Nesta look as though she was watching a duckling swim into a waterfall through a looking glass. How they made Feyre’s face contort into hopelessness.

Hated how they made her see.

Those are not mine; she’d plead silently on particularly violent nights; I would know, I once would have known.

Elain closed her eyes and searched for the wall of dark swirling steel delimitating her mind. The ivy branches were nearly covering every inch of cold metal now, blooming in sleepiness. Her closed lids allowed the sun breaching the skin to paint her vision a newly comforting shade of red.

Red had always been Nesta’s color. Nesta’s dresses, Nesta’s fire, Nesta’s anger. Or the insubstantial maroon of the fire in her family’s frozen cottage, the violent crimson of the carcasses Feyre brought home. Those had never awakened thoughts of safety before. Protection, maybe, like a cage made of thorns and spikes. But never the safety of a hearth, of burgundy crackling fire.

Now, when her thoughts gently explored the unknown paths in her mind, red would forge itself into crisp Autumn leaves. Bergamots and warm skin

Elain buried herself deeper into the covers.

She left before contemplating any of it.

⠀

(4)

There is a house on a land that is surrounded by ivy-covered iron walls.

A wrap-around porch cracked open by vicious thorns that sprout from the ground, the rotten wood gouged open, foliage like teardrops on every crack, splinters shimmering on air, spores in the wind.

A felled roof, with a mighty willow trunk through it - a stab wound on a soft, white underbelly - warms the rain inside in a mother’s embrace, a shroud of dark green moss slipping from the gable into the stillness inside

The front door is open, a beckoning hand of wispy white smoke so thin one wouldn’t be sure whether it is only a trick of the pressing nebulous light.

If a breeze like the grey finger of an ancient hand were to curl around it and move the hinges in a half-moon motion, a woman would be seen on the inside.

She is tucked upon herself, sleeping on disintegrating wool and dye, the remnants of a beautiful rug. The slope of her waist breathes up and down like the rolling of a hill.

The room around her is filled to the brim, clocks covering an entire wall, some pointers spinning madly onto themselves, some turning with the patience of a grandfather reading a book to his lineage.

Rain, it reads on the chipped blue label of a numberless clock, a hand circling in a rhythmic tick, a mass of angry black clouds where midnight should be, the drawings changing around the wheel from April showers to jolly drizzle.

There are rusty gardening tools beneath a boarded-up window and opened sacks of humus bleed into the abandoned floors. Unnervingly arranged dead seeds form a stream towards the shadow beneath a hand-painted chest of drawers.

An open portmanteau rests on the wall framed by rays of moribund light squeezing through rickety walls; lavish ragged dresses and dusty stuffed bunnies swimming within; pink baby shoes and over-washed underskirts having a tea party at the bottom.

Lined-up novels on bookshelves lay on top of each other in the comfort of touch, interspaced with torn childish letters in alphabetic order. A tiny cloak made of velvet hangs on a chair as if a visitor dropped by for tea.

A precarious chandelier hovers watchfully over the lonely sleeping woman, unsafe chain links repaired with strong white threads that spread unevenly on the whole ceiling.

Guarded by an unnatural radius of clean floor, a white gown lies.

Sewn to perfection, beaded with gleaming pearls and the most delicate of laces. Impeccable seams, regal lines.

A dress made mindful of love, of promise. A dress fit for a future princess.

A rumble of thunder shakes the house as the pointer in the blue clock approaches woeful clouds.

Next to it, a black clock with eight bent lines shooting from the sides of its mechanism box moves from sleepy lids to the daunting indication of bug wide eyes in a resounding clang.

Come see, flurry black bodies with milky white eyes descend on long lines of silk hanging from the ceiling. Siblings, mothers, and children crawl over the mold, spidery legs fortifying supporting beams, the walls, covering memories in a shield of white.

Come see come see come see come see

I do not wish to open my eyes; she mumbles.

I do not wish; she rolls to her side; her nightgown catching in the shards beneath.

I do not want; she covers her face with a feeble palm.

I do not feel; she insists.

You must, the wind howls, rattles her clothes, scrapes down her skin. Your house is dying.

The hearth coughs soot, black and filthy like a diseased lung.

I do not see; she screams, eyes sewn shut, tears fighting to slip through the sutures, cracked fingernails pulling at the roots of her hair, weeds from soil. I am no longer this body.

The unstoppable hand of time reaches midnight.

Storm water slides down the walls in a furious current, washing away the grime and dislodging all the clocks. Those crack and splash onto the rising puddles on the floor with various clangs, cuckoos flailing madly in their springs before falling into final silence.

The bookshelf cracks under a stretch of ceiling that collapses, books losing themselves from each other, weeping in their solitude as they drown in now waist-deep water, loose papers with family drawings (Mum, Dad, Nesta, Me, and Feyre) soften and rip, the colors bleeding and blending into undistinguished blobs of ink.

Seeds of all shapes twirl wildly in whirlpools, and a window box of dead flowers floats aimlessly in the chaos. In the aquatic graveyard beneath them lays a dress of snow, pulled until it is trapped below the floorboards; a bunny covers itself in an old velvet cloak, lingering tragically hopeful underneath the hand-painted dresser.

Cobwebs are unwoven by each violent raindrop, supporting beams breaking like bones.

The woman stands limply in the midst of it all, eyes unseeing, unaware of the fatal torrent around her.

There is a cause to her silence, just as there is a cause to a collapsed house.

I am made of fear, she mulls under the debris, quiet in the wreckage, silent in the aftermath

There’s nothing else for me but forever.

(5)

The House of Wind’s library was the biggest private collection Elain had ever seen. Rows upon rows of carefully curated stories, some ancient with cracking leather covers, tell-tale signs of use staining the spines, dented with the accumulated pressure of readers’ hands. Other books seemed new, the residual smell of press machine oil and ink lingering on the pages, spines unbroken.

Nesta had smuggled romance books from their old village’s dusty bookstore for years, kept them below a loose floorboard in their cottage, discreetly wrapping them in old, moth-eaten clothes to prevent damage. Nesta had cherished those books, had wished for them, and would come into a nasty mood when it was time to return them to the store to avoid the wrath of a deceived salesman with the law by his side.

Old habits die hard, Elain discerned, as her sister slipped a pocket-sized, pink-covered booklet into the folds of her dress. Even with permission to own the piece, Nesta still chose to take it for herself like a criminal. Never conceding, never compromising.

Elain eyes remained unmoving while she made her inspections, the unbending lids to the husk which sheltered her thoughts. She had been counting the organized shelves, internally categorizing books within her eyesight.

83 with single-worded titles, 6 – 12 letters.

102 with double-worded titles, the first being predominately articles.

329 with three words in the title, a maximum of 27 letters.

A small fold in her brow flattened into the clear glass of her forehead, all the muscles in Elain’s face relaxing as the shallowness of her research settled her bones.

Elain was perched on the window’s nook, manufactured lightness to her sentience, while Nesta was lounging straight-backed on a velvet armchair, both hawk-eyed towards their worries. Biscuits grew stale and tea turned cold in gleaming silver trays between them.

There was one volume, Elain noticed, with undisguised and not yet restrained annoyance, which clashed horribly with her elegant system of grouping books by minimalist names. There’s control in succinct titles. There’s calmness in brevity. No space for subterfuge, for mazes or threads leading to somebody else’s memories, eyes not of her own.

A raging woman made of flame, screaming screaming screaming-

One blink of cavern-like pupils.

514 publications with respectable construction.

Not that one, though.

Norton’s Concise Manual for Swift Diagnosis and Treatment of Battlefield Injuries

First, it blatantly lied. There was no brevity of title or length, the heavy-looking tome glaringly thicker than a closed fist. A deceiving book. Elain’s head moved to the side, instinctually, the skin of her neck folding into the unpracticed movement.

A deception not even attempting to remain cloaked. What a disagreeable structure.

No balance, no harmonious restraint.

11 words in the name, what indisputable distaste.

70 letters made tiny to fit into its obnoxious shelf back.

Elain wanted it gone.

(6)

The guest room was soft, like the lingering feel of worn leather.

There was light everywhere, reflecting from mirrors and vanity vials, bleaching the dark wood floors. It created the most delightful shapes under her eyelids if she gazed out the window just right.

Incandescent.

Perfectly blinding.

Elain could stay inside all day, motionless above uncreased bed linens.

Frozen in the armchair with a book resting in peace on her lap.

Unless, of course, it was night.

There was nothing uncovered beneath revealing starlight.

No cave, no shelter, only the stoic awareness of a seasick mind.

Melting snow; ethereal crestfallen swans; the breakage of a woman who would have never begged; a lake so deep it is bottomless.

Bottomless black eyes, all-seeing, swirling, a current so strong it is the hands that push you down, down into the whispering voice that loves you while killing you.

The shards of porcelain on the floor were still beautiful, if only someone mended them.

Elain grabbed each one and placed them delicately on a tray, using a finely made doily to sweep the warm tea spilled on the floor

She padded slowly down the stairs, nightgown dragging around her feet.

Broken china rested on the kitchen countertop, Nuala would take care of it, see to it with the loving touch of an artisan who was ageless and immortal.

Elain reached for the multicolored leaves inside a mason jar under the window, setting them inside the copper pan with boiling water over the stovetop.

Only her hands, if she blinked, started to wither with age, and a black box of fury appeared between them-

The coolness of the counter beneath her young, translucent fingers.

Her mind stalled for half a second, hesitating, unsure, then searched until it found it.

Anger for the unpalatable book.

Elain had something to do.

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ

Libraries are known for their solitude. A place for reflection, for diving deep between words, for biting into a book and spitting out a seed-shaped thought.

Elain walked barefoot on the soft expensive carpet beneath her feet. Sangravah patterns, she noted, not quite sure of how she had known so.

The book still stood where it always had, after Navigation for Beginners (3 words, 23 letters). It was just… there. Like its existence wasn’t a disrespect to the Mother herself.

Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, clumsy and irritated hands grabbed the dark blue cover and, unprepared for its weight, let it fall with a muted thud.

The pages fell open, a warm invitation, into the carefully drawn figure of a lacerated spleen. ( when the pages fell open, her eyes couldn’t help but see)

Mindful of the spleen’s vascularization, a Concentric Mending Spell (page 278) must be placed using the middle, ring and little finger, pinpointing the magic into the gash and closing it quickly thus avoiding fatal hemorrhagic shock. The healer’s pointer finger and thumb must only locate the laceration, while the palm concentrates the spell, and the latter three fingers expel it. Previous use of whole-hand magic in repairing interior cuts has led to unwanted tissue adherence and is advised against when in treatment of internal organ damage (see Index for Whole-Hand Magic).

Elain blinked once, then twice.

Smoothness replaced the furrow in her brows and with a short tilt of her head, Elain brushed back her golden curtain of hair with an absent hand as she ran the pad of a curious finger along the lines, her knees completely pressed down on the rug.

Those instructions sounded nothing like the healing she had experienced from Madja.

The ancient fae had only felt her, placing her palms on either side of her head or using unfamiliar copper tools to measure some information she deemed important but escaped Elain’s logic. Madja had moved her hands over Elain’s body as she had once seen a Child of the Blessed do over a clear glass orb during a town square fair.

A quiet, expanding bubble of pressure grew from the pit of Elain’s belly until it lay underneath her skin, soft light shimmering behind once dulled, wooden eyes.

The intricate directives from the book were precise and sure, based on wisely curated knowledge and the pure need to guide those who could be good to others. Save them, even.

Elain held the book kindly in her hands, resting it on her arms as she skittered over to her room in fastened steps so as not to attract unwanted attention.

Under the shy rising sun of the following morning, a side lamp - a friend to a sleepless, captivated woman in a sunlit room – rested with its oil completely burnt.

(7)

The townhouse was empty when Elain woke up.

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, most of the house’s occupants were busy, political figures with a multitude of urgent daily tasks.

Not that Elain was particularly aware.

She had been furtively reading every healing book she could get her hands on, and the more fascinated she became, the less she seemed to register the comings and goings of the routine around her.

She could barely help it, could she? It was an entire world she was becoming privy to. It had never occurred to her as a human to be curious about such things. In fact, she doubted anyone in the Human Lands had any notion of the delicacy and potency of Healing. The healers back home had to rely on herbs, cold or warm wet cloths, and wishful thinking to cure someone, if they were even able to achieve such a feat.

Not home anymore, she would think, instinctually, and remember the towering walls she longed to be housed within, of luxurious balls, of blue eyes so bright they were sapphires, of a simple band of iron on a delicate finger.

Elain turned to her books.

Mending charms, diagnostic spells, potions. Instruments with the most varied, peculiar purposes. Special needles could be used to draw blood, and expertly assembled lenses could reveal what lay within it. Armbands imbued with magic could indicate the strength of a patient’s blood pressure.

The body was made of such intricate systems, which worked together magnificently to perform delightful, orchestrated functions. She was mesmerized by all of it.

Elain had also taken to helping in the kitchens as well. Nesta and Feyre tended to worry and watch Elain much more closely whenever she stayed in her room too long, and it was exponentially harder to read what she wanted when they were around.

You shouldn’t concern yourself with these things, she feared they would say, the shadow of a winged male behind them. Maybe you should try reading something else, something with nicer pictures, or lighter stories to ease your mind.

Those kind words, seemingly thoughtful advice, and concern would dwindle her precious books one by one, and then she would have nothing again.

Elain hated it too, how they were always looking at her with disheartened gazes. Not only her sisters but of all the Inner Circle. They never understood anything of what she had to say, would never credit any of her thoughts. Even the fox twitched its nose and bent his head to the side with confusion - on the occasion his face wasn’t drenched in pain and longing.

But she had tried. She had told them of the changed woman with feathers set aflame. Warned them of the tempestuous owner of the onyx box, only for it to fall on seemingly deafened ears, her speech only another line added to Feyre’s forehead, another bolt of iron in Nesta’s spine, another worry for someone else had to deal with.

Only Elain could see, and for that, she remained invisible.

The dough flattened smoothly under the roller; Elain’s arms loosened into the motion. The floured surface of the worktable was crammed with little jars of sugar and jams, multipurpose cloths, and an open cookbook. She would finish her pastries, leave them resting on the windowsill then hurry upstairs. Hopefully, her sisters would see them and take much longer to search for her, allowing Elain to have the afternoon she was carefully crafting for herself.

With the soft ding of an egg-shaped time counter, Elain took out a tray of perfectly golden crusted squares and placed them on the cleared table.

There was, if she was honest, a soothing quality to baking. The gentleness of each step lulled her mind and made it easier for her to tune out external and internal frictions, focusing only on the motion of her body.

As she dried her hands in her apron, pastries gleaming with homemade poisonberry jam, Elain heard the soft padding of boots down the hallway, a slithering shadow curling around the doorframe and disappearing as quickly as it came.

With haste, she fled the kitchen and went to her room to find the singularity of calmness.

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ

Dinner was a loud affair, as it always was, so Elain waited until they were all overtly satisfied and tipsy to approach her sister in the drawing room. The looming threat of war had yet to diminish the utter happiness Feyre’s return had on Rhysand and his friends.

Feyre was sprawled on the couch, the spot next to her newly vacated by a stumbling Mor, who had claimed the need for beauty sleep.

“How are you feeling today?” her sister asked, her long fingers dragging lovingly over Elain’s arm. A caress she is sure her sister would have never allowed herself to even try, if it weren’t for the drink-induced fog on her mind.

“Just fine,” Elain said, and then with the planned drop of her chin and the openness of seemingly unsure eyes, she continued “I was wondering if you could call for Madja again,”

Fey sat up in alarm, which could attract Nesta’s piercing, preoccupied gaze, so Elain hurried to add “She mentioned some sort of sleeping draught the last time, I believe I could make good use of it,”, watching the other side of the room with the corner of her eye to make sure Nesta was still in her hushed conversation with Amren.

“Oh,” Feyre visibly relaxed, and some of the tension harbored between Elain’s shoulder blades loosened. “Of course, I can send for her,” her youngest sister confirmed, and the tight fist of anxiety in Elain’s gut released its tight grip, replaced by tentative anticipation.

“I’m so glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ

The calendar on the wall indicated the start of the weekend.

I believed it Monday still, Elain thought to herself.

She was sitting in the living room, having a late breakfast by the window.

An odd sight, the antonym of the barely acknowledged empty chair below early sunlight, collecting the friendly conversation around. There was no one else to notice so.

Feyre had told Elain the previous afternoon – while hurriedly moving down the hallway, rushing outside for some appointment she didn’t even consider explaining - that Madja would come to the townhouse at ten o’clock in the morning, and that she would try to join the appointment, but was unsure if she would be able to.

Nesta was, as she so often was those days, in Amren’s apartment, strengthening her magic. Elain thought she’d heard why that was but couldn’t remember.

Maybe a dream, then.

Distantly, something in Elain longed to also have that privilege. A tutor, someone to guide her in learning this well of uncharted territory inside, but that consideration was swiftly swept under a sodden rug.

A knock on the front door had Elain on her feet, shaking her head as if staving off an unseen fog.

It had been considerably hard, trying to maintain herself awake. She had reached and held so strongly to the absence of her mind that it had become nearly impossible to keep herself lucid on the rare occasions she had wanted to. There was a particularly interesting book on the history of Healing Magic, thankfully written in the common tongue – unlike a large part of the Medicinal Section in the library – that had Elain repeatedly dozing off, either proverbially or literally, in the same way, she had gladly done numerous times. Before it had been a welcoming state, the static of nothingness, but it was consuming her now in a way she hadn’t understood, glad as she had been for the reprieve from her life.

These epiphanies often came and went like waves. Sometimes she would allow the ships to go in with the high tide and return with small storytelling orbs of white light. Sometimes the boats would be swallowed whole by the tyrannical sea, drowned to the bottom until only a clear empty surface stretched on, the reflective glow of crystal spheres crushed in the sand below.

Now, she wanted something more.

There were things she wanted to know.

Madja stood on the front steps in her healer robes. The magic surrounding her was cool and soothing, the relaxing breeze on a perspired forehead. Elain wondered if the old fae is the type to enlighten a room simply by standing in it.

Elain ushered her into the already prepped sitting room, an open notebook, its pages organized in scribbles, sat on the arm of the host’s armchair.

“You seem to be in better spirits,” Madja began once they were both comfortable sitting, pleasantries exchanged. “But I was called in to see the need to prescribe sleep medication.”

“I asked my sister for your presence, yes” Elain stammered. “I have questions, and was hopeful you could aid me in finding the answers,”

Madja sipped her tea with steady hands and eyed Elain with a look she had seldomly encountered directed at her.

Interest.

“My time is yours, Lady Elain.”

The leather-bound notebook was humid from the sweat in her hands, some ingrained sense in her mind making the back on her neck pinprick and her knuckles curl as if afraid of a straight ruler.

“Well,” she breathed in once, then blinked. “In most medical texts, there are numerous examples and experiments on healing fae bodies. I found in one of Joseph Norton’s books many references to the need for quick healing, done with moderate care, and modest effectiveness rates yet high survival chances. Practices are much more rudimentary than the ones from Annabelle Rite’s manuals. She maintains through all her works the extreme need for balanced, methodical, time-consuming procedures, which allows her to utilize whole-hand magic with minimal side effects, and it seems so curious to me that she would even attempt to do so with so many predecessors discouraging it so deeply...”

She shook her head again, blushing – truthfully! - in a fashion she hadn’t for years,

“But I am unsure of why would fae people even need healing practices, if there are entire collections dedicated to explaining the varied ways in which the body heals itself, at higher rates than any other known species. Wouldn’t the spells muddle the body’s own magic? It sounds unnecessary, why isn’t it enough?”

Madja settled her teacup down and laid back further in her armchair, eyes crystalline and lips tugging at the side for an aged smile.

“It would depend on what sort of injury we’d be discussing. Internal bleeding, for instance, if small enough will be dealt with by the body’s own magic. It is noticeable in the evolution of hematomas, as they change colors as the blood is reabsorbed and the blood vessels are restored. Now, when internal bleeding comes from blunt trauma – falling from a high distance, for example - the body would not be effective in healing itself quickly enough. The simplest reason for that is, as much as some try to state otherwise, faeries aren’t perfect. The healer’s job, in this case, would be to work with the patient’s own natural healing magic, potentialize and organize it to ensure they would be able to regain all their functions. It can often, in presentation, be much more complicated. Norton’s protocols would be a particularly safe choice, seeing as they prioritize promptness, and in high-risk situations, those are inevitably what a healer with a multitude of variables to solve will likely tend towards.”

“A stab wound, on the other hand, is much more critical, and with hemorrhage comes the diminishing of the natural magic. Then, suturing charms or manual stitching might be required with the danger of losing the patient completely if not done in proper haste.

Rite’s protocols, I’ve found, are much more appropriate for long-term care. You seem to have read her book, so perhaps you may remember that most of her case studies and examples center around lasting injuries or chronic illnesses. I’ve seen impressive improvements in previously immobile limbs, once from almost permanently dormant to near full range motion from her Wavelength Spells.”

“Mind Injuries, which differ greatly from both, are perhaps the most elusive sort of healing. It tends to be intuitive, and it takes considerable skill to allow the healer’s magic to run unbound in the patient’s body without any harm, and an even greater amount to ensure recovery.”

“I would add that Faeries, High Fae or otherwise, tend to see themselves as infallible due to their perception of immortality, but healing magic and healers came from the tested and true knowledge that there is much frailty in being fae, to the utmost displeasure of the others of our kind. A healer’s job, as I’ve discovered, lies in giving them a second chance.”

“Oh,” Elain said still flushed, and resisted the urge to press her palms to her cheeks.

She could barely believe she had dragged this female from her prior, likely much more important engagements to come and explain to her the seemingly most logical and obvious concepts she had ever heard.

No wonder no one took her seriously if even with the amount of literature she had consumed in the past days (weeks? or months?) she couldn’t make sense of the most common of concepts.

How could she think— How delusional she must have been to even consider herself able to understand such a complex subject –

“Thank you, sorry for taking up so much of your time.” She made herself say, prying her stiff knuckles from her notebook, five crescent moon shapes on the once plain black leather cover. Her teacup clattered mortifyingly on its plate as she moved to pick it up, brown eyes irreflective.

“That was quite refreshing, Lady Elain. I haven’t had a chance to mull over healing in such a long time… Most of my protocols are so inherent to me, I find myself doing them instinctually.”

Elain wouldn’t learn this about herself for many years, but her ears twitched most daintily, disturbing some strands of her golden-brown hair.

“That is very kind.”

“There is a Healing Program here in Velaris if you find yourself with time. It is mostly lectures and debates. There is a selection process, but from what I gathered, you’ll have no problem enrolling.”

“I want,” she whispered, half dazed, teacup clutched tightly in her hands.

“If you believe I could… Yes, Ms. Madja, I want it.”

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

Thank you for reading! I would LOVE to know what you feel about it ;)

I'm working on part two, if you want to be tagged to find out what sort of crazy shit imma put my baby Elain through, let me know.

Special thanks from the bottom of my heart to @bittermuire and @sunlightsage for being the sweetest most supportive and most amazing beta readers I could have asked for! You mean the world to me :)

#elain week #elain archeron #elucien #if you squint #you guys i love this one ok #elain archeron fanfic #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #acotar fic #ana writes #i went full nerd mode on this #elain archeron week

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ga-yuu · 11 months

Text

----Part 1-----

A few days later....

Morinaga: "A formal agreement has been reached between Yoritomo-sama and Yoshitsune-sama regarding Yoshino going to Hiraizumi."

(....! Really?)

I meet up with Morinaga-san, Benkei and Sueharu-san to hear the results.

Benkei: "The Rebels will not do anything to Yoshino, who accompanies the orphans, with her bodyguard."

Benkei: "Even after finishing her business, Yoshino won't be restrained."

Benkei: "In exchange for agreeing to that, Yoshino will be staying with us at the Rebels' mansion."

Sueharu: "Huh?"

Yoshino: "Eh!?"

My eyes widen in surprise.

Benkei: "Yoshino's supernatural powers makes her a threat to Yoshitsune-sama and the Rebels."

Benkei: "So surveillance is better when it's close at hand."

Benkei: "........well, that's only half of the reason."

(Hmm? There's another reason?)

Benkei: "The main reason is that, Yoshitsune-sama has taken interest in you."

Yoshino: "....!? Yoshitsune-sama!? Why?"

Benkei: "You can ask him when you meet him in person."

Sueharu: "............"

Morinaga: "To be honest, we're all a little worried...."

Morinaga-san looks at us with a wry smile.

Morinaga: "But Yoshitsune-sama is not the kind to break agreements, so your safety is guaranteed."

Morinaga: "Still, the Shogunate was allowed to send a bodyguard to the Rebels' house along with you."

Yoshino: "You're right! Then I won't feel nervous..."

Sueharu: "If you're appointing some average bodyguard, then they will be instantly crushed by Kurama with his fingertips."

(Ughh)

Then, as if he had realised something, Sueharu-san glared at Morinaga-san.

Sueharu: "Wait a minute! Please tell me it's not you, Morinaga!"

Morinaga: "Honestly I wanted to, but I got other jobs."

Sueharu: "Pheww~"

Morinaga: "Sorry I can't come with you, Yoshino. But don't worry, the bodyguard that is appointed for you is very reliable!"

Yoshino: "Really!?"

Morinaga: "Yep. He's very hardworking, very responsible, very kindhearted...."

Then Morinaga-san held up his index finger.

Morinaga: "He's eyes glow like the clear sky. His smile resembles a blooming flower and his blushing cheeks are redder than a rose."

(Hm?)

At that moment, the sliding door burst open and someone jumped into the room.

Shigehira: "What kind of introduction is that!?"

-----Part 2-----

At that moment, the sliding door burst open and someone jumped into the room.

Shigehira: "What kind of introduction is that!?"

(Shigehira-san!?)

Shigehira: "I arrived just a moment ago and I heard you guys....how embarrassing, I look like an idiot now."

(He's embarrassed...)

Benkei: "It's been a long time, Taira no Shigehira."

Shigehira: "...Same here."

Sueharu: "I see. So you are Yoshino's bodyguard."

Yoshino: "Shigehira-san..."

Shigehira: "What? You have complaints?"

Yoshino: "Not at all....! Actually, thank you!"

I shake my head in panic and straightened my back.

Morinaga: "Good for you, Shigehira. You got what you wanted. Did you know, Shigehira was begging everyone to give him this role."

(Eh?)

Shigehira: "Hey! Don't say that...!"

Sueharu: "Ohh..."

Shigehira: "Why are you giving me that look!?"

Shigehira-san raised his voice and pointed his finger at us.

Then he awkwardly looks towards me.

Shigehira: "Don't get me wrong."

Shigehira: "I will not tolerate cruelty towards orphans, and if Yoshino-san is going into enemy territory for those children..."

Shigehira: "Then....because she's on our side......it's only natural to help her, right?"

(He....called me his ally)

Sueharu: "Heh. But you guys at one point of time suspected Yoshino for having informal connections with me, right?"

Shigehira: "Yeah? Whose fault do you think it is?"

Shigehira-san glares at Sueharu-san, blue veins slightly popping on sides of his beautiful face.

Yoshino: "Shigehira-san, it's okay. I don't mind anymore."

Yoshino: "It's natural that you'd would suspect me in that situation. But now I'm glad that you said you were on my side in this situation."

Shigehira: "Yoshino-san..."

Shigehira: "The suspicion against you has already been completely resolved in the Shogunate, thanks to Morinaga-san's report."

Shigehira: ".....Yoritomo-sama and Kagetoki-san are waiting for your return."

(Thank god....)

Yoshino: "Thank you! Shigehira-san."

Feeling relieved, I smiled.

Shigehira: "Just call me Shigehira. You don't need to add extra titles anymore."

Yoshino: "....! Really..? Are you...sure?"

Shigehira: "Of course. We're comrades now and we both are about the same age."

(I'm so happy. I'm finally being recognised!)

Yoshino: "In that case, I'll call you Shigehira-kun! Can I?"

Shigehira: ".......Mm."

Sueharu: "Nice to meet you too, Shigehira-kun."

Shigehira: "That's not for you!"

-----Part 3-----

Sueharu: "Nice to meet you too, Shigehira-kun."

Shigehira: "That's not for you!"

Shigehira-kun snapped at Sueharu-san who interrupted us.

(For the serious Shigehira-kun, Sueharu-san may be a natural enemy...)

Sueharu: "But I'm close with Yoshino too."

Sueharu: "If Shigehira is Yoshino's friend, I can be friends with you too, right?"

Shigehira: "What kind of logic is that.....? Also, what do you mean by 'close'?"

Sueharu: "Well..."

------Options------

Don't say inappropriate things.

We're just...friends.

You're just mistakening.

--------

Yoshino: "We're just friends...! There's nothing more to it, I swear."

Sueharu: "The best parts of being just friends is that you think you're just friends but instead you're actually drowning in love."

Shigehira: "HUHHH!?"

(Sueharu-san is always teasing me....)

Benkei: "Relax Shigehira. Here, have some tea."

Shigehira: "....Ah..tea, at a time like this?"

Shigehira-kun takes cup from Benkei's hands anyway and drinks it in one gulp.

Shigehira: "....Mmm, this tastes good."

Morinaga: "Yep. Benkei is really good at making tea."

Sueharu: "You seem to have gotten too comfortable with your enemy."

Morinaga: "On the battlefield, we're enemies. But outside that, Benkei and I are muscle-buddies."

Shigehira: "---Muscle buddies?"

Shigehira-kun's ears twitch.

Sueharu: "These two had a push-up competition inside an oxcart we were riding. It was so annoying."

Sueharu: "But who cares, Shigehira seems like he won't tolerate nonsense like that."

Shigehira: "Those biceps..."

(Umm)

Shigehira-kun gazes Morinaga-san and Benkei's arms with a fiery passion.

Sueharu: "Shigehira?"

Shigehira: "Damn, I wish I was there to see it....I-I mean..."

Shigehira: "You two seem like you had a lot of fun talking about your bodies after the competition, right.......?"

(Surprisingly, Shigehira-kun seems to be really interested, huh...?)

Benkei: "Ah? Well, we were talking about our diets and exercise.."

Morinaga: "Yep, it was nice to talk something fresh for once."

Shigehira: "Benkei-san! On the way to Hiraizumi, can you share some of your workout routine and diets with me as well...!?"

Benkei: "If you want, sure."

Shigehira: "..Yayy!"

Sueharu: "I thought, finally we'll have a normal person coming with us, but I'm an idiot to even expect something like that."

Sueharu-san looked up at the sky is if he had given up.

.........

That night...

While looking after the orphans, Shigehira-kun and I hurriedly prepared for our departure.

At the same time, Sueharu-san was...

Morinaga: "Can I have a moment, Sueharu?"

Sueharu: "Pay me 100k for each moment."

Even though Morinaga called him, Sueharu doesn't stop walking.

Morinaga quickly catches upto him and grabbed his hand.

Sueharu: "What?"

-----Part 4-----

Sueharu: "What?"

Morinaga: "I will be leaving soon, so I wanted to talk to you before that."

Sueharu: "Only the women who love you will be happy to have your one-sided wishes imposed upon them."

Morinaga-san broad chest does not budge even when Sueharu tries to push him away.

Sueharu clicked his tongue in annoyance.

Morinaga: "Sueharu. I had no idea how you've been spending your time after you left me...."

Sueharu: "That's to be expected, because I didn't tell you anything."

Sueharu: "So? Is the Shogunate's very own fierce general taking pity on me now?"

Morinaga: "That's not true."

Morinaga firmly grabbed Sueharu's wrist.

Sueharu: "...Let go."

Sueharu's frown didn't scare Morinaga and he looked straight at him.

Morinaga: "I'm frustrated."

Morinaga: "I couldn't do anything to help you in your time of need."

Sueharu: "Enough."

Sueharu sharply expresses his rejection.

Sueharu: "Even back then, I had to jerk your hand away."

Sueharu: "Once I did that, I didn't need your help again."

Morinaga: "........."

Sueharu: "There are millions of people out there who needs your help, right? Morinaga."

Morinaga: "I.."

Sueharu: "I said enough."

Anger dwelled in Sueharu's one eye like a lightning.

Sueharu: "For you're entire life, you've been lucky and smart. But unfortunately for you, I was the first and only thing that went wrong."

Sueharu: "That's why you're so obsessed with me."

Morinaga: "....Sueharu."

Sueharu: "Remember this. You can be unknowingly arrogant because you are a privileged human being."

Sueharu walks by Morinaga, who remained silent.

Morinaga follows his back and speaks in a low voice-----

Morinaga: "----Still."

Morinaga: "For me, Sueharu will always be my best friend. I cannot lie to my heart."

Sueharu: ".....I don't see what good a title like that would do."

Without turning around, Sueharu walks away.

...............

(Finally! The medical examination of the children are done and I also prepared extra medicines just in case)

(Looks like we can leave without any problem)

Yoshino: "Ah, Sueharu-san!"

I saw someone walking in front of me, and I called out.

Sueharu: "....! Yoshino."

-----Part 5-----

Sueharu: "....! Yoshino."

(Huh? There's something wrong)

When he turned around to look at me, I can feel a gloominess in his face.

Yoshino: "What happened?"

Sueharu: "Hm? Nothing."

(Really...?)

I stared at Sueharu-san as he walks towards me.

Sueharu: "If you keep staring at me too much, I'll have a hole in my head."

Yoshino: "....I couldn't help it, because you are good at hiding things."

Sueharu: "...I won't deny that."

Still, I decided to take the plunge and ask once more.

Yoshino: "Sorry, if I was mistaken."

Yoshino: "But I feel like Sueharu-san has been spacing out a lot ever since the cockfighting incident."

Sueharu: "........."

Yoshino: "If talking can help you ease a little bit, how about----"

A hand reached out and touched my cheek...

Sueharu: "Heh. You wanna help me feel at ease, huh?"

Yoshino: "Isn't it...obvious."

There was a passionate flame smoldering in his eyes that was neither irritation or impatience.

I gulped when I saw that.

Yoshino: "S-Sueharu..."

Sueharu: "Yoshino."

(Ah)

He holds my body closely, and my heart jumped.

Sueharu: "Rather than a conversation, I like feeling the warmth of a person to soothe my heart."

Sueharu: "Will you help me now?"

Yoshino: "Nn...."

He whispered in a low voice and I could feel my ears turning red.

Yoshino: "Please stop teasing me."

At that time----

Sueharu: "Shh..."

Sueharu-san then places his index finger on my lips.

Yoshino: "....!?"

Then he pulled me into a nearby room.

Yoshino: "W-What's wrong?"

Sueharu: "Stay still."

Just as I was about to say something, I hear footsteps from other side of the hallway.

Shigehira: "Have you seen Yoshino-san!? I wonder where she went?"

Morinaga: "Hmm. I didn't see her going out, though."

(It's Shigehira-kun and Morinaga-san. they seem to be looking for me)

The moment I squirmed, I felt the two arms holding me a little tightly.

Sueharu: "Don't go."

(Sueharu-san?)

While letting out a painful sigh, he buried his head in my shoulder.

I was confused at his indulgent actions.

Yoshino: "Mm....."

Chapter 17

#ikemen series #ikemen genjiden #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #otome #cybird #ikemen mc #ikegen #main story translations #ikemen genjiden sueharu

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