#Those are among the dreaded questions | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thankskenpenders · 5 months ago

Text

The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings review

The day has finally come. Many, understandably, thought we'd never get here. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten here. We've been through so much. Lawsuits, reboots, redesigns, unreleased NFTs, empty legal threats over the fact that movie Knuckles has a dad, an attempt to license out Scourge the Hedgehog to fans that immediately got canceled (in both meanings of the term), and many, MANY idiotic Twitter controversies. But now, here we are.

Thirteen years after first announcing it in the middle of his legal battles with Archie and Sega that changed the American Sonic comics forever, former writer Ken Penders has released the first part of his new series: The Lara-Su Chronicles.

Yes. I had to buy the book. I had to take one for the team. Look at the fucking URL of this blog, a blog I've been using to talk about the American Sonic comics for nearly a decade while the specter of this book loomed in the distance. The one time I've actually been paid to write an article about anything in any professional capacity, it was an article about the Penders lawsuits. I'm cited on his Wikipedia page. There was no way I was going to skip reviewing this, and there was no guarantee that scans would ever turn up online given the incredibly small audience for this trash. (Only 166 people preordered this, and even that number feels way higher than it should be.) No, I had to preorder it to ensure I could get a copy and cover it for the blog... even if that meant my name would be forever immortalized in the list of "supporters" in the back of the book. These are the sacrifices I must make as a woman who stumbled ass backwards into being an amateur Archie Sonic historian.

So, what exactly is in this book? How much of it is new? How bad is it? How did we even get here in the first place? How can this exist without Sega pursuing legal action? What happens next? And, most importantly... why are there multiple depictions of an Archie Sonic character breastfeeding in this book?

I'm here to answer those questions as best I can, and in agonizing detail.

First, for those just tuning in to this decades-long saga or those who maybe don't know the full story, here's a refresher on the background info.

"What the hell is this?"

The Lara-Su Chronicles is Ken Penders' long-dreaded long-awaited continuation of his 1994-2006 run on Archie Sonic, ignoring everything written after he left by other writers like Ian Flynn. In particular, it picks up from the cliffhanger ending of the 2003-2004 arc "Mobius: 25 Years Later," which was set in what Ken considers the definitive canonical future of the series. It stars Knuckles' daughter from that future era, Lara-Su, among other new and returning characters. The project was first announced near the start of Ken's legal battle with Archie in 2011, and he's been posting WIP previews online for about a decade. Now, after all this time, a Lara-Su Chronicles book finally exists.

We'll get to the actual contents of that book in a bit.

"He can do that without getting in trouble with Sega?"

Believe it or not, yes, he can.

Thanks to the outcome of Archie Comics' woefully mismanaged lawsuits against Ken (yes, they sued him after he started filing for copyrights, not the other way around), he now has full legal ownership of every story he wrote for Archie Sonic and every character he created for the series. This was explicitly granted to him in the terms of the settlement between him and Archie (acting on behalf of Sega). He can even reprint his old Sonic material as-is to his heart's content. The main catch is just that he can't write new stories featuring Sega characters or trademarks, and his new stories also have to be distinct from Sonic at a glance to avoid confusing readers. As such, reprints can't use Sonic iconography on the cover, a few Sega characters (mainly Knuckles) have been renamed and slightly redesigned in the new stories, and the art style has been changed to less closely resemble Sonic. But otherwise, he can do whatever he wants with his own characters.

All of this is because Archie lost the original copy of Ken's work-for-hire contract that signed over the rights to his work. Without that (or any alternative that was considered permissible in court), his comics and characters are the property of their creator by default. Yes, those old comics are full of Sega stuff, but Sega doesn't automatically own the copyright for every drawing of Sonic in existence. And Sega put their stamp of approval all over those comics and let them get sold at retail for decades, even though (in the eyes of the court) there was no legal paperwork granting them ownership of any of it. It's almost like they were unwittingly distributing a fan comic for years and declaring it a fair use of their property, and now there's no takesies backsies. It's a strange and unique copyright situation. Again, they worked all this out in the settlement. And, yes, fans have long speculated that Ken stole and destroyed his own contract to regain the rights to his work, but frankly Archie was so incompetent throughout the lawsuit (it went so bad that they had to fire and replace their lawyers midway through) that I completely buy the idea of them just losing important legal documents.

Also, in case it needs to be spelled out: while Ken's a weirdo, it's ultimately a good thing for creatives everywhere that Archie lost their lawsuit against Ken. We do not want to live in a world where corporations can claim ownership of peoples' work without the contracts to back it up. That would be an incredibly dangerous legal precedent to set. And more comic creators, and artists in general, should own their own work! Corporations are not your friend! They'll delete your work for a tax write-off in a heartbeat! It's just bewildering that this guy, of all people, was the creator who ended up successfully getting his shit back, and that this is what he's doing with it.

"What about his old collaborators? Are they involved? Is he paying them?"

Ken is mostly doing The Lara-Su Chronicles solo, though he has, in fact, talked about compensating the artists involved in any material he's reprinting. The ones who give enough of a shit to get paid for a small scale reprint of something they did 20 years ago, anyway.

On the subject of his collaborators, it's also worth pointing out that Ken's wasn't the only contract that was lost. Most of the early Archie Sonic writers from before Ian Flynn's time seem to be in the same boat as Ken, with the ownership of their stories and characters defaulting back to them. Again, Archie fucked up big time. But like I said, most of them don't really seem to give a shit. For most of them, Sonic was just a random temporary gig they took to pay the bills while Marvel was busy going bankrupt in the '90s, not the thing that defined their entire careers.

The only other Archie Sonic contributor who's tried to do anything on the level of what Ken is doing was writer and editor Scott Fulop. In 2016 he attempted to sue Archie for the unauthorized use of what are now retroactively considered his copyrighted characters and stories, and he even announced a standalone comic about his most famous Sonic character, the recurring villain Mammoth Mogul (sort of a pastiche of DC's Vandal Savage and Marvel's Kingpin, with wizard powers added for spice). However, Fulop lost his lawsuit because he didn't put together a particularly compelling case. Since then he seems to have wiped all traces of his ill-advised Mammoth Mogul comic and his company, Narrative Ark Entertainment, from the internet. For now, this leaves The Lara-Su Chronicles the only project of its kind.

"What about those other Archie Sonic reprints he just announced?"

At the time of writing, Ken is once again claiming that he's trying to get the band back together to reprint all of Archie Sonic, now under the bad new banner "Floating Island Productions: MOBIAN LINE" that I can't imagine he consulted literally anyone else on.

So, like, look. As we've established, Ken can reprint his own stories. And if he can work something out with the other contributors whose contracts were lost, he can print their work, too. But there is no fucking way he's getting his hands on Ian Flynn's run, which Sega undoubtedly holds the copyright for. Even if they don't, Ian needs to maintain a good working relationship with both Sega and IDW if he's to keep his job, so he'd never go for this. Not to mention that Ian and Ken just... don't get along! Ken's whole plan here seems to be predicated on IDW going out of business (a thing he REALLY wants to happen) and freeing up the Sonic comic license, after which he knocks on Sega's door and goes "hey I've still got dirt on you guys," blackmailing them into giving him the Sonic license back so that he can reprint the later comics. Every step of this plan is ludicrous. It's never gonna happen.

He's been saying he wants to reprint the whole series for a few years now, though. This isn't really anything new. And despite his lofty plans that set Sonic Twitter ablaze, he quickly backpedaled. The only specific things in the works right now are a "two-volume omnibus" of all of his Knuckles stories and a collection of artist Scott Shaw's work on the very early Archie Sonic issues, since they're on good terms with each other. I have no idea how Ken plans on packaging these when he can't put any Sega characters or the Freedom Fighters on the covers, but these projects are small enough in scale that there's a decent chance they'll see the light of day. Scott Shaw only did like five issues. But anything beyond that? I'll believe it when I see it.

Or, y'know, this could've all just been a publicity stunt for his new book. I wouldn't put it past him. Let's just focus on the book that actually exists.

"So he finally did it? He made a whole Lara-Su book? It's out? He finished it??"

Yes and no.

The book that's out now is The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings, a prologue for the series of seven graphic novels Ken somehow plans on making, even though it's taken him 13 years to put out literally anything new. I don't know whether or not this counts as book one of seven, because it only features 30 pages of new comics. 30.5 if I'm being generous.

Most of the book is actually just a reprint of his infamous Archie Sonic storyline "Mobius: 25 Years Later", which ran from issue #131 to #144 in 2003-2004. (Again, yes, he can reprint this, he just can't put Sonic on the cover.) Why's it infamous? Well, Ken had been building anticipation for this future era of the series for basically his entire run. We kept seeing King Sonic and Queen Sally from the future. Knuckles' entire backstory hinges on his dad having a vision of this future. Several years before Silver the Hedgehog was created, it was Lara-Su who was Sonic's equivalent to Future Trunks, the cool-looking child of one of the main characters who traveled back in time to try and prevent a dark future. Believe it or not, yes, there was hype for Lara-Su. And then we finally got M25YL, and none of that cool stuff happened. Instead it really ended up being about how unbearably boring the middle aged Sonic, Knuckles, Sally, and co. are in this peaceful future where Robotnik is dead and they're all married with kids, forced into traditional nuclear family gender roles. Lara-Su is present, but she mostly just does generic teen girl stuff and complains about how Knuckles won't let her do anything even though she REALLY wants to be the new Guardian of Angel Island, like, super bad! Come on, dad!!!

In its original printing, this meandering arc ended on an abrupt time travel cliffhanger that Ken was never able to follow up on before he left Archie in 2006. This new printing slightly changes that ending, using the unresolved timey-wimey shenanigans as a convenient excuse to alter the entire timeline. This creates the slightly different world of The Lara-Su Chronicles, where the few relevant Sega-owned characters have been replaced and everyone is ten times uglier.

After this, we finally get two short new stories picking up where M25YL left off: "The Storm," starring Acorn Kingdom super-spy and known creep Geoffrey St. John, and an early release of the first chapter of The Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows, the first full TLSC graphic novel.

And now that we're all on the same page about what we're looking at, let's actually talk about the book!

The cover

Let's start by beating a dead horse. The cover art: it's still bad! But why is it bad?

The cover is, of course, based on Patrick Spaziante's cover from Archie Sonic #131, the start of the "Mobius: 25 Years Later" arc. (Ken did the layout for that cover, though, so in the eyes of the law he's the original creator who owns that cover.) That cover was, itself, a tribute to the iconic cover of Giant-Size X-Men #1 by Gil Kane and Dave Cockrum, the issue that introduced the version of the team with Wolverine, Storm, Nightcrawler, etc.

Ken seems to have forgotten that the point of both these covers was to hype up the arrival of a new cast of characters. The new guys are supposed to make a dramatic entrance front and center. That's the focal point. Meanwhile, the cover for Beginnings has the old timeline versions of the cast from Archie Sonic dramatically bursting out of a shattered crystal ball, while their new counterparts look on in mild bemusement - if they're even bothering to look at all, since most of the characters here are just copied and pasted from their profile pages. That's just not how you do this particular homage! The point is supposed to be "out with the old, in with the new." And why are they using a crystal ball to view the past? Hell, why are they even using a crystal ball at all? The original arc was presented as a magical vision of the future courtesy of Tails' uncle Merlin (don't ask), but the new story leans all the way into being futuristic sci-fi.

Of course, there is no real artistic intent at play here. The old versions of the characters are placed front and center in the crystal ball simply because Ken traced over Spaziante's original art of Lara-Su and Julie-Su (the only two characters on the Sonic cover he owns) and threw out the rest, ruining the composition in the process. Look at the awkward empty space where Sonic, Sally, and Rotor once were, and the new drawing of The Character Formerly Known As Knuckles who's no longer properly centered between his wife and daughter. Even if Ken can claim ownership of the cover because he did the original layout, this all just feels scummy and lame.

And, yeah, if it needs to be said, the new characters and Ken's new rendering style look like absolute fucking dogshit. Putting new Lara-Su directly next to old Lara-Su does her no favors. The shattered glass effect looks absolutely atrocious. I could go on, but we'll have plenty of time to talk about the art style when we see how bad the stories inside look.

Changes to "Mobius: 25 Years Later"

Overall, 99% of M25YL is presented identically to its original printing. Sonic, Sally, Knuckles, et al. are still present with no changes to their names and no tweaks to the art. Even the original cover for issue #131 is included only a few pages into this book with its Archie, Sonic, and Sega logos still intact and everything. Again, because of the weird copyright situation described above, these preexisting comics can be released without any changes.

There is exactly one bizarre change to the art, though, where a hand drawn shot of Angel Island is replaced with an unfitting photo background and the ugly Floating Island photobash that Ken has been using as his personal logo for decades. I think he only did this as part of a test for his motion comic app that nobody asked for. I don't know why this had to make it into the print version. It's like the book is firing a warning shot for what's to come if you keep reading.

The new content begins on the final page of M25YL. In the original wet fart of a cliffhanger ending, Sonic and co. accidentally alter the timeline with an old time machine of Robotnik's and Lara-Su begins to fade away. Then, after everything goes white, we just cut to the present day heroes going "gee, you ever think about the future?" In this new printing, that last bit has been cut, and the rest of the page has been awkwardly shrunk down so that Ken can fit in a new panel. We now see the hands of an off-screen villain, seemingly named "Override," proclaiming that "the Praetorian" (Knuckles) has messed up the timeline again and that they'll finally get their revenge.

Who is this Override? I have no fucking clue. The new stories in this book make no mention of them. You have to buy the next book to find out.

My confusion over the identity of this villain overlaps with another big problem: name changes. So many names and nouns have been arbitrarily changed in The Lara-Su Chronicles, even ones Ken didn't have to change for copyright reasons, and I only know what half of them are replacing because Ken's been tweeting about this shit for years.

The echidnas are now a totally original alien race called "the Echyd'nya." Even in flashbacks to events from M25YL attempting to mimic the old art style, if it's on a new comic page, they're gonna call themselves "Echyd'nya." Evil echidna faction the Dark Legion is now the "Cyberdark Dominion," hailing from the "Cyberdark Colony." The Brotherhood of Guardians is still the Brotherhood of Guardians, but now the main guardian is called "The Praetorian." Angel Island is still called "The Floating Island," like it was in the older Archie comics, but it's ALSO sometimes called "Avion"? When I read this I wasn't sure if he had randomly renamed Albion, the other echidna city from the Archie comics. But no. Now we have an Albion AND an Avion. Sally is mentioned simply as "Princess Acorn," while Sonic is referenced once as an unnamed "blue-spined Erinaceinae," using the scientific name for hedgehog to make it sound more sci-fi. In an incredibly ballsy move, Ken even mentions Robotnik as "the Insurrectionist Kintobor," retaining his original surname from the Archie comics that's just "Robotnik" backwards. Guess Sega never trademarked that one.

Aside from every name change being a downgrade, this leads to confusion when you're not sure if something is supposed to be new, or if it's just an Archie thing you're supposed to recognize despite having a new name and design. Is "Override" someone I'm supposed to know already? Am I just supposed to have read a fucking tweet from Ken where he said he changed the name of some existing villain to "Override"? The answer is no, but I had to term search his Twitter just to verify this.

Moving on!

New story #1: "The Storm"

If you've been following the WIPs, this is that story about Geoffrey St. John that Ken's been posting previews of for almost a decade. The title page copyright dates it to 2015, and that absurdly long gestation is probably why the art is so inconsistent here. Even the style of speech bubbles and the font change between pages two and three.

This is a problem when there's supposed to be a deliberate and noticeable change in art style here signaling the moment where the time travel stuff alters the timeline, replacing the Archie Sonic world with the Lara-Su Chronicles world. If you don't already know that's what's going on, the idea isn't conveyed clearly at all. It just goes from one hideous art style to a slightly different one with no explanation.

The main problem here is that Ken has hitched his wagon to a franchise about anthropomorphic animals when he can't draw furries to save his life. (Though a bit later in the book we'll also begin to wonder if he can even still draw humans.) He's shifted away from the cartooniness of the original designs and given them more human proportions and facial features, but this just ends up making them look incredibly uncanny and lumpy and gross. With some designs he's trying to lean into more of a Star Trek alien vibe, but then he still insists upon retaining the giant Sonic eyes on most characters even though he has no idea how to make them emote.

The rendering of these godawful designs doesn't do them any favors, either. Ken's going for more of a painterly look now, but it almost seems as though he's shading everything with Photoshop's burn and dodge tools that are designed to darken and lighten select areas of a photo. The result is a muddy, smudgy look that makes it feel like the color layer has been smeared in vaseline. And it only looks worse after coming off of 14 chapters of M25YL that have way more palatable art.

The backgrounds, too, are a complete mess, a jumble of low res jpeg photo elements (sometimes with extremely noticeable pixelation), stock textures, and smooth digital gradients. There's no real sense of place here, and it gives everything a surreal, dreamlike quality when you can't really tell where anything is supposed to take place. This first story is seemingly set in a high-tech stronghold below Castle Acorn called "the Bunker," but it could just as easily be confused for the bridge of a spaceship. This whole story features characters speaking to each other over floating video displays and hologram projectors from three different locations, but without a hologram effect and without a clear sense of where the characters are it often feels like they're just in the same room as each other. Characters will be in one location on one photo background, and then the camera angle changes and they're in a completely different place, because Ken just uses mismatched photos off of the internet. It's been like 25 years since he first tried using photo backgrounds in the Archie comics and he hasn't gotten any better at it.

When I had my boyfriend read the book to see if it made literally any sense to him (it didn't), Anthony said this: "This is the kind of shit I'd see linked on a Second Life world that hasn't been touched since 2004." I think he really hit the nail on the head. Now, there's actually a contrarian part of me that thinks that might theoretically almost be kind of cool, in sort of a messy counterculture way. I love weird indie shit. I was a Homestuck reader! But this isn't a scrappy mixed media zine, or experimental outsider art from someone just messing around with Photoshop, or a loving throwback to weird old internet art, or even something intentionally bizarre and offputting like Xavier: Renegade Angel or a PilotRedSun video or whatever where the fact that it's weird and ugly is part of the humor. This is supposed to be a sincere sci-fi epic drawing on Star Trek and Jack Kirby comics, made by a guy who's been drawing comics professionally since the '80s. This is supposed to look good. This is supposed to compete with mainstream comics that are on sale right now. He thinks any day now IDW's gonna go out of business and Sega will come crawling back to him so that he can stamp the Sonic logo on shit like this. It just doesn't work.

But, okay. It's ugly. We knew it would be ugly. But that ugliness would be much easier to accept if it was in service of an otherwise genuinely good story. So what about the writing? After all this time, how does Ken choose to kick off this new saga? Well, credit where credit's due. "The Storm" feels like a proper continuation of Ken's writing style from M25YL.

Because it's eleven pages of characters standing around and talking while nothing fucking happens.

Here's the synopsis: A dog woman named Brownie, an ensign in the Royal Secret Service fresh out of training and the only character who's almost cute, walks up to Geoffrey to deliver a report. He's immediately suspicious of her, asking who let her in and if she's a spy for Elias (Sally's brother, if you're new here) or Alicia (Sally's mom). The art style suddenly shifts when the timeline is altered, but the scene continues uninterrupted. Geoffrey points a gun at Brownie when she won't say whose spy she is. Geoffrey is distracted by a call and proceeds to have a conversation via a mix of holograms and video screens with Remington (head of Echidnaopolis security), Spectre (Knuckles' great great great great great grandpa, the one with the helmet who always looks evil), and a new scientist character named Dr. Zephyr/Zephur. (The spelling of this character's name changes multiple times throughout the 11-page story, because I guess nine years wasn't enough time to spellcheck this shit.) They say a bunch of made up technobabble nonsense about how it looks like the timeline was just altered and Knuckles and co. seem to be involved. It's complete drivel that I'm not even going to try to make sense of. Everyone decides to investigate further, and the conversation ends. Brownie tells Geoffrey she's his spy, then walks out and implies she's actually Alicia's spy in her inner monologue.

To be continued!!!

Yes, that's it. It's really just a bunch of technobabble where some characters talk about how it seems like the timeline has been fucked with. That's it. The whole time Geoffrey doesn't even get up out of his damn chair, which he's of course sitting in backwards to show how cool he is. It's just 11 pages of Geoffrey sitting in a chair and talking to people and looking uglier than he's ever looked. Nothing happens. Nine years for this.

I'm also struck by how meaningless all of this is to anyone who hasn't read Archie Sonic. The added context from M25YL may help a little, but "The Storm" focuses on characters who weren't in that arc, and the story does very little to introduce who any of them are. Brownie could've been super useful as an inexperienced point of view character who's only meeting the others for the first time here, but instead she's really just a passive observer who's here as part of some kind of 4D chess game between Geoffrey and Alicia, an off-screen character whose motivations in this era of the story are completely unknown to even returning readers. Who are the good guys and bad guys here? What are the conflicts and the stakes of the story moving forward? What do these characters want? Basic questions like this aren't really answered. I can't imagine a new reader being able to make heads or tails of this. Hell, I can't really imagine a returning reader who hasn't been following the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets about this story making heads or tails of it, either.

...Maybe more will happen in the next story?

New story #2: Shattered Tomorrows preview chapter

After another message from Ken, the story of The Lara-Su Chronicles proper begins with the redesigned Lara-Su walking along a jpeg photograph beach at sunset and crying while thinking about how Knuckles - sorry, his name is K'Nox now - is dead.

Yep! Straight into the dad stuff!

Look, I'm the last person to complain about writers getting super personal and drawing from their own baggage in their writing, but Ken's just no fucking good at it. There's no nuance, nothing interesting to say. He just keeps writing mediocre-to-horrible dads whose misdeeds are always justified by their "good intentions," and then sometimes they die and their kids are like "we may have fought but actually you were the bestest dad ever and I'll miss you forever, I'll never be able to fill your shoes!"

This is the only part of the new material here that feels like it has any heart behind it, because I know how much his complex relationship with his late deadbeat father means to Ken (there's an author's note in this outright saying as much). But the guy died 42 years ago, and it doesn't feel like Ken has had any new thoughts about this part of his life in those four decades. He's just not an introspective or self-aware enough artist to actually mine his personal baggage for anything beyond "father knows best."

Anyway, so then it jumps forward in time(?) and now we're following this human guy who looks like this.

Previously, Ken got a lot of shit for literally just using the likeness of Anthony Mackie for this guy, based on his IMDB profile photo. Ken has thus redesigned the character... and by that I mean I think he looks more like Ernie Hudson now? Ken's clearly just working off of photo references (if not straight up tracing), given his face is the most detailed and realistic-looking thing on any page where he's present.

But you may be wondering: who is this, and why is he here? Well, for one, he's here to run around in front of some low res space photos while making trite references to things like Planet of the Apes and Star Trek. Haha, he makes a joke about red shirts! Original!! But beyond that, Commander Mykhal Taelor (yes, that's really how he chose to spell it) is a human... from Earth! Archie Sonic readers are probably confused, because in those comics Mobius is Earth in the distant post-apocalyptic future. Well, despite being a Planet of the Apes fan, Ken always hated that particular worldbuilding decision from Karl Bollers, always preferring to think of Mobius as a separate alien planet. And now he gets to make that canon in his own stories and throw out Karl's ideas. So Mobius is basically just, like, a Star Trek planet now, with its own alien creatures that sometimes just so happen to look like anthropomorphic Earth animals.

Also, at one point Taelor wonders if the inhabitants of the dead Mobius might have been human, and the alien ally he's talking to over the radio says it's unlikely. "I don't understand why your kind has a problem understanding you're a minority within a minority." Perhaps poor wording for a line said to the only Black character in the story.

Anyway, Commander Taelor here seems to have discovered the uninhabited husk of Mobius after the vague time-space cataclysm everyone was worried about in M25YL has come to pass, and he finds an audio log from Lara-Su that I presume will explain what happened. I guess those are the titular Lara-Su Chronicles. In theory this flash forward establishes some sense of pressing danger, but when the threat to the planet is so unclear and technobabble-y it just kind of lands with a thud.

It doesn't take long before we get back to Lara-Su being sad about her dad. A good little chunk of the chapter is spent with this new timeline's Lara-Su recalling moments in her life, including echoes of the original Lara-Su's memories from M25YL, which feels redundant coming hot off the heels of a straight reprint of that entire arc. And boy, for anyone who read the later Archie Sonic comics, the protagonist having vague memories of the old version of the series from before a lawsuit-related timeline reboot sure does sound familiar, huh?

The art inconsistency somehow becomes even worse in this story, with Ken flip-flopping on whether or not he wants to use outlines, with the no-outline art managing to look even worse by relying entirely on Ken's awful rendering. By this point in the book, readers are also likely to start noticing how often Ken reuses art from previous panels. This is a shortcut that tons of comic artists use, of course. Invincible famously did a joke about this. It's often understandable. But, again... it sure does stand out in a book that took 13 years to make with only 30 pages of new art. Amusingly, Ken even manages to combine his inconsistency and recycling problems by reusing the same art with and without outlines. And, of course, any time Ken tries to draw the Archie era designs it's just... the worst.

And, yes, it's in this dreamlike montage sequence of Lara-Su's life that we get...

The uncomfortable family nudity scene, followed by the dual timeline Julie-Su breastfeeding scene.

Yeah, you might have heard about this one already. If this incredibly eerie presentation of Lara-Su's hazy memories of the two different timelines make it hard to tell what's going on, don't worry. There's another, clearer version later in the book as part of Julie-Su's character profile, because I guess Ken was just so proud of it.

(I censored these myself because I'm not playing Russian roulette with Tumblr's inconsistent nudity rules and risking getting banned lmao)

Like, okay. Is a mother breastfeeding her child really that shocking of a thing to see in a story? No, not at all. But, like... when it's two characters who you previously created for an officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comic for 7-year-olds... and some of those officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comics for 7-year-olds are reprinted in the same book... and when it's drawn like this... yeah, it's kind of a shocker.

It just looks so unnatural. Julie-Su is posed very deliberately so that you'll see both of her breasts, and in the new timeline version she's barely even holding Lara-Su so you can really get a good look at her supermodel body, showing zero physical signs that she just gave birth. Most people will immediately jump to this being Ken putting his fetishes in his work (a type of criticism that I'm incredibly tired of - it's 2024, all the cool artists are blatantly putting their fetishes in their work now). And my immediate response is that, no, this is probably just Ken trying to come off as really mature on a surface level, a thing he's been obsessed with since the Archie days. Free from the shackles of writing a licensed children's comic, of course he's going to jump immediately into depicting some nonsexual, artistic nudity to try and prove he's A Real Mature Artist For Grown-Ups who just thinks the human body is beautiful and breastfeeding shouldn't be a taboo etc. etc.

But then, like. You look at some of the other character designs. Like Espio's daughter Salma, who's now this horrifying alien lizard person who's always nude, and her scale pattern puts scales exactly where her nipples should be. Or you look at his comments about the Echyd'nya age of consent. Or you look at how he keeps drawing Lara-Su in this. Like, does the shuttle really need this, like... reverse chaise lounge thing in the cockpit? So that we can keep getting these shots of the 16-year-old Lara-Su lying on her stomach and posing with one of her legs kicked up, her naked ass in plain view?

The vibe isn't great, is what I'm saying!

I'm not going to try to ascribe authorial intent here. I don't know. I'm not a psychic. Given his very blatant reliance on photo references elsewhere in the book, it's entirely possible he just referenced some figure drawing photos that were maybe just a little too sexy. And also, he's an American comic book artist, and a boomer one at that. Those guys tend to draw women a certain way, even when it's not supposed to be sexual. I don't fucking know. It just sucks. I'm not gonna make some hyperbolic statement about how this makes him a literal pedophile who should be in jail, but it is deeply offputting and objectifying.

But if you already knew about the nursing scenes and were hoping there was some other really shocking stuff in there for me to talk about in this review, sorry to disappoint, but nope. That's the only shockingly weird new thing in here. Once again, not a lot happens in this story, and what does happen is pretty boring.

Once we get past the recap stuff and the human guy, the plot developments boil down to this: The timeline was altered at the end of M25YL... but not as much as you might think. In the new timeline, Knuckles ("K'Nox"), Cobar (now looking significantly younger), and Rotor (now a rhino just called "The Emissary") still traveled via shuttle to go find a time machine in the Badlands and fix the time-space continuum, like in the climax of the original arc. This time, though, Sonic wasn't there, and Lara-Su came along without having to stow away. Lara-Su watches the ship while the grown ups go deal with the time machine, and then after a couple panels Not Rotor comes back with Cobar and is like "Hey, Cobar got hurt, we gotta leave. Dunno what happened to your dad." And then they just, like. Presume that Knuckles must have died. Even though we have no idea what happened to him. And then they just fly away. And then Lara-Su is sad that her dad died.

And that's pretty much it!

This is supposed to be a really emotional sequence - it's literally the scene where Lara-Su learns that Knuckles is dead - but instead it comes off as unintentionally funny because of how poorly it's portrayed. Not showing Knuckles' actual disappearance is a huge misstep, for one, making his uncertain fate more confusing and anticlimactic than dramatic. But also, Ken keeps just using the same two drawings of Rotor for two pages, so he doesn't really seem to be emoting at all, and he's in this spacey hazmat suit that honestly just makes him look like fucking Moltar from Space Ghost. So the whole time I'm just reading his dialogue in Moltar's deadpan voice as he's like "I dunno. We did what we could. Anyway, let's leave."

After this, we get a two-page spread previewing the rest of the story from Shattered Tomorrows. It's basically like a trailer in comic form. It has one of the most mystifying layouts I've ever seen in a comic book. I have no idea what order I'm supposed to read this in.

Yeah, I kinda have a feeling this is the full extent of what Ken has drawn for the rest of that book. I'd love to be wrong, but I fear that I'm right.

Bonus material: Data files

These are mostly very dull, recapping a lot of events shared between Ken's Archie run and the new Lara-Su Chronicles timeline. It seems like almost his entire run is still considered canon to the backstory of the new timeline, just with some names changed, and things only really diverge at the climax of M25YL. But I'll share the interesting stuff here.

Lara-Su

The main thing you'll notice in Lara-Su's profile is the massive, unreadable wall of text where Ken felt the need to list the entire Knuckles family tree, split across both pages.

This is literally so long that Lara-Su's personal history has to awkwardly cut off mid-sentence and be continued on the final page of the book, after the rest of the data files.

Also, please note that this list gives Julie-Su's mom's full name as Mari-Su of the House of Atrades. Incredible on all levels.

There's also a reference to the dark timeline Lara-Su was originally supposed to come from. You know, the one where Julie-Su is the leader of a rebel movement fighting against a Knuckles who had gone mad with power? The timeline that would have been way more interesting than the one in M25YL? Here it seems to have been written off as the result of another "timeline disruption." Lara-Su allegedly has vague memories of this timeline, in the same way that she has vague memories of the M25YL timeline.

Geoffrey

Geoffrey's bio mostly recaps events from the Archie comics, which means the Sonic/Sally/Geoffrey love triangle has to be alluded to. His rivalry with Sonic is described like this:

"He would later resurface when Kintobor was transporting his latest hi-tech weapon, the Dynamac-3000. It was during that mission he discovered a rival for the Princess' affections. Whereas the Princess would be one of a line of conquests where St. John was concerned, the blue-spined Erinaceinae who protested doth a bit too much regarding his affections for the Princess for St. John's taste would prove to be a source of great sport and amusement."

Yes. It's gross. Saying that Geoffrey saw Sally as "one of a line of conquests" is gross. Ken writing this and then still treating Geoffrey as the coolest badass ever is gross. The "Princess Acorn" is also first on the list of Geoffrey's "female relationships" elsewhere in his bio, though I suppose how much of a "relationship" they had is left vague. Honestly, at this point the fact that Ken didn't explicitly confirm that Geoffrey took the underage Sally's virginity in the book comes off as a display of restraint. The bar couldn't be any lower, I know.

Remington

His bio is, frankly, shockingly long for such a minor character, though I guess he does get a large portion of the word salad dialogue in "The Storm." There's a lot of stuff here about how the identities of his biological parents are shrouded in mystery, a plot point that fans have long speculated Ken just straight up forgot about in his time at Archie. (Ian confirmed that Kragok from the Dark Legion was Remington's dad, though, so this isn't really much of a mystery.)

Lien-Da

She gets a bio even though she's not present in the two new stories, just so we get to look at her awful new design and compare it to how Steven Butler drew her earlier in the book:

Commander Taelor

We get to see two drawings of him with the same exact Ernie Hudson face side by side! That's fun.

Julie-Su

She gets a list of "known friends," but the only character listed is Knuckles' mom. Poor Julie-Su.

Also, Ken feels the need to reiterate that Knuckles and Julie-Su are still distant cousins. He made a whole new timeline where he can change whatever details he wants, but THAT had to remain canon. Thanks, Ken.

And then after the data files we get the special thanks page, listing everyone who preordered the book and/or bought TLSC merch from Ken.

With my name on the list. Because I had to buy a copy to cover it for the blog.

My name is on the very next page right after the breastfeeding panel in Julie-Su's data file.

Yep. He got me.

Is it at least a well put together book? Like, in terms of manufacturing quality?

Its physical quality is... fine. It's a nice, sturdy hardcover. The print quality seems fine, though mine does have a bit of smudging from some sort of printing error on one page. The pages don't seem like they'll fall out on me. The image quality is crisp. The colors are vibrant. This is a low bar, but this is one of the few places where I'm able to give this book anything resembling praise.

The formatting and graphic design work, on the other hand...

(I didn't crumple those page corners, it came like that.)

For one, the placement and sizes of the M25YL pages is inconsistent, largely due to the fact that the book doesn't actually match the proportions of a comic. A lot of pages aren't properly centered vertically. Some pages go all the way up to the top edge of the paper, while others leave a visible gap of about half a centimeter. Every page has a 1cm gap to its left and right, which is sometimes filled in with a solid color or gradient that doesn't quite match the page it's surrounding. I have to assume Ken didn't have any sort of source files or original artwork to work off of, as those ideally would've had more generous bleed to account for slight shifts in printing. It kind of seems like he just got the highest resolution versions he could find of the digital releases online and printed those. The colors are a dead ringer for the digital versions, which have always looked slightly more saturated and pastel than they did in print.

I can't say this bodes well for his further plans for Archie Sonic reprints - sorry, Mobian Line reprints. If they ever come out, please, for the love of god, do not buy those. I don't care how much you love Archie Sonic, they aren't going to be good reprints. For comparison, IDW's similarly priced hardcover Sonic collections have none of these formatting problems, because they're made by people who know what they're doing with access to the actual source files.

The book also has its fair share of text-focused pages, split between the data files and messages directly from Ken about the history of his career and this project, and these are formatted in the most amateurish way possible. Just massive walls of Arial text over either plain white backgrounds, simple gradients, or faded photos. I've seen school yearbooks with better graphic design. Even ignoring my subjective feelings about the art and stories within, this book does not feel like it's worth $36 USD.

It's frankly shocking how shabby he let this thing look considering it's supposed to be his baby. And doesn't that really sum it all up?

Closing thoughts

Obviously, I did not expect this to be any good. But I'm still left kind of dumbfounded by it.

I think what really strikes me about it is that Ken had a blank check to do whatever he wanted here. He got an opportunity many writers would kill for when he gained complete ownership of his most famous work. He's free from the limitations of a monthly licensed comic book for children, free to make whatever creative decisions he wants without editors or other writers or Sega to worry about, free to completely reinvent the series to his heart's content and finally tell the story of his dreams. And with that opportunity and 13 years of his time, he made... this. A direct continuation of "Mobius: 25 Years Later" that barely changes anything about the characters or world beyond their awful new designs, even though much of the word count is spent rambling about how the timeline has changed. A story that makes zero concessions for new readers, or even returning readers who don't already have the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets explaining his creative decisions burned into their memory. 30 pages where nothing really happens and the story barely moves forward an inch despite the decades-long wait - but maybe something will happen if you buy the next book!

Who is this for? Maybe this really is a project for no one but Ken. Maybe he just really, really wants to finish the story he started, a story that's personal to him due to the family history it evokes, and the number of people who enjoy it or buy it beyond that is irrelevant. I think that many of the best artists are incredibly self-indulgent ones working with that exact mindset, artists whose enthusiasm for their own work jumps off the page or screen. So, if that's the case, then why the fuck isn't he telling the damn story? What's stopping him? Why is he still spinning his wheels? Where is that passion for his own work? Because it sure as hell isn't there on the page. There's a huge part of me that really wishes I could say "Man, what a weirdo, but you do you, Ken. You tell your weird little story." But there's barely any story here. It's like he loves styling himself as a storyteller, but he's terrified of finally having to actually tell a story after all this time. He's still stuck in the exact same mode of writing he was in almost 30 years ago when he was doing 6-page backup stories about Knuckles, just killing time and stringing readers along until he's eventually able to truly realize his vision. If not now, then when, Ken?

Even the back cover blurb is mostly just a dry recap of the history of this thing. It was a Sonic comic, the original arc was published in these issues, it went unfinished, Ken left Archie, the lawsuits happened, now he's continuing the story. There's nothing about why anyone should give a shit about this as its own story, even though Ken has spent years trying in vain to convince people TLSC is its own beast that shouldn't be judged as a Sonic story. I think deep down he knows that there's no pitch for this beyond the novelty of it originating from Sonic. And that's why, despite declaring that he'd leave the site, he's still on Twitter riling up Sonic fans. It's the only attention he gets at this point.

Maybe this is too harsh when those 30 pages of new comics are just intended as a preview for the "real" book. But the elephant in the room is that we have no idea if that "real" book will ever actually come out, let alone the entire series of seven graphic novels that will supposedly complete this saga.

Ken is undeniably a complete jackass and all around unpleasant, vindictive person who's rightly become an industry pariah. He's a self-proclaimed paragon of progressive values who'll send Comicsgaters after his successors for the crime of not worshiping the ground he walks on, and then turn around and announce he's going to reprint their work without even consulting them. He's a sore winner who already won his copyright battle on a level most comic writers would never dare to dream of, and yet still won't truly be satisfied until he sees an entire major comic publisher go out of business, putting god knows how many people out of work, because he thinks this would get him back the license to a video game franchise he doesn't even like.

But I still have to pity him.

As an artist, the trajectory of his life is my nightmare. I think all of us fear dying before we can tell all the stories we want to tell. There's simply never enough time to do everything. And here's Ken in his 60s, talking about how he's still planning on making his magnum opus all by himself out of stubbornness and pride, despite demonstrably proving he can't handle the workload, and also talking about how if he dies before the project can be finished he'll have to pass the torch on to his kids and get them to finish it for him. It's so grim. Even just typing that sends a shiver down my spine. It took nine years of his limited time on Earth to finish and release an 11-page comic about Geoffrey St. John sitting backwards in a chair.

This is a purgatory of his own creation. And yet... I'm not sure he's ever been prouder. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I guess if I want people to take anything away from this review, it's this:

Lesson one: If you're an artist or writer of some kind, or an aspiring creator, don't wait around. No one else is going to tell your story for you. Start writing that novel. Start drawing that webcomic. Start making that game. If Penders can put out this damn book that no one asked for after 13 years of work, then proudly proclaim that he's still going to make six or seven more books and also reprint hundreds of comics he doesn't have all of the rights to, then show up to cons with that foul Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows banner and sit in front of it beaming with pride, fully aware of his critics but saying "fuck 'em, I know I'm hot shit," then you can do fucking anything. Tell the weird, sincere, cringe story of your dreams. If Ken Penders doesn't have imposter syndrome, then nobody should.

And lesson two: Don't buy Ken's books.

#tkp post #tlsc #tlsc beginnings

6K notes · View notes

entishramblings · 1 year ago

Text

Watcher of Wanderers [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: this was intended just to be a mini one-shot to get back into writing. although, I will admit I got carried away. oops. heh.

Pairing: Legolas X F!Reader

Song Inspo: Mountain Meditation by Chantress Seba

🌬️ I highly recommend listening while reading

Summary: Legolas senses a presence following the fellowship on their journey and it seems to be particularly fond of him.

Disclaimer: all mythology related to the reader was made up for plot purposes lol. not canon.

Word count: 5.6k (once again, idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: comfort, fluff, loneliness, flirting, suggested sexual innuendos, stalking sort of (yes, again, I know. you’re just gonna have to read it I can’t explain it)

Additional Content: moodboard linked here

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

When you are nothing but a breeze that passes through the travelers’ bending hair. When you are nothing but a tickle that brushes upon the vagabonds’ breaking skin. When you are nothing but a whisper that hisses upon the wanders’ deaf ear. When you are nothing but alone, you too are a voyager.

That’s what (Y/N) was, wasn’t she?

She sailed through the years, watching every war and every battle. She observed every lover as she observed every enemy. She attended to them all, from their start and to their end. She perceived them hunt—first for food and drink, the simplest things, then for more. She witnessed them build—smaller creations in the beginning, then large structures that reached deep into her sky. She gazed at them as they grew, in mind and body. They began as little screaming balls of flesh, then sprouted into large beings that walked and talked. They produced more of themselves. They multiplied. Families, they had called it. She saw each one of them go by, twisting with desire as they did with age. Each was sneaking to find something—riches, power, hope, love, safety—but it didn’t really matter. She just bore witness. She bore witness to the happiness and to the dread. Yet, even when it was dark and desperate, she did nothing. She was silent—as she was meant to be.

Cursed to ride the winds for all of her immortal years.

Cursed to guide them and bend them.

Cursed to behold them.

Cursed to be them.

Alone.

A Watcher of Wanderers.

She was unescorted, unattended, and unchaperoned. She was unaccompanied as she wove through the desolate lands of Arda. Through the oceans, through the deserts, through the mountains, she bent and bellowed. But (Y/N) didn’t need anyone to accompany her, for she simply didn’t exist—at least not in the way one would think.

But after so long in solidarity, watching and observing, (Y/N) wondered what it would feel like to be more than what she was. She wondered what it was to taste and touch, to smell and see, to live and breath.

She thought how pain must feel. How did it bring red to the surface of their skin? How did it bring tears to their eyes? How did it bring screams to their throats?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought how laughter must feel. How did it bubble in their chests? How did it bring water to their faces? How did it bring glee from their mouths?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought about how love must feel. How did it soften their gazes? How did it bring drops upon their cheeks? How did it bring proclamations to their lips? How did it feel to welcome in another soul? Was it safe—not that she would know what safety felt like.

Still, she wandered more.

As each day passed and each traveler followed, she continued to question, guess, inquire.

Some of these creatures were more in tune with the natural currents of the word. It was the immortal beings, distinguished by the pointy ears that lent them an air of otherworldly grace and their lightning-quick reflexes. They were not just any immortals, but those whose lineages stretched back to ancestors who had walked among the Valar themselves. At times, (Y/N) entertained the fantasizing notion that they possessed the rare ability to hear her, though she recognized that this belief was nothing more than wishful thinking. As a watcher of wanderers, she liked these ones best.

Yet that did not mean that others did not catch her eye, for she was curious of anything unusual from the regular patterns of life. And when nine—born of various blood—walked together, her curiosity peaked.

So, she followed them.

One was a Maiar, but not like her. He shared the same celestial origin, shaped as one of the spirits meant to aid the Valar in their worldbuilding endeavors. However, his form differed greatly from hers—a form (Y/N) yearned for. She had seen him many times before, puffing his pipe. He had many names, but most knew him as Gandalf.

Two more figures accompanied him, mortal beings aging like the rolling seasons. Burling and tumbling they went, with their countless heavy weapons. One emanated kindness, his heart a wellspring of warmth. She had seen him before too. But the other, he was….troubled.

Another was one of the immortal, graceful, pointy-eared race—elves, she recalled. He was fluid and elegantant. He was observant and evaluating. He was tranquil yet vigorous. (Y/N) liked this one. She always had liked the elves.

From the mountainous regions of unyielding stone came another companion—a burly and gruff figure. His anger resonated in the sharpness of his words and the boastry of his laughter. (Y/N) could feel his temperament through the earth's vibrations. It wasn't always pleasant

Next, matched four more. They were stompers and stumblers, in a clumsy sort of way; yet, it was evident that they held no desire to ravage the earth. If anything, they seemed to harbor deep affection for it. The sad one broke her heart, the kind one warmed her soul, and the last two made her giggle….and sometimes she thought the elf could hear it.

See that was the thing.

Initially, her fascination led her to accompany them, drawn by their sheer otherness—such a strange assembly of beings walking in unison. But as she ventured alongside them, she felt connected to them. She got to know them, and one seemed to know her….sorta.

The first time she noticed such a thing was when a sound of joy escaped her being.

The two silly ones, which she found out to be named Merry and Pippin, were cracking jokes at one another and performing a game of riddles. As they did so, they ended up breaking into an argument. The most ridiculous words they called each other: mushroom murderer, squash squisher, beet beater…..

She couldn’t help but release a whisper of amusement, and when she did, the elf—Legolas—abruptly halted. His eyes brimmed with uncertainty, and he swiveled his head, as though searching for someone.

But he couldn’t….

No…

He couldn’t have heard her….could he?

Of course, occasionally, all could hear her. In moments of anger, she would unleash her fury with deafening howls and piercing screams, causing gusts to bellow and trees to tremble. Her yell created a hollow sound as it funneled through the rest of the world—echoing upon mountains, bouncing off houses, riding along hills, drifting through the farmer’s mills. It took much frustration to create such a ruckus of vibrations. However, just a faint breath of joy? There was no way the elf could hear that….right?

…..

The second time that a strange encounter occurred was when the group stopped by a deep river. Legolas had wandered a little way away from the group where the trees were denser and the light was less, and oh of course (Y/N) followed.

There, the elf stripped off his clothing, letting the moonlight bend and dip upon his muscled form. The cool night air played gently against his bare skin as he ventured into the water, welcoming the invigorating sensation. With his hands, he meticulously scrubbed away any lingering grime, running his palms across his arms and fingers through his damp hair until no trace of dirt remained.

Gently, he laid upon his back, floating at the surface of the smooth river.

(Y/N) watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and repeatedly. Meditation, she recalled the elvish creatures of the world calling it.

Eager to draw nearer, (Y/N) gracefully glided closer, brushing ever so lightly upon the surface of the ripples. She circled him, her gaze drinking in every detail of his form slightly obstructed by the water—his elegant facial features, his sleek hair, his sculpted biceps, his toned abs, the sharp v-line of his lower abdomen, and, she couldn't help but notice his rather large…

A soft giggle escaped her lips, her warm breath brushing against his cheek.

Instantly, Legolas sprang upright, his feet finding a place upon the rocks beneath the now turbulent ripples. He swiftly pivoted, calling out, “Who’s there?!”

(Y/N) was still, shock and uncertainty shrouding her.

Legolas' cerulean eyes darted anxiously from side to side, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He moved with haste, continually spinning around in search of…..something.

“You…you can hear me?” (Y/N) whispered.

He did not respond and his state did not change. There was not an ounce of any recognition across his features.

…..

The third time that Legolas was startled by the curious enigma that appeared to be haunting him was when the fellowship had set up camp for the night.

Gandalf and Legolas were on watch, their attentive gazes shifting from the crackling fire to the perimeters of their camp. Mithanduil contentedly puffed on his pipe, releasing wisps of smoke that ascended into the night sky. Legolas was methodically sharpening the tips of his arrows, preparing for the inevitable fight. The ambiance was strangely peaceful, with the imminent dangers appearing to be held at bay, at least for the moment, even in the face of the dread.

However, this serene atmosphere suffered a sudden intrusion, initiated by (Y/N)'s ever-present curiosity.

She loved watching the creatures of Arda. It was her favorite pastime over the eons. Well, her only pastime. After all, she was a watcher of wanderers. For, as her shapeless form, there was nothing more she could do with her existence.

Therefore, when the elf began to draw whetstone upon the tops of his arrows, (Y/N) wanted to observe. She crept closer to him, becoming entranced by the rhythmic and tranquil nature of his movements. Drawn into the spectacle, she leaned in further and further until, unintentionally, she brushed lightly against his form.

His hand instinctively reached for his shoulder as his wide cerulean blues initiated their frequent and fervent scanning of the dim surroundings—a routine that seemed to be occurring with increasing regularity nowadays.

Gandalf’s gray eyes drifted upon the elf curiously, his bushy brows lifting in questions.

“I swore…” Legolas began, still peering about the campsite. “I swore I felt…something.”

The wizard’s inquiring gaze only deepened, imploring the elf to add more to his rather empty statement.

Noticing Gandalf's unspoken request for more information, Legolas continued, "My apologies, Mithranduil. Lately, I've been sensing a presence. Yet, when I search for it, I'm met with nothing but emptiness and confusion."

Gandalf huffed before pressing his lips to his pipe again, his gaze drifting away in a dismissal of danger. “It is probably just (Y/N).”

“(Y/N)?” He questioned, still puzzled.

Gandalf glanced at Legolas, and with a nonchalant hum, he spoke again. “The spirit of the wind. A Maiar with a form that knows no shape.” He rolled his eyes as he gruffed out an additional mumbling sentence. “She has a particular fondness for elves.”

Legolas, still flushed with adrenaline, only stared at him. “I—I do not understand.”

The wizard’s gray gaze drifted back to the elf, who was clearly seeking answers. “(Y/N) is one of the Maiar, tasked many ages ago by Manwë to help shape Arda. She still lingers in this realm, often stirring up her usual mischief as she follows wanderers on their adventures."

Legolas frowned. “If she wanders this earth, why can I see her not?”

Gandalf drew another puff from his pipe before responding, "She was cursed to be without form, unlike myself."

“Cursed? But why?”

The wizard raised his bushy brows once more. “Her mischief irked many—especially Manwë.”

“What sorts of mischief do you speak of?”

Gandalf shrugged. “Inconsequential pranks and harmless tricks. Quite frankly, an annoyance to us all, but not dangerous.”

At that very moment, a gust of wind swept in rather forcefully, causing the wizard's beard to billow and lifting his hat into the air, sending it spiraling down to land by his feet.

Legolas's lips parted in surprise as the wind subsided, and Gandalf let out a string of curses and grumbles.

"I believe you might have offended her," Legolas remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

The wizard snorted, his irritation obvious, as he picked his hat up and placed it atop his head once more.

….

As the weeks continued on, Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s subtle presence.

It seemed she was indeed traveling with them. On scorching hot days, a refreshing breeze would rise and caress them gently, offering some much-needed relief. As the autumn months settled in, that coolness transformed into a warm breath flowing through the air, comforting them. When they kindled fires, little gusts rushed forward, providing oxygen and nurturing the flames. If an item of clothing or a parcel were dropped, it would be delicately carried toward a hand ready to collect. It was as if the wind—(Y/N)—was assisting them along their quest.

It was particularly noticeable to Legolas that she often lingered in close proximity to him. Her presence seemed to envelop him frequently, becoming unmistakable and distinct.

When Legolas would be tasked to collect firewood, a gentle breeze would follow him. It would brush leaves out of the way to reveal dry wood and small sticks, perfect for kindling. The wind murmured songs among the soil, almost as if it were beckoning him to dance.

When Legolas would be hunting for food, a calm drift would search alongside him. It would twist through the brush, startling small prey to reveal them to him. The wind breathed wordless encouragement to him, as if challenging him to impress her.

When Legolas would be walking upon hard terrain, a playful gust would walk with him. It would blow his hair away from his face to reveal his features. The wind sent flirtatious laughter upon his elvish ear, chasing shivers along his nerves.

When Legolas would be changing out of mud or blood covered clothes, a devious wisk would linger behind him. It would push his tunic and undershirt upwards to reveal his muscled form then make his extra clothing scatter. The wind whispered sultry glee to him, teasing him in efforts to show more.

This mischievous presence that shrouded him seemed to flirt with him—challenge, play, and engage. Of course, Legolas recalled Gandalf's earlier assertion that the wind spirit held a particular fondness for elves, but the true depth of this fondness had only become apparent as her companionship persisted. He couldn't deny that their ongoing interaction held a certain allure, for he would be lying if he said their little game did not entertain him.

When the fellowship was in Moria, however, silence reigned. The usual gusts and breezes that had accompanied them were absent. It was as if the very air mourned with them. Yet, as soon as they exited, with grief heavy upon their soul, a quick adrenalized wind came to find them. It seemed to brush around the rocks, taking in the pain of the travelers and trying to process what it meant. Though, as the wind noticed one was no longer there, she took to sending warmth their way in hopes to soften the sorrow—shrouding Legolas for just a moment longer than the others.

When the fellowship was in Lothlorien, (Y/N) came too. Rustling up trouble among the elves with flirtatious gusts, lifting skirts and sweeping away cloaks, fostering much annoyance and embarrassment among the immortal elven folk. However, those brushes of wind often struck Legolas more than any other.

When the fellowship—or rather the three that remained—took to sprinting across Arda, the wind ran alongside them. It pushed them forward with encouragement, almost too eagerly and too persistent. It was as if she was whispering ‘hurry hurry’ in their ears—as if she possessed knowledge they did not. Though Legolas suspected neither Gimli nor Aragorn noticed the subtle guidance of the wind.

A watcher of wanderers indeed.

As the group arrived in Rohan, their hearts brimmed with renewed hope, for they had gained the knowledge of Merry and Pippin’s life and the presence of Gandalf.

Following Mithranduil's expulsion of the sorcery that had ensnared King Théoden, the weary travelers were ushered to various chambers where they could refresh themselves and find much-needed rest.

Legolas opted to bathe immediately, determined to liberate himself from the accumulated dirt and grime that had clung to his body through the arduous months of travel. He eased into the in-ground basin, the soothing warmth and enveloping steam creating a cocoon of comfort. He tended to his skin and hair with meticulous care until he finally felt rejuvenated. Elves did not like to linger in grime.

Emerging from the bath, he stepped into the adjacent bedroom, where his gaze was drawn to the open windows, allowing the cool breeze to waft in. The wind seemed to recognize him instantly, rushing forth with an almost mischievous enthusiasm. It nearly yanked his towel from his waist! It was only through his quick reflexes that he narrowly avoided a less than modest reveal.

Legolas ground his teeth. “(Y/N),” he mumbled in a chastising tone.

In response, the wind seemed to giggle, as if playfully toying with him.

He rewrapped the towel and hastened to close the windows, yearning for a night of undisturbed peace. Normally, he would tolerate (Y/N)'s whimsical outbursts, but on this night, his weary body and mind craved respite and tranquility.

Legolas changed into more comfortable attire and settled into his bed. He allowed his heavy eyelids to drift shut, for he craved sleep. But after a brief moment, they snapped open.

He watched as the curtains shifted ever so slightly, followed by the tapestry on the wall and the drapes above his bed. The blanket beside him rustled gently, and then, there was no movement in the room.

She hadn't left when he closed the windows.

She was still here.

Though he couldn't see her, he was acutely aware of her presence…right beside him.

The elf couldn't help but blush, a warm crimson hue creeping up upon his ears and cheeks. Oh, if his Ada knew he was flirting with the wind….

In an effort to divert his thoughts from such matters and avoid giving (Y/N) any indication that he was dwelling on them, the elf shifted onto his side, turning away from the playful Spirit whose home was the sky.

…..

Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s presence among the battles at Helms Deep and the Fields of Pelennor; although it wasn't until the latter that he knew for sure she was actively fighting alongside him.

Amidst the relentless chaos, the elf wielded his two silver blades, using them with deadly precision to cut the throat of one orc and immediately behead another. He swiftly pressed on, eliminating as many of the enemy forces as he could.

The men around him were growing weary, their energy dwindling, but Legolas continued to stand firm, even though he too felt the drain on his strength.It seemed the dark forces had taken notice of the relentless devastation he was causing among their ranks, as they began to single him out. Hordes of orcs began converging on him, and Sauron's archers took aim. However, the arrows meant for him didn't find their mark. They veered off course, curving with an unexpected gust of wind, plunging directly into three orcs nearby.

Legolas whipped his head around in astonishment, but it took only a moment for him to grasp the source of this unexpected intervention: (Y/N).

As he continued to take down orc after orc, she remained by his side, using her ethereal presence to force the creatures back into one another, granting Legolas a distinct advantage and a brief moment to catch his breath. She deflected arrows aimed at him and extended her helping hand when he faced the Oliphaunt. She even lifted him up with a gentle drift when his footing faltered. (Y/N) followed Legolas throughout the battlefield, her commitment unwavering, even after the war had drawn to a close.

Exhausted and burdened by grief and relief, the mortal, battle-weary soldiers sought solace and took to rest, heal, and eat.

Legolas volunteered to wander the battlefield in search of any survivors.

He tread carefully, his feet moving softly over the blood-soaked and red-stained earth. The ground seemed to bear witness to the agony, uncertainty, and hope that had marked their strenuous journey. Legolas had never anticipated surviving the trials that had befallen him, yet here he stood, alive and persevering against all odds.

With a heavy heart and the absence of survivors to be found, Legolas, fatigued and drained, decided to make his way back to his comrades who were attending to the wounded and offering peace to those in need.

In a sudden fierce gust of wind, Legolas found himself surrounded by an unexpected swirl. Swiftly, he whirled around, his keen elven senses alert, just in time to witness an orc raising an axe menacingly above his head, poised to strike.

However, Legolas was not met with such a gruesome fate. The wind seemed to rise against the approaching beast, as though an invisible force hindered its advance. However, that force began to no longer be invisible. A strange, translucent figure began to materialize into the opaque form of a woman. She stood, her back pressed against his chest and her front pushing firmly against the would-be assailant. With her arms raised high, she held the axe at bay, preventing the deadly blow from falling upon the elf.

Legolas' lips parted in astonishment, his eyes widening as he struggled to comprehend the event unfolding before him. But everything transpired too swiftly for him to intervene. The figure solidified, to the point that he could feel her against him, and the axe came down at an unusual angle, slicing into the woman's side.

A cry escaped her throat, and she collapsed to the ground, her pain echoing through the air.

Suddenly thrust back into the harsh reality of battle, Legolas swiftly grasped the knife strapped to his belt. In one fluid motion, he drove the blade into the orc's heart. The creature gurgled for a moment, blood pooling from its mouth, before finally collapsing lifeless.

Without hesitation, Legolas fell to the unconscious woman crumpled at his feet. His heart clenched with dread as he noticed the crimson stains spreading across the delicate, iridescent fabric that cloaked his form.

"No, no, no," he murmured, his hands pressing against the wound in a frantic attempt to stop the bleeding. Panic tinged his voice as he glanced at her face, his voice rising in desperation, " (Y/N), you foolish Maiar. Why did you intervene? Why did you put yourself in harm's way?" His bloodied hand gently cupped her cheek. "Wake up. Come on, wake up!"

She remained unresponsive.

Swiftly, Legolas gathered her into his arms, keeping one hand pressed against the bleeding wound, and hurried towards the makeshift infirmary.

Pushing the doors open, he called out in a voice laced with fear, "Aragorn!"

Immediately, the urgent tone drew the attention of those nearby, even in the midst of the ongoing chaos of the healing ward. The Ranger, alerted by the distress in his friend's voice, swiftly moved past the curious onlookers, with Gimli at his side and Gandalf following not too far behind.

“A-an ax to the side. She’s bleeding heavily,” he sputtered out. “Please.”

Pointing to a makeshift bed, Aragorn commanded. ‘Get her on that cot! Quickly now.”

Gimili, entirely bewildered by the unfolding events and his friend’s frantic behavior, called out, “Laddie, who is that?!”

Legolas, gently placing her form on the cot, didn't even bother to look at his dwarf companion as he replied. “(Y/N).”

The dwarf shook his head and raised his hands in confusion. “Who the fuck is (Y/N)?!”

The elf sent Gimli a quick, almost exasperated glance. "The wind!" he snapped back, a bit too sharply.

Gimli’s eyes drifted around the room, his confusion turning into concern for his friend’s well being. “The wind?” he questioned. “Did ya happen to get knocked in the head, tree boy?”

It was Gandalf that chimed in. “(Y/N), a Maiar, the spirit of the wind. She has been with us throughout our journey.”

Aragorn shot the wizard a brief look as he swiftly cut away the mysterious, translucent fabric cloaking the woman and began tending to the deep, bleeding wound.

“With us the entire time?!” Gimli bellowed. “Then why haven't I seen her once?"

Gandalf peered over Aragorn’s shoulder. “She doesn't have a corporal form. At least, she didn’t. I’m afraid this is the first time any of us are seeing her.”

Legolas ran his bloodied hands through his hair, his fingers trembling with anxiety as he stepped back. His chest felt constricted with worry while his eyes remained fixated on the woman as Aragorn worked. “Can you do it, Aragorn? Can you save her?” he implored, his voice quivering with a mixture of desperation and hope.

The man met Legolas' gaze. His determination to save her was unwavering, even in the face of this strange reveal of a profound connection between a force he didn't know existed and his dear friend. Seeing Legolas’ pain, he responded firmly, "I will try."

Gimli, moving to stand beside the wizard, watched the scene with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He couldn't help but murmur, "I've never seen him so frazzled before." His words were filled with a deep sense of empathy for his elven friend, for this had clearly shaken Legolas to his core.

Gandalf let his gaze shift from the elf to Gimli, offering the dwarf a knowing look in response.

The watcher of wanderers had now become a wonder to the wanderers themselves.

……

Legolas sat in a chair beside (Y/N). He was quiet and still as he watched her chest rise and fall steadily. Aragorn had successfully treated her wound, preventing infection, though she remained unconscious. She rested soundlessly, her expression peaceful—despite Legolas’ bloody handprint, now brown, dried, and cracking, that lingered upon her cheek. Her features were graceful and elegant. Each curve and bend of her face accentuated her beauty. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to look like, though how she appeared made sense with her temperament. He could see her flirtatious streak, her mischievous tone, and her protective aurora. She was exactly what wind would be: strong yet gentle, fierce yet calm, emotional yet stern.

He watched over her, just as she had watched over him. So intently, that he didn't notice one behind him until a hand pressed firmly upon his shoulder.

"Legolas," Aragorn began, his expression filled with gentle concern as he inquired, "How do you know this woman?"

Legolas sighed, keeping his gaze on her. "She has been traveling with us," he explained.

The sound of wood scraping against stone told the elf that the Ranger pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to him.

“So Gandalf said. Though I do not understand,” Aragorn admitted.

Legolas shifted. “I started to notice strange occurrences—unexplained events.”

Aragorn raised a brow, “Strange occurrences?”

Legolas felt his cheeks heat as he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, but more importantly, I noticed something helping us. Consistently.” He paused, “I asked Mithranduil about it and he told me of her.” He shook his head. “He said she was cursed to watch us—us inhabitants of Arda—and not be able to walk among us.”

“Then how is she here now before us, like this.”

Legolas glanced at his hands, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “I asked Mithranduil that too,” he admitted. “He said her sacrifice must have ended her limbo.” He then let his eyes land on his friend and he spoke once more, his tone almost fearful and definitely shy—something Aragorn had never seen from the elf. “If she doesn't survive, because of me, will Arda have wind no longer? I haven't felt a single breeze since she fell.”

Aragorn sighed. “I do not know, my friend. I do not know.” He reached forward and placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Please go clean up and rest. You are no good to her like this. I will take care of her, I promise.”

Legolas hesitated, “But what if she wakes?”

The Ranger sighed again, “If she wakes, I will send someone to—”

He was interrupted by a soft groan escaping from the lips of the Wind Spirit.

Instantly, both Legolas and Aragorn turned to look at the woman.

Her eyelids lazily blinked open, and she gradually became aware of her surroundings. A frown creased her face as she emitted another groan. Her hand moved slowly, making its way down to her bandaged side.

"What... what is this feeling?" she murmured to herself, puzzled by the sensations.

To her astonishment, Legolas responded, “Pain.”

She scrambled to sit upright in bed, the pain surging through her body but the sheer force of adrenaline propelled her actions. “You–you can hear me?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Legolas moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the cot. In a gentle tone, he answered, "I can hear you. I can see you." He tenderly raised his hand to her cheek, resting it on the dried bloody mark already there. "And I can feel you."

A hushed gasp escaped her lips as she reached up to touch his hand. "It's... it's warm," she remarked, her voice filled with surprise. "I didn't expect it to be warm."

The elf smiled gently in response.

A mischievous smirk then graced her lips, and her gaze, rather unmistakably, wandered down his figure and briefly settled upon his pants. “Is everything this warm?” she inquired with a teasing tone.

Taken aback by her words and her brazen gaze, he cleared his throat. A noticeable flush crept across his cheeks and ears as he broke eye contact. With that, Legolas turned to face Aragorn, who stood behind him with raised eyebrows and a playful grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “My apologies, Aragorn.” He glanced back at the Wind Spirit. “(Y/N), this is—”

She interrupted him, her eyes on the other man. “I know who he is,” she said with confidence. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn the second, also called Strider or Wingfoot, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the Uncrowned King of Gondor.”

The expressions on both men's faces contorted, morphing to sheer astonishment—how did she know all that?

(Y/N) grinned sheepishly. "I am the wind," she confessed. "I see and hear a great deal."

…..

The Minas Tirith Castle was cloaked in the deep shroud of a late moonlit night as Legolas walked through its ancient halls. The soft flickering of torchlight painted wavering shadows on the weathered stone walls, lending an atmosphere that resonated with the weight of its history. His footsteps were silent as he moved, and his thoughts followed suit, meandering through the corridors of his mind.

However, up ahead, a figure bathed in a gentle glow caused Legolas to abruptly halt in his tracks, his thoughts instantly converging on the woman.

“(Y/N),” he called out, approaching her. “What are you doing away from the House of Healing? You shouldn't be out of bed. You should be resting!”

She let out an exasperated sigh, not appreciating his chastising tone. "I am a watcher of wanderers, Legolas. Therefore, I too am a voyager. It is not in my nature to stay still."

Legolas released a heated breath through his nose. “That may be true, but you now have a corporal form. No longer are you just a breeze.”

She rolled her eyes, shifting her feet to hide the persistent pain emanating from her side. “I may not be a breeze any longer, but I still control all the winds of Arda. I could knock you on your ass in seconds, injured or not.”

Legolas chuckled lightly. “I never would have gotten involved with the wind if I knew she was so temperamental,” he teased.

(Y/N), suppressing a grin, responded with a snarky retort. “Oh, so we are involved, are we?”

The elf sent her a look, trying to hide his expression of amusement. “I would be naive to think that all the times the wind flirted with me, it was just a ploy.”

“Maybe I enjoy a ploy from century to century, Legolas,” she replied.

He laughed lightly at her jest, then took a step closer, his demeanor shifting to one of seriousness. Gently, he pressed his hand to her bandaged side. “(Y/N),” he began softly. “Why did you do it? Why did you get in between that orc and I?”

She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with sincerity. “You know why.”

“Say it,” he commanded.

“Because,” she began, her tone becoming shy and soft. “Because, I—I love you.”

Instantly, Legolas wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her close to him. He pressed his lips fervently against hers. As their mouths met with equal intensity, he tasted the essence of the wind. And oh, it tasted of adventure, suffering, and joy. It tasted of warm bread from the north, bitter nuts from the east, clear water from the south, and fresh fruit from the west. It tasted of eons and eons of wandering, yet still, she tasted of home. Her hands found their way into his golden locks of hair, twisting and tugging it lightly. He allowed her to siphon off his heat, for the wind was often cold and bellowing. Though, he could tell she was taking more than just his warmth—she was taking his love; and oh, he gladly gave it to her.

…..

Everything Taglist: @lea----b @aredhel-of-gondolin @princecami @the-fandoms-georgie @jazziwritestolkienprimary @swimming-in-stardust @elvish-sky @red-riding @brun-lieve @hey-its-nonny @mirclealignr @sydney-1209 @laneynoir @straysugzhpe @runningfeather @finallyforgotten @kaiawrites @commanderawkward @xxbluestrifexx @slytherinambitious @redbirdbluebird333-blog @desert-fern @skairipakomtrikru @genderfluid-anime-goth @skairipakomtrikru @hemera1227 @sotwk @sirenofavalon @hobbitsesoftheshire @asianbutnotjapanese @mgchaser @heavenshumour @mgchaser @heavenshumour @casuallyeating-blog @cheari

Everything But Spice Tag: @goldfearless @cauliflowertree @heranintomyknife23times @mxmia @unethicallypleistocene @amessofmultifandom

Legolas tag: @dark-angel-is-back @mylittle-escapingdreams @abandoncloud9 @aphroditesmoon @carojasmin2204 @high-sea-husbands @aheadfullofsteverogers

add yourself to my taglist

#vayawrites #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #legolas #legolas x reader #legolas/reader #legolas fic #legolas fanfic #legolas fanfiction #LOTR fic #LOTR fanfic #legolas one shot #legolas drabble #legolas love story #LOTR writer #LOTR writing

2K notes · View notes

dcxdpdabbles · 1 year ago

Note

the photo au just has me thinking that lady gotham is shipping dead tired and i love it

(it's a change of pace from her shipping dead on main so that's cool too)

"King Phantom," Danny jumps, not expecting the raspy voice to call from the dark alley he was passing. He turns his gaze to the shadows, squinting as a woman made entirely of smoke and tar takes form, towering over him like the skyscrapers of her city.

His head barely reaches the knees of her dark grey dress. Her outline flickers in the air as if she is nothing but the smoke of a flickering candle about to be blown away.

Despite her aristocracy beauty- her high cheekbones, her smooth skin, and lovely dark curls that fall along her shoulders- her presence inspires a terrible amount of dread.

Around him, people continue to walk by, unable to see her but sensing her all the same. Danny quickly moves off the street, entering the alley of darkness- at once, the city's noise is silenced while the two power ghosts are muted in a safe little bubble.

"Lady Gotham," He greets, bowing his head slightly. It's not quite a nod, for that would be too dismissive of a noble lady, but it's not a complete bow, for that would mean she is higher ranked than he.

"How are you enjoying my domain, your majesty?" Lady Gotham breathes her voice, sending chills down his spine.

"It's lovely. My sister and I are truly enjoying exploring it. I particularly enjoy photographing the scenary." He says, keeping the unease out of his voice. Her black-painted lips pull upwards into a smirk as if amused by his attempt at diplomacy.

If there is one thing Danny has learned, it is that while he is the King Of Ghosts, that doesn't mean he has absolute power- politically wise. Many entities have domains for centuries that have, through those years, earned nobility status among the ghosts.

He couldn't just scorn the noble ghosts. Even Pariah Dark- the most potent ghost of all time- was defeated the first time when the nobles- later renamed Ancients- banned together to take him down.

Lady Gotham was not among those Ancients, but Danny knew she could quickly call upon her allies and dethrone him just as easily. If Danny is a King, she would be the Queen of a neighboring kingdom just gearing up for war if he fumbles his manners.

"Is it truly the scenery that catches your fancy? Surely, there are far prettier things to look at in my domain?" Lady Gotham's voice is soft, like the humming of a gentle river.

Danny blinks, thrown by the question. "I can't say I understand, my Lady. What pretty things do you speak of?"

She flips open a fan, hiding half of her face as her black coal eyes stare at him with an appraising glint.

Above them, a hiss of a grappling hook springs out, and Red Robin flips over their heads in pursuit of a fleeing car. Danny's finger twitched with the huge to pull out his camera and finally get a meme-worthy shot of the teenager.

Alas, he can not do so, for he is speaking to a ghost noble who could use his careless behavior against him at the next afterlife high society meeting.

Lady Gotham's eyes crinkle in amusement. "I speak of what I find amusing but what others find shocking. What can be entertaining but others call fascinating. After all, trying to capture one's faults is where true beauty is found."

Danny fights to keep his face pleasant even if he has no idea what she means. She speaks in riddles, at least. That's what it sounds like to him.

He should introduce her to Clockework. They would have a good time talking in circles around each other.

"That's an interesting outlook, my lady." He settles on. She hums, then snaps her fingers. In front of Danny, a paper appears, floating in swirls of smoke.

"My King, I have existed long before humans found this plot of land and bestowed the name Gotham onto me. Yet I find myself lacking in any solid evidence of my precious people. I can interact with their world, but I can never truly step into it. Especially the Waynes. They have done so much for me through generations, and I can't even greet them properly." Lady Gotham's words may sound sad, but her tone only implies amusement. Danny is instantly weary. "I was wondering if I could ask that you- the bridge between both worlds- would do me a favor to remedy this."

The paper floats closer, and on it, Danny can see it is an invention for the Wayne Charity Gala. His name is printed on the guest list, asking that he join them for his donations to the art programs around the city.

Danny never made such donations because the Fenton's are far from wealthy enough to do so. Lady Gotham was behind this, as she could interact with the world but not the humans. Getting money for the programs under his name would be child's play.

He couldn't say no, per the norms of high society, and he knows she is well aware of this. Lady Gotham has cornered him.

"What is the favor, My Lady?" He asks, pocketing the invitation even though his insides are twisting.

"I only ask for a photo of each current Wyanes." She says, her voice now the sound of falling rain on the city. "Each photo should be the of them individually, for it will be what I display in my lair as their portraits."

Oh, she just wants pictures? Danny could do that!

"Of course." He says, smiling easily up at her. "I shall have that done for you."

"Excellent. I shall await the gala with anticipation."

Danny leaves the alley wondering if he will have a suit nice enough for the event. He'll have to contact Kitty- she was raising fashion designer before her untimely death on Johnny's bike- surely she will know what to dress him in.

He wanders around the city for a few hours, trying to get better shots of the buildings and accidentally getting one of Nightwing mid-sneeze. He giggles at the camera, unaware of Lady Gotham sitting in her haunt in the dark clouds above the city, standing over a three-dimensional model of Gotham City and covered in figures of real-life citizens currently residing in her town.

"Hmmm, Jason hasn't had an embarrassing photo today," She mutters, pushing the figure of Red Hood in front of King Phantom's glowing figurine's path. Her gaze falls on Red Robin- her little Tim- as it moves across the city following the live model's movement.

His figure is also glowing, not nearly as brightly as the King's, but the fact it shares the King's glow means the King has unknowingly claimed him.

She hopes that pushing them together in his civilian forms will allow the two to realize their hearts have been given to one another.

"How romantic." She sighs, floating onto her stomach and kicking her feet. "A King in love with a Knight. Society pushes them apart, but their love will conquer all."

"Sister, must you behave in such a childish manner?" A voice cuts in, and Lady Gotham's face twitches. She turns her head to watch her brother's shift between adult and child.

"Brother. What brings you here?" She asks, unbothered by his comment.

"Can I not visit my dearest little sister?" Clockwork asks, reaching over for a one-sided hug. She returns it with a smirk. "Especially when she messes with the life of the King."

"I do not know what you speak of." She huffs, turning her head back to the humans on her board. Around her, thousands and thousands of miniature models appear as she watches everything that is meant to be for the humans.

"Karma, you know better than to interfere with King Phantom's life, especially if it's something as silly as his love life-"

"Ah ah, brother dearest. You are in charge of time, and I control fate. " She grins. "I can guarantee that they are fated to be. I know it."

Clockwork rolls his eyes, shifting into an old man. "You let humans call you Lady Gotham. I highly doubt you know anything."

She hums, grinning as King Phantom's figure drops into a crouch, pointing a mini camera at Red Robin. Quickly, she leans forward to adjust the vigilante in an alluring position, knowing it will cause the King's heart to flutter when he develops the photos.

Clockwork clicks his tongue. "Honestly, don't you have anything better to do?"

"You should leave your tower more often, Brother. Maybe you could find a date and not nag your younger sister constantly." She taps her lips. "That young John Constinune was rather interested in you-"

"I am leaving!"

She laughs. "You can't run away from fate, brother!"

"Watch me!"

Oh, she plans to; after all, what is more amusing to fate than to see people try to defy her? Either they succeed, which is fascinating to watch them conquer all her trials, or they fail, which is entertaining enough to watch them fumble.

Master Post Link

#dcxdpdabbles #Danny and the fan blog #Part 3 #Lady Gotham is Karma's online persona #Ghosts have high society.#Danny is very new to it so he doesn't have much power even with his throne #Karma is the ghost in charge of Fate #She ships Dead Tired

1K notes · View notes

merbear25 · 28 days ago

Note

For Kinktober, can I please request Sensual Massage with Sanji?

Hey! Hope you've been well. I think I got a bit carried away with this 🤭 Hope you like it 💜🧡

You’d been working yourself to the bone for what felt like forever. It’d been a while since you did anything for yourself. Among some of your female coworkers, there was word buzzing of a spa that could offer more than just the typical services.

CW: NSFW, MDNI, fem!reader, some fluff, vaginal fingering, sex work

Tender hands (Sanji)

Rubbing your neck, you lingered over by the water cooler ideally. With your boss piling heaps of assignments on you, the stress of responsibility was affecting you physically.

“Feeling alright?” Your coworker chirped.

You glanced over at her and gave her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed if I’m being honest.”

The older woman nodded. She showed some hesitation to continue, deciding to take a quick look around to avoid any of your nosey colleagues.

“Between you and me,” she leaned in. “I was feeling the same as you not too long ago. But then, I discovered this spa and let me tell you, those masseuses certainly have magic fingers.”

The implications had you nervously fidgeting. “Oh, yeah?” You smiled politely.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a card. “Here, darling,” she soothed your nerves. “You go here and tell them you want this special. They’ll take good care of you.” She grinned at you before shuffling away to her cubicle.

Glancing at the card, you saw that the phrase ‘Sundae’ was scribbled on the back. You promptly shoved it into your pocket before continuing the workday—the business card seemingly burning for you to give into your curiosity.

Staying behind the others to finish the last bit of paperwork you’d been given. The heavy footsteps of your boss was the most dreaded sound imaginable.

“Just got these in. I’ll need these by the end of next week.” The way he smiled came off as if he thought he was doing you a favor by extending the due date. He patted the stack before excusing himself for the evening. He called back a ‘see you tomorrow’ with his back turned to you, waving lazily.

Rubbing your eyes from exhaustion, you could hear the strange offer from earlier calling out to you. As you stared at the card, you felt yourself being pulled more and more into temptation. It was such a bizarre recommendation, one which your curiosity couldn’t resist seeing through.

Upon arriving at the location, the dim lights made you second guess the hours. No, it should still be open. The door wasn’t locked but the lights were kept suspiciously low.

You tapped on the service bell and anxiously waited for someone. No more than a few moments must have passed before your nerves started getting the best of you. Wondering what on earth you were doing there, you slowly turned towards the door.

“Sorry to keep you waiting!” You heard a friendly voice call out.

“Oh! No, it’s fine… I-I don’t really know if I’ve got the right place actually.”

“What is it that you’re looking for?” The blonde man’s face made him appear kind and his voice was rather comforting.

You peeked down at the card and said in an almost mousey tone, “A sundae?” What a ridiculous code name… you thought to yourself.

His eyes lit up. “Ohh, okay,” he let out a good-natured chuckle. “First time?” The rhetorical question made you stumble over your words.

“Don’t worry. There’s no judgment here and everything will be kept confidential.”

As he talked you through the basics, wanting to be sure this was something you were fully aware of and consented to, you were so flustered that you nodded and agreed to nearly everything he said.

“You can say ‘no’ if this isn’t for you, you know.” It came from a place of concern due to your unnatural eagerness.

“N-no! I…I want to do this. I’ve just never done anything like it before,” you admitted.

“In that case, I can assure you that you won’t regret it.”

He led you towards one of the massage rooms in the back. He informed you that he needed to prepare some of the oils and that you should go ahead and undress and lay down on the table. Giving you a warm smile, he left you momentarily.

Looking around the room, the candles gently placed throughout were not yet lit and the colors were an earthy tone, which did well to set a calming atmosphere.

Laying down on the table, you buried your face into the headrest in an attempt to hide your shame. As you were lost in your thoughts, the door clicking pulled you out of your fog.

As he apologized for the delay, he kept the conversation friendly and open in an attempt to ease those nerves of yours. He lit the candles and pressed play on the playlist, which was set to peaceful sounds of nature.

The squirts of warm massage oil coaxed a slight shiver from you.

“Is it too cold?”

“No, just wasn’t expecting it.”

His laugh was soft, endearing even. When his hands found their way to your back, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. As his touch kneaded over your sore spots, your murmurs signaled for him to be gentle. When he came across tight knots, his skillful fingers worked them out—your soft moans being the encouragement he needed.

He focused on your lower back, and then eventually your glutes and thighs. You clung to the table in anticipation, only to be hushed by Sanji, “Just relax.”

He watched your movements closely, trying to gauge how you were feeling. Your legs parting gave him his answer. Massaging your inner thighs, his thumbs pressed small circles into your fatty flesh. The oil was warming your skin, making his fingers the welders of your pleasure.

Working his way closer to your pussy lips, your arousal was obvious—the wetness glistening slightly even in the dimly lit room. His thumbs tenderly massaged around your labias, which made the slick between them seep out a little. His other fingers kneaded your ass, causing you to involuntarily arch your back. The sweet moans coming out of you filled the room. As one was placed on your hip, rubbing it gently, the other traced over your folds.

Your body quaked and your breath hitched in your throat. The warmth from the oils was fanning the flames within you. His fingers glided over your clit, prompting your hips to shake and a whimper to pass over your soft lips.

His thumb circled over your sensitive bundle. Each gasp and tremble only made him work you harder to squeeze each euphoric laced cry out of you. As you groaned from your orgasm, his hands returned to your back—his hands firmer in order to work out the lingering bit of ecstasy.

He moved to your shoulders, letting you enjoy the stress of the day being released. Your huffs and soft pants were subsiding, which meant you were perfect for the next round.

Your hips were the center of attention again. The masseuse’s hands roamed over them, being sure to give an ample amount of affection to your lower back and sides, as well. You whimpered while his fingers teased your entrance. Instinctively, you bucked your hips slightly into his touch, yearning to be completely and utterly satisfied.

Though you couldn’t see his face, it held a look of relief. Seeing his clients go from a nervous and stressed wreck to ones so willing to put their trust in him never ceased to leave him in awe of their courage, their beauty.

He plunged one finger in to start. As your body adjusted to it, he could feel your walls spasming already. The feeling of a gorgeous woman coming undone from his touch was like no other. He couldn’t help but give in.

“That’s it, my sweet thing,” he cooed at you. “Just let go.”

He put another finger in you, followed by another shortly after. Your cries of ecstasy were making his head spin. Watching you grip at the table, the way you convulsed on his fingers, and the faint slapping of his hand against your slit: you were a depiction of pure angelic imagery.

Your groans and pants were evident that you were close to that long sought after edge. Leaning in slightly, he whispered for you to cum for him. Burying your face into the softened table, you could feel yourself slipping.

Filling you completely with his experienced fingers, your body couldn’t hold on any longer. Your cries of reaching the peak of euphoria sounded throughout the room. As he guided you through your orgasm, a faint smile found its way to your spent complexion. Your body, now totally relaxed, went limp on the table.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice still raspy from your high.

Your politeness was much too sweet. He rubbed your hips again, beaming down at you. “That wasn’t so bad then, was it? You did great.”

He gave you some time to get dressed as he rang you up. Exchanging pleasant chit-chat, his inviting demeanor might be the most intoxicating thing about him.

When he handed you your receipt, his fingers ran lightly along yours. With a friendly grin, he added, “Hope to see you again.”

Your heart was pounding so hard against your chest, it was as if it was about to leap out of you. Once in your car, your eyes caught sight of a small note he left on the paper.

“Come by anytime during the evening on weekdays. I’ll be here to help you relax. Xoxo.”

Fawning over the note, you made sure to drop by every once in a while. Who knew? Maybe there was something other than business to explore.

#kinktober 2024 #one piece #x reader #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #op #one piece x you #one piece smut #sanji x reader #sanji x you #op x reader #op x you #black leg sanji

139 notes · View notes

hypostatic-oath · 11 months ago

Text

Hydro Archon, Hydro Archon, Don't Cry

I've noticed a pattern with 5star characters in my game - they only come home after I've done their story quest or at least the Archon Quest where they appear. From an in-game perspective it's obviously because it takes me a while to finish the quest and I raise the pity in the meantime, however... from a SAGAU perspective, it's adorable that they only come around after I've spent the time to get to know them better.

Content Warnings: Angst, Furina desperately needs a hug.

SPOILERS FOR 4.2 BELOW

Imagine Furina before the Archon Quest. She's holding it together, like she has been for five hundred years. She's been performing her role so well for so long, yet she feels like she's already gone beyond her limit. She doesn't know how long she can handle doing this for, but she knows she must.

Late at night, she takes a break to catch some air. She's aware that she's still performing - she's alone, but she cannot risk lowering her mask, even before an invisible audience. She takes a deep breath and looks up, and doesn't even feel the tears flowing down her face.

A shimmering light crosses the sky.

Foçalors, it beckons. Come home.

Oh no. Not this. She's not ready, she's not ready! Not tonight. She tells herself she'll answer your summons tomorrow. In truth, she doesn't feel worthy of answering. What if she's not what you expect?

That isn't even a question. She knows she's not what you expect.

She knows you have other Archons - real Archons - among your Vessels. She panics - she doesn't even have a Vision, much less an Archon's authority. There's only so much she can achieve with acting. What would she do when you took her out on the battlefield and she inevitably failed?

Come on... Another shooting star crosses the sky, your voice a faint, ethereal whisper in her ears. I need an Archon team...

It fills her with dread. She can't answer your summons! She absolutely can't! Not only would she disappoint you - because there's no way she wouldn't, surely, she can't imagine a world in which you are not disappointed once you figure out just what she is, a fraud who can't even use Hydro much less be the literal Archon - she'd also jeopardize her only purpose.

She rushes inside, back to her room, closes the shutters and the window and the curtains and almost leaps into bed, placing the covers over herself as if to shield herself from the world.

She can still hear you calling.

The next day, Poisson is struck. The prophecy is in full swing. She's frantic, searching for something, anything that could possibly help. All the while maintaining the façade. At least you seem to have given up.

It's both relieving and heartbreaking.

At night, she doesn't even risk it - her windows are kept shut. She analises every report, and locks her door when she notices that she's crying, the papers she's holding becoming dotted with tears that fall despite her best efforts. She can hear the rain hitting her window, and the downpour has her feeling even more hopeless.

Neuvillette speaks with her in the following morning. If the pressure from you wasn't enough, she now also has to manage to assure the Hydro Dragon Sovereign that she has everything under control. It's funny, how those eyes capable of such gentleness seem to gaze into her without a shred of mercy. Just speaking to him now feels like she's been put on trial, and Furina knows, deep down in her soul, that she is guilty.

He presses. Poisson has fallen. She knows. She also knows she's likely crying, the mask is slipping, but she can't give up. She has no right - no right at all, to sacrifice the lives of every person in Fontaine for the sake of her comfort. She cannot afford to slip up. And that means she cannot trust anyone - not you, and not Neuvillette. So she gathers the little control she can at this time, tells him she knows exactly what she's doing, and dashes out the door.

Wait, Furina!

She barely hears your voice as she runs. "I'm sorry, but I can't answer!" She thinks, as she rushes to the top floor of the Palais Mermonia. She knows she gas no time to lose. She needs to get herself in check, to wipe away her tears, to figure something out. Where had she gone wrong? Five hundred years, searching for a solution. Five hundred years of observing every trial, hoping it'll finally be the one she needs. But nothing.

She has nothing, and Poisson has fallen.

She thought the Traveler - and you, by extension - would be the key. That by judgding them she'd have the "most magnificent trial" that her mirror self spoke of. And yet, at every turn, the blonde outlander had managed to evade being sentenced, or even making the trial as grand as she'd expected. She paces around in her room as she mulls it over. Should she had judged you directly? Could she have done so? That would've been a trial for the ages - the Overseer, brought to justice by the Hydro Archon of Fontaine, for the crime of... what could she even accuse you of? Posessing people's bodies? That had to be illegal - or at least immoral enough to warrant a trial...

She lets her body flop onto the bed, covering her eyes with one arm as she lets out a sigh that despite its overdramatic appearance, is in fact incredibly genuine. She's tired. So tired.

Foçalors, come home.

Furina buries her face beneath one of the pillows. She hopes it'll drown out the sound of your voice. She can't distinguish whether that ache in her chest is from your summons growing more insistent or from how much she needs to cry.

The shooting star turns golden outside the window, and Furina wonders if the fact that someone else intercepted it will be enough to dissuade you. She hopes it is, otherwise, her days are numbered.

No more stars cross the sky that night, and relief washes over her body, in a wave so intense that she once again doesn't notice the tears. She falls asleep like that, and dreams of rising waters.

Furina heads to the Opera Epiclese in the morning. She's not looking forward to seeing Neuvillette, but she prays that there'll be a trial. "Please," she thinks, as she sits down in the throne reserved for the Hydro Archon, observing the stage from on high, "let it be today."

It isn't. Instead of a trial, there is a performance... and though she usually loves them, now is not the time. Worse yet, she's spotted by the crowd as she's getting ready to leave. They're angry, of course they are. The prophecy is true, and what is their Archon doing? Furina performs as best as she can, but this time the audience is completely unreceptive. She doesn't blame them. She'd be angry, too, in their shoes. She knows they're terrified. She's terrified, too.

But what can she do? Her search has turned up empty. She has no powers, not really, none besides the power of persuasion and even that seems to be slipping more and more these days. She cannot reassure her people. Neuvillette no longer trusts her, if he ever did. The water rises every day with no signs of stopping.

"Why, mirror-me? Where am I failing?"

The crowd chases her out of the theater. Neuvillette is nowhere in sight, and even if he were, Furina isn't sure she could call upon him now. The time in which he acted as her shield if gone. Neuvillette is now just another of the many she's disappointed.

It hurts.

With no other choice, she runs - as far as her legs will take her, she dashes away from the crowd, and guilt tells her she's being a coward. That she needs to stand up and reassure the masses, that she needs to do what an Archon would at that time.

The notion feels almost ridiculous. She cannot command her element freely like Barbatos, or raise protections over her city like Morax. She cannot threaten to strike down the unruly like the Shogun, nor does she have Lesser Lord (Lesser Lord! Hah! Even someone known as 'Lesser' is leagues beyond Furina's ability) Kusanali's foresight and wisdom.

So she does what she can do.

Whether it is fate or simply her own feelings of guilt, she finds herself in Poisson, at the base of the Spina di Rosula. The place where all those people - her people - had lost their lives to a disaster she was supposed to prevent.

When the Traveler extends their hand, she doesn't know whether it is a blessing or a curse. She wants to run again - what else can she do? But her pursuers are apparently still giving chase, and the outlander offers her aid. She can feel your presence from within them - every time she's crossed paths with them, as brief as those moments were, you were there. She can tell that the longing in the blonde's eyes is, at least in part, yours.

She's sorry.

She follows the Traveler to the hiding place - someone's home? It seems irrelevant. For a moment, she wonders if she could sue you for invasion of private property. "Oh, what am I thinking? The time for the grand trial is over... and even if it weren't, suing the Overseer for something so trivial would warrant the same result as the first time I challenged the Traveler..."

The Traveler. The outlander whose presence preceeded disaster. They were known for solving it, sure, but she knew that the moment they set foot in Fontaine the prophecy would have already started. Was it their fault, or yours?

Furina still feels like it might be hers.

The Traveler offers help once again. They extend their hand, and the look in their eyes as they ask her to confide in them is so earnest, so genuine. She swars she can hear two sets of voices saying the words - the Traveler's, and yours. It's faint, and gentle, and pained, and carries a yearning she knows she cannot fix.

Through them, you reach for her and she almost breaks. She knows you'll stop reaching once you know the truth.

Furina, please. You can trust us, love. Let me- let us help. People from your world cannot know, but neither of us fit that criteria. Your people will not dissolve, I promise you. I've seen enough worlds to know.

She considers it.

She hears your voice, and considers it. But there is uncertainty in your tone. You're gambling, and she's a good enough actress to know you're not sure yourself. They wouldn't do it, that's your reasoning. Furina doesn't know who 'they' are, but you're placing all your bets on the fact that 'they' would not erase an entire Nation. Who are 'they'? Celestia? If so, she knows for certain that your wager is more optimistic than based on facts. It's not enough - blind optimism is not enough for her to risk it, not even from a being like you. Besides, that is not her choice to make.

She cannot give up. She cannot lower her guard. Not with Neuvillette, not with the Traveler, not with you. The Traveler urges her for a response, reaches out, and she's about to deny them, when the house's walls fall.

Damn it, we needed more time! Furina, I'm so sorry.

She feels your sorrow about at the same time that she feels the spotlight on her.

Neuvillette looks down from his seat as the Chief Justice, and somehow the sliver of pity in his eyes hurts more than the coldness of a few days prior.

She's on trial.

________

She's crying.

She's not even making an effort to conceal it anymore. It's over. The curtains have closed and everything she worked so hard for has crumbled. The people know. Neuvillette knows. You know. Furina makes no effort to hear your voice. She knows you're disappointed.

If she did, perhaps she'd hear how you're screaming at the Traveler to go check on her. If she did, perhaps she'd hear how despite everything, you're reaching out, still. How you wish to hold her tight, as she deserves. She'd perhaps hear your outrage at the thought of her being subjected to the death sentence, she'd hear you trying to tear Neuvillette apart for allowing it, she'd hear you slowly realising that the fact that the sentence is addressed to the Hydro Archon means it's not her who dies.

She doesn't witness your relief.

Instead, it is you who gain an understanding of her thoughts. The Traveler reaches for her, and she can feel you pushing through, but she can't stop performing. Even now, she's still holding it, as much as she can.

You tear through her defenses with more ease than she expected. Furina had, until now, thought of you as detached. She knew you saw the world as a stage, a story for your amusement. Sure, you liked them, but only to the extent that one likes characters in a play, right? You were, as far as she knew, exactly the type of god - or, er, entity? - she emulated. Fickle. Boastful. Using lives as entertainment, watching trials and tribulations like a performance and solving the Nations' troubles like nothing more than a game. She had not expected you to care.

Not about her.

Not after knowing the truth.

You push forward. She knows it's you, and not the Traveler, who's in control. She can feel it, the intensity with which you reach out is the same she felt tugging at her very being every time a star crossed the sky. She knows it's you who's still trying to reach her. Even if she's failed.

Even if she's not capable of being in your Archon Team.

So she sighs, and lets you witness. That is your role, after all, isn't it? An audience of one, watching an interactive play. You haven't given up on her character, even though it's not what you expected. You're not what she expected, either. Funny, she finds herself thinking, you're both more human than anyone realised.

You witness her life. She lets it play out like a film before your eyes, the endless stream of memories of growing hopelessness as she realised that the prophecy was slowly setting itself up and she was not any closer to finding out how to stop it. Now you know - the truth, the whole truth. She has nothing left to lose now, anyway. Everything is lost. She was unmasked. She failed.

You're pushed out of her thoughts after she invites you to take your place on stage. You act in her memory, but this time the Traveler doesn't speak. You barely have time to state your piece - all you manage is an I'm sorry before being forced away. She has nothing more to share. That is enough, she figures, and far more than she ever thought she'd share. She still feels the urge to cry, but part of it is from relief.

After that, she doesn't feel your presence until after the flood.

The prophecy comes and goes and Fontaine is unharmed. The flood lasts no more than minutes, and no one is dissolved. Furina remembers your words - 'they' wouldn't do that. Though she is unsure as to 'their' identity, she is thankful that you were right. The sunlight feels like bliss upon her skin as she steps out of the Opera Epiclese, gentle rays drying the remaining water from the streets and the tears on her cheeks, and for the first time in five hundred years she breathes easy.

"They're still hoping you'll come." A familiar voice pulls her out of her trance. The Traveler, alone, stands behind her. Your presence is nowhere near. They look the same, yet different, without you within. Furina can't quite explain it, but it feels odd after being so used to seeing you within the outlander.

"I'm not an Archon." She answers, a certain bitterness in her voice as she looks down, defeated.

"I don't think they care. I know you need to rest for now, and they don't have enough primos for a ten pull anyways, but... just so you know. They'll keep trying."

Furina doesn't quite know whether that is meant as a warning or as an opportunity presenting itself. They're gone before she can ask. Either way, they're right - she is tired, and she does need rest. Out of instinct, she heads to the Palais Mermonia, but stops herself as she reaches for the door.

"Lady Furina." The gentle, deep voice she knows as belonging to the Iudex pulls her from her thoughts. She doesn't dare look him in the eye. He opens the door for her, but she simply turns away. She cannot face him, not after that trial, not after everything she'd done.

"Thank you, monsieur Neuvillette. But I... I think I'll be going, now."

The now fully restored Hydro Dragon can only watch as Furina walks away. He knows she needs her space right now, but that doesn't stop him from worrying for her. He'll arrange the best apartment he can get for her, and make sure she never lacks for anything. In the meantime, though, he'll just try not to let his emotions get the best of him, lest he causes a downpour to fall upon poor Furina, who definitely does not need rain right now. If there is one thing he knows about humans is that rain does not, for the most part, cheer them up. So he holds it in, promising himself that he'll take a small break for a walk after the aftermath of everything is over, and heads to his office.

There is so much to do...

_________

Three weeks pass. Furina lays on her bed, her window open, the soft breeze bringing the smell of a night that promises rain into the apartment. She is busy, not with work, or with renovations, but with the azure glass sphere that she holds up to the light, examining it under her lamp. A Vision... during all those years, she had never thought she'd receive such a thing, much less after being pushed away from her role as the Archon. She is thankful, yes, for her newfound freedom, and, she supposes, for the fact that she'd gotten to act again. But it still remains that this bauble was completely unexpected.

Power. This little thing can give her power. She's still unsure on how to use it, and it crosses her mind that the Traveler - or you - might know. You owe her, after all, after what she did to help you out with the play... she could feel you trying to strangle the Traveler and Paimon on the astral plane and that was perhaps why she wasn't entirely offended by their remarks. Still, she had made a great effort for that play. It was only fair that at least one of you repays the favor, no?

Furina smiles softly, sighing. She'll have to put up a commission at the Guild tomorrow.

She examines the light reflecting within, and it reminds her of the surface of the sea as seen from underwater. The holder, a silvery ornament not unlike those she's seen worn by Vision-bearers, has a distinct characteristic - four fang-like details that seem to secure the glass in place. Before she can give it more thought, the first pitter patter of raindrops reaches her ears, and she rushes to retrieve the clothes hanging on the line she has in the small balcony of her apartment before they get too wet. She rushes outside, hearing as the rain and wind pick up.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it..." She mutters to herself, quickly shoving the clothes onto a basket, trying to pick them off the line as fast as she can. Behind her, a flash of light illuminates the night sky. "Oh, I am so not in the mood for thunder..."

Furina cringes, hoping the storm is not directly above. Maybe she'll be able to sleep if it's just a faraway rumbling. What she hears, however, is not the booming sound of a storm.

Furina. Come home.

You're still trying. For a moment, she forgets about the heavy rain, and the clothes, and simply looks up at the sky. Blue flashes, one after the other, cross the clouds in rapid succession. Even after everything, you hadn't given up. The Traveler had warned her, but at the time she hadn't been in a stable enough state of mins to even care, still shaken from everything that had happened.

Now, she simply looks up.

"Overseer." She answers. You won't be able to add her to the 'Archon Team'. She knows she's not as powerful as most of your Vessels - hell, she doesn't even know how to use her Vision yet. But you still want her.

You know the truth - the whole truth - and you still want her.

The next star that crosses the sky turns gold, and glows brighter and brighter until it lands in front of her, hovering above the railing on her balcony. It emits a soft, warm light, and Furina reaches for it like she'd reached for her Vision.

Warmth spreads over her body, and it feels like every time she'd looked at the Traveler with you in them, except everything feels more... intense. It's not like she's seeing the filtered bits of you that shine through the cracks in someone else, no. She can feel you directly, and she understands why they call it 'coming home'. It's warm. It's comfortable. And for the first time she can truly, honestly say she doesn't feel alone.

You're happy she's there. Time seems to stop around her, and she finds herself dry and in a field full of stars. If she squints, she can barely make out a form, a swirling swarm of stardust in the vague shape of a person. She reaches a hand out.

You place the cursor over her outstretched hand.

Welcome home, Furina.

#heavy self indulgent vibes on this one y'all #FINALLY this one was in the drafts for so long istg #also you will pry neuvillette caring about furina from my cold dead hands udc what sort of relationship they have HE CARES ABOUT HER #furina deserves sm better #PLEASE let yourself be taken care of furina we love you #yes i hc it rained after furina moved away from the palais mermonia #sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin au #genshin impact sagau #sagau overseer #sagau furina #man i really need to write happier stuff. theres always someone sad i wonder if this says smth about me

392 notes · View notes

sleepyparalysisdmon · 7 days ago

Text

SVT and a partner with White Coat Syndrome

Requested? Yes!

Genre: comfort, angst

White Coat Syndrome: when your blood pressure is higher at the doctor’s office and normal at home, usually caused by the stress and anxiety of being in a clinical setting.

Some of these won't specifically address the hypertension, but rather the feelings about going to the doctor or not feeling heard while there. Be careful reading if you're sensitive about that sort of thing.

Seungcheol

When you say you might just cancel your annual check up, he gives you a perplexed look. It’s a wellness visit, why wouldn’t you go? When you tell him you always get a lecture about your high blood pressure and no doctor will ever listen to you when you just say you’re stressed, expect a few questions. Did you feel stressed before you made the appointment? What makes you so stressed at the doctor’s office? Maybe you should find another doctor? You shrug it off and think that’s the end of it. But the day of the appointment, you’re surprised to find he’s late for work, casually sitting in the kitchen. “I’m going with you,” he says simply, keys in his hand. Your heart’s so full that he’d abandon his busy schedule to accompany you for such a silly thing that your blood pressure reading isn’t as bad as it normally is there.

Jeonghan

Say you have a chronic issue that has you in and out of the doctor’s office with some regularity. Expect that he’s noticed the way your mood fluctuates around those appointments. But he won’t say anything because he doesn’t want to add to your stress, and he knows there are limitations for what he can do to help when it comes to a chronic condition. So it’s a common occurrence for you to come home from an appointment and be surprised to find him at home starting dinner. “Go take a bath,” he’ll demand. You know better than to not listen because he might just run a tub of water and dump you in it, clothes and all. Later, between the warm bath and meal and being wrapped in a warm blanket on the couch, you don't even remember the anxiety that had such a tight hold on you earlier today.

Joshua

He’s sooo sneaky. He recognizes the pattern to your stress, but you don’t seem to. So, he pitches a new craft for the two of you to do together - bullet journaling. It’s got three purposes in his mind. The one you’re aware of is that it’s a fun little activity for you guys to do together. But it serves as a destresser AND evidence of your stress all in one, because he’s insisted that you guys track your moods in a cute little chart, among many other things. After a few months, he’ll show you his ‘discovery’ - you predictably mark that you're stressed in the days before your appointments and the day of. He just wants the light bulb to go off for you so he can address your anxiety directly.

Jun

He comes home at a blessedly normal time today, excited to hang out and have dinner with you. He’s been looking forward to it all day and nearly crawls out of his own skin when he finds you crying on the couch. That’s right, he thinks, you took the afternoon off for an appointment. He’s all over you because he’s really thinking the worst, wondering what kind of bad news you’ve gotten today. You sigh and just tell him you don't feel like you’re being listened to at your appointments. You gesture to the new medication on the coffee table, saying that you really don’t think you need it. He doesn’t have to hear much to insist that you get a second opinion. He’s already googling doctors in the area with high ratings. You have a long list to go through tomorrow, but you’re touched that he listened and did something about it.

Hoshi

I kind of see this starting out much like Jun’s situation did. His baby is crying and he’s thinking the worst!!! But you just say the doctor’s office stresses you out and now you’re dreading going back for a follow-up in a couple weeks. He thinks, Okay, I can fix this!!! Despite the long day he’s had, he’s making you dinner and rubbing your feet and coddling you. Eventually, you aren’t even crying because of stress but because of how overwhelmed you are with the energy and passion he puts into caring for you while you're down. You’ll push him away and say he should take care of himself too because he’s probably had a long day, but he’ll stubbornly cling. No way, this is his therapy too!!

Wonwoo

Raises an eyebrow when you guys have progressed in your relationship enough for him to see what kind of medications you’re taking. “Blood pressure medicine?” He’ll ask quizzically. You’re young, and you’re normally so laidback that it doesn’t really make sense to him. When you say that your reading is always high when you go to the doctor, he won’t say anything right away. But a couple days later he’ll come home with a little blood pressure machine and ask you to humor him. He’s careful to get plenty of data over the course of a couple weeks before he hands you a sheet and all but demands that you go to the doctor to tell them you don’t need to be on this medication, because you’re actually reading low at home. You’ll give him a big blank stare in the moment, but will be overjoyed to be off the medication a week later. You won’t be doubting Wonwoo’s methods again.

Woozi

He helps by… not explicitly helping. Hear me out, okay!! He’s not nosy about your business as long as you try to keep him in the loop to the extent that you’re comfortable with. So he waits for you to come to him if you need him. He knows you have some anxiety about the doctor’s appointment you have today and half expects you to just go straight home and relax for the rest of the day. But there’s a meek knock on his studio door in the afternoon and you let yourself in and he kind of has heart palpitations. You came to see him!! He thinks. “Don’t mind me,” you’ll say, “I just want to hang out here for a while before going home.” He’ll roll his eyes like he’s annoyed, but he’s opening his arms for you to sit in his lap while he works. He’ll let you cling without breathing a word about it as long as you want to if it makes you feel better.

This one is dramatic, but it’s because it’s Seokmin, okay?? Say you’re on medication for high blood pressure and haven’t even thought anything about telling him about it. You normally feel fine (outside of the doctor’s office, that is), and it just… hasn’t come up. You’re spending the day at home with him and you’ve just offered to go fix some lunch, but you don’t make it. You wake up on the carpet with Seokmin hovering over you with panicked eyes. “You fainted, why didn't you tell me you didn’t feel well?” He’ll scold. He takes your health and safety seriously (they all do, really), so he’ll insist putting you in the car to take you to the hospital. You’re so out of it that you don’t really have any energy to argue. At the hospital, the nurse and doctor give you a look when they glance between your medication list and your blood pressure readings. They send you home and tell you to discontinue your blood pressure medication and recommend a mental health professional instead to manage anxiety. Best believe Seokmin’s making you follow through with THAT appointment.

Mingyu

Did you think he was going to let you go alone? Did you think he was going to let you drive yourself and add to the stress? Did you think he wasn’t going to sit in the exam room with you and glare menacingly at the doctor like a big scary guard dog? He’s insistent and you’re running late, so you let him do all of this. He’s the epitome of over-protective the moment you tell him you’re nervous and don’t really want to go. Has no qualms about getting up and dragging you out of the room if you try to tell the doctor you’re just stressed HERE and they don’t listen. It’s like a switch is flipped by the time you’re in the car because he’s all sweet and soft and telling you that he’ll help you find a doctor that will actually listen.

Minghao

You have an afternoon appointment and he’s been watching you pace since approximately 5am. You’ve done all the normal chores by 7am and have moved on to some of the more infrequent chores, like dusting the tops of the kitchen cabinets and ceiling fans and deep cleaning the fridge. He can’t stand to watch you spiral anymore by about 9am and makes you sit down for a cup of tea with him. He holds your hand across the table and asks what the deal is. Does NOT expect the flood of tears that come but handles it with grace. When you sniffle about how nervous you are and how much worse it will be when you get to the office, he offers to help you meditate for a bit. You look skeptical, and he gets that maybe it’s not as helpful for you as it is for him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already cleared his schedule to go with you anyway.

Seungkwan

You’re sick and absolutely refuse to go to the doctor. He’ll raise an eyebrow at the sea of tissues around you as you cough through your argument. “Fine, have it your way,” he’ll say - for now. If you get any worse, he won’t give you a lot of choices. So you get a constant stream of teas and soups and medicine during the day, and later that night while he’s cuddling you back to health, he’ll ask the serious questions about your avoidance. He doesn’t want to pressure you to go to the the general practitioner that you’re so anxious about seeing, but he does recommend tackling the anxiety individually and encourages you to seek some professional help for it. He’ll even go with you, he insists. You’re so touched that he actually listened that you let him schedule an appointment the next day.

Vernon

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again because I will die on this hill. He’s not as aloof as he seems!! He’s noticed the pattern to your anxiety but hasn’t said anything about it because he isn’t sure it will help. So he does the little things like planning for a quiet night in on your appointment days to work down some of the anxiety, complete with take-out, a bunch of blankets, and a bad comedy. But this time, you lament about how the appointment went, movie totally forgotten. You’re worked up again about it asking Vernon what you should do and why no doctor will listen to you. He thinks it might be rhetorical, but he gently recommends going to a counselor or psychiatrist because they might be able to help manage the anxiety you're feeling. You blink at him with a little ‘oh’, feeling kind of silly that you’ve never thought of it. He doesn’t let you feel silly for long, because he’ll clear his schedule to go with you any day if there’s a chance it will help you feel better.

Chan

Bless his heart, you might have to spell it out for him. Does not understand the bad mood you’re in after your appointment and thinks he might have done something. You huff, “No, you haven’t done anything. I just hate going to the doctor. It kills my mood.” He refuses to let you apologize for your bad mood after that. Can’t relate necessarily, but does his best to understand you and what you need from him. Expect to be smothered with affection today, but he’s already thinking of a mental checklist for things he needs to do before, during, and after your next appointment. He’s not sure he can solve all of your problems, but he can absolutely be someone you can depend on.

78 notes · View notes

pretzel-box · 3 months ago

Note

Hello Hello! Hope you’re doing well! If it is possible could you write something about a Sister!reader who never gave up on thinking Sebastian is still alive and they reunite and its sob worthy? Thank you ^^

Tags: Pre!Lockdown scenario, fem sibling reader, plationic

Words: 1,2k

The corridors of the Urbanshade facility were cold and sterile, a maze of steel and concrete that stretched on endlessly. Each step echoed off the walls, amplifying the silence that permeated the place. To most, this facility was a place of dread, a monument to the horrors that took place behind its doors. But to you, it was something else. It was hope.

You tightened your grip on the clipboard in your hands, the fake Urbanshade ID badge clipped to your coat collar.

Your heart pounded in your chest, anxiety mingling with anticipation. It had been years—long, grueling years—since Sebastian had disappeared. Everyone had told you to give up, to accept that he was gone after he got executed for the gruesome crimes he did, or rather, didn't committed . They said it was time to move on, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Because deep down, you knew he was still out there. You could feel it, a connection only a sister could have. And now, after all this time, you finally had a lead after such a long time of search.

Your breath hitched as you rounded a corner and saw two guards standing outside a heavily reinforced door. You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your expression neutral, trying to hide the true feelings between your solid expressions. This was it. This was where they were keeping him. You felt so close and yet so far from your goal.

“Evening gentlemen,” you greeted in a professional tone, trying to sound as casual as possible, as if you naturally belong among those workers. “I’m here for the weekly inspection of the experiments. Orders from high up.”

One of the guards, a burly man with a thick beard, gave you a skeptical look. “Haven’t seen you around here before.” His voice was rough, as if he had smoked for ages. It gave you a nasty feeling.

Yet you swallowed hard, your mind racing and you had to come up with a lie quickly since having an ID and a clipboard wasn't enough nowdays. “I’m new. Transferred in from Sector 7. They needed someone with experience in handling… sensitive subjects. Short on staff, you know the deal.”

The guard grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t question you further as if he felt your words a bit to much..“Short on staff indeed. Fine. Make it quick,” he muttered, punching in a code on the keypad beside the door after holding a keycard against it, yet you couldn't really see the code. The heavy metal door slid open with a hiss, revealing a dimly lit cell beyond. They really had tight security around here.

You took a deep breath, stepping inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and for a moment, you were plunged into darkness. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the low light, and then you saw him.

Sebastian.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his head lowered. His raven hair was longer now, messier, and his clothes were torn and dirty. He looked… different. Thinner, more gaunt. And he…he looked so inhuman and deformed. But it was him. You could see it in his now fluorescent blue eyes—the almost same eyes you had grown up with, the same eyes that had always been there, watching over you.

“Sebastian…” you whispered with a tone that was almost fleeting , your voice barely more than a breath. Tears immediately welled up in your relieved eyes as you took a step forward with newfound confidence. “It’s me… it’s your sister.”

Sebastian’s head shot up at the sound of your voice. His eyes were wide, filled with disbelief and confusion. For a moment, he just stared at you, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, slowly, recognition dawned on his face.

“You?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a croak. He pushed himself up from the floor, using his hands to push is now larger body across the cold cell floor, his movements slow and hesitant, as if he was afraid you were just a figment of his imagination. “Is… is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” you choked out, warm tears streaming down your face. “Oh my God, Sebastian… I knew you were alive. I knew it!”

Before he could say anything else, you rushed forward, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace by pressing against the cold steel bars that kept you separated from now. It was the last form of security. For a moment, he just stood there, stiff and unresponsive. Then, slowly, his arms came up around you, pulling you close. He was trembling—no, shaking—and you could feel the wetness of his tears against your neck.

“I thought… I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “They told me… they told me you all…blamed me…You hate me…”

You pulled back slightly, cupping his face in your hands. “No, Sebastian. I’m here. I’m right here.” You brushed a tear from his cheek with your thumb, so careful, that you might think it could break any second. But it was your heart breaking at the sight of him. “I never gave up on you. Not for a single second.”

Sebastian’s shoulders shook as he tried to hold back a sob. “I—I tried to escape,” he said, his voice trembling. “But they… they caught me. They did things to me. Horrible things. I thought… I thought I’d die in here.” The try to fill you in on the events by remembering those scenes made him tremble more out of pure terror and fear.

“Shh… it’s okay,” you soothed, pulling him close again. “I’m here now. And I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened, his body wracked with silent sobs. You held him, stroking his back, whispering soothing words as he broke down in your arms. For so long, he had been alone, trapped in this nightmare. But now, he wasn’t alone anymore. You were here. And you weren’t going to let anything happen to him ever again.

Minutes passed, maybe hours—you couldn’t tell. Time seemed to stand still in that small, dark cell. Eventually, Sebastian pulled back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked at you, his eyes looking tired, but there was a spark there now—a spark of hope.

“How did you find me?” he asked, his voice still shaky.

You gave him a small smile. “I never stopped looking,” you said simply. “I knew you were alive. And when I heard about this place…the rumors. I knew I had to come.”

Sebastian nodded, his eyes filling with gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said softly. “For never giving up on me. For coming all this way…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re my brother. I would move mountains for you.”

Sebastian’s eyes welled up with tears again, and he pulled you into another tight hug. “I missed you so much,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, your own tears falling freely. “But we’re together now. And we’re going to get out of here. Together.”

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “Are you ready?” you asked, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes.

Sebastian nodded, determination hardening his features. “Yeah,” he said

#sebastian solace #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #sebastian solace fanfic #roblox pressure #pressure

87 notes · View notes

odinsblog · 7 months ago

Text

Since 2014, millions of Uyghurs, Kazakhs and other minorities have been locked up in China and subjected to torture and forced labour. Some of those freed talk about trying to rebuild their lives in neighbouring Kazakhstan.

Photography by Robin Tutenges

A Chinese course book

Saliman Yesbolat used to live in Ghulja county, Xinjiang. After she refused to denounce her Uyghur neighbours to the police, she was forced to perform the raising of the Chinese flag every Monday at dawn, and to attend Chinese lessons twice a week in the basement of her building, where she would learn the Chinese language, patriotic songs and Xi Jinping's discourses by heart. This is her exercise book.

Forced to leave China

At 65, Imam Madi Toleukhan is one of the oldest refugees in Bekbolat, Kazakhstan, where more than 100 families took shelter after fleeing the Chinese regime. 'We were richer back there. I owned a herd, but I was too afraid for my sons, my grandchildren and their future: I came to Kazakhstan to save them. I didn't want them to be the fourth generation to suffer at the hands of the Chinese government, he says.

Remembering Uyghur culture in exile

Two members of the Dolan Ensemble, a Uyghur dance troupe based in Kazakhstan, get ready before performing a traditional dance to mark 40 days since the birth of a baby. Founded in 2016, the troupe performs at festivals or private events that bring together members of the Uyghur community, some of whom have had to leave Xinjiang.

Torture, infertility and damaged genitalia

In Kazakhstan, medical care for camp survivors is poor. Most victims can barely afford to see a family doctor. Anara*, an endocrinologist in a Kazakh hospital who has examined about 50 camp survivors since 2020, noticed recurrent infertility problems among her patients. 'Men or women, many have damaged genitalia. Some told me they'd been given drugs, others said they'd been raped. As they didn't come to us right after being released from the camps, it's impossible to know what kind of drugs they were administered in Xinjiang, she says. *Not her real name

The tiger chair

Ospan* spent a year in a re-education camp. He says his mind and body were crushed by the tortures he experienced in a tiger chair - a steel apparatus with handcuffs that restrains the body in painful positions. Aged about 50, this former shepherd, who took refuge with his family in eastern Kazakhstan, is no longer fit for work. Physically wrecked and prone to headaches, he mourns the loss of his memory above all. 'I used to know a lot of songs and I loved to sing; I also knew poems by heart ... Now, I can't sing any more, I can't remember the words,' he says. *Not his real name

Broken families and imprisonment

Aikamal Rashibek saw the dreadful efficiency of the CCP's brainwashing on her husband, Kerimbek Bakytali, after he was released from a Chinese psychiatric hospital. 'He disappeared for a year. When he came back, he didn't tell me anything about what happened to him. He was highly unhinged, always nervous, and got angry whenever I asked questions. He couldn't stop repeating that he hated Kazakhstan now, and that he wanted to go back to China with the kids to give them a Chinese education, says Aikamal. They are now separated.

Missing loved ones in China’s camps

In March 2017, Miyessar Muhedamu, left, a Uyghur woman, was arrested in Xinjiang under the pretext that she had studied Arabic in Egypt when she was young. Her husband, Sadirzhan Ayupov, right, and her three children have not seen her since. Now that Miyessar has left the camp, Sadirzhan receives a short call every few months. He suspects she might have suffered abuse, yet Miyessar can’t speak freely. ‘She told me she’d been in a re-education camp, and that she’d been released. When I ask her what she went through there, she doesn’t answer,’ says Sadirzhan.

Life after fleeing China

Sent to a re-education camp in 2018 at the age of 64, Yerke* saw her health quickly deteriorate. Locked a tiny cell with dozens of other women, she almost lost the use of her legs due to the cold floor she had to lie on. She was in the camp when she learned of her son’s death: pressured by the Chinese authorities, he took his own life. After her release, Yerke fled to Kazakhstan with some family members, but two of her children remain in China. *Not her real name

Forced labour and confessions

Dina Nurdybay, 32, was arrested in Nilka county, Xinjiang, because her traditional Kazakh clothing business made her a separatist, according to the Chinese authorities. She spent 11 months between two re-education camps, a CCP school and a forced-labour sewing factory. After proving she was capable of being ‘well behaved’ and having performed a self-criticism in front of the whole village, Dina was released and managed to escape when she obtained a week’s leave to visit her ailing father in Kazakhstan.

Cultural genocide

China’s repression of ethnic minorities also involves cultural genocide. As Muslim rituals are forbidden in Xinjiang, people are trying to keep their traditions alive across borders. Here, a family is praying together in Kazakhstan after the death of one of their relatives in Xinjiang. They could not repatriate the body because the border between the two countries was closed at the time.

(continue reading)

#politics #uyghur genocide #islamophobia #china #cultural genocide #uyghurs #photojournalism #genocide #uyghur refugees #kazakhstan

171 notes · View notes

qin-qin16 · 3 months ago

Text

cw.: Dream x Reader, hurt/comfort, gn!reader, reader has a bad coping mechanism, depressive thoughts, Dream is here to comfort you, he is just a sweet and good boy, comfort end, but the beginning is kinda angst…

note: I ask for suggestions and decide to write one of them! Thank you @emeraldhazeidentity for the ideas! And sorry for the delay!

Your body has always been at odds with itself, whether mentally or emotionally; this time, the problem was your feelings. They were vile and unwanted, creeping into your chest like rats and gnawing away any desire you normally had to get out of bed. And just like those rats, your body only huddled further into the nest that was your sheets on the mattress, a pile of shame and crumbs left from your last meal.

And even though you wanted to stop feeling all of this — this inadequacy at being competent in anything, the constant envy of never being among the best despite your efforts… All of this simply wore your body out, leaving it in a state of inactive exhaustion that began as mental fatigue and spread like a plague throughout.

However, it wasn’t because of your static figure or turbulent mind that you wanted to stop feeling all of this, no. It was because of Dream.

Oh Dream, he was a true angel sent from heaven into your life — and like any angel, you wanted him to stay untainted; your rotten feelings would only taint him, hurting his kind, golden soul. He had already suffered enough at the hands of others; you didn’t want to be just another person to take advantage of his kindness and heroic aura.

You didn’t deserve that — being wrapped in such warm energy — much less to be so selfish as to want Dream all to yourself, even though the thought of holding him in your arms during these lonely times was a recurring one.

No, a small voice at the back of your mind whispers, Remember what Ink said once? That anything negative could hurt Dream? This weak mindset of yours only draws more and more of those bad, toxic feelings towards him, and just like every time you found yourself hiding under the covers, the voice was right — was it your subconscious trying to bring some reason to you? Or was it just some kind of dissociation episode?

Truth be told, you didn’t care. That voice was usually right in the end, so why question its existence or purpose? Gradually, your fingertips grew numb, as if your body was sinking deeper into this spiral of feelings, while your chest felt so empty — a contradiction you had long stopped questioning.

Your mind goes blank from the sudden warmth resting on you, like a cozy blanket you didn’t realize you needed after covering yourself with all the ones on your bed.

The mattress dips slightly near your body; someone must have sat down next to you and probably covered you with an extra blanket. You flinch for a moment as you feel a gentle touch on your shoulder through the covers in a back-and-forth motion.

Someone calls your name, but it sounds so distant, muffled; as if softly guiding your mind back to your body.

“What happened, dear?” Oh, it’s him.

In a faint, flickering glow, your soul shimmers beneath your skin, casting a dim, cold light — and you can’t help but hear the soft, distant laughter coming from the other side of your hiding place.

“Oh, dear…” Dream, your cherished Dream, coos, momentarily pausing his gentle touch on your shoulder.

Close to your face, you see Dream’s fingers tentatively emerging from beneath the blanket, inching closer to you — until they lift the blanket just enough for Dream’s face to come into view, with a smile that, though small, radiated the light of the most beautiful stars you’ve ever seen.

"Hello, my darling." he whispers, sliding under the covers, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

You don’t need to apologize for anything, but you can’t find the strength to say it; your body remains curled up, still numb from the deep sadness — even the presence of your angel wasn’t enough to chase away those dreadful feelings.

"I shouldn’t have left you alone." The hand that was holding the blanket over both of you moves to your face, gently caressing your cheek as the blanket falls over you two.

"I didn’t…" you start to speak, your throat tightening, "I didn’t mean to upset you." you finally admit.

Dream shushed you, leaning in slowly to press his face against yours in a tender gesture, "You could never upset me, never."

And then you feel that warmth again, the same warmth that had settled on you moments before — realizing that this gentle, comforting warmth was simply Dream’s presence close to you, wrapping your body in a warm embrace.

For a moment, you let yourself be carried away by the wave of tranquility that radiated from him, closing your eyes and feeling Dream relax even more against you — leaving a lingering kiss on your cheek before moving down to your jaw, placing another kiss before returning to his gentle nuzzle on your face.

“There’s a world out there waiting for you…” you murmur, hoping that his presence isn’t just a fleeting dream.

“The world can wait a bit longer.” he responds.

And as clichéd as it may sound, it was enough to bring a small smile back to your lips and to help your body finally emerge from its state of inertia. One of your hands strokes the back of Dream’s neck, drawing him closer into your tender embrace.

Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish and hold him in your arms for as long as you needed.

#dream sans #dream x reader #dream sans x reader #sans x reader #sans x yn #dreamtale #Undertale #sans #I FINALLY DID IT #divider by #@pommecita #qinqin stuff 💖

97 notes · View notes

novaursa · 3 months ago

Text

The Price of Fire (5)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For the rest of the parts or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 4

- Next part: 6

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The midday sun filters through the tall, narrow windows of the Red Keep’s dining hall, casting warm light on the long table where the Targaryen family and their closest retainers are gathered for lunch. The lavish spread of food is as much for show as it is for sustenance—ornate platters piled high with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and rich sauces. Yet, for all the finery, a tension lingers in the air, taut as a drawn bowstring. Servants move silently along the walls, their faces blank masks, well aware that the mood of the room could shift in an instant.

You sit beside Rhaegar, your brother’s familiar presence a comfort even as you notice the subtle strain in his posture. His face is drawn, the shadow of something dark clouding his normally serene expression. He wears the haunted look you’ve seen so often when his dragondreams have plagued him during the night, those cryptic, foreboding visions that offer more questions than answers. Rhaegar usually confides in you—his closest ally and confidante—but this morning, there was no opportunity. The king’s summons came early, and both of you were dragged into the presence of Aerys before even a word could be exchanged in private.

The gathering is a performance, a display orchestrated by Aerys more for his own twisted pleasure than any genuine familial warmth. The lords and ladies invited to dine with you cast furtive glances, each trying to discern the hidden meanings in every exchange, every gesture. It is a room full of people poised on the edge, waiting for the king’s mood to turn, for his unpredictable whims to manifest.

You reach for Rhaegar’s hand beneath the table, your fingers brushing against his in a gentle attempt to offer comfort. He turns his head slightly, meeting your gaze for a fleeting moment. The concern in your eyes prompts him to give a faint squeeze of your hand, but his mind seems distant, lost in the haze of his visions.

“I saw the tower again,” he murmurs, so quietly that only you can hear. “It’s clearer now… the blue roses, the shadowed faces.” His voice trails off, his expression tightening as if he’s trying to make sense of fragments that refuse to align. “There’s blood… and a choice.”

Before you can ask more, Aerys’ voice slices through the air, sharp and sudden. “A toast!” he declares, raising his goblet high. The movement is so abrupt that the lords and ladies present scramble to follow, lifting their own goblets with varying degrees of eagerness and dread.

You freeze, your hand still clasped with Rhaegar’s under the table as your father’s gaze lands squarely on you. There’s something unsettling in his eyes—a mix of pride, possessiveness, and something darker that makes your skin crawl. His smile is thin, more like a grimace, as he begins to speak, his voice dripping with a twisted affection that sends shivers down your spine.

“To my daughter,” Aerys proclaims, his tone almost giddy. “The flower of House Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria made flesh. Beauty unmatched, grace beyond compare! A jewel among common stones!” His words grow louder, more fervent, as he looks directly at you. “Who could resist such a vision of purity? Who could deny that she is worthy of the greatest honors the realm can bestow?”

The room is deathly silent. You can feel the eyes of every noble in the hall boring into you, some of the ladies blushing at the king’s proclamations while the lords exchange uncomfortable glances. Even the servants seem to shrink away, as if hoping to melt into the shadows. The intensity of Aerys’ gaze, the fevered light in his eyes as he speaks of you, sends a jolt of anxiety through your chest. You force yourself to hold his gaze, knowing that showing any sign of discomfort would only encourage him further.

But Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his knuckles white with tension. “Father,” he says, his voice steady but laced with an edge that carries barely restrained fury. “Your compliments are… generous. But such displays are best saved for more appropriate occasions.”

Aerys’ head snaps toward Rhaegar, his smile twisting into a sneer. “And what would you know of appropriate, boy? Do you think yourself fit to judge what I choose to honor?” His voice rises with every word, his mood shifting like a storm at sea. “You sit there like some sullen ghost, whispering secrets, while your sister shines as the star of this family. Perhaps if you spent less time brooding over dreams and more time appreciating what is before you, you’d understand the true value of what I offer!”

The tension thickens, the atmosphere in the hall turning suffocating. You can see Rhaegar struggling to keep his temper in check, his jaw clenched so tightly that it’s a wonder he doesn’t shatter his teeth. You know how much he hates this—the way Aerys parades you around as if you’re nothing more than a prized possession, a tool to be flaunted before the court. It’s a cruel mockery of the family you once were, a twisted shadow of the father who has long since been consumed by madness.

Desperate for some sense of stability, you let your gaze drift across the room, searching for something—someone—that can anchor you in this nightmare. And then you find him. Ser Arthur Dayne, standing just beyond the reach of the table, his eyes fixed on you with a quiet intensity that only you recognize. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only silent support, a steadying presence that cuts through the chaos.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the comfort in his eyes is enough to give you the strength to hold your composure. The bond you share is one built on trust, on the understanding that even in the darkest moments, you are not alone. You draw in a slow breath, calming the frantic beat of your heart as you give Arthur the faintest of nods, a silent acknowledgment that his presence is a lifeline in a sea of madness.

Aerys, still glaring at Rhaegar, finally returns his attention to you, his tone sickly sweet but laced with the same madness that has become his trademark. “Do not let your brother’s sullenness ruin this day for you, my dear,” he says with a mock tenderness that makes your stomach twist. “You are the light that guides this family, the flame that burns brightest in the darkness. Perhaps I should have you sit closer to me—after all, what is a king without his most precious jewel?”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with anger, but before he can respond, you tighten your grip on his hand under the table, silently pleading with him to let it go. The last thing you need is for this already volatile situation to explode further. Rhaegar catches the warning in your gaze and reluctantly falls silent, though the tension in him remains palpable.

The hall falls into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the clinking of goblets as the lords and ladies murmur among themselves, desperate to avoid drawing Aerys’ ire. The king takes a long, indulgent sip from his goblet, seemingly satisfied with the discomfort he’s sown.

You return your attention to Arthur, who remains as steadfast as ever, his eyes locked onto yours. The room may be filled with whispers and judgmental stares, but in that brief, shared glance, you find the strength to keep your head held high. No matter how twisted the court’s games become, no matter how suffocating the weight of Aerys’ obsession grows, you know that there is still someone who sees you for who you truly are—someone who would stand by your side through it all.

The meal continues, but the lightness of the festivities outside feels miles away. The tension remains, lingering like a dark cloud over the gathering. And yet, beneath the surface, there’s a current of determination that runs through you and Rhaegar, a shared resolve that no matter how much Aerys tries to twist and control, there is still strength in the bonds you’ve forged—with each other, with those you trust.

The uneasy atmosphere clings to the room like a damp fog, making every bite of food taste bland and every sip of wine feel heavy. The conversation at the table is stilted at best, strained with the weight of the tension that lingers after Aerys' unsettling outburst. The lords and ladies continue with their meals, but their gazes dart nervously between each other, clearly more concerned with staying out of the king’s attention than with enjoying the feast.

You keep your head down, focusing on the food in front of you, though every bite feels forced. The memory of Aerys' twisted toast, his unsettlingly affectionate words still lingering in the air, makes your stomach churn. Rhaegar’s silence is heavy beside you, and though you hold his hand under the table still, the weight of his dragondreams and the tension with your father drags him deeper into brooding thoughts. The rest of the table—filled with lords, ladies, and noble guests from across the realm—remains stiff and formal, the usual lively conversations replaced by murmurs of caution.

But as you lift your gaze across the table, your attention is drawn to a cluster of Northmen—Lord Rickard Stark and his sons, Brandon and Eddard. The Starks, so often distant from the southern courts and their intrigues, are rarely seen this far south unless duty demands it. Yet here they are, attending a festival that has little to do with their interests. And as you observe them, it becomes clear that they, too, are uneasy.

Lord Rickard sits with a stern expression, his gray eyes observing everything with the quiet intensity that only a man accustomed to harsh winters can carry. His sons sit beside him, Brandon with his strong, confident bearing, and Eddard with the quieter, more contemplative demeanor of a man who prefers action over words. The Northmen shift in their seats, uncomfortable not just with the courtly splendor but with the palpable sense of dread that hangs in the air.

Brandon leans slightly toward his father, his voice low but clear enough for you to catch snippets of their conversation. “This is not what we expected,” he murmurs, his tone edged with disapproval. “The stories of the Mad King were no exaggeration.”

Lord Rickard’s expression remains impassive, but his eyes narrow slightly in thought. “We knew the risks in coming here,” he replies quietly, his voice gravelly from years spent in the cold winds of the North. “But duty to the crown remains, no matter how twisted it has become. We cannot afford to show weakness, especially not in a den of vipers like this.”

Eddard, the youngest and most reserved of the Starks, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before quickly looking away, as though unsure of how to reconcile the images of the noble Targaryens with the madness of their father. “We should have stayed in Winterfell,” he mutters under his breath, his discomfort clear. “This is no place for honorable men.”

Rickard hears the words but does not rebuke them. Instead, his eyes flicker toward Aerys, who sits at the head of the table, muttering to himself while occasionally casting possessive glances in your direction. The unease is plain on the Stark lord’s face. There is no love lost between the North and the South, and the differences are only made more glaring by the grotesque spectacle they’ve been forced to endure.

You wonder what drew the Starks here in the first place. It is unusual for the cold and distant North to be represented at such a festival, especially one that celebrates the Mother—a figure more revered in the South than among the practical gods worshipped in Winterfell. The presence of the Starks suggests something more than just a visit; perhaps they have come out of obligation, or perhaps there are whispers of unrest even in the North that require the great houses to stay close to the center of power.

As you ponder this, Rhaegar’s voice quietly interrupts your thoughts. “The Northmen are uneasy,” he murmurs, his tone laced with the same weariness that haunts his every word. “They feel the madness as clearly as we do. They’re not blind to the truth hidden behind the courtesies.”

You nod subtly, agreeing with his assessment. “It’s a rare thing for them to come this far south without cause. Perhaps they suspect that something more is at play here.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flick toward Lord Stark and his sons, considering them for a long moment. “They’ve come to witness the unraveling firsthand,” he says quietly. “They know that the realm is on the brink, and they’re taking the measure of it before deciding where they’ll stand when the flames rise.”

The thought is unsettling, but you can’t deny that there’s truth in his words. The Starks are not known for idle travel; they’ve come for a reason, and whatever it is, it’s tied to the growing tension that seems to permeate every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

A sudden clattering of utensils draws your attention back to Aerys, who is now eyeing the Starks with a peculiar interest, his gaze calculating and more focused than it was just moments ago. “Ah, Lord Rickard!” he exclaims suddenly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “It’s rare to see the wolves of Winterfell in such fine company. Tell me, how does the North find our southern hospitality? I would hate for our guests to feel unwelcome.”

The room falls silent again, all eyes turning to the Starks as Rickard slowly rises from his seat, bowing with the politeness expected in the presence of the king, though his expression remains inscrutable. “Your Grace honors us with this invitation,” Rickard says carefully, his words respectful yet guarded. “The North appreciates the warmth of the South’s hospitality, though it is quite different from what we are accustomed to.”

Aerys leans back in his seat, a twisted smile tugging at his lips. “Different indeed. The North is known for its harsh winters and cold nights, but here in the South, we have ways of keeping warm, do we not?” His gaze flickers briefly back to you, his smile widening in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Perhaps our honored guests would like to join us in our more… intimate traditions?”

The suggestion is laced with insinuation, and you can see the faint tightening of Rickard’s jaw, though he remains composed. “The North has its own customs, Your Grace,” he replies coolly. “But we are always eager to learn from our southern kin.”

The tension ratchets up another notch, the unspoken meaning of Aerys’ words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Rhaegar’s hand tightens around yours beneath the table, a silent warning to remain calm, even as his own fury simmers just below the surface.

You glance again toward Arthur, who stands at the edge of the room, his eyes locked on you. There’s a subtle shift in his stance, a readiness that you’ve come to recognize—he’s prepared for anything, knowing that in a single moment, Aerys’ mood could swing from sinister amusement to outright violence. The silent connection you share is your anchor, and you hold onto it as the tension in the room thickens, the meal dragging on with a sense of impending disaster.

As the uneasy silence stretches, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the soft murmurs of nervous guests, you can’t help but wonder how much longer the realm can bear this strain. The Starks, the Targaryens, the lords and ladies gathered here—everyone is waiting, watching for the moment when the first crack in the fragile peace becomes a gaping chasm.

The midday feast stretches into the afternoon as the court makes its way to the festival grounds for the continuation of the celebrations. The tension from the uncomfortable meal lingers like a bad taste, but the atmosphere gradually brightens as music and laughter fill the air. The royal pavilion has been set up near the jousting lists, draped in rich Targaryen colors, with banners fluttering in the warm breeze. Lords and ladies stroll through the grounds, exchanging pleasantries, and the smallfolk cheer as performers and musicians entertain the gathered crowd.

But even amidst the revelry, you notice a shift in the mood as the arrival of House Martell is announced. The vibrant orange and red sigil of the sun-and-spear flutters high, and there is a buzz of excitement and curiosity as the Dornish contingent makes its way toward the pavilion. It is no secret that Dorne has been a topic of discussion in Aerys’ small council, and many have speculated that an alliance with House Martell would be advantageous—both politically and strategically.

Prince Doran Martell leads the group, his gait measured and dignified. His younger siblings, Elia and Oberyn, walk beside him, each a striking contrast in personality and appearance. Elia, graceful and poised, exudes a quiet strength, her dark eyes keenly observing everything around her. Oberyn, with his sharp features and confident smirk, radiates a more dangerous energy, his eyes glittering with amusement as he scans the crowd with the air of a man who knows he’s being watched and relishes it.

It’s clear from the way the courtiers glance toward the Martells that there’s more at play than simple courtesy. The whispers grow louder, and you can almost feel the weight of the speculative stares as people connect the Martells’ presence with the recent discussions within the small council, much to Tywin’s distaste. Dorne, long known for its independence and reluctance to bend to the Iron Throne’s will, has always been a key piece in the game of thrones, and Aerys—ever paranoid, ever calculating—has been increasingly pressured by some members of his council to solidify an alliance with the southern kingdom.

As the Martells approach, Rhaegar’s grip tightens around the armrest of his seat, his expression unreadable. You don’t miss the flicker of discomfort that passes through his eyes as Elia Martell steps forward with a soft, demure smile. It’s no secret that certain factions within the court, including members of the king’s council, have been pushing for a marriage between Rhaegar and Elia—a union that would solidify ties with Dorne and strengthen House Targaryen’s position in the realm.

But you know your brother better than most. Despite his princely demeanor, Rhaegar is a man of deep convictions, one who loathes being manipulated by those who view him as little more than a political pawn. His dreams—his visions—constantly weigh on him, and the idea of a marriage arranged solely for political gain is not something he would accept lightly.

You catch Rhaegar’s eye, and he gives you a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of his head. The message is clear—not now, not here. There’s too much at stake, too many eyes watching. But the tension between duty and desire gnaws at him, and you can feel the weight of that conflict in the air.

As the Dornish entourage reaches the pavilion, Prince Doran offers a graceful bow to King Aerys, his voice smooth and respectful. “Your Grace, it is an honor to be here and partake in the festivities. Dorne brings its warmest regards and hopes that the peace and prosperity of the realm continue under your wise rule.”

Aerys, for once, seems to rein in his usual erratic behavior. He nods slowly, a thin smile stretching across his lips. “The pleasure is mine, Prince Doran. It is a rare thing to see our Dornish cousins so far from the sands of Sunspear. But these are rare times, are they not?”

The exchange is laced with undercurrents of meaning, and you can almost hear the unspoken negotiations happening in the silences between their words. Oberyn’s gaze sweeps the gathering, his eyes sharp and calculating. When his gaze lands on you, a smirk tugs at his lips, though it’s impossible to tell if it’s one of amusement or curiosity.

Elia’s presence, on the other hand, is far more subdued. She inclines her head toward you and Rhaegar with practiced elegance, but her eyes hold a quiet intensity. It’s clear that she is as aware as anyone of the implications of her being here. Her dark gaze lingers on Rhaegar, searching for something—perhaps a sign of his thoughts, his feelings toward the marriage that has been whispered about in hushed circles.

Rhaegar returns her gaze with polite distance, his smile courteous but strained. He offers her a formal nod, acknowledging her with the respect due to her station, but the lack of warmth in his eyes speaks volumes. The court notices it too, and the whispers begin anew—questions, speculations, murmurs of what this means for the much-rumored alliance.

King Aerys, ever the disruptor, suddenly raises his voice, cutting through the murmurs. “It is fitting that our Dornish cousins join us for the festival in Mother's name,” he says, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. “After all, the beauty of Dorne is as famed as its resistance. Perhaps it is time to bring the two closer together, wouldn’t you say?”

The question hangs in the air, charged with meaning. Aerys’ eyes flick toward you briefly, but then return to Rhaegar, who remains silent, his expression carefully neutral. The court waits, breath held, to see how this game will unfold.

Prince Doran, ever the diplomat, smiles graciously. “Dorne is always open to discussions that benefit the realm, Your Grace. But such matters require delicate handling, don’t they?” His voice is smooth, his words carefully chosen—a reminder that while the Martells may be here, they will not be rushed into anything without careful consideration.

Aerys’ eyes narrow, the ghost of irritation flashing across his features before his grin returns, sharper this time. “Delicacy is often overrated, Prince Doran. Sometimes, the boldness of fire is what’s needed to forge true bonds.”

Rhaegar’s hand tightens again, and you feel the tension radiating from him. He’s trapped between duty and his own desires, the weight of expectations pressing down from every side. But before the conversation can spiral further, the musicians strike up a lively tune, and the attention of the court is momentarily drawn away from the tension toward the festivities.

The Dornish nobles blend into the crowd, their presence a reminder of the delicate balance at play. The day continues, but the undercurrent of unease remains, a shadow over the festivities. You know that Dorne’s arrival is just another piece moving on the board—a board that seems more treacherous with every passing day.

The festivities continue into the late afternoon, with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets filling the warm air. The sun casts a golden hue over the grounds as the nobles revel in the lively atmosphere. You stroll along the edges of the celebration, Ser Arthur faithfully at your side. Despite the tension woven into the day’s events, you manage to find comfort in the little moments—the brief exchanges of smiles and the shared glances between you and your knight, who remains ever vigilant but subtly more relaxed when he’s near you.

As you walk past a group of lords engaged in a spirited conversation, you notice Oberyn Martell approaching from across the courtyard, his stride confident and almost languid, as if he has all the time in the world. He’s dressed in the vibrant colors of House Martell, his tunic a striking shade of orange with rich gold embroidery. His presence draws attention wherever he goes, and it’s no surprise when he comes directly toward you, a playful smirk already curving his lips.

“Princess,” he greets you, his voice smooth like honeyed wine, with a hint of teasing that dances on the edge of propriety. He offers you a low bow that’s more exaggerated than necessary, clearly intended to amuse rather than impress. “I was hoping I might steal a moment of your time. The festivities are grand, yes, but they pale in comparison to the chance to speak with a true daughter of Valyria.”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. Oberyn’s reputation precedes him—bold, dangerous, with a silver tongue that could charm even the most guarded courtiers. “Prince Oberyn,” you reply, your tone light, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve made it your mission to charm your way through every lady present today.”

Oberyn grins, unabashed. “I would never be so crude as to deny it. But can you blame me, Princess? The beauty of the South may be celebrated, but it is the rare elegance of Targaryen blood that truly captivates.” His eyes gleam with mischief as he adds, “Besides, why limit oneself to just one conquest when there are so many delightful encounters to be had?”

Arthur, standing dutifully beside you, watches the exchange with a careful eye, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his otherwise stoic expression. Oberyn’s reputation as the Red Viper may be formidable, but it’s clear that this is all in good fun. Still, Arthur remains close, a silent reminder that you are not without protection.

You decide to play along, matching Oberyn’s banter with a smile that’s equal parts amusement and challenge. “It’s a wonder you have time for the festivities at all, Prince Oberyn. Surely, with all these conquests you speak of, you must be exhausted.”

Oberyn’s laugh is warm and rich, and he takes a step closer, though he remains just outside the edge of propriety. “Ah, but a little exhaustion is a small price to pay for such pleasures, don’t you think? Life is short, Princess, and the days we live in are fraught with uncertainty. Why not seize every moment of joy we can, while we still have the chance?”

You can’t help but find his unashamed charm refreshing, especially after the tension and dourness of the day’s earlier events. There’s something disarming about Oberyn’s approach—the way he speaks so boldly, without hiding behind the masks of courtly pretense that so many others wear.

Arthur clears his throat lightly, his voice measured but carrying a note of dry humor. “Careful, Prince Oberyn. The princess is well-guarded, and not just by her knights. Her wit is sharp enough to match even the famed Red Viper.”

Oberyn chuckles, inclining his head toward Arthur with an exaggerated expression of mock deference. “Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and a master of words as well. I suppose I should tread carefully, lest I find myself on the receiving end of both your sword and her tongue.”

You exchange a quick glance with Arthur, and for a moment, there’s an unspoken understanding—both of you are enjoying the banter, allowing a brief reprieve from the weight of the day. It’s a rare thing to find lightness in these times, and even Arthur, whose duty often keeps him vigilant and serious, seems slightly more at ease.

“Prince Oberyn,” you say, feigning a thoughtful expression, “you speak of seizing joy in the face of uncertainty. And yet, for all your charm, I wonder—how often does that charm get you into trouble?”

Oberyn’s eyes sparkle with amusement, his smirk widening. “More often than not, I confess. But what’s life without a little trouble, Princess? Surely, even someone as regal as yourself has indulged in a moment or two of rebellion, hmm?”

Arthur’s posture stiffens ever so slightly, his protective instincts flaring at Oberyn’s insinuation, but there’s no real threat in the prince’s words—only playful curiosity. Before Arthur can interject, you decide to lean into the game, allowing yourself a moment of levity.

“Rebellion is an interesting word, Prince Oberyn,” you reply with a coy smile. “But I’ll leave it to your imagination. After all, a little mystery keeps things intriguing, does it not?”

Oberyn’s laugh is genuine, his eyes dancing with approval. “Indeed, Princess. You are as formidable in wit as you are in beauty. I find myself more captivated with each passing moment.”

Arthur can’t help but shake his head slightly, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Be careful, Prince. The court is a dangerous place to be captivated.”

“Danger and delight often walk hand in hand, Ser Arthur,” Oberyn counters smoothly. “But perhaps I should save my wits and leave the princess in peace—for now.”

With a graceful bow and one last roguish smile, Oberyn steps back, giving you a parting wink before he saunters away, undoubtedly seeking out his next amusement. As he disappears into the crowd, you can’t help but chuckle softly, finding yourself oddly refreshed by the encounter.

Arthur steps closer, offering you his arm once more. “I’ll admit, I was almost certain you’d skewer him with words by the end of that conversation,” he remarks, his tone laced with gentle humor.

You take his arm, allowing yourself to relax a bit more now that the exchange is over. “He’s harmless—mostly. Besides, it’s rare to have a conversation that isn’t laced with veiled threats and hidden motives. A bit of straightforward mischief can be… refreshing.”

Arthur nods, his expression softening as he looks down at you. “It’s good to see you smile, even if it’s Oberyn Martell’s antics that brought it out. There’s been too much weight on your shoulders lately.”

You glance up at him, finding comfort in the steadiness of his gaze. “Thank you, Arthur. For always being by my side.”

He offers you a reassuring smile. “Always, Y/N.”

The festival grounds are a swirl of color and sound, the jubilant atmosphere masking the tension that lies just beneath the surface. As Rhaegar moves through the crowd, his expression carefully composed, he does his best to avoid Cersei’s sharp green eyes that have been following him like a hawk all afternoon. Her persistent advances, thinly veiled behind her honeyed words and practiced smiles, have left him with a deep sense of unease. The more she presses, the more he feels the weight of the expectations crushing down on him—expectations he has little interest in fulfilling.

But as fate would have it, in his attempt to evade Cersei, he finds himself facing another challenge: Elia Martell. The delicate and poised princess of Dorne catches his eye as she approaches with a gentle smile, her dark eyes filled with quiet warmth. Elia is everything a future queen should be—gracious, kind, and intelligent. Yet, despite these virtues, Rhaegar feels a gnawing sense of distance, a barrier he cannot breach, no matter how much the court desires this union.

“Prince Rhaegar,” Elia greets him with a soft curtsy. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? The festival has brought so much joy to everyone.” Her voice is soothing, almost melodic, but Rhaegar’s thoughts are elsewhere.

He smiles politely, offering her a courteous nod. “Indeed, it’s a rare sight to see so much happiness in the capital,” he replies, his voice calm but lacking in true engagement. He is too aware of the expectations draped upon them—how this conversation, so benign on the surface, is being watched by those who would love nothing more than to see them married and united. But Rhaegar’s mind isn’t on Elia or the games of courtly politics.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement—something familiar and comforting. Turning his head slightly, he sees you, his sister, slipping away from the crowd with Ser Arthur Dayne at your side. It’s a subtle retreat, almost unnoticed by those around you, but Rhaegar’s eyes catch the brief moment when your hand brushes against Arthur’s, a touch so brief it would seem accidental to anyone else. Yet he knows better. He sees the way your hand lingers just a moment longer, the way you gently nudge Arthur as you murmur something to him, coaxing him to follow your lead.

Rhaegar’s brow furrows ever so slightly. There is nothing overtly improper in the interaction—it could be dismissed as a simple gesture between a princess and her sworn knight. But Rhaegar knows both of you well enough to read the subtleties. He recognizes the unspoken connection between you and Arthur, a bond that runs deeper than mere duty. It’s in the way Arthur’s eyes soften when he looks at you, the way he stands just a little closer than necessary, always ready to protect. And it’s in your demeanor, the way you relax slightly when Arthur is near, a small comfort in a world filled with dangers and uncertainties.

As much as Rhaegar trusts Arthur, the sight of you together—alone and retreating from the crowd—sparks a flicker of concern in his chest. His protective instincts flare up, mingled with an unease that he can’t quite place. His mind drifts away from Elia’s gentle conversation, distracted by the need to find you, to make sure you’re safe, and perhaps, to understand the growing connection between you and the Sword of the Morning.

Elia continues to speak, her tone warm and gracious. “I’ve always admired the strength of House Targaryen, Prince Rhaegar. Your family’s legacy is woven into the very fabric of Westeros. To see you here, carrying that legacy forward, is truly inspiring.”

Rhaegar forces himself to stay present, nodding as she speaks, but his thoughts remain clouded with concern. “Thank you, Princess Elia,” he replies, his voice polite but distant. “The legacy we bear is a heavy one, but it is our duty to uphold it, no matter the cost.”

Elia’s gaze softens, sensing something beneath his words, but before she can press further, Rhaegar’s attention shifts once more toward the direction you’ve gone. His eyes dart over the crowd, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. He feels an inexplicable pull to follow you, to be near you, to understand the bond you’ve formed with your sworn protector.

Elia notices his distraction, her expression flickering with concern. “Is something troubling you, my prince?”

Rhaegar shakes his head slightly, offering a strained smile. “Nothing of consequence, Princess. My thoughts are simply elsewhere today.”

Elia’s understanding nod is tinged with quiet resignation. She is perceptive enough to know that Rhaegar’s heart and mind are not fully present, though she cannot fully grasp why. There’s a quiet grace in the way she steps back, allowing the conversation to end without pushing further, though it’s clear she knows this is more than mere distraction.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Elia says softly, her voice carrying a hint of sadness. “I hope the rest of your day is peaceful.”

Rhaegar inclines his head in thanks, offering her a final nod before excusing himself. As he moves away, he casts one last look in the direction you went, determined to find you, to make sure all is well. The knot in his chest tightens as he thinks about you—about the way Arthur’s presence seems to comfort you in a way few others can. There’s a part of him that feels guilty for leaving you to bear so much of the court’s scrutiny alone, especially when you’ve always stood by him through his darkest moments.

Rhaegar knows he should return to the heart of the festival, where his presence is expected, where lords and ladies await his favor. But his instincts push him in another direction, driving him to find you. You’ve always been his closest ally, his truest friend, and the one who understands the burdens he carries without needing to ask. And now, with the growing shadows in his dreams and the weight of the future pressing down on him, he feels that need to be close to you more than ever.

The festival continues to whirl around him—the laughter, the music, the colors blending into a blur—but Rhaegar’s mind is focused on one thing: finding his sister, finding you, and understanding why the sight of you and Ser Arthur together fills him with both comfort and concern.

In a secluded garden nestled within the labyrinthine paths of the Red Keep, far from the prying eyes of courtiers and nobles, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air is filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sweet and intoxicating, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. It’s a rare oasis of peace in a castle that is often suffocating with intrigue and danger. You and Arthur stand close, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a mixture of longing, love, and a flicker of hesitation—hesitation that melts away the moment your lips meet.

The first kiss is soft, tender, as if testing the boundaries, but the spark that ignites between you quickly blazes into something more. The carefully maintained distance you’ve held for so long always collapses under the weight of your desire. Arthur’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him down to deepen the kiss. The world outside fades away as your passion consumes you both, a fire that has been burning quietly beneath the surface for far too long.

There’s a desperation in the way he kisses you, as if every moment could be the last. Your bodies press against each other, the cool metal of his armor a stark contrast to the heat between you. It’s reckless and dangerous, but you’ve never felt more alive than in his arms. Each stolen moment, each whispered promise, every touch that sends shivers down your spine—all of it leads to this. The tension that’s been building between you both, masked behind duty and decorum, finally breaks free.

You lean back against the rough bark of a tree, pulling Arthur with you as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake. You gasp softly, your fingers tightening their grip on his cloak as he presses closer, his breath hot against your skin. It’s a whirlwind of emotions—relief, joy, fear—all wrapped up in the overwhelming need to be near him, to be with him, if only for this fleeting moment.

But even in your passion, there’s an edge of danger. The knowledge that this is forbidden, that if your father were to discover your relationship, it could lead to ruin for you both, lingers in the back of your mind. Yet that risk only heightens the thrill, driving you both further into the embrace. Arthur’s hands grip your waist tightly, as if anchoring himself to you, while his kisses grow more urgent, more insistent.

“Y/N,” he murmurs between breaths, his voice rough with emotion, “you have no idea how much I—” He breaks off, kissing you again before he can finish the thought, as if words are inadequate for what he feels.

But before he can say more, a sound—a sharp intake of breath—breaks through the haze of your passion. The both of you freeze, your lips still brushing, hearts pounding in your chests as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the secluded path.

You break apart, breathless and flushed, as the reality of where you are comes crashing down. Arthur steps back just enough to put distance between you, his expression a mix of frustration and regret, though his hand remains on your arm, grounding you.

Emerging from the shadows is Rhaegar, his face pale, his violet eyes wide with shock. The look of disbelief on his face is quickly replaced by fear—fear not for himself, but for you.

Rhaegar steps forward, his face a mixture of shock, fear, and something that looks almost like betrayal. His eyes dart between you and Arthur, taking in the flushed cheeks, the way your breaths still come in ragged gasps, and the undeniable closeness between you both. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind racing with the implications of what he’s just witnessed.

“Y/N… Arthur…” Rhaegar’s voice trembles slightly, and the gravity of what he’s stumbled upon sinks in fully. His instinct is not to scold or condemn, but the terror of what could happen if your father were to find out is palpable in every word. “Do you realize what you’re risking? If Father—if *Aerys*—ever discovers this, it will mean ruin. For both of you!”

You pull away from Arthur fully, your heart hammering in your chest as you take a step toward your brother. “Rhaegar, please, I know how dangerous this is, but—” Your words falter as you see the raw panic in his eyes. You’ve seen Rhaegar handle courtly intrigues and navigate the madness of your father with a cool head, but now, faced with the possibility of you being harmed, he looks utterly shaken.

Arthur’s face is drawn, his expression hardening with the knowledge that Rhaegar is right. “I would never willingly put her in harm’s way,” Arthur says quietly, his voice firm but tinged with guilt. “I know the risk I’m taking, but—” He stops, searching for the right words. “But I cannot regret what I feel for her.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with a mixture of frustration and desperation. “This isn’t about regret, Ser Arthur. This is about survival.” He steps closer, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “You know what Father’s like. You’ve seen how possessive he is, especially with Y/N. If he finds out about this… he could do something unspeakable.” Rhaegar’s voice cracks slightly, and he reaches out, taking your hands in his, as if trying to shield you from the very thought. “You’re all I have left, Y/N. I can’t lose you to his madness.”

The fear in his eyes mirrors the worry that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind ever since this secret relationship began. You know your father’s paranoia and cruelty, how he views you as a prized possession, a symbol of his power. If Aerys even suspects that you’ve formed an attachment beyond his control, the consequences would be catastrophic. Yet, even as you acknowledge the danger, your feelings for Arthur remain undeniable—a connection deeper than anything you’ve experienced before.

“Rhaegar,” you say softly, squeezing his hands. “I understand the risk, truly, I do. But this isn’t something I can turn away from. Arthur… he’s more than just a knight to me. He’s been my constant, my strength, through all of this madness. I can’t let fear dictate everything we do.”

Arthur’s gaze remains steady on Rhaegar, even as guilt and determination war within him. “If you ask it, I’ll leave her side and never act on this again,” he says, the words heavy with the weight of sacrifice. “But I swear on my honor, I will always protect her, no matter the cost.”

Rhaegar’s expression softens at Arthur’s vow, recognizing the sincerity in his words. He’s torn between the love he holds for you and the duty he feels to keep you safe from the horrors that Aerys could unleash. For a long moment, the three of you stand in silence, the distant sounds of the festival faintly reaching your ears as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the secluded garden.

Finally, Rhaegar lets out a deep breath, a mixture of resignation and resolve settling in his eyes. “I won’t betray your secret,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a hint of sorrow. “But you have to be careful—far more careful than this. I can’t watch over you every moment, and if even the faintest rumor reaches Father’s ears… We all know what he’s capable of.”

You nod, feeling the gravity of his words settling heavily in your chest. “I’ll be more cautious, I promise.” You look between Rhaegar and Arthur, both of whom are bound by their loyalty to you, even if it tears them apart inside.

Rhaegar’s hand drops from yours, and he gives Arthur a hard look. “If you truly care for her, then your duty is to ensure that this never comes to light. You’re one of the few I trust, Ser Arthur, but if this secret endangers her life… you’ll have to let her go.”

Arthur nods solemnly, his jaw set. “I would sooner lay down my life than see her harmed, but I understand, Prince Rhaegar.”

With a final, lingering glance at you, Rhaegar turns and walks away, his footsteps heavy with the burden of what he’s just witnessed. He disappears back into the festival, leaving you and Arthur standing alone once more, the silence between you now tinged with a bittersweet edge.

Arthur steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “We’ll be careful,” he whispers, his voice laced with both determination and affection. “But I won’t let this be the end, Y/N.”

You lean into his touch, finding strength in his presence even as the weight of the world presses down on you. “Neither will I,” you whisper back, sealing the promise with a kiss—this one softer, but no less filled with the depth of your emotions.

Rhaegar takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart as he steps away from the secluded garden. The shock of what he just witnessed lingers, gnawing at the back of his mind like a persistent ache. The sight of you and Arthur locked in such an intimate embrace, the raw passion between you—he cannot shake it. It isn’t the impropriety of it that haunts him, but the danger, the unbearable risk you’re both taking. If Aerys were to discover this…

Rhaegar’s thoughts spiral, a mixture of fear, anger, and desperation clouding his mind. He knows the lengths to which Aerys will go to control everything within his grasp. His father’s obsession with you is unhealthy, twisted—a possessiveness that borders on something darker. Rhaegar has long suspected that Aerys sees you not just as his daughter, but as a possession, a symbol of power that he clings to more tightly with each passing day. The thought makes his stomach turn, and his resolve hardens.

As he emerges from the shadows and rejoins the festival, Rhaegar’s gaze sweeps across the bustling courtyard, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. His eyes finally settle on you both as you step back into the throng of nobles and courtiers. The lighthearted laughter and music of the celebration are a stark contrast to the tension that still thrums through him, but you and Arthur carry yourselves with practiced ease, as though nothing has happened.

You’re smiling, speaking with some noble ladies who eagerly engage you in conversation. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, his expression calm but always alert. He remains close enough to be within reach if needed but maintains the careful distance expected of a knight. To anyone watching, it’s just another day at court—no one would suspect the secret that lies beneath the surface. But Rhaegar can’t unsee what he now knows; the bond between you and Arthur is undeniable, and it’s something neither of you can easily hide.

Rhaegar’s chest tightens with a mix of protectiveness and helplessness. You’ve always been his anchor, his guiding star in a world gone mad. Losing you to Aerys’ schemes or, worse, seeing you destroyed by the king’s madness, is a fate Rhaegar cannot allow. He’s watched you endure the court’s venomous whispers and Aerys’ possessive nature, always standing strong despite the dangers. But this—this relationship with Arthur—puts you in greater jeopardy than ever before.

His gaze shifts from you to Aerys, who is holding court in the center of the pavilion, surrounded by sycophantic lords and eager noblewomen. The king is in one of his rare moments of relative calm, his laughter loud and grating as he basks in the hollow praises showered upon him. Yet, even from a distance, Rhaegar can see the darkness lurking behind his father’s eyes—a madness that is always teetering on the edge of explosion.

Aerys’ gaze drifts lazily across the assembled crowd, but Rhaegar catches the moment when his father’s eyes land on you. The intensity in Aerys’ stare sharpens, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold. It’s that look again—the one that chills Rhaegar to his core. Aerys’ fixation on you is not the protective affection of a father; it’s something possessive, twisted, a hunger that defies all reason. Rhaegar knows that if Aerys ever suspected that your heart belonged to another, especially a knight like Arthur Dayne, there would be no limit to the cruelty he would unleash.

Rhaegar clenches his fists, anger and determination warring within him. He’s spent so much of his life navigating the complexities of court politics, trying to maintain a facade of control while keeping his own desires buried beneath duty and expectation. But this is different. This is about you, about protecting the one person he loves more than anything in this world. He cannot, will not, allow you to be another victim of Aerys’ madness.

Silently, Rhaegar makes a vow to himself. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means defying Aerys more openly, even if it means making decisions that will change the course of all their lives. He’s already burdened with the knowledge of prophecies, of visions that tug at his mind and point toward an uncertain future. But none of that matters more than protecting you. If it comes to it, he will take you far from King’s Landing, away from the shadows that cling to the Iron Throne, and keep you safe from the darkness that threatens to consume them all.

For now, though, Rhaegar knows he must be patient. He watches as you laugh with a lady from House Tyrell, your smile masking the tension beneath. Arthur’s eyes flick briefly toward Rhaegar, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They both know the stakes. They both know what must be done to ensure your safety.

Rhaegar straightens, his expression growing resolute. He steps back into the crowd, moving through the festival with the grace expected of a prince, but his mind is already working through plans, contingencies, and possibilities. He will keep a closer eye on you and Arthur, ensuring that any risks are minimized. And when the time comes, he will act—swiftly and decisively—to shield you from the storm that is brewing.

No matter what happens, Rhaegar Targaryen will not allow Aerys’ madness to touch you. Not while there is breath in his body.

#game of thrones #got #got x y/n #got x you #got x reader #arthur dayne x y/n #arthur dayne x you #arthur dayne x reader #arthur dayne #house targaryen #rhaegar targaryen #aerys ii targaryen

72 notes · View notes

oliversrarebooks · 6 months ago

Text

The Rare Bookseller Part 52: The Maestro's Correction

Prev > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, body control, burns, hand whump, whipping, blindness, abuse, blood drinking

October 1925

Alexander stood and bowed low as the Maestro entered the music room, trailed by Oliver in eerily perfect synchronization. "Good evening, sire. I hope you are well."

"I also hope I am well. That depends largely on your hospitality, I'm afraid," he said. "Let us begin by examining your new acquisition in more detail."

"Certainly, sire."

No, no, no -- it took all of Oliver's self-control to not fight as the Maestro sat down on the padded bench and forced him into a submissive kneel. The hook and eye on his dress was undone, and Oliver's dread rose. What did he mean by examining in more detail…?

It was somewhat of a relief when those stony eyes focused on the brand on his chest. "Slipshod. The edges are clearly uneven. The symbol will hardly be readable." The Maestro looked up. "It's obviously your work, Alexander. If you had coerced Lily into fulfilling your obligation, as you were no doubt tempted to do, it wouldn't be in such a sorry state."

"Yes, sire."

"Your thrall is permanently marred, the results of your task an abject disappointment, and all you have to say in response is 'yes, sire'," said the Maestro, his tone like a knife pressed against Alexander's neck. "When I attended the ballet, your thrall informed me that you are allowing him a great deal of freedom, as well, are you not?"

"Yes, sire."

Oliver couldn't turn around, but he could hear the despondence in Alexander's voice. This had been his fault, hadn't it? He should have covered for his master. But Alexander had warned him in no uncertain terms to be honest. What was the correct action? Was there even a correct action?

"Because your thrall is otherwise so obedient, I feel inclined to only impose a light punishment this time."

"Thank you, sire."

The Maestro indicated a fat candle sitting on the end table, its flames providing the only cheer and warmth in the room. "Place your hand in the candle's flame until I am satisifed."

"Yes, sire."

"No!" The choked cry came from Oliver's mouth before he could stop himself. He wrenched his head out of the Maestro's grasp just enough to see Alexander's shock, his hand hovering dangerously near the flames.

"Oh?" Oliver's head was snapped back to look in the Maestro's eyes, filled with a cold fury. "You disagree with my judgement?"

"No, no, sir, I don't --"

The Maestro slapped him across the face hard. "You disagree with my judgement and then you lie to compound it," he said, rage in every note of his musical voice. "You do this out of loyalty, no doubt. My misguided children seek companionship among humankind, and value loyalty over obedience. A flaw I have not yet burned out of them."

Oliver trembled as the Maestro took his right hand. The vampire's hands were colder than ice and smooth as porcelain. He ran his finger's down Oliver's palm in a way that might have been tender in other circumstances. "Do you play any instruments, child?"

He was thinking of burning Oliver's hands, wasn't he? Oliver desperately wished he could answer yes to that question, in the hopes that he would be spared, but the blossoming bruise on his cheek warned him otherwise. "No, sir."

"Are you clever with your hands?"

Oliver thought back to the many evenings he'd spent repairing the bindings of antique books and mending his worn clothes. "I believe so, sir."

"I see." The Maestro turned over Oliver's hands in his own. "Human hands can be permanently damaged. A shame, truly. Mutilating your hands before you've been given the opportunity to prove yourself useful would be a waste at this time, as would any corrective action that spills excessive blood."

Oliver wasn't sure if he should be relieved by that. "…Thank you, sir?"

"You have an obedient soul. I'm not wrong about such matters," said the Maestro. "It is your master's lack of discipline that is to blame for your insubordination. Therefore, I will not punish you."

"You won't, sir?" Oliver would have found this mercy difficult to believe even if he didn't notice Alexander tensing.

"You don't want to watch your master's punishment, do you?"

"No, sir."

"Then look into my eyes, child. Deep, deep into my eyes."

He didn't have a choice, as the Maestro's power drew his gaze upwards and locked it there before he fully realized what was happening.

"Deeper. Lose yourself."

There was a disconcerted ticking noise in Oliver's head, as though his ear were pressed to a clock, and he realized in terror that he was being enthralled, the power like chains wrapping around his mind. Despite Alexander's many warnings and his own resolve to be obedient and avoid trouble, Oliver couldn't help the urge to pull against it. It was bad enough to have to give over his body. The idea of this cruel vampire invading his mind was too much to bear.

But it was already too late. Oliver was already trapped in his eyes. As the ticking of the clock gradually slowed like a mechanical toy winding down, his thoughts slowed too, his vision engulfed by the cold oblivion of the Maestro's gaze.

"Close your eyes down. Tight. As tight as they can."

"Yes, sir." Oliver's eyes obediently shut, sparing him the weight of that gaze, but doing nothing to free his mind.

"I am placing lead weights on each one. Weights that are far too heavy to allow you to open your eyes on your own." A cold finger tapped each of Oliver's eyelids. "Only I can move these weights. You will not open your eyes again until I allow it."

"Yes, sir."

"Wake."

That crisp snap sounded next to Oliver's ear, and he felt the chains on his mind lift, but he did not open his eyes. Could not. Oliver couldn't help but be confused. The Maestro had full control of his body. Why go through the trouble just to make him shut his eyes?

There was one obvious, awful possibility: because he did not intend for Oliver to open his eyes ever again.

"Now that that's settled, you may take your punishment, Alexander," the Maestro said.

Oliver was forced back into a kneeling position and the Maestro placed one hand atop his head. He heard several steps across the wood floor, and then absolute silence.

Was his master actually burning his hand in the candle's flame? There was no sound at all, no cries of pain from Alexander, not even the sound of breathing. The only thing tethering Oliver to the world was that hand on top of his head. As much as Oliver would hate to see or hear his master in pain, the deathly silence and darkness and suspense made it so much worse.

And just as Oliver thought he couldn't take it any more, he smelled what he desperately hoped was not the scent of charred flesh. His spirit cried out to do something, anything, to help his master, but blinded and bound as he was, there was nothing he could do.

"Enough," said the Maestro, after what seemed like an eternity. "I grow weary of watching you disappoint me. Alexander, play."

Play? Alexander's sire couldn't possibly expect him to play an instrument with a ruined hand. Yet Oliver could hear Alexander sit down at the piano bench and begin to play a piece which obviously involved a great deal of intricate fingerwork. Perhaps his hand was not that damaged after all -- but the smell in the air said otherwise.

He didn't have long to sit and enjoy the music (as much as he could under the circumstances) because the Maestro stood and pulled Oliver up, leading him in a dance. Oliver couldn't see and didn't know the steps, but he didn't have to, as his body was once again puppeted without his input, gliding across the room with a grace that was not his own, his trembling hand trapped in that cold porcelain grasp.

"One," intoned the Maestro. "Two." Several beats of music. "Three."

Oliver didn't know what it meant. Swirling around the music room with his eyes shut tight, his anxiety was reaching a fever pitch, making it difficult for him to relax enough to allow his body to sink into the control.

"Four. Five."

He was counting the mistakes, Oliver realized. Every moment his concentration broke, his body was fighting just the smallest bit against the unwanted intrusion. Each time that happened, he would slightly miss a step, or pull against the Maestro's grip.

"Eleven. Twelve."

He couldn't focus. He couldn't follow. He couldn't stop his treacherous body from rebelling against being made the plaything of the implacable vampire in front of him. And the number was climbing.

"Twenty-two." The Maestro released his grip on Oliver, who reeled backwards. "You may stop now, Alexander. Do you see now what I was talking about? He has obedience, but lacks discipline."

"Yes, sire." Alexander sounded as dead inside as he was metaphysically.

"Try not to spill blood unnecessarily when you administer the punishment. I finally find myself with an appetite."

"Yes, sire."

Oliver didn't have to wait long to know what the punishment was. Once more, he was kneeling, and he felt a sharp blow from a thin implement sting his back. It was followed by another, and another, and although Oliver was being kept from movement, he couldn't help but cry. The anticipation of each blow was as bad as the pain, and his back felt like it was on fire.

"That's twenty-two, sire."

"Your hand was light," said the Maestro. "No matter. You had three mistakes in your playing."

He heard Alexander kneeling beside him. The blows the Maestro delivered to Alexander's back rang out through the music room, unmistakable.

"Now that that unfortunate business has been taken care of," said the Maestro as casually as though he'd been discussing an unpleasant chore, "I will take my meal."

Oliver felt every muscle in his body tense, despite the control holding him. It was wrong, wrong, wrong for anyone but his master to drink his blood, but everything about this evening had been wrong.

And it was made even worse by the fact that Oliver couldn't see what the Maestro was doing, when the bite was coming for him. All he could feel was a hand on his head and a thick vampiric aura enveloping his mind. It felt strangely empty. Not like desire or hunger or pleasure, like Oliver had always felt with his master. No, the Maestro's aura was purely about control and practicality, freezing him in position so that he could be fed from. Oliver couldn't even tilt his neck as he'd been trained.

At least a feeding wouldn't be so bad, compared to everything that had happened so far, Oliver reasoned. Miss Lily had instilled in him the craving to provide for a vampire, and the feedings he'd experienced so far had been pleasant, even euphoric. He'd been dreading it previously, but now it actually be a relief.

At least, it seemed like a relief until the Maestro's slender fangs sunk into the flesh of his neck.

Oliver gasped in surprise and pain. It hurt, agony radiating from the bite, and the sensation of teeth in his muscles was deeply violating, not to mention the uncomfortable suction of his blood being consumed. His world narrowed down to nothing but the awful, aching wound, his body spasming with the need to escape from the predator, frozen in place by unnatural means.

It hurt, of course it hurt. He should have known better than to think this might be a relief. Alexander always put him under a gentle spell of sleep and submission and pleasure as he fed, a spell that kept Oliver from feeling any of the pain that would naturally accompany his neck being bitten. Of course the Maestro would not do that, would instead relish his suffering.

As his master's sire drank his blood, his thoughts began to overpower Oliver's own, and he found…

Nothingness.

A pitch black sky with no stars or moon or clouds. An empty field devoid of life as far as the eye could see. A bitter chill sapping the strength and cheer from his very marrow.

Order. Solitude. Misery.

The inky sky rushed to meet him, to swallow him in oblivion, and Oliver thought he might be dying.

"Oliver?"

He was floating back up through the darkness, tethered by his master's voice.

"Oliver? Oliver, please wake up."

"I'm awake, sir," he said, trying to open his eyes and finding that he couldn't, the memories of what had transpired rushing back to him. He couldn't open his eyes at all, the imaginary lead weights keeping them firmly shut. He could tell that he was laid out on the padded bench, cradled gently in what he hoped was his master's arms. His back hurt and his cheek stung and the wound on his neck was intensely uncomfortable… but he was alive. "I can't…" he said, panic rising. "I can't open my eyes, sir. Is he still here? Is it over?"

"He's gone. He probably won't trouble us for some time," Alexander said. "You were brilliant, Oliver. A picture perfect thrall. I wish you didn't have to go through any of that, but you handled it all so well."

Praise from his master cut through some of Oliver's fear and pain. "Will I be able to open my eyes again, sir?"

"Yes, you will, I promise. Hypnotic commands usually fade away on their own if they're not reinforced."

"How long will that take, sir?" said Oliver. Despite the welcome reassurance that this wouldn't be forever, his mind was already filling with anxiety over how he would be able to live. How could he find his way around the expansive manor while blinded? How long would he have to go without reading?

"Well… my sire's very powerful, as I'm sure you know, and you're…"

"Weak, sir?"

"I wasn't going to say weak. You take to enthrallment very well, which has nothing to do with mental weakness, believe it or not. And it's a trait I find endearing, but unfortunately in this case it might be a problem. It could last a month, maybe more…"

Oliver's heart clenched at the idea of weeks in the dark. How could he even take care of himself? Would he be able to cook or bathe? Would he need his master to help him do all of those things? Would Alexander help him?

"…but don't worry!" said Alexander hastily, running a hand through Oliver's hair. "I'll take you to see Lily first thing tomorrow night. She can usually undo things like that, especially considering the grip she has on your mind already."

Oliver never thought he'd be so grateful for Miss Lily. "Thank you, sir. I hope it isn't too much trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. You endured all of this for me. Helping undo my sire's damage is the least I can do. Speaking of which, I've already bandaged your neck, but I should tend to the wounds on your back and make sure they aren't too serious. I could get some ice from the icebox for your face, as well."

"But what about your hand, sir? Did you actually…"

"Yes. It will heal on its own, and I can clean and bandage it later. You don't need to concern yourself with it. I wish to tend to you."

Blinded and in pain, Oliver couldn't bring himself to argue with that. "Thank you, sir."

"I can't easily undo my sire's work, but I can help ease your pain with my song. Would you like that?"

"Yes, very much, sir."

His master began to sing, and his voice was like a lifeline in the dark, soothing and relaxing him and making him feel like everything would be okay, even if it very much wasn't.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Thanks for reading. Next week: happier days with Fitz.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping

#whump #whump writing #vampires #mind control #blood drinking #burns #vampire whumper #vampire whumpee #alexander #oliver #maestro #rare bookseller

128 notes · View notes

shytastemakerthing · 11 months ago

Note

helloou if possible i would like to request headcanons for vil schoenheit with a mc fem who has a hard time pronouncing his last name "schonheit", she hid this at first until she decided it was better to ask his for help on how to pronounce it even though it embarrasses her~ (based on In real events, this anon still has a hard time pronouncing that German last name ;u;) thank yuu <33

Heyo! Thank you for your request! I also still have a rather difficult time trying to pronounce Vil's last name even after hearing it so many times!

Tw: None

Prompt: Fem!reader who has a hard time trying to say Vil's last name

A/N: Requests are open!!

You are not the first person who has a hard time trying to pronounce Vil's last name and you certainly won't be the last.... he's used to it, to be honest.

No matter how many times you tried to practice his name, it just didn't sound right. It didn't sound like the right pronunciation, it didn't sound like others who knew how to say his name.

You practiced in the shower, in the mirror, when you were doing schoolwork, any available time that you had, you were practicing on how to say this man's name!

The only thing you have yet to do is ask him directly!

But that is the one thing you are trying to avoid for as long as possible. If other people are able to say his name so can you......

.........No you can't.

All the hours you spent practicing, the absolute butchering of his name despite said hours of practicing, nothing felt worse than finally confronting Vil during a conjoined moment where the both of you had time to yourselves.

And when you finally asked?

He had his own question, why wait this long before coming to him? Because let's face it, he already knew you had a hard time trying to say his last name, and he knew that you had been practicing trying to get it right.

He won't say how he knows (Rook) but he is glad that you finally came to him.

By the time you leave Pomefiore, you will know how to say his name to perfection, anything less would not reflect kindly upon him in teaching you his own name.

There had been so much that you had been through since arriving at NRC, but none of that amounted to the sheer dread and disdain that you felt as you managed to finally make it through the mirror that would lead you to Pomefiore.

You had spent hours.... weeks, even practicing over and over and over again, but no matter the effort, no matter how hard you tried, you could never get his damn name right.

By sheer luck, Vil had a moment to himself, a small window of free time and a small window of opportunity for you to finally ask him the one thing you were trying to avoid, and he seemed quick to notice your presence within his dorm, he always had. He would never outright admit it but he kept a closer eye on you than many others. After all, dating someone like him, he wanted to make sure that you were alright at all times. He could handle the comments that would come his way, and he would do what he could to shield them from you.

A smile was on that perfect face of his, allowing you into his room before his attention was to you.

"Now, what have I told you about the frowning? You're going to give yourself early wrinkles." Those soft hands of his gently tapped under your chin, in hopes of lifting said frown, oh, but it wouldn't budge, not with what you were about to ask him.

"Vil, I need to ask you something." It was more of a demand that left your mouth, and the slight curves of a smile came to his own.

Oh......

OH......

"About how to pronounce my last name? Before you ask, it was quite simple. Whenever you would go to call me Housewarden, you would pause when it came to my last name, among..... other sources. You are not the first person to not know how and you certainly won't be the last. Now, take a seat. By the time you leave, you are going to be able to say the Shoenheit name better than anyone else."

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst #twst imagines #disney twisted wonderland #twst vil #vil schoenheit #vil x fem!reader #vil schoenheit x fem!reader #vil schoenheit x reader #shy answers #shy writes

250 notes · View notes

mtkay13 · 1 year ago

Text

The one and only Qi Ye trio!

Details on the painting, meta and more below!

So this piece is actually a "remake" of a much older drawing that I made right after I had finished reading Qi Ye:

First, I want to elaborate on the drawing itself. I usually don't like to detail the symbolism and ideas that I put in my art, simply because I don't want to impose a reading and I'd rather everyone gets their own; but following some discussions I have decided to do so for this one.

The main theme of this illustration is glory, power, and the ascention towards it. The principal symbol of it is, of course, the stairs going up. I used light, directly, colours and positioning to signify each character's relationship to those themes.

Helian Yi is the one in the light, ascending upwards, in red clothing. Helian Yi's power, as future emperor, is in the light, visible, going towards the heavens as the son of heaven himself--to enact his heavenly duty. Part of his face is in the shadows, and his being casts a broad shadow behind him for, of course, a lot has to happen in the shadows for him to reach the throne. He's looking behind as his ascension comes with dread and paranoia, never being able to fully trust anyone.

Zhou Zishu is entirely in the shadows, doesn't exist in the light. He's standing tall on the stairs but not facing upwards because his own way towards power isn't following the traditional path of having one's name being remembered in historical records. He is at his most powerful concealed in the shadows and doesn't look directly, his gaze unreadable.

Jing Beiyuan is sitting on the stairs, uninterested with the climb towards power itself, uninterested in the glory. The thin line of light on his figure means that among Helian Yi's closest allies, he's the one using his title and influence; light grazes him even if he doesn't want it to. His presence in Helian Yi's shadow signifies how he, along with Zishu, is quite literally behind HLY's ascension. His gaze is knowingly directed towards the watcher.

The main reason I decided to repaint it was because I wanted it to match my current style and, more importantly, my current mental image/character design for them. Jing Qi barely changed since my idea of him was fairly clear from the start, but Helian Yi and Zishu went through much bigger changes.

For Helian Yi, it was mainly a question from taking him out of Jin Wang's robes to get him his own. I really like Jin Wang's wardrobe in SHL, which is why I initially wanted it for HLY, but nowadays it simply doesn't correspond to how I picture him anymore. My understanding and/or envisioning of Da Qing's fashion has changed a bit as well, so I wanted to reflect that. In the original, he more seemed like a kid in vaguely chique robes that were too big for him LOL. His face was afforded a bit of refinement as well, especially since my big Qi Ye spread.

Jing Qi's robes are just a tad less flashy somehow--which wasn't so much planned as just... another design I had in mind. I still really like the first version of the robes but, oh well. His face is a bit more defined now, and overall more details in the quality of his clothing and in his hair piece.

Zhou Zishu...... well, haha. His original design was quite unpolished--a vague mix of SHL!Zishu and some random hakama I barely worked on. He was also very slim and had big eyes, which I just don't see anymore. He's bigger now, by quite a bit, both in height and musculature, and I made him look just a bit older as well--simply because he is older than HLY and JBY by a few years. I much prefer his current expression which is a tad more vicious but also a bit harder to read (I think). His robes, hair shape are much better defined and thought-out, and I am happy with the subtle shading on his face.

That's it!! Thanks for readiinngggg as always!

#qi ye meta #qi ye #helian yi #jing beiyuan #zhou zishu

392 notes · View notes

hexesandroses · 4 months ago

Note

Sorry if I sound corny but number 77 with Dottore for the drabble list??

Nothing corny about it! :) this turned out way longer than I anticipated, but I hope it's to your liking <3

drabble list

77. There is nothing wrong with you

You were exhausted.

The days blended into one as you spent hours upon hours at your desk, eyes glued to the ample paperwork that needed to be dealt with. Your rationality told you that you were going about this the wrong way; skipping meals and losing sleep over work never did you good, and though the stars had shown you the consequences of those actions numerous times, you never learned your lesson.

It became increasingly difficult to focus. Your mind demanded rest but you refused to oblige. Your calloused fingers hurt from holding a pen for so long; your thoughts were in disarray, mind clouded by exhaustion; your body felt weaker than ever before and sitting upright was a challenge in and of itself.

You couldn't stop, though. There were so many things that demanded your attention, so many deadlines that worsened your anxieties. If you couldn't finish all your tasks in time, then what were you good for?

Still, you wanted rest so badly. When was the last time you'd slept well? When did you last play chess with Zandik, just as you used to do every day? You ached with a desperate desire for tranquility but even that was overtaken by your crippling fear of failure.

All of which Zandik noticed. He made an attempt at pulling you away from your desk one night: with a hand placed on your shoulder, he said, "you can't go on like this any longer. Come to bed."

And you'd rejected him, swatted his hand away and told him not to distract you - he didn't bother you again after that.

Until he found you hunched over your journal deep into the night. Your mind didn't register his voice until he came to stand right next to you.

Zandik called your name softly, "you can't do this to yourself."

"I'm just working."

"Work can wait. When was the last time you slept?"

Your fingers gripped the pen tighter. It hurt so badly.

"Yesterday, I think."

You wondered if he was disappointed in you. Were you too slow, had you failed to meet his expectations?

Zandik caressed your hair with his ungloved hand and you nearly recoiled at the feeling of it; you couldn't remember the last time you bathed. You must have looked dreadful - a shell of a human being, beyond unrecognizable.

"Your body needs rest," he murmured, "this has gotten out of control. Your health, both physical and mental, will be beyond saving if you continue at this rate."

You gritted your teeth. "I feel fine. I'll be done soon, anyway."

"How soon?"

"Soon. In a few hours- or days, it doesn't matter. Soon."

Zandik exhaled softly. He was disappointed - you knew it. You had failed him and proven yourself to be unworthy of all attention - a failure of a partner, of a human being.

"I don't recall the last time I saw you eat a proper meal," he broke you out of your thoughts. You didn't dare to look at him; your shame was far too great. "Look at yourself. You haven't left this study in so long; Columbina asks me about you every day."

"She'll manage without me."

"And I?"

The question made you droop your head. Zandik never spoke of his affection for you aloud - you could see all of it in his actions: his devotion, care, desire. The innocent implication of his words evoked guilt, sadness, among so many other complicated feelings that you couldn't put a name to.

"I really, really need to finish this, Zandik-"

"I miss you," he said, so easily that it made your heart ache with longing. You'd missed him, too; spending your days without feeling his touch, hearing his never-ending rants about whatever research he was engrossed in - you wilted without Zandik near.

You were hesitant to look at him. Something told you that you would cave and abandon your work if you did.

"This needs to be dealt with, Zandik. If I don't do it now, I'll never... I have to."

Or I'll feel like a failure. The words lay on the tip of your tongue but you were careful not to voice them.

Zandik's hand moved down to the nape of your neck. Had you been any weaker, you would have leaned against him, given up on your futile efforts to prove your worth to... him? Yourself?

"You're overworking yourself," Zandik whispered, "even I know not to take things so far and you have seen how I can get when something catches my interest."

You huffed bitterly, turning your head in the opposite direction lest he catch sight of the tears that welled in your eyes. "How do you not understand? I'm not overworking myself - I've barely managed to get anything done today. No matter what I try, I just can't do it. I have to, I know I have to, but I can't and it's ruining everything."

Frustration bubbled in your chest. Archons, you were so tired. The temptation to give up was strong, but how would you face yourself? Zandik? How could you rest after resigning yourself to failure?

"You need a break," Zandik murmured, his tone laced with sympathy, "take the day off tomorrow, and I will help you with whatever else is left."

"I can't."

"Why?"

The words came out shakily, "I'll feel wrong. I already do."

Tears spilled from your eyes before you could stop them; it was too much. You felt exhausted, burdened by the weight of your own pressure, and continuing to pretend that it didn't bother you felt impossible. Your dignity was all but crushed in the palm of your hand as Zandik crouched and pried your hands from your face.

Everything hurt so badly: your head, neck, hands, every part of your body ached and begged for relief. Your heart filled with something heavy and you lacked the tools to get rid of it. When did this strange feeling take root in your chest? When was the last time that you felt right?

"I don't know how to deal with it," you whined, "I've tried so hard but nothing works. I'm just wrong. I can't do it."

You could hear Zandik's breath hitch through your cries.

"Look at me," he said - a command. His hands cupped your face and beckoned you to meet his gaze. Your sight was blurry, but you could just barely make out his soft, cyan hair, a pair of ruby eyes overflowing with a wistful feeling you couldn't comprehend.

"There is nothing wrong with you."

Gingerly wiping your tears away, he continued, "I know what it is like to feel inherently terrible and to not have someone who could prove you wrong. But you have me." And why would he say that so softly? You furrowed your brows as more tears pooled in your eyes - but Zandik didn't mind. He kept wiping at your eyes as if he could quell the turmoil within your heart with just a touch. "I will show you that you are good; that you are capable, determined, worthy. You don't have to do this by yourself, my dear."

You all but softened against him. Resting your forehead against his own, you allowed Zandik to take care of you in a way that he hadn't in so long. Frustration gave way to acceptance and you exhaled shakily when he pressed his lips to your cheeks - a soothing thing.

"I will help you in any way that I can," he added, "Omega will handle my work for the time being."

"I missed you," are the only words that you could speak, and Zandik accepted them with a soft, barely noticeable smile.

"I know. I'm here. You will be alright; this, too, shall pass with time."

You found that notion to be a little more believable, now.

#this hit... far too close to home #anon i hope you're okay 🫂#il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #zandik x reader #il dottore #zandik #dottore #genshin impact #anon ask

117 notes · View notes

me-uglypretty · 1 year ago

Text

they have not chosen me

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Summary: In her rage of not being chosen, Natasha expresses herself to the one person she will always choose.

Warning: (18+), AU, smut, fingering, cunninglingus | 2k words

| N.R. Masterlist | Notify | Navigation |

“They have not chosen me!”

Her voice challenges them; fools absently picking at their lofty hats, forfeiting their attention from the growls of her exhausted heart. She was perceived as the brute of their conversations, those verses of her were spoken among elite parties, a name that rolls from their filthy tongue into the humid air, the kind of fury that glaze their dull eyes at the sight of her—a woman united with courage, brilliance, passion, and youth—the very form of life which they spite. She was the lone force that charred their miserable existence.

Natasha Romanoff.

The name that wends a faint sound in your throat, orbiting your pulsing heart so persistently, instigating your whole self into a tangled mess, and clumsily falling at your feet. Thus, your body stumbles with the circular bamboo woven basket that was once held firmly in your jaded hands, and those freshly harvested vegetables faced the same devastation at their unforeseen fall.

A known voice, charming and teasing, induces through your moment of embarrassed and dread. “Another mishap?”

The apprehensive guise remained on your face as you hastily gather the fallen vegetables without bothering to clean the additional dirt of mud and stones that stuck. It was that, or you would face far worse, perhaps, the taunting voices of those around and being the component in their immoral act of thieving in daylight for self-amusement at other’s suffering.

Unbeknownst to your muddled state, Natasha had perceived your stumble which had occurred mere seconds after her brash speech. At the sight of your hunched posture, she was simply lured towards you. Her lavish shoes stumps brashly on the ground, emphasising on self-confident that fear itself cowers.

“You’re a clumsy one, uh?” Natasha teasingly jabbed, concluding her question with a chuckle.

In other circumstances—unlike one that would undoubtedly rouse a crowd or worse, a conflict between the status that laid across people of this dreadful town—you would have glared into round eyes gleaming in arrogance while yours flash with irritation. Your tongue would have spat bitterly at her mockery and still, you would perceive the same arrogance smile on her face as you continued expressing your irritation. However, such pleasure was expressed in the confined space of your mind and silence had, will always remain the safer decision than uttering insolent words in front of their prying eyes.

“Awfully quite too.”

And you, still situated in such a helpless state, surrounded by those fools coexisting with her, could only muster a sluggish nod.

“I will walk you back home,” she spoke, before swiftly grasping the handle of your bamboo basket and carrying that broad article as though, it was hers to own. “Follow me, clumsy.”

You disregarded the sound of disapproval that burns at the tip of your tongue and the apparent disrespect at her audacious act. Instead, you had silently trailed behind her, each step seemingly pretentious for those prying eyes, till the village fade at the path that revealed natures’ heavenly greenery.

Trees stood tall, wide, and leafy. Mosses spread the ground and trunk of said trees. Little vegetation grew unreservedly from ruthless civilisation. The scenery was all that appealed relaxed breaths from your lungs.

Your curious eyes shift from flourishing nature as your attention redicts to the vegetables bouncing carelessly in a basket that was meant for your hands to hold. Her fervent steps were to blame. The expression on her face bore a look of bravery and yet, drawing creases on her forehead as her eyebrows furrowed and eyes that gleam so mercifully with nature, shone sadly of anguish. And your eyes, round and wide, curious as they are, remained crucially on her face.

Natasha noticed your attention on her and hums a saddening song that gust into the humid air. “They have not chosen me,” she repeated those words, a verse that exudes despair from her voice. Natasha tilts her head to meet your attentive gaze. “But I have chosen them,” she announced with finality.

And you would continue to wonder for days to come, why had they not chosen her?

“I have chosen them.”

Your mouth remained shut while hers lingers with empty openings of questions, shuffling between brief meeting of eyes that descents lower and lower, then the corner of her lips curls while yours was pressed in a thin line. You had mused the thought and accepted a conclusion of her, of such disapproval for someone like her.

Natasha was unlike them. She must be, she is perhaps the best among them. Excellent in those expectations established on women, considerable of other’s emotions, outwardly brave as she walks and talks, and she so courageously questions the law bestowed upon them. Natasha, as her own, a unique kind of person, completely self-aware, ignorance ceased to exist by her, and yet—

“I have chosen them.”

For once, those words that slips from her mouth sounded like a confession that fell melodiously by your ears. Warmth embraces your cheeks as her sly eyes lingers on your face, basking the slight alterations to your expression. The bamboo basket was left abandoned on the ground as her hands extends further to seam the gap placed between two. The excruciating cold, the painful longing, and so deprived of affection as her hands presses on your cheeks and you contemplate of them.

“I have chosen them,” Natasha whispered, huff of warm breath touched your pursed lips, and her thumb parted your mouth wide open for her. “I have chosen them,” she confessed gently, her eyes shimmers in the reflection of nature’s hues as she passionately gazes into your round eyes, certainly wide and eager for her. “I have chosen you.”

Her declaration conveys with her action as she pushed your backward, pressing your back directly against the rough surface of a tree which leaves crowns above, sheltering two bodies from the scorching sun. It felt as though, time halted for the mere seconds where her hand grasps your jaw while the other rested on your upper chest to ensure you remained at that same potion. Exactly where she wanted you, where she needed you.

You felt lost, so unaware of those increasing thoughts wandering in her mind at such momentum. But you felt the upsurge heat that spread your face, neck, chest, and only worse when her face inches closer to yours, just readily wanting to collide with you.

Then, you counted the moments in between. First, the gust of cold wind that made your shiver, the second that chimes in birds merrily chirping at daylight, the third appeared in sounds of leaves and branches brushing against each other in such symphony—and the pressure that lead after, her lips pressed firmly over yours. A stunned gasp left your mouth, slowly resonating as moans when her hand fell to your waist and confines your body close into her.

Natasha doesn’t spare a moment for your breaths to normalise. Her mouth clashes with yours, swallowing each sound that left your throat, kissing you so familiarly, sucking your tongue as your lips parted effortlessly for more of her. Kisses pressed so keenly on your lips, leading to your chin, and an excruciating moment after where your hand guided her mouth back over yours. The need to feel her, to taste her, for tongues to meet and dance together, you craved for that more than life itself.

There, beneath the broad tree, an unspoken promise was whispered in peckish moans. Her hands briskly tampering with the laces that held your dress, wisps of breath left your mouth at the warmth that spread the width of your body from her heavenly presence. The kind of satisfying hum resonates in your throat the moment her hand slips beneath hefty fabric.

“I choose you,” Natasha murmured, her fingers courageously stroke your bundle of nerves. A hint of something ardent sparks from within by the next words that followed. “I choose you,” her mouth delays by your gaping mouth. Those words carried merrily through your throat, and announcing its arrival at each intense thump of your heart.

It was wet, sloppy, so shamefully disordered when she explores the spaces between your thighs, and you felt the pulsating that rouse in your cunt for her; someone known and unknown, the pure melody of forbidden pursuit on respected grounds, of pleading for her at sinful hours while her round rosy lips shone with a victory grin at your hopeless whine for more of her than the measured touch of her fingers.

“Please,” you had pleaded at that hour, the same sound that was forced from your mouth when she was relentless with her teasing. Your hands were pressed on her shoulders, nails digging into the pads of her dress. “Please,” you whined, thrusting your body forward into hers, and shamelessly continuing the sounds of your voice begging for her to devour you as the chosen one she swore upon.

In her usual manner of complete brashness, where one hand was positioned familiarly over your chest, Natasha gropes the curve of your breast and incited a lurid moan from you. It takes another loud whine for her hand to trail a path that led to your neck, before firmly grasping the base of your neck in her warm hand. It was a warning to silent yourself, or to speak for what you needed, or something—absolutely anything.

At the midst of her firm grasp, you felt her fingers slide into your folds, her leisure ministrations made your inside swarm with a need for more. A beast stirred awake by sinful urges, that your body thrust more into her, grinding unashamedly against her fingers and your eyes shut closed at the hurried pleasure that flood your senses.

“So greedy,” Natasha mocked, her thumb circles your clit. “I can feel you around my finger,” she husked, her voice that sounded so heroic seemed to alter into a tone that only you were fortunate to know.

By her voice, her heavenly honied voice, you felt yourself clenched around her fingers. Something that was so foreign to you was made known by her, such warmth, such corruption to your hopeless mind that you wished for more. She, Natasha, everything you desired to survive.

“Natasha,” her name falls from your mouth as desperate pleads.

It was fascinating to her by the way her eyebrows furrowed at your sounds, closely listening to each whine that drew from your throat and your mouth huffing pleads at her ministration. Natasha listened, applying more pressure as her mouth pressed harshly on yours, and your breathless state was disregard as she continued kissing you like air was granted by that sole action.

“Nat, I feel— don’t stop, please,” your hand found hers between the fumbles of body chasing a common hunger. As if, her touch was the saving grace for your corruption. It wasn’t wrong, it could never be assumed as that, not when she was there with you.

But she stopped.

A whine erupts angrily from your mouth, conveying the ache that was replaced from the pleasure felt. At such state, your mind remained absent, only chasing after the hunger, and your hand hauled hers back. Natasha denied the clash for your pleasure and recoils your touch from her hand. Laugher fills her chest while your heart thumps with anticipation.

The hand that was once situated between your thighs, were closing into your face. Her fingers glistens when the sunlight shines through, the same fingers tracing your lips intently while you admire her. Cheekbones tinge of crimson, perhaps, the weather was chilly or the aftermath of her mouth over yours. Her eyes were bright, orbs of such that stares straight into your soul, and grasping the little parts of you as her own.

Natasha eyes remains on your face as she takes a step backwards and slowly bends her knees. An act known to those who had touched her feet while she stared at them as nothing, but common fools pleading for her forgiveness after their thoughtless act. However, you were different, she had never positioned herself in such manner and yet, your gaze lowered with her and eyes gleaming with such care for her.

Her knees prods into the muddy ground, feeling indifferent for the dirty that would swear to ruin her dress. Keen hands grasp for your dress as you stood there, she fumbles with the heavy material as soft grumbles left her mouth, before she hastily pushed the bothersome away from her path. At that hour, Natasha acted as though, she had known from the beginning of what she desired, determination blazing proudly in her round eyes that shimmer vividly in hues of forest green and blue of the sky above.

Those eyes soften for mere seconds, a silent question lingers in the air to which you answered with an assured nod. The smile that graces after was gentle enough that curses which swirls in your mind ceased to exist. Natasha, so arrogant at first, so her, so someone only you know beneath the persona that left them trembling.

Natasha’s head pushes beneath your dress, disappearing from your sight, you lose her somewhere, till you felt the hot air that blew at your heat, and the warmth wetness that touch you. A loud groan left her throat by the moans that fell from your mouth. Her tongue pressed over your cunt, dragging her wetness to your clint as she circles the swollen nub with such urgence, and felt the combination of slick.

Her tongue was there, your cunt was already wet from her previous ministration, and her tongue thrust into your wanting hole. The abrupt shove of her tongue made your mouth whine of pleasure and hand searching for where her head was situated, to find those strands of red standing in contrast to your grey tinge dress. Your fingers tangle in her hair to feel more, to push her into your pulsating core.

It’s so wrong, you heard yourself whisper into the cloud of lust in your mind, and it’s so right, you countered back. It’s perfect to feel the edges of her tongue, her fingers, the clever ways she incites cries from your mouth at the warmth that spread your stomach to your chest. Natasha has always been relentless. She vowed to have you begging, tears spilling from your eyes at the sheer pleasure that rouse from her touch.

At the high of your orgasm, she pressed a lingering kiss on your mound, another on your stomach that rouse at each harsh intake of breath, and slowly leading a path of kisses to your thighs.

Natasha pushes herself back, steading herself by resting her hands on your waist as she stood. You see her this way; eyes blown of lustful urges, lips swollen of moments before that left your mouth wide open, her untidy hair with red strands sticking to her forehead as her skin glistens with sweat, and the slick that coated her lips to her chin—of your release, of a promised pleasure, of prove she had committed the sin you craved.

Her tongue darts across her lips, her fingers grip your waist fervently. Those eyes stares into yours, seemingly looking at you like you were everything to her. Like she had not cried because of them, expressing such regret and anger of their act. It was like, she knew of what she wanted from the start of day to the end of night.

“I have chosen them,” Natasha whispered, and your hands shakily reach for her face. “I have always chosen you,” she expressed before your mouth pressed furiously over hers.

The taste of you that lingered for hours and days to come, the taste of her that flames in anger and so vivid of life, just you and her—something that they will never understand.

Natasha had dared from the start, grasping your hand to urge for your body to follow her, the promise that settled the ache in your chest, and that of her hand slipping between your thighs. You know that dishonour and sins were shared from the first moment her eyes met yours, when your mouth plead for her touch and she cried when your hand met her warmth. It was love, it was all that they had not chosen, but of what you and her had chosen.

She had chosen you, and you would always choose her.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader smut

301 notes · View notes