#despite knowing how the Harbingers navigate

[reginrokkr]

So I've been rudely woken up and I can't seem to go back to sleep easily again, so I'll be channeling that into an opinion post over a leak concerning Khaenri'ah that made me silently scream in my pillow until this melatonin gummy kicks me back to bed!

If this leak is to have any credence, apparently there was a revolt against the Vinster King —Irmin— for the shit he was meaning to unfold that was described in a couple of ways such as: rocking the foundations of the world and tearing the veil of sin. These point out towards one action which is "breaking the seal of the Irminsul Maze", whatever that is supposed to mean. In any case, I'm not surprised in the slightest that Irminsul is related to this as Teyvat's Axis Mundi, the one tree that feeds the rest of the world with the elements throughout its Ley Lines and a myriad of things more such as being a barrier from the Abyss, carry souls and record the memories of the world. My personal belief with the little information we have so far on this topic is that whatever Irmin wanted to do is to remove whatever protective barrier Irminsul has against the Abyss to throw everything into it, as it's suggested in the statuettes that represent his figure.

To elaborate a little bit more into the rebellion before jumping at the meaty stuff to me, this rebellion not only overthrew King Irmin but the entire imperial court in itself, which does line up with the General Marshal Anfortas taking over as a temporary regent until a different one is chosen. Now, what confuses me about this is if this was the precursor for the cataclysm to take place in Khaenri'ah or if it was a previous disaster. Given Dain's choice of word, it was as if the destruction happened when the gods descended and that it was destroyed by them, so it's possible that even though King Irmin was indisposed and no royal members had any business in the monarchy any longer, that these events may have happened concurrently while the Alberich regent was present. For my little theorycrafting heart and what I do remember having theorized in the past, I was elated to find out about the rebellion as I wondered about the possibility of something like that occurring in Khaenri'ah inspired by the Princess Mina books.

Moving on with what King Irmin wanted to do and what it wound up provoking, what continues is pretty much what Dain had explained in 「Bedtime story」 with a bit more of details. As he said, the five who carried the hopes and dreams of Khaenri'ah that would later be called sinners are described as heroes, and the five of them and Dain were supposed to stop him from rocking the foundations of the world. He doesn't give more details about this, but what follows is that not only they couldn't prevent the disaster that would unfold as a consequence of the king's actions, but that apparently, the five heroes' actions contributed to the cataclysm, the destruction of Khaenri'ah and they didn't raise a finger to do anything about it. Apparently, Khaenri'ah was wiped out in a single night for all of this. As a result, the five heroes, the people who carried Khaenri'ah's hopes and dreams would be deemed as sinners and feared by the people.

Something that confuses me about this whole thing is that it's possible that what Dain described as the five of them succumbing to the Abyss and dividing among them this world-shattering power may have happened during their attempt at stopping the Vinster King, which is... odd to me. Mainly because we know that Rhinedottir has been creating these abyssal beasts as far back in time as the Crimson Moon dynasty, the wolves were used as weapons by a part of the army named beastmaster knights until this fell into disuse and automatons started to be used instead. Moreover, there is something odd about the notion that at least two souls (Durin and Elynas'), who were already pre-existing into some other plane of existence, were given a body that ultimately had the abyss nasties. And this was provoked by Gold herself, however she always gave form to what would be monsters later despite the pure souls of at least these two beasts. Surtalogi is known for being the creator of the Foul Legacy, alternatively translated as a technique of extreme evil and his moral compass seems to be questioning to be kind if we think back at what Skirk described about the Narwhal and what Surtalogi's actions with it were, uncaring of the consequences they would lead. The other one we have a bit of information about is Vedrfolnir, a Visionary and the one who inspired Chlothar to create the Abyss Order (probably as a means for the Loom of Fate creation, as Chlothar was already yapping about it before an even bigger tragedy struck Caribert).

All of these evidences point to me that at least three out of the five sinners were already suspicious and yet they were deemed heroes up until that point close to the cataclysm, which is the main point of my confusion. But knowing that part of the populace was also obsessed with the Abyss, it's also possible that, if they had already shared among them the power of the abyss or flirted with it and did questionable things in the past, that these were accepted by those people until it exploded in their face and struck fear in them due to what it can do. This would line up with what Chlothar described as Lumine being Khaenri'ah's hope, the one who was meant to bring prosperity to them because she was viewed as the embodiment of the Abyss, once again nodding towards the collective obsession part of the people had towards it. If maybe this happened a little earlier than the cataclysm did or some people were already fearful of the "heroes" for reasons (all of this is still very obscure for a lack of details) and after having endured the fall of a maddened king, it's little wonder that they would revere Lumine so highly as to make her their princess. Once again, to those who were still obsessed with the Abyss despite what was boiling / caused to Khaenri'ah.

Lastly, on to the part that I feel like connects to Dain even more directly is the part of the Irminsul Maze and... maybe or maybe not the link to one of the titles he holds: Bough Keeper. As if I wasn't elated enough at the even stronger confirmation of his connection with Irminsul, this sealed the deal for me even further. Because what was insinuated was that whatever the five sinners did either backfired terribly and later on they didn't care at all or they themselves snapped and made things worse when they were meant to stop King Irmin. While Dain's actions are obscured, I can't help but be excited at the notion that he tried to do something about Irminsul (either because of his already established connection with it at the time or the newly founded connection after that moment, it's unclear) and that unfortunately it wasn't enough to prevent the disaster nevertheless. Thinking about how irrational Lumine sounded in blaming Dain for failing to protect Khaenri'ah (while, comically enough, being part of Vedrfolnir's project with the Abyss Order and the Loom of Fate and one of the sinners), maybe this could be the reason why she blames him. That maybe he could do something about it, but for xyz reasons he couldn't. Still unfair to pin the blame for the kingdom's destruction on him in my opinion, but at least this would shed some light into this matter. Moreover, if all of this is the way it is (which again, it'd make sense with the shame some Khaenri'ahns seem to bear in other countries to the point of preferring to be seen as evil and not the heroes they were for protecting them, despite the mentality that was present in Khaenri'ah about other nations), it's quite comforting that Dain was seen in such a good light by Halfdan for one, that his last orders and maybe even what he had taught the Black Serpent Knights was kept into their hearts and made them be so honorable as they've been for the past 500 years in other countries. Even though he, ultimately, failed to prevent the disaster in Khaenri'ah / protect it at the end of the day. But I suppose that whenever this happened, those who weren't crazed by the Abyss still appreciated him for his efforts and for at least trying.

[capitanology]

within silence and solace | capitano x f!reader

synopsis: where you meet your beloved husband after he returns home from a long mission

content warning: nothing much tbh, just slight descriptions of blood/injury and that's it, all fluff hehe

word count: 1.2k

within the desolate manor, it was a rare occasion to have any sort of commotion. the only company you have is your personal maid and the silence that occupied the majority of your time. it isn't an unusual thing; ever since your union with the First Harbinger, you've learned to savor the tranquility that comes with his name and status. that is, being cared for and treated with utmost respect without any resistance or trouble.

perhaps those around you have noticed that each action done to you is extended to him as well. each strike against you is a strike against him, and nobody wanted to mess with a person like him. if it wasn't clear before, a certain incident with an insolent guest only further cemented the fact that you're the Harbinger's precious wife, with the way Capitano dealt with that arrogant man without any mercy as an example to the others who dare disrespect you. you were often alone since then, servants only appearing in times of urgent need or when you beckoned them.

all too afraid to make a mistake while serving you when the First Harbinger is in the palm of your hands.

sighing softly, you let yourself immerse in the peace and quiet of your personal library. your day went by the same as it did for the past few weeks, devoid of Capitano's presence. ever since he was called to deal with an unexpected mission, you've been quite alone trying to navigate in a household filled with nothing but the shadow of your own. of course, he isn't the most talkative nor the most open when it comes to spending time together, but he at least kept you company; listening to your stories, entertaining your requests to go for walks or out to town, eating meals together. as much as you loved being by yourself, you still missed the man you called your husband.

left to your own devices at your request without any interruptions, you returned your attention to the novel placed on your lap. curled up in a cozy armchair, kept warm by the burning fireplace, this was a preferred pastime of yours in this empty manor, especially when your husband's absence carved in a deeper sense of loneliness. with how hushed everything is, that's why when you heard the sudden clamoring of servants in this rarely noisy house, it tells you all that you needed to know.

swiftly snapping the book shut, you lifted yourself off from your comfortable position and made your way to the entrance of the manor. anticipation thrummed through your veins, pushing the thought of seeing him to the forefront of your mind. your heart thumped loudly, enough that you won't be surprised if anyone else could hear it. the moment you reached the top of the staircase, a subtle sense of warmth spread through your chest when your eyes catch sight of the man you've been waiting for. achingly, tirelessly.

his figure stood still amongst the bustling servants, towering over them with ease. from his disheveled look, it seems that he has just returned. just as you moved to go to where he is, his face turned to your direction, and despite not seeing anything, you could tell his gaze remained fixated on you even as you descend down the stairs. as if by clockwork, the servants seamlessly made way as you walked past, bowing before dispersing to give the two of you the privacy needed.

standing before him, your eyes take in the sight; coat stained with streaks of crimson, not missing even the metal armor of his helmet, his hair unruly and scratches all over. he was unkempt unlike how he usually was, but you would rather this than a grave injury, which you notice is absent. letting out a small breath of relief, you let your gaze move to his face, an empty void encaged by his signature helmet. without any words, your hands reached out to cup his cheeks (the most of what you could anyway), the cool metal making a slight shiver run down your spine. almost instantly, his body softened, tension leaving with just a single touch from you. your lips lifted slightly at his reaction, warmth blooming in your chest.

it seems that you weren't the only one yearning for the other.

"welcome home," your voice went into a whisper, only for him to hear.

at your words, Capitano could only press his face further into the palms of your hands, as if seeking for more of the comfort that only you can provide. letting him bask in this moment a little longer, you then pulled away to start removing his dirtied coat. it seems that he didn't take it too well though, instead chasing after you, not wanting the moment to end just yet. his hands reached out to grasp onto your waist and pulled you a tad bit closer, your bodies nearly touching. the sudden proximity made your heart flutter and you feel warmth blossoming across your cheeks.

it has been a long time since you've been this close and you wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, but the patches of blood along the lines of his clothes reminded you of how he was fresh from the battlefield. shaking your head, you took another step backwards.

"later," you mumbled, looking away and moving behind him instead. "your coat first. i need to remove it, my love. it reeks of blood."

patting his back lightly, you waited for him to acknowledge your words. a moment passed before you heard a barely audible grunt—as if unhappy with your denial to let him stay in your warmth—and the shuffling of clothes. a little chuckle left your lips at his reaction, the image of him pouting like a little child making you amused. a few seconds later, a bundled up coat fell into your open arms, its decorative fur covering nearly half of your face.

without the humongous coat that he always had on, his figure had shrunk a little, but still maintained his built figure. at the sight before you, your gaze roamed the entirety of his being once again, except this time for a much more different purpose. it had been far too long since you were able to see him up close, just like this, and you took your time to appreciate the view you were deprived of for weeks.

the call of your name returned your gaze back to his face, and you could feel his amusement having caught you red-handed in your little moment.

"is something wrong?" his head tilted slightly, prompting you to answer his words.

"no," clearing your throat, you summoned the butler to take away his coat, pretending to play it cool despite knowing he had noticed the flustered look on your face at his subtle teasing. "you should hurry to the bathroom. the bath has been prepared for you for quite sometime."

"...if my wife says so."

his quiet statement was enough to make your heart go haywire, but you did your best to maintain a calm expression. nodding lightly at his words, you waited for his next action. and without fail, as he always did, Capitano reached out a hand towards you, palm open in an invite. your hand slid into his without hesitation, fingers intertwined in an intimate embrace. the familiar feeling of his rough skin, callouses adorning the corners of his fingers, made you squeeze his hand a little tighter, not letting go even as you both reached the wide doors of the bathroom.

finally, you get to feel his touch again.

a/n: first fic with some capitano fluff !! my first time writing a fic for him btw so pls forgive if its ooc LOL

[musings-of-miss-j]

no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part three: in which you're further reminded of the doctor's unsavoury methods while childe and a mysterious stranger occupy your thoughts

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will most likely not be romantic interests)

notes: slowest burn that ever did burn, snarky and a tiny bit socially anxious reader, gn reader who is occasionally referred to as 'miss', fluff, crack

warnings: G O R E . blood, unethical scientific experimentation, minor character death, dottore is his own warning and frankly the reader is a little morally questionable too, reader experiences a small identity crisis and kills a man, attempted drugging (dottore tries to place the reader under the influence of a truth serum)

please let me know if you find any pronoun slips!!

series masterlist

word count: 5539 words

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  

“Oh, Lord Two? Um… At twenty to three.” Anya told you.

You cursed softly under your breath. It was half past two, so you teetered just on the edge of being late, considering how difficult it was to navigate the ridiculous labyrinth- like palace. You grabbed your best copy of your thesis, the typewritten one you’d paid an outrageous amount for in Fontaine, as well as your notes on your current research; elemental magic and the human body. It’s quite ambitious, the sage of your Darshan had told you, which roughly translated to ��you’re completely insane if you have even an inkling of hope that this is a worthy investment of your resources.’

After carefully placing the stack of paper into the slim wooden casing Tighnari had made for you, you grabbed your room key and ushered Anya out while flipping through your notebook for the map you’d drawn. You locked your door before all but sprinting towards the spiral staircases, taking the steps two at a time. You were out of breath by the time you reached the landing, but the humiliating prospect of being late was enough incentive to maintain the brisk pace despite the searing stitch that grew in your side. (Cyno would roll his eyes and bracingly tell you that even a scholar needed regular exercise, and damn him for being right.) Several twists and turns and anxious glances at your pocket watch and notebook later, you arrived at the door with four minutes to spare. With a pleased huff, you rebalanced your glasses on your nose and ran your finger down the seam of the door and wall. The words flickered sky blue, and it eased open when you thought please. Telepathic magic at its finest.

you took care not to seem winded as you entered the laboratory. The Doctor had his back to you, focused on something out of your sight. You heard faint whimpering, and when you approached you were a little sickened to see a man strapped to the vivisection table. He was clearly drugged, eyes wide and pupils dilated, and the Doctor methodically pulled a long, red string from a tiny gash in his inner elbow. With a jolt of revulsion, you realised that the string was the man’s arteries. Archons above. You knew the Doctor was morally dubious at best, but surely he could’ve conducted such an experiment on a fresh corpse and yielded similar results. Bruises littered the man’s face, yet the rest of his body was perfectly intact, not a single broken bone though one of his eyes was swollen and his lip bled from a deep gash. Even the clothes he wore didn’t bear signs of extreme wear, not ragged or bloodstained. No more violence than necessary. You clenched your teeth. The subject must remain in a semi-controlled state to ensure validity of the experiment. His sleeve was tidily rolled up to his elbow, but the incision from which the Doctor withdrew the arteries gushed blood in a wavering rhythm; that of his heartbeat, which slowly but surely dwindled. The Doctor didn’t even look up from the forceps he was using to carefully draw out the blood vessels, inch by inch, when you approached him and the test subject. The man spotted you, and even in his delirious state he began to thrash and unintelligibly beg around the gag in his mouth. Distaste swelled in the back of your throat; he hadn’t even been granted the dignity of unconsciousness.  The restraints caused blisters and redness where they touched his skin, a sure indicator that he’d been strapped there for a few hours at least. You grimaced, but resolutely kept your eyes on him as the Doctor (ha. The Doctor) slowly, methodically, lovingly pulled out his lifeline. You didn’t deserve the comfort of looking away.

The experiment was familiar. The Akademiya sages, blasted hypocrites they were, had utilised it time and time again; the awful nature of the tests they conducted was a well-known and universally unacknowledged secret. So really, you didn’t even have the luxury of claiming yourself innocent or different from the Doctor. You’d known, just as well as any Akademiya student had known, that lives whittled away like wood chips at a carpenter’s workshop within the walls of the building you’d called home, and you’d done nothing to stop it. For science, you’d let yourselves think. For philosophy, for the good of humanity, for art, even! Looking at the Doctor now, his mask obscuring his expression but his jaw and mouth relaxed, his gloves and forceps stained red as he tugged away at this test subject’s- this person’s life with nothing more than a controlled flick of his wrist, you couldn’t even bring yourself to be adequately horrified. Which you suppose, in the very act of being accustomed to such gruesome displays, made you a monster too. To your dismay, the man wouldn’t even die. He gasped and wheezed and clawed at the table he was strapped to, and after counting to ten (no more than ten second’s suffering, Tighnari had taught you) you leaned across the table and cleanly snapped the man’s neck.

The Doctor’s pace never faltered until the red cord broke, a pile of it laying in a glass dish by his side and the other end indistinguishable in the red of the man’s wound. You stared at the body on the table, the broken neck. Yet another death on your hands. You were the one to break the silence this time.

“I suppose this is some form of a test, doctor.”

“You’re quite right,” he confirmed smoothly, turning away from the body on the table and discarding his gloves. You sighed, tightening your gloves and glancing at your watch. The whole thing had taken barely ten minutes. Ten minutes to wrench the blood vessels from a human body. Usually it took longer. Bile rose in your throat at the way your mind so readily supplied the information.

“Did I pass?”

He grinned at you over his shoulder as he washed the blood from his hands, staining the water.

“With flying colours.”

“Joy,” you deadpanned, tugging at the collar of your cloak. The presence of a fresh body cloyed the air, pressing at your airways. You could never get properly used to this part, the blaring absence of life where there previously had been one. The Doctor walked back over to the vivisection table, pulling his leather gloves on along the way. Well, technically it’s an autopsy table now.

“This pathetic excuse for a man was a traitor to the Tsaritsa,” he began, staring down at the body. For once, you were grateful the mask hid his eyes; what if you’d seen glee, contentment in them? “Let it be known that this is the fate awaiting all who follow the same path.”

“Duly noted, doctor.”

“I do hope so.” He turned his faceless gaze onto you. “I’d hate for my student to end up nothing more than a test subject.” And strangely enough, he would dislike the experience of having to perform such a procedure on you. The thought perplexed him; why would he care? Bizarre. 

“I doubt you’d feel anything at all,” you countered, handing him the wooden case filled with your paperwork. You wished you’d been late, now. You wished you hadn’t been crowned valedictorian and piqued the Fatui’s interest. Perhaps then you could’ve left these malpractices behind as a chapter from your past. “Do enlighten me as to the purpose of this particular experiment, doctor. Other than observing my reactions to it.”

He ignored you in favour of reading your notes. Bastard, joke’s on you. You’re listening to me either way, whether directly or indirectly.

“Perhaps I should start calling you by a different title,” you remarked, more to yourself than him. “’Doctor’ isn’t very fitting after this display in human compassion.”

To your surprise, he answered, though without looking up from the papers you’d handed him.

“No. You will continue to address me in your usual manner.”

“As the doctor wishes,” you replied, making sure to inject a healthy dose of sarcasm into your voice as you took out the solutions you’d be using that day. As Nilou would've said, the show must go on.

A servant arrived some time later to wheel the body away, calm and unfazed. Clearly this was a routine occurrence, and you ruminated over the likelihood of being tied to the vivisection table yourself as you worked. By the time the thin, watery rays of light burned orange with the sunset and pierced through the relentless snowfall, you’d decided that it wasn’t a particularly pressing concern. If the Doctor had, for whatever reason, wanted to experiment on you specifically then the Fatui wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of recruiting you. They would’ve discreetly whisked you away instead. Hardly the most reassuring of conclusions to arrive at; regardless, as you measured out samples of the newly made elemental stabilisers you concluded that it could definitely be worse. After all, you had access to a marvellous lab and infinite time to pursue your research. And the Doctor was inarguably a genius, despite… Well, everything. You didn’t exchange any more pleasantries for the remainder of the day. Concocting the elemental stabilisers was a delicate process with disastrous consequences if your hand so much as slipped, and talking to the Doctor was mentally taxing enough without the threat of a possible electro explosion looming over your head. He read through every one of the papers you’d given him, and every now and then you hazarded a glance in his direction to try and determine his thoughts. A fruitless endeavour, as his expression (or at least what you could see of it) remained completely impassive as he sorted through the stack of notes. Still, having an academic higher-up evaluate your research was as nerve-racking as it had been in your first year, and you resented him for doing it in front of you. That was probably on purpose, too.

Once the stabilisers had been painstakingly measured out and stored away, you squinted at your watch to check the time through the remaining vapour after making the pyro-hydro stabiliser. The pearly face revealed that you’d been in the lab for four bloody hours, and your stomach pointedly seconded the fact by growling loudly enough that surely even the Knights of Favonius heard it. You noted the time you’d spent and the solutions you’d made into what you were coming to think of as your Fatui notebook, and after wiping your glasses clean of the spatters you made your way to the door.

“Take your documents with you if you’ve already finished.”

‘Already?’ Did four hours and twenty minutes of work not constitute anything? Damn him.

You pivoted on your heel and turned back to take your things from the Doctor’s desk.

“Anything else, Doctor?” you asked, rearranging the paperwork back into the order you’d had it in.

He settled on a response that he knew would get on your nerves, so that he could derive the thrill of watching you reign in your anger. “Fetch me a pot of tea,” he replied idly, his focus on the last piece of your paperwork.

“With respect, doctor, I am not a maid,” you said pointedly. Irritating as it was, you had to hover on the other side of his desk and wait for him to finish reading. Why would he tell me to take my things if he hadn’t even read them all yet? You were beginning to suspect that every one of his actions was specifically tailored to invoke annoyance, though how he so effectively pushed your buttons was beyond you.

He looked up from your report on the effects of prolonged elemental exposure on ancient mechanisms. It was one of your best, and if he attempted to criticise it you had at least sixty different explanations on why your method was the most effective. Defensive much? Alhaitham’s voice mocked.

“Are you refusing to accommodate your superior’s requests?” He replied, a contented smile spreading across his face. You took a deep breath and rationalised that punching said face wasn’t a suitable course of action, no matter how alluring it was. He didn’t even have the grace to hide the fact that he enjoyed prodding at your composure. Didn’t he already have tea anyway?

“Not at all. I'm merely bringing the inconsistencies of your requests to light,” you explained as civilly as possible. “The assistance required of me pertains to academic matters, and you don’t see how this includes fetching tea.”

“Then join me for tea instead.”

Your eyebrows must have reached your hairline. “I beg your pardon?” Every expression suited you, it seemed; each new reaction was something truly worthy of documentation.

“You heard me.” The Doctor’s vexing smile hadn’t slipped an inch. He leaned forward across the desk. “Take a seat. Or do you intend to display further insubordination?”

You tamped down the urge to snap and lowered yourself into the chair across from him. The report he’d been reading lay forgotten on his desk, and your eyes paused on the sheet of paper beside it. The writing on it wasn’t yours, and you realised with a touch of trepidation that he’d been jotting notes about your work, and although every one of your published reports had been approved after prolonged evaluation by the Akademiya you still had to swallow the lump of apprehension in your throat. He really did embody the air of a professor ridiculously well, with his ceaseless arrogance and lofty attitude, and it brought back too many memories of being a nervous rookie for your liking. A servant brought in a tray laden with a teapot, two cups and a plate of cake. Just when did he call for that? The Doctor poured out the tea, still smiling and being much too cordial not to rouse suspicion; as such, when he offered you a cup your first thought was poison. You stared at the tea then back up at him, frowning slightly.

“What’s the real purpose of this little exercise, doctor?” 

He had the sheer nerve to chuckle and lean back in his chair, relaxed and unhurried, as if you were so terribly silly for having your guard up.

“Do you need a reason to have tea with my student?”

You levelled him with a long, pointed look; the kind you used to give to the younger students you’d tutored every now and then. It wasn’t quite as effective on him, but he did drop the mocking smile with a sigh.

“Drink the tea,” he said bluntly, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk as if to analyse you more closely. “That’s an order.”

You snorted. “Well, doctor, you’ve just given me a marvellous incentive to not drink this tea at any cost.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek, but his lips remained in a straight, neutral line. You wondered what expression his mask concealed. (Annoyance would be the answer. He’d expected you to fall headfirst into his little trap; perhaps he’d underestimated you.)

“I am not patient enough to allow for your defiance. Drink the tea.”

You pursed your lips to hold back a grin. The Doctor had given you the upper hand by issuing an order you could refuse, and even though he probably did it willingly it still gave you no small satisfaction. Besides, your curiosity was piqued. What could possibly be in this tea that he so desperately wanted you to drink?

“Perhaps I’ll be more willing to acquiesce to your demand if you tell me precisely what’s in it.”

He released a long-suffering sigh, dropping the friendly act altogether, and leaned back in his chair. He tugged thoughtfully at his leather gloves, and it struck you as humorous that you shared such a similar tick.

“A truth serum.”

You raised your eyebrows. “And is that all?”

“I doubt you’d believe me even if I said yes.”

You laughed despite yourself. What a pleasant noise. Winning an interaction with the immovable Doctor so early into your studies was quite amusing, not to mention a massive ego boost.

“You’re quite right,” you conceded, relaxing in your seat and surveying him thoughtfully. “I'm grateful that you didn’t take a different route and simply inject it directly into my bloodstream when the chance presented itself.”

“You should be,” he replied, brusque and perhaps even irritated. Clearly he didn’t share your amusement. “It’s a mistake I won’t repeat.”

“The Fatui are so terribly fond of their blatant threats,” you mused, pulling your watch out of its inner pocket to check the time. “Wouldn’t it be more productive to ask your questions and see what I try to lie about? I'm sure you’re adept enough at reading body language to identify the truth.” At this point you were just gloating, trying to string him along. A fatal flaw you readily acknowledged in your personality; you savoured victories with a little too much enjoyment.

The muscle in his cheek twitched again, and you couldn’t help but feel quite pleased with yourself for getting on his nerves to the point where you could identify the tell-tale signs. The logical side of your brain thankfully decided to return to the situation at hand rather than calculating how long it would take for you to make significant progress in your research (two weeks maximum, if you were clever about your time), and you regained enough clarity to recognise that what you was doing was incredibly stupid. Riling up a Harbinger; Archons, where did your self-preservation go when your pride took the wheel?

You shoved the smug grin off your face and fastidiously schooled your features back to neutrality, slipping behind a façade of polite detachment. The Doctor, by contrast, smiled and tilted his head to the side as you forcibly removed the emotion from your face.

“Fascinating,” you heard him whisper, and for the sake of your own sanity you pretended you hadn’t. He fixed you with a stare that you could acutely feel even through his mask, and you stared right back. Two mad scientists.

You brushed the thought away; even if you did go insane you doubted you’d ever reach the Doctor’s level.

“You may leave. I expect you to be here at seven o’clock every morning.”

“Understood, doctor.”

He gestured at the door with an elegant wave of his hand, picking up the report he still hadn’t returned. You shot one last fleeting look at his writing on the separate sheet of paper before leaving the laboratory.

And bumping straight into Childe.

It took a few muffled curses and a thank you to every higher power you could think of that your glasses remained intact for you to regain your bearings, and the first thing you did once the corridor stopped spinning was shoot Childe a glare, though it was somewhat half-hearted.

“You’re incredibly lucky that my glasses didn’t break.”

He just laughed and even had the sheer nerve to ruffle your hair. You were so shocked by the gesture that for a moment you didn’t move to stop him, but once your brain had caught up with the situation you batted his hands away.

“And what would you have done if I did break your glasses, Trixy?” He challenged, following you down the spiral staircase with that ever-present grin. “Defeated me in a duel?”

Archons alive, he’s teasing me.

“No, no,” you replied sweetly. “I’d just slip some very potent toxin into your food.” Two can play at that game.

That elicited another delighted laugh.

“Stick to the battleground you’re familiar with, eh?”

“Naturally.”

You turned to enter the hallway where your room was, but he grabbed your cloak and tugged you in the opposite direction despite your protests.

“Oh, what are you doing-“

“You missed lunch,” he cut you off, practically dragging you out into the courtyard. It looked much more welcoming than it had when you’d arrived, with the hazy glow from the sunset glinting off the snow and the nearby sound of a chirping bird carrying through the chill air. You even glimpsed tiny blue flowers peeking through the layer of white. You relented, letting him pull you along without resisting.

“Oh, yes,” you agreed absent-mindedly, watching a fox with fur white as the snow disappeared into a burrow at the base of a pine tree. Someone within the palace probably fed it regularly, considering how it made no effort to hide itself.

“Is Dottore already overworking you?” He asked with a touch of humour, linking his arm in yours as he led you through the cobbled pathways. For some reason, you allowed it.

“He tried to poison me,” you offered, lengthening your stride to keep pace with him.

“That does sound like him,” he agreed with a snort as he dragged you into a pavilion adorned with glittering golden lights, which were naturally of the floating, magical variety because Archons forbid the Fatui do anything without being ridiculously extra. Still, watching the gusts of snowflakes through a golden frame wasn’t such a terrible experience, even if it didn’t offer any shelter from the biting cold and you had to properly fasten your cloak to keep it out. Childe evidently didn’t see the point in such frivolities, considering he wore nothing but that grey suit and the amused way he watched you adjust your gloves.

“You won’t miss lunch tomorrow, will you?”

You idly wondered why he was so fixated on that.

“Do the recruits and Harbingers even dine in the same place?”

“Don’t dodge the question,” he said mock-sternly. You chuckled.

“In the very act of issuing that instruction you also dodged my question.”

He dismissed the technicality with a flippant wave of his arm, leaning against the railing of the pavilion.

“Quit shoving your intellect in my face with those fancy words,” he said, his grin taking on a playful tilt.

“Only if you stop calling me by that childish nickname.”

He guffawed. “’Childish.’ Good one.”

You groaned, raking a hand down your face at the dreadful joke. Truly Cyno levels of unfunny, though you suppose you did set yourself up for it. He nudged you in the ribs with his elbow before you could swat him away.

“You scholars are so uptight,” he teased. “If you can learn all that complicated science jargon then you can also learn to take a joke.”

“I can take a joke perfectly fine. I'm tolerating your presence right now, aren’t I?”

He let out a sigh, throwing an arm around your shoulders and ruffling your hair with his fist. You immediately tried to shove him away with an indignant yelp, but you might as well have been a harmless ladybird as far as he was concerned. “You have no respect for my position as a Harbinger, Trixy,” he told you in a jokingly strict tone of voice.

“You’ve done nothing to earn it,” you countered, wriggling out of his grip and running a hand through your hair in an attempt to rectify the havoc he’d no doubt wreaked.

“Will I earn it if I defeat you in combat?”

“Why, of course,” you replied with as much sarcasm as you could muster. You’d been reliably informed of its sheer magnitude. “Considering my untouchable physical prowess and how magnanimous a defeat it would be if you somehow succeeded.”

He laughed good-naturedly. “I’ll have to challenge you to a duel, then. Can’t have my ego taking such a beating, can I?”

“Oh, Archons forbid. Anything but your ego.”

 The snow picked up, and you rushed back to the palace before it could pose a difficulty to finding your way back. Looks like a blizzard. Childe pushed the enormous front door shut and a few snowflakes fluttered inside only to melt the moment they touched the floor.

“Dinner should be ready in half an hour,” he told you as you approached the door to your room. Your stomach eagerly took this as a cue to growl.

“Three meals a day? We’re truly living in the lap of luxury.”

“So I’ll see you then?” Completely immune to sarcasm, as you were coming to learn.

“Alright.” you resolved to ask Anya to show you where the dining hall was so you could finish a quick lab report before eating.

He turned a corner and left the hallway, whistling cheerfully as he went.

The dining hall, as you came to learn in the coming days, was incredibly far away from your room. No hastily-sketched map would suffice to navigate the maze of corridors and ridiculous number of stairs, and you realised early on you’d most likely have to bring food back with you so you wouldn’t be obligated to make such a long trip every day. You were pondering the intricacies of what food would keep better and what options might be available when Anya gestured towards the dining room and then left. Embarrassing as it was, you still couldn’t find your way through the palace without guidance. The dining hall was massive and utterly packed with people as always. And unnecessarily lavish, but this particular aspect you were growing accustomed to the longer you stayed in the palace, though you still thought the crystal chandelier was a bit too much.

There weren’t many tables close to the windows because you was a little late to dinner that day, but you were nothing if not determined to maintain your own contentment, so you approached a table that was empty save for a young woman in purple robes and a swarm of strange creatures fluttering around her.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

She didn’t even spare you a glance.

“No.”

Ah, a fellow non-conversationalist. You sat down and began eating, surveying the dining room’s occupants and the whirling blizzard outside. You toyed absent-mindedly with the idea of striking up a conversation with the woman; after all, in a place like Snezhnaya where allies were few and far between especially for an outsider, even a casual acquaintance in the workplace would be beneficial. But it would also open more chances for backstabbing, figurative or literal. Best leave her be. You noticed with an uncomfortable prickle that every last person in the room wore a mask, though they varied in style and intricacy; the recruits with their bronze talismans had simple grey and black leather covering their eyes while the few odd silver talisman or Vision holders donned beautiful, decorative pieces. Though not as elegant as Signora or the Doctor’s, you noted as you ate. You wonder why you weren't given one.

As if she’d read your mind, the woman across from you spoke.

“Where’s your mask?”

It sounded almost like a demand, as though she believed herself entitled to the information, though a glance at the charms hanging from her waist revealed she held a bronze talisman just like yours; your ranking was more or less equal. It struck you as odd that a mere recruit would assert such authority in conversation, and you pondered the buzzing purple-winged creatures around her as an excuse to think before replying.

“I didn’t receive one.”

The buzzing picked up as the creatures flitted back and forth through the pointed ears on the hood of her cape. She abandoned her food in favour of staring at you through the slits in her mask.

“What do you mean you didn’t receive one?”

“I mean exactly what I said. I arrived here less than a month ago and wasn’t given a mask.”

“Ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. You refrained from rolling your eyes.

“Which Lord or Lady do you serve?”

“Why the interrogative tone?” you asked pleasantly, or as pleasantly as you could in your irritated state of mind.

“Answer the question.” Her plate forgotten, she was leaning forward across the table with her eyes trained on you, and you once more marvelled at her brazen attitude.

“Am I obligated to answer?” You asked after a moment’s thought.

“Yes-“ she cut herself off, clearing her throat and relaxing back in her chair. “No. I guess not.”

You raised your eyebrows and took a bite of food. The Snezhnayans really were fond of their fish.

“You’re not really a recruit, are you?”

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

Her snappish manner was more than enough of an answer.

“I’d wager a guess that you’re a higher-up undercover,” you replied, twirling your spoon contemplatively. “Your behaviour is far too authoritative for someone who’s supposedly at the bottom of the metaphorical food chain.”

The buzzing purple creatures vanished into thin air. That surprised you; the annoyance they’d invoked had been enough to convince you they were real. The woman’s gaze was palpable, and you made a valiant attempt to pretend you didn’t notice it.

“You’re right,” she said abruptly. You hummed in acknowledgement, refraining from asking her about her real identity. “But who are you?”

“Me?” you offered her a quick smile. “I'm a recruit, well and truly. Not a disguise to be found.”

“Yes, yes,” she conceded impatiently, rapping her knuckles on the table. “But you didn’t tell me what Harbinger you serve. Or your name.”

You swallowed the lump of apprehension in your throat; the alias you’d chosen to keep your real name secret still felt unfamiliar and blatantly dishonest on your tongue.

“I'm apprenticing under Lord Two,” you said, avoiding her second question entirely. “Where did the horrible buzzing things go?”

“They were illusions,” she replied dismissively, confirming your suspicions. “How did you obtain such a position?”

You fiddled with the clasp of your cloak. “Is it a particularly difficult endeavour?”

“Dottore has never taken on any subordinates.”

That caught you off guard, and you nearly overlooked the fact that she addressed him the same way Childe did. Could she possibly be a Harbinger too? But why would a Harbinger go undercover at their own base of operations?

“Really?”

“Yes. I'm still doubtful over whether or not you’re telling the truth.”

“And I'm curious as to why you care.”

She chuckled under her breath.

“Fair enough. Trade?” She suggested, tapping her fingers on the edge of the table. The soft tap noise stuck out more than the hubbub of the room, and you wondered if it was a trick similar to that of the illusionary purple things intended to keep your attention on the conversation.

“Alright. One question in exchange for another?”

“Deal.”

Meeting a kindred spirit was truly an unrivalled joy.

“How exactly did you manage to gain an apprenticeship with the Doctor?”

You hesitated. Sharing the details of your offer didn’t seem to be a very clever idea until you remembered the Doctor telling you that verbal agreements were legally binding in Snezhnaya. How bothersome.

“I was sent a letter from the Director offering me the position a week after graduating from the Akademiya.”

The woman made a contemplative noise and drummed a pattern on the table with her fingertips.

“What’s so special about you that the Director saw it fit to offer you a never before available position?” She asked bluntly. Well damn, girl. Hit right where it hurts.

You grinned. “One question was our agreement, yes?” Her face contorted into a scowl, and you had to admit her anger was indeed fearsome.

“My turn. Who are you?”

“I'm not going to tell you that.”

Huh? You cursed yourself for so readily believing she’d uphold her end of the agreement. Clearly you’d spent too much time in Liyue, where contracts were irrefutable law, and this morally questionable and easily twisted system still came as a shock.

“That’s… not fair in the slightest,” you remarked, pushing away your empty plate. “But at the very least it confirms you’re in a high enough position to disregard the rules without a second thought.”

A pleased smile graced her face, and you suddenly and very belatedly realised that she was beautiful in a sharp, morbid sort of way; like the edge of a well-polished knife or a brand new musket.

“Fairness doesn’t concern me. This isn’t Fontaine, after all.”

“Have you ever visited?” you asked, more out of polite curiosity than anything else. If she wouldn’t outright tell you her identity, then perhaps you could glean a clue from the exchange of pleasantries.

“Yes,” she replied shortly. Clearly she didn’t share your sentiment, though it was rather understandable; if she really was as high-ranking as you suspected then she could gather as much information about you as she wished without having to resort to seemingly empty conversation.

“Do you refuse to give me so much as a hint about your identity?” You pressed, resting your chin in your hand and watching her pensively.

“Yes. I refuse.”

With a disappointed sigh, you stacked your cutlery onto your empty plate and left them on the table like you’d seen the other recruits doing.

“Quite cruel of you to pique a scholar’s curiosity and leave it unfulfilled like that.”

A flash of her teeth in another smile.

“What can I say? I'm a cruel woman.”

“So I'm coming to realise.”

You left the table with a nod in her direction, puzzling away at the interaction and wondering who exactly she could be.

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  

[slowd1ving]

Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao

HOUSE OF CARDS ゜・KIM DOKJA

"A house made of cards, like the fools we are." In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon art creds to kim28_dokja on twt! pairings: kim dokja + gn reader warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past wc: 2.4k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Dokja is shit at games. 

It’s clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible. 

It’s clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though he’s just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. He’s not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. That’s why he’s here.

Most of all, it’s clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cards—two seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall. 

Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glass—and Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.

He’s shit at games, but never truly loses. 

Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisis—Dokja, that harbinger of misfortune—yet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything. 

It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, he’s winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreams—an ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae. 

“Dokja.” It’s a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; it’s relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. “You idiot.”

It’s nice to know his long-time friend cares about him. 

No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something you’d rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokja’s life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better. 

In fact, he’d rather keep you away from any front line. 

There’s a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets. 

Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and it’s always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. ‘Why?’ he’d once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words. 

Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it. 

It’s his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They don’t end with bruised ribs and broken noses. 

You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fight—one that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend. 

These are chips he cannot afford to bet on. 

Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest. 

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the head—Dokja, the herald of despair, he is—and finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: “Never do that again.”

All in, his chips go—each and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listen—to stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.

How will Dokja die this time?

You’d rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his life—if you ruin his painstaking ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼, you don’t think you could forgive yourself.

Even if he’s ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader. 

You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. You’ll be safe, he reassured you. You’ve got me. I’ll create an epilogue for you to witness. 

Dokja’s changed. 

Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He’s still got the same facade of the boy you’ve called your oldest friend. If it weren’t for that, you’d think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takes—as if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesn’t shatter your heart over and over. 

When will it end? 

You haven’t seen him for months. 

Is it finally time to grieve?

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. It’s a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now. 

Your eyes meet his. 

Like magic, the house collapses. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. It’s something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind. 

It’s the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. It’s your turn. 

The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokja’s ever-persistent voice in your head. There’s a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smoke—a reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in. 

It’s hard. 

Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokja’s dream is finally being realised—a tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldn’t help but be entangled in it. 

I can do it. That is your gamble. 

You do it. 

You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.

And like Dokja, you begin defying death. 

It starts off small—an arrow that you saw coming but didn’t feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yours—filled with the same distance that Dokja’s were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screen—and she looked away for a brief moment. 

“Idiot,” she whispers. “Don’t treat yourself like Dokja.”

Your chips pile up. 

Except, you don’t quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has. 

You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand. 

“Fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. “There is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.”

The debt accrues. 

Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, it’s just a dream. 

He bets on it. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear. 

The house has long collapsed—it’s that final card that still hasn’t hit that glass table yet. 

Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You can’t quite accept the reality that he’s gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that it’s hard to conceptualise you’re about to follow him to wherever he’s gone. 

Will I see him again?

Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. You’ve grown tired of the endless fight, and it’s cost you dearly. 

Your chest heaves desperately. 

Dokja. 

“Dokja,” you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concrete—something that doesn’t quite feel like you’re the one puppeteering your strings. 

Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again you’re not really yourself anymore. 

“Dokja?” you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enough—syllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lips—you’ll be able to reach your dead best friend. 

There is a pressure behind your eyes. 

It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head. 

It’s too late, you think. He’s dead, and soon I will be too. 

“Dokja,” you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurts—your pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend. 

You can’t die, you think he says—a quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind. 

“I’ll see you soon, though,” you slur, and the weight in your mind lifts—blurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind. 

Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet. 

“Dokja,” you breathe. “It’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”

His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You… can’t… die, his lips read—but that’s silly, you think. Doesn’t he want you to meet him again?

Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff out—shoulders shaking, with an expression you’ve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over. 

He’s your best friend. He was your best friend. 

Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too. 

“I can see you soon, right?” you murmur—there are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle. 

His lips wobble. 

Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your face—ones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didn’t even notice—too caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain. 

“I did a good job, right?” Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. “Maybe it’ll help with the ending that you wanted.”

Dokja’s face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, I’m scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, there’s a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field. 

Your own wings are rapidly coming apart. 

“Dokja, I don’t want to die,” you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them. 

“Dokja,” you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether it’s from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell. 

There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face. 

“Dokja,” you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. “Don’t leave me alone—please.”

No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remain—this time, those hands brush and cradle your face. 

You cannot tell if it’s him or death itself, but you don’t think death would kiss you like that. 

As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic. 

Dokja, you want to ask. You’re already dead, right?

Right? 

With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls back—his tears pattering across your face—watch as his mouth moves for a final time.

I can’t live without you.

But by then, it is too late.

The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.

[mercillery]

HIS RETURN

WARNINGS: GENDER NOT SPECIFIED + NOT PROOFREAD

SUMMARY: A sequel to the mini-story, but in which you accept his request to be part of his new era.

NOTE: I love Lucius. That is all I have to say.

You don’t know why you said that.

Perhaps you accepted out of fear, terrified of him and the grandiose plans he harbored. Or maybe, deep down, you were one of the rare few who could genuinely grasp his perspective and find some understanding. After all, who wouldn't desire a world filled with peace, happiness, and devoid of sadness, hatred, or discrimination? You could appreciate his vision, though the method by which he intended to achieve it remained deeply unsettling.

But despite the alarm his plan raised, there was a part of you that resonated with his ideals. Perhaps, on some level, you did see eye to eye with him after all.

He smiles, a pleased and satisfied expression spreading across his face. "Excellent, my love." His genuine satisfaction is evident, and you can't help but feel a twinge of pride for eliciting such a reaction from him. It's impressive, really, that you've managed to draw out this pleased smile, and a part of you can't deny the sense of accomplishment it brings.

"I will reshape the world into a paradise where fear and weakness are but distant memories. Embrace this power with me, and let us ascend to our rightful place as rulers of this new era." He gently takes your hand, his touch both reassuring and commanding. "Our destiny awaits, my love. Let us seize it and transform the future."

The atmosphere grows denser between you, a palpable tension hanging in the air. It's neither entirely positive nor wholly negative, but there's an undeniable sense that something significant is on the brink of unfolding. Your senses prick with anticipation, as if bracing for an imminent shift, a moment that could alter the course of your life forever. Your eyes widened, darting around in a moment of brief panic, a visible reaction to the oppressive atmosphere.

Lucius maintained his smile, amusement dancing in his eyes as he observed your nervousness.

“Y/N.”

Your gaze returns to him, your eyes betraying the nervousness swirling within you as you lock onto his gaze.

“Do you trust me?” His hands slowly let go of yours.

You hesitantly nod.

"My dear," he begins, his voice soft yet insistent, "tell me you trust me—with your own words." Clearly, a mere nod won't suffice for him.

“I trust you.”

“Do you trust me with your soul?”

You find yourself hesitating, the question feeling like a delicate tightrope to navigate. If not for the intensity of his gaze fixed upon you, you might have taken more time to formulate your response. However, under the weight of his penetrating stare, every moment of silence feels suffocating, pushing you to respond sooner than you might have liked.

“…yes?”

"Yes?" he responds, his voice tinged with amusement, a raised eyebrow accompanied by a knowing smirk. It's clear he senses your hesitation. You find yourself averting your gaze, a tinge of shame creeping in for reasons you can't quite articulate.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his again.

“Say you trust me with your soul.” His tone was more demanding now.

“I trust you with my soul,” you reply back hesitantly.

He smirks at your final answer.

He takes hold of your hands once more, intertwining his fingers with yours and drawing you in until you can feel the warmth of his breath tantalizingly close to your lips. Everything about him feels dangerously close, and you can't help but notice how strikingly handsome he is.

“Remember, my love, in this moment of surrender, you are not losing yourself.” As his words wash over you, you're unaware of his hands leaving yours and instead gliding up to cradle your face, his touch gentle and his thumb tracing a delicate path across your cheek. “You are becoming something greater. When you awaken, you will see the world through new eyes, as a harbinger of my will.”

Your eyelids grow heavy, and the weight of his words and the gentle touch of his hands lull you into a state of surrender. You feel yourself beginning to melt, your body growing limp under his steady embrace. Yet, even as you begin to lose yourself in the embrace of sleep, he holds you close.

“You belong to me now, body and soul."

As you teeter on the edge of consciousness, the final sensation that registers is the soft press of his lips against your cheek—a tender, almost achingly sweet gesture from a man like Lucius Zogratis.

[wordy-little-witch]

I absolutely adore your thoughts on Buggy and Sea Shanties. So I'd like to share an inspiration and a thought, Tale of the Shadow by Sail North.

What if that's the treasure Buggy seaked when he was younger and just as the lyrics he found it but the crew he put together was not loyal like his cannon lot so they where killed but the Shadow took a liking to Buggy after he survived. I'm imagining him flirting with the ship helped in that regard. Buggy captain of the Shadow.

Okay but that would he SUCH a good take. ((I love Sail North honestly you are fueling my obsession yesss)).

Consider maybe instead of Buggy actively SEARCHING for it, he stumbled across it. And the Shadow being less of a Prize To Be Sought and more of a grim omen, a harbinger of sea stories, among the many Buggy knows by heart.

His first crew, the ones cobbled together so soon after his first abandoned him - I'm honestly thinking they were sort of thrown together and Buggy took charge as he tends to do. And the rest fall in line at a surface level but only insofar as completing their goals. Buggy knows, he can see it, but really the only people he's ever had in his life who took him and his wants semi-seriously are dead or dead-to-him at that point. He doesn't care. It's a means to an end, he tells himself. He's using them as much as they're using him - no, he's using them more! In the flashiest of ways!!

And then they happen across a fog. And Buggy can Feel something out there that's Looking and Searching and Calling. He is absolutely not about that, no sir. He gives the orders to sail westward, navigating by the stars and not the log pose which is wobbling steadily to that Other Presence. The crew, if they can even be called that, are not happy with the order.

Buggy by this point is young still, maybe sixteen thereabouts at most, and he is the youngest on the ship. And the smallest. And seems the weakest.

He is not, the group learns terrifyingly quickly. He is thin, fast, skilled with a blade and smarter than he pretends to be. He's got experience under his belt and on his side against opponents bigger, stronger, better than him - and he's used to being outnumbered too.

The fight takes time and Buggy soon gets hit with a lucky shot, sending him sprawling to the deck and nearly crushed beneath ratty boots and cruel laughter. He is panting against the wood, straining to get up, to move, to fight or flee-

And he freezes.

The Presence is back and it's stronger than ever, right on top of them. It's only his resistance to Conquerors Haki which keeps him from so much as fluttering an eyelid under the sudden pressure choking the men and women alike on his ship.

Not many have the nerve to approach my hull with so little awareness.

Buggy goes still at the soft voice while the other's scatter, scramble, search for the interloper. They shout demands for the person to show themselves. Buggy merely pushes himself up enough to bow properly. That is no person, he knows, not in the way these bozos think.

There's a sudden whirl of air, rigging springing into motion, ropes and sails unwinding to snatch bodies and cut voices into choked gargling frenzies.

Buggy does not move. His head aches, his body sore, but his mind is racing over contingency after contingency. He needs to think, needs to figure out a way to survive this unholy clusterfuck of a situation-

He freezes as he catches a black intangible hem from his periphery.

A hand touches his head, soft despite the carnage swaying above by their will.

So small you are, little star, and yet so brightly you shine in the gloom...

A hand takes his chin, tilts his head up. Buggy squeezes his eyes shut.

Look upon me, star child.

"N-No," he declares decisively, though not impolitely. "It is disrespectful for mortals to meet the gaze of Spirits."

Ohhh, how bright you are, little star. What say the waves to my hull, what say the winds to my sails, that by which you are known?

He thinks for a moment, carefully, then answers. "I am called Buggy."

Oh, my sweet, my darling, how interesting you are, how clever, how wise for your sweet short years. By what means have the Fates forged a mind and soul like this? Such a gift to my heart, so intriguing.

"... what..." He licks his lips. "What say the sea, the winds, to that which you are called?"

... I am called many things, my junebug. But now? This Era knows me as The Shadow... but you knew that, didn't you?

"..."

Hm~ Yes. You will do nicely.

"What- aAA-!!"

Shhh, sleep, my sweet, let my love fill your pores and lungs. Dream sweetly under my spells and carry the blackened blessing of my Self with you into the Beginning and End. You, sweet Buggy, are destined for great things. I will carry you there, so long as you carry me in turn...

Buggy screamed into the wooden planks as blackness swallowed his senses, burning and baptizing his cells. The only thing he was aware of was the soft hand in his hair, the whispered assurances like dripping ink, and the pain.

Buggy was swallowed whole on a ship in the fog, cradled by a faceless being and guarded by corpses.

He awakens some time later on his ship, battered and damaged, dirty but warm under the warm, blazing sun. The rigging is damaged, the bodies gone. Buggy is alone, but, he finds sometime later, not unscathed. Staring back from the backs of his hands are two inky stylized emblems. The eyes stare into the air and space, offset by his skin.

He shudders.

He takes to wearing gloves.

He doesn't notice until weeks later that sometimes his shadow will smile at him, warm, loving, intelligent.

He learns more in the ensuing time, but not a word of it is ever breathed to another person.

One does not speak of deals with the fae, after all.

[tokimihyachi]

Achilles Heel [Pantalone X GN Reader] Chapter 3

❝I cannot kill you, for your end will become my eternal damnation.❞

Pairing/s: GN! Reader X Pantalone, Various Harbingers X Reader SYNOPSIS: Pantalone does not do well with love. He never thought, wanted, much less had experience in that field. He viewed it as a weakness, a bad omen hanging above his head. But he was prepared to make an exception for you. He'd let you become his only Achilles Heel if it meant keeping you. -> ACHILLES HEEL CHAPTER NAVIGATION

CHAPTER THREE: between the lines (3/21)

⸻ "DID YOU BRING ME HERE TO MAKE ME ENVIOUS?"

Pantalone was a considerate host, much to your surprise.You were given too much of a spacious and elaborate room for a guest, bathed in a warm bath, clothed with silken night wear paired with an equally comfortable winter coat. Nothing of the attention given to you was mediocre— if it hadn't been for the maidservants who kept sneering at your presence.

     In fact, you believe they loathed you.

     If only they had simply scowled at the sight of you then maybe you'd believe they found you repulsive to look at. No. They articulated their dislike for you through actions such as brushing your hair too harshly and accidentally tripping the tray that carried your coffee, burning your skin with the hot liquid.

     You decide to hide the burn scar and avoid the plight it may stir.

     At half past seven, the devil invited you to his office. For what reason? To annoy you as if you don't already hold a grudge against him for needlessly choking you out of spite.

     Thank Celestia for your patience.

     "Of what are you envious, [Name]?" the Harbinger asked, his hands moving in a slow manner as he ate another spoonful of his scrumptious breakfast while you sat there arms-crossed with a plate of nothing.

     "You know what I'm talking about." you glowered, "Did you bring me here because we have something to talk about or to make me hungry?"

     Pantalone's lips curled into a smile, "Perhaps both." 

     The man sips from his coffee, one which Frederick came to personally blend in his small cabin office earlier and the aroma capered the room in a medley with the maple syrup and french toast. 

     "How old are you?" you asked, an obvious attempt to obscure thoughts of the food from re-entering the surface of your mind.

      "I don't particularly see the importance of your question."

      You harrumph, "A little privy on the age, hm? Well then, Lord Regrator, what do you do for a living?"

      "We should skip the formalities [Name]. After all, we've already shared quite an intimate moment with each other yesterday." he sliced a piece of mouthwatering pancakes and brought it to his delectable lips before continuing, "To answer your question, you could say that I am a banker of sorts."

     "A banker? Like, with money? Your niche is numbers?"

     "I was not aware there were other kinds of bankers." 

     "Uhm, those who gamble? Like, they give cards and anoint the game."

     "The conductor of a gambling table is called a croupier, not a banker."

     You ignored his input, persisting with your original question, "So, are you good at it? The numbers?"

     Pantalone shakes his head. You were like a child staring at him with so much veneration despite knowing he was a Harbinger. As such, he is unable to stop the tugging of his lips. 

     How detestable it is to feel satisfaction from the likes of you.

     "I am Northland Bank's head director. That much should suffice your curiosity." Pantalone dabbed his lip with a handkerchief, swerving his eye from the plate to your face. You suppress the urge to shiver.

     "How admirable," you complimented, reaching for his coffee but he swats your hand before the cup touched your lithe fingertips. You frowned, "Is it out of inclination that you chose banking as a profession?" 

     The smile on his face disappears, and you begin to panic that you've let an offensive remark slip your brazen mouth.

     "Do you think of me so little that the probability of monetary principles being my natural talent was out of the prospect?" Pantalone spat, annoyed.

     You attempt to reach the coffee again. He moves it away from you. "Why is it that you always assume I'm disparaging your character?"

     He eyed your countenance, examining it for any indication of falsity but find nothing. "So I take it that you're not?"

     "No, of course not. I asked you that because sometimes, innate talent isn't enough of a motivation. You could be born with the most potent brain for something but want another thing that's entirely different from what you're gifted with."

     Clarity is often difficult to grasp when a person's mind is in a constant battle with the heart's desire. You've seen how it conflicted people until it ultimately ravaged their minds leaving nothing but a shell of what used to be a bright flame.

      Pantalone cleared his throat, "[Name], why is it that you ask so many questions?"

     "Well, you can say that it's my nature. I come across something or someone I don't understand and I become curious of them." You explained, shifting in your seat.

      "Curious?" He raised a brow.

      "Yes," you smiled, leaning a little to one side just enough for the light of the morning sun to kiss your figure in a soft glow.

      "I mean, what kind of person strangles you on the first meet after you've done them the favor of getting your own hands bloodied? Clearly, I should be enraged but  that doesn't prevent me from thinking you're uncanny... but not in a bad way, I guess." 

     An unmistakable flicker of delight rippled through Pantalone when his lips turn into a coy smile; the drumming of his fingers on the table coming to a halt. 

     "Do correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you confessing, dear [Name], that you find me remarkable enough to be the subject of your interest?" his tone remained the same as before but there was a hint of mirth; teasing, even, if one listened close enough.

     "Don't put words into my mouth." you avoided his gaze feeling the rush of blood to your cheeks, the realization of your words only dawning now like a broken cash register.

     The Harbinger watched as you fumbled with the cuffs of your sleeved coat, gratification seeping through his veins at the sight of your unease.

     He decides then that he would stop at that for today. "I have a business to take care of today." he pushed himself up and trudged near the wooden coat rack, the metal embellishments of his fur coat clanking together in resonant as he wore it around himself.

     You tilt your head, "You trust me enough to leave me here, alone, in your office? I might find secrets here you would want to remain hidden, who knows."

     A chuckle erupts unexpectedly from his lips, "Trust is quite the big word, no? Try as you may to flee this place, I can simply have my men search for you and bring you back." the undertone in his statement did not go amiss by your clever ear.

     "I'll be honest, I don't know why I'm still held captive. But for the free food and settlement, I really have no plans of leaving." you grinned.

     Pantalone makes no other comment as he draws near you and you realize through his thick glasses that whatever it was he was thinking is the penultimate reason he called you here.

     He stalls beside you in brevity, an inquisitive gaze studying your neck. "I believe you'll find what's in this box suitable. If you do not like it, simply throw it away." he hands you a package exorbitantly bundled in shrouded wrapping, offering no other explanation of the box's content.

     Confused, you take it from his hold, fingers touching his in the briefest of seconds, and yet your pulse spikes all the same. Whether or not Pantalone noticed he did not say, but the satisfied smile on his face as he left convinced you he did.

     When you open the neatly tied box after the man's exit, you find a new scarf within it that was beyond 'suitable.'

     You huff an air of disbelief upon realizing that the cravat he gave you was the exact color of his own.

CHAPTER THREE, END.

<- chapter two

chapter four ->

tip this broke law student here! thank you, travellers! i hope you enjoy the rest of the fic! <33

[crguang]

sweet reliable women 🥺 i'm excited to meet her!

if you had to pick your favourite 3 hsr and genshin women, who would they be and why? i think i could take a crack at guessing two of the star rail women you'll pick, hah

-💙

GSHDHSJSJFJF im unfortunately very predictable…. and my type is so obvious😭

for genshin my favourites are:

- ningguang. we go years back her and i, i love women in high positions of power who have to put on a performance for the world and have a softer, hidden side to them. i admire her composure, strength and the fact that she can navigate any social situation… people have a lot of misconceptions of her because of her ambitions but she’s a good person who knows when to be ruthless and i love her lots for it

- yelan. my little adrenaline junkie… shes just so fun?! she hides behind so many disguises, lies as she breathes, is a masochist and a secret intelligence agent. they made her for ME!!! her and ning are canonically partners in crime, she’s part of the reason why ning is the tianquan and is her most trusted friend. plus she’s sexy and smart and i need her in my bed

- arlecchino. my type to a T, she fits all of my attraction criteria— powerful, diplomatic, astute and sexy with a side of her no one really gets to see. she genuinely cares for her children despite her upbringing, wants to bring a change to the way the house of the hearth functions, is a little weird and off-putting… i love that its unexpected for her to be so chill because shes so intimidating 😭 like wym the 4th fatui harbinger loves watching insects in the wild and having barbecues with her kids

my fav hsr women are (unsurprisingly):

- kafka… KAFKAAAAA what an annoying, irritating, lying little shit im obsessed with her. i initially thought she was going to be a little like yelan (she kinda is… they’d get along fast) but she’s just an arrogant little shit who lies for fun. she’s cocky and confident and the worst part is that her bite matches her bark. i cannottt help but be attracted to her, she’s a jack of all trades and it makes her deliciously unpredictable. PLUS they made her a violin player!!!!! thats my favourite musical instrument!!!!! i listen to classical music every day. her design is also one of my favourites— i love that she’s completely covered and still the sexiest character in the game. people went insane just seeing her SHOULDERS, like we all turned into Victorian men catching a glimpse of a woman’s calves for the first time when she took off her coat😭

- black swannnnnn❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ just stunning. no notes. 10/10 design. that suave personality and charm makes me melt and every time she comes on screen so do i— i mean… i find memokeepers in general very interesting, but what’s better is that since they forego their mortal bodies and become memetic entities, they don’t really have human emotions other than what’s felt through people’s memories. but black swan does, a little; that primal fear she feels in acheron’s memories, her preference for warm, wistful memories… it’s just so interesting. i also love how consistent and transparent she is, some memokeepers steal or erase memories but she doesnt. she has morals (aesthetics of memory, as she says) and she sticks to them until the last resort. she’s supposed to be inherently objective, and she isn’t. i love that a lot. also, because shes very good at what she does her presence is so reassuring, her smooth, low voice just adds to the feeling i need her to hum me to sleep

- JINGLIU. that voice alone gets her in my top 5 but her LORE… the fact that she’s doomed by the narrative???? that she pushes past her limits, rises when she should have fallen, out of spite and hatred to fight her own inevitable end???????? incredible. she’s above material things and immaterial concepts like status and fame because she only lives for one thing: to kill a god. and as she pursues her goal, she becomes a little like them, indifferent and ruthless. she’s a woman who’s lost everything and who refuses to lose her mind despite it being inevitable. her will is incredible. i love her design (tho she shouldve been wearing pants or actual armor😒) the moon is my favourite entity and she embodies it. i’m one of those people who go “omg look at the moon” every night, they made her for meeee

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Post #4: Margin of Error

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 6.5K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

__________________________________________

IV. You knew it was absurd for the Mandalorian to worry that you would draw unwanted attention.

Walking down the grimy streets of Daiyu City, everyone you pass either stares with terrified awe or performatively averts their gaze at the sight of him. And despite his professed desire for discretion, the bounty hunter doesn’t stick to the alleyways or sidestreets but steers you down a wide, busy thorofare lined with carts, stalls, and kiosks.

You have to step carefully to avoid tripping over vendors hawking their goods on the walkway.

As you pass, many of the merchants stop mid-sentence to nudge their nearest customer and nod in Mando’s direction. You can feel the news ripple through the crowd, shifting like a current as the night market patrons realize who’s among them. Because a Mandalorian in Daiyu City could only mean one thing—that serious shit was about to go down between powerful people with deep pockets. 

You’d like to reassure everyone that your presence isn’t a harbinger of some impending gang war if for no other reason than all the anxious whispering is setting your teeth on edge. But who would believe you? Look at him. Who in their right mind is gonna believe this man is anything other than a walking magnet for trouble?

“They give you combat training in the Medical Corps?” the Mandalorian asks, perhaps sensing your growing unease. His voice is barely audible over the droids weaving in and out of the crowd gathered in front of Daiyu’s transit terminal, announcing gates and berths, departure and arrival times. 

“Ten weeks of basic,” you manage over the din. 

“Better than nothing.” 

His Beskar reflects and amplifies the loud, lurid colors radiating from neon signs framing every shop window and marquee. Entire buildings are covered in bright flashing advertisements that, without your visor, would probably induce a stroke. The night sky looms over the city, but the stars are shrouded in an impenetrable haze of artificial light.

“Just stay close and keep your head down,” Mando adds in a low rumble, which seems like odd advice since no one is looking at you. 

Your long mane of moondust hair remains hidden under your hood, and the black bodysuit camouflages your silhouette in shadow. But, despite his criticism, your original outfit would not have been out of place given the elaborate fashions you see on the passing females. All of whom slow down to give Mando an appraising once over.

Hardly the jealous type, you’re grateful not to be the only poor fool to fall for him in that armor. One or two promise him the 'night of his life,' a quick fuck down a dark alley...but as usual, he doesn't even bother looking in their direction.

The port is much quieter as you near the private docking bays, isolated but not neglected. Your stomach does a terrified little somersault when you realize where you're headed. Mando strides confidently toward an elegant Nau'ur-class yacht so immense it could probably house the population of a small moon. 

Except there appears to be only one way in or out—which has got to be some kind of fire code violation—and it’s guarded by HK sentinel droids. 

You pause before crossing the gangway and turn to the Mandalorian. “So—um—how confident are we that Vos will let us off the ship once this is over?” 

“Not particularly,” he sighs, sounding resigned.

“Do you just navigate life expecting everything to be a trap?”

“That surprises you?” Mando asks incredulous. “You fought in the Rebellion.”

“On the battlefield, where our enemies were very straightforwardly trying to kill us. Plus, they all wore these super distinctive uniforms. Made it easy to know who to shoot at.” 

Somehow, you can hear his eyes rolling. 

“I’m sorry.” You stop yourself from reaching for him, knowing someone onboard Vos’s yacht must be watching your every move over the security feed. “I don’t mean to make everything a joke. I’m just nervous.”

He starts to raise a hand to your shoulder but thinks better of it.

“You’re right to be cautious. Even if Vos agrees to help, he’s always searching for leverage. Best not to give him any.”

“Okay,” you nod in understanding. 

“Just keep a low profile and do as I say. Please.”  

A voice inside your head urges you to make a run for it, but another voice reminds you to have some faith in the Mandalorian. Kriffing hell, there’s nothing left to do except roll the dice and step inside.

“State your business.” 

You jump a little when the sentinel droids activate. Mando’s helmet turns to glance in your direction, and you can only imagine his regret at bringing you with him.

“I’m here to see Ryun Vos. He’s expecting me.”

“You’ll need to check your weapons.” 

When you enter the foyer, more HK sentinels wait for you inside, guarding a second set of closed doors. Another smaller droid rolls forward, holding out a metal case and opening the lid for Mando. The bounty hunter begins disarming, and you realize he’s got several weapons hidden on his person that you swear you’ve never seen before, including a micro pistol (?) secured inside the lining of his utility belt.  

Another droid approaches, holding aloft an empty case for you.

Unlike the small armory the bounty hunter is packing, you only have the knife at your waist and his two blasters holstered over each thigh. Mando leans closer to look at the Westars, sighing roughly through his nostrils when he sees that you’ve set them both to stun.

“You’re not the only one sworn to live by a creed,” you mutter under your breath.

Your words are lost in the soft whoosh of the interior doors sliding open. A woman clad in black leather armor and a gleaming cybernetic jaw steps into the foyer. 

“Not just yet,” she raises a hand and purses her black-stained lips. “I believe there’s a knife in your boot, Mandalorian.”

Wordlessly, he crouches down to remove the vibro-blade tucked into his left boot. In an added gesture of contrition, Mando shakes loose the whistling birds from his vambrace—but not the whipcord you notice. Which is a clever bit of misdirection. 

“Since when do you work with a partner?” the guard asks, finally acknowledging your presence with a disgusted sneer. 

While she scrutinizes your inexplicable appearance at the Mandalorian’s side, you think back to the toughest, most badass bitch you knew from infantry and try to remember her posture and the way she would stand with her knees straight, hips tilted. 

“Since now,” is the extent of Mando's explanation.

Some silent test of wills plays out between the two warriors before the guard relents. “I’ll let Vos know you’ve arrived," she drolls. "He’s busy at the moment. Not sure when he’ll find the time to meet with you, but you’re welcome to wait for him on level seventeen with the rest of the miscreants.” 

She—the Anzati woman—is absolutely terrifying. With skin so pale it looked ashen gray. The intricate facial markings carved into her cheeks are blood red. Her yellow eyes had slit-like, reptilian pupils. Jet black hair fell in heavy waves over her shoulders and down her bare muscular back. A portrait of lethal beauty. 

It's scary and arousing at the same time. Also distracting. What was the significance of that look she shared with the Mandalorian?

“Does this mean we’re officially partners now?” Alone inside the lift, you can’t stop yourself from saying something—anything—to shake the tension. The nerves bubbling up in your stomach have gotten the better of you already. 

“Why?” Mando looks at you askance. “You hoping I’ll introduce you to Vos?”

Wow. Okay. Guess you’re not sharing the elevator with the tenderhearted Mandalorian who'd stolen your heart. At some point, that man had transformed into this callous bounty hunter who did not appreciate collegial banter.

But as Mando so astutely observed, you’re no longer afraid of his cranky stoicism. Someone’s got to lighten the mood. “We did sort of team up for that job on Danvar,” you shrug. 

He clears his throat, “You think so?”

“Do you know what happens when bone marrow enters the bloodstream? If I didn’t amputate, that guy would have died of an embolism, rendering him literally worthless.”

“I believe you were compensated for your services.” 

“Would you be more comfortable if I used the term 'subcontractor' instead of partner?”

“I'd be more comfortable if you stopped talking so much,” the Mandalorian snaps. "But as I doubt that’s possible, can you at least keep your voice down?”

Good thing he wears that helmet cause otherwise, you might be tempted to break his nose.

“And I hope I don’t have to remind you that we’re not here to make friends,” he adds sternly. “These are Vos’s paid assassins and enforcers. They’re not your friends, and they never will be, so don’t talk to them.”

Oh yeah, you’d love to wind back a real sucker punch. Instead, you say, “Aye-aye, captain,” and give him a little mock two-finger salute. 

When the lift arrives on level seventeen, you step out into a pretty unremarkable mess hall, given the yacht’s extravagance. Lounge would be a more generous description since there are some gaming tables where people gather to play cards or dejarick. But the scene is closer to a military barrack, with a heated contest of arm wrestling drawing most of the room’s attention.

There are about twenty of them in all, a mix of species and genders, with a few droids amongst their ranks. Most pretend not to notice your arrival, but a few glare in the Mandalorian’s direction or exchange meaningful looks.

If Mando knew any of them, he didn’t seem to care. He stalks over to an empty corner of the room and takes root with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. 

Is this what he's like on the job? All business? Not that it's a huge departure from his normally standoffish behavior, but...what? Did you expect drinking buddies?

No, he saved his warmth and humor for the kids. With maybe a little left over for you, too.

Unfortunately, you aren't as skilled in compartmentalizing your emotions. There’s no way you’ll be able to sit still waiting on Vos indefinitely, not with this much tension circulating, so you take a seat at a nearby table and activate the holo-board. Nadu Chaal, a Huttese game testing memory and calculation, is an ideal pastime to divert your attention.

Keep your head down and eyes on the board. Maybe you’ll leave without humiliating yourself. Or the Mandalorian.

“Hello, there.”

Ugh, kriffing ... You look up from your discard pile to see one of the mercenaries, a male Togruta, approaching your table. He walks over with a tankard but without a shirt, his well-muscled body glistening with sweat. Perhaps he’d been sparring with the group over by the bar. 

“Don’t think I’ve met you before,” he says, handing you a drink. You take it because it seems rude not to, and you don’t know what merits retaliation around here. “My name’s Talsala. And you?”

You twist your head reflexively to look at the Mandalorian standing still as a statue behind you.

“Ha!” Talsala barks with laughter. “Well done, Mando. She’s very obedient.”

It chafes your pride hearing him say that, but ‘very obedient’ has got to count for something with the Mandalorian.  

The Togruta leans one of his powerful shoulders against the wall next to him, “I’d offer you one, too, Mando, but then you might loosen up a little, and I know how you hate that.”

“Talsala,” the bounty hunter says in an irritated tone. “This is Thulani Vildar.” 

Fortunately, your visor hides the look of shock sweeping over your eyes. What did he mean by giving you Tigran Vildar’s name, especially given how much he seemed to hate the man?

“Always thought you worked alone,” the Togruta says, speaking to Mando. “Certain advantages to bringing in a partner, eh?” He shoots you a lewd glance, making it clear what these perceived benefits might be. “She looks…eager to prove herself.” 

And then, to your horror, Talsala takes the seat opposite you. “I’m trying to get a game of Bako going. You know it?”

Your nod is more wary than eager. “I’ve seen it played.”

He waves over two others—a Rattataki female and a human male—to join you around the table. You sense Mando’s looming presence behind you, but you don’t dare to look back at him and reveal your misgivings. There’s nothing hostile or threatening about their behavior, yet you can’t help feeling outnumbered. 

“Valine,” the Togruta smiles as she takes the empty seat on your right. “This is Thulani. And this brute is Kasper.” On your left is a stout, round fellow with short blonde hair, a bushy beard, and thick eyebrows, whose nose had been broken in several places. He grunts by way of greeting.

Talsala leans across the table. “Do not mind Kasper. He is not much of a talker.”

“No, we save all the talking for you,” Valine says dryly, motioning a droid over to refill her tankard. She slaps the Togruta’s arms off the table so she can reset the game. “I’ll take red.”

“Green,” you say evenly. 

When the game commences, they’re careful not to pepper you with too many questions, curbing their curiosity to match the flow of gameplay.

“Where are you from Thulani?” Talsala asks with a politeness that doesn’t match his arrogant swagger. “Can’t quite place your accent.”

The Togruta is committed to sending you a flirtatious smile every time he looks up from his hand, performatively biting his lower lip in concentration.

Years ago, you might have blushed, but thankfully, you're too well-seasoned for that now. “I’ve called many places home,” you reply impassively. “I’m sure it’s a mix of them all.”

“How do you know the Mandalorian?” Valine inquires moments later.

“Mutual acquaintance,” you tell her. 

All the while, Mando keeps his silent watch. Was he furious with you for letting yourself be drawn into their net? For certain, this was a fishing expedition. But whether one motivated by malice or boredom, you can’t be sure. 

“You two making the jump with us to Coruscant?" asks Talsala. "Or are you looking for work after your business with Vos?” 

“Not really my place to say,” you insist, nodding towards the Mandalorian. 

Valine snorts, stretching her legs under the table, “She is well-trained.” 

Then, Kapser calls out, “What you paying her for, Mando?”

It’s the first he’s spoken since sitting down at the table an hour ago. The question is weighted with some significance you can sense but not fully discern.

Ultimately, the Mandalorian is saved from having to answer when Vos’s personal guard steps into view. “Lord Vos is ready to see you now.” She turns on her heels, leaving you to follow in her wake, her presence deeply unsettling.

As you pull away from your seat, Talsala places a chip card in your hand. “Come find me when you tire of this old monk. I’ll put you to work.” 

Arching an eyebrow, you point at the guy and mouth “I told you so,” to Mando.

While the bounty hunter was right to make you change out of your clubwear, you are fairly sure you could be brain dead, wearing a gunnysack, and Talsala would still have offered to poach you out from under the Mandalorian just for sport.

You expect him to make some sarcastic reply, but instead, he exits the room in silence. Shit! Is he really that pissed at you?

Vos’s guard waits in front of the lift. She steps aside, letting you enter the elevator car, before leaning inside the cabin to enter a code into the operating panel. “There’ll be someone to escort you upstairs,” she says, ducking back out. “Always a pleasure to see you, Mando.” 

You don’t have time to read something more into her words or the predatory look she throws the Mandalorian. The jolt of the ascending elevator forces you to take a step back to avoid falling into him.

Traveling up the ship's spine, you look out onto an aerial view of Daiyu City, choked in smog and radiant light. There’s a grim splendor to it. In the silence, Mando steps toward the glass to get a better look.  

Is it a seething silence? You can’t be sure.

Maybe he’s waiting until you’re both off Vos’s yacht to start yelling at you, afraid to open his mouth lest he fly off the handle. It was foolish to let yourself be caught in their game. If they had wanted to overpower you, they easily could have with only the Mandalorian there to save you. Yet nothing so dire had happened, and you were cautious not to give anything away. 

Curse that fucking helmet. You have no idea what he’s thinking. The job on Berchest had been a trial run, but this felt like the real test. 

"Why did you tell Talsala my name is Vildar?"

The question escapes your lips before you can swallow it back. It isn't the time or place to have this conversation.

He shakes his head absentmindedly. "It ... it's the first thing that came to mind."

Your stomach lurches. "Mando, I know you think there's—"

Erenada! The credits you’ve been fidgeting with fall to the floor, and you crouch down hurriedly to stuff them back into the pocket of your belt.

“You made that much on a hologame?”

“What?” The casualness of his tone catches you by surprise. He didn’t sound angry. “Oh, yeah. Well, they never catch on,” you smirk. 

“Catch on to what?”

“Bako is all about betting against the draw. It's pure probability.” 

When he says nothing in response, you clarify. “I can count cards, Mando,” you say before adding in an even lower voice, “Plus, it helps that I can tell if someone’s bluffing. Or excited about a good hand.”

“Don’t you need skin contact?” he asks. “Isn’t that why you wear the gloves?”

“It’s more about proximity. Touch makes for a stronger connection. But I can pick up on a lot just sitting next to someone. You ordinarily don’t sense it because the Beskar shields you from my influence.” 

“And this is what you use your abilities for? Gambling.” 

Ugh, there’s just no winning with him. “Did you never wonder where I get the money? You don’t pay me enough to afford these boots.”

While not as glamorous as your thigh-high red lace ups, the dragon leather boots you're wearing are both practical and spectacular. 

“Is that what you meant when you said we could get the money for repairs ‘another way’?”

“It would have taken me a few days, but yes.”

He pauses, once again dumbstruck by the revelation that you don’t simply go into stasis every time he leaves the ship. “Do you bring the kids with you?”

“No, I do not bring children with me to gamble!” You say immediately, which is not a lie since you never go looking for gambling tables. They just happen to be a common occurrence in most Outer Rim taverns. “Nito takes a turn watching the baby. Just like he is right now.”

If Mando has further concerns about your childcare responsibilities, they’ll have to wait. The elevator doors open onto a waiting circle of uniformed guards. Every one of them, except the Cathar standing in the middle, are HK droids. 

Or, at least, Cathar is what he started out as—he was more machine now than organic.

The HKs scan you for any remaining weapons, and once again, Mando’s whipcord goes unremarked.

Nevertheless, the Cathar steps directly in front of Mando, barring his path inside Vos’s private rooms. He's built like a brick wall and is at least a foot taller than the Mandalorian.

“You know the rules,” he growls between feline teeth. “No one sees Vos without showing their face.”

You can almost feel Mando’s hackles rising. Clearly, this was a frequent point of tension between them.

“I have worked for Ryun Vos many times, and he has never seen my face.” 

A tense silence unfurls. Then, like the coiled strike of a snake, the bodyguard’s metallic hand shoots forward, reaching for the Mandalorian’s helmet.

Mando catches him by the forearm, stopping his hand mere inches from the Beskar helm. The bodyguard snarls, bearing his teeth before striking out with the heel of his other hand. Mando ducks his blows—once, twice—an elbow catches him in the ribs, but he uses the proximity to hook an arm around the Cathar's shoulder and throw him bodily down the hallway. 

Both men turn to face each other, planting their feet and taking up fighting stances.

“Chirgar!” Vos shouts into the hallway. “I admire your loyalty, but must you harass the Mandalorian every time we conduct business?” 

The bodyguard reluctantly stands down. “No point in rules if you don’t enforce them,” he snarls, running his tongue over a row of pointed teeth and tilting his shaggy chin at a belligerent angle.

The shadowy figure of Ryun Vos had preyed upon your mind like a specter. Mando was never forthcoming about what happened on the job, but with Vos, he didn't have to. The work for Vos always left him visibly shaken. He's so wary of the man that he refused to dock the Razor Crest on the same fucking planet. You'd taken a ship from a nearby moon to Daiyu City.

Which is all to say that it felt incongruous to see an elegant, effete man smiling at you in a well-tailored suit.

“Come, Chirgar,” Vos says from behind his lacquered desk. “You know Mando and I are old friends.” 

With a wave, he motions you inside the handsomely appointed offices, supplying a panoramic view of the city below. Ryun Vos was quite an avid collector with an evident penchant for ancient weaponry. Displays of swords, daggers, and armor feature prominently on every wall of his study.

“Mando,” the crimelord calls out in greeting. “I can never seem to find you when I need you. Yet, I never doubt you'll show up at my door again like a stray dog.”

Vos chuckles genially, but the hairs along the back of your neck tingle. You sneak a glance at the bounty hunter to see how he reacts to being called a mongrel, but his posture gives nothing away.

“Are you in need of sanctuary? As I've said before, if you came to work for me exclusively, I could smooth over all this unpleasantness with the Guild.” 

“I’m honored by your offer, Lord Vos, but I've no need of your generosity.” 

Mando’s words are carefully spoken, his tone firm but respectful. Yet something dark crosses your host’s face, replaced so quickly by a jocular grin that you can’t be sure whether you imagined it.

“Then what, pray tell, brings you all the way to Daiyu just to meet with me?” Vos asks, pulling a hand over his cleanly shaven jaw.

“I hoped to redeem the favor you owe me.”

The word hope is doing a lot of work to demonstrate Mando’s deference.

“Oho! A dog in search of food then…” Vos nods his head smugly and shifts his gaze in your direction. “And what about your lovely companion? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Thulani Vildar, this is Ry—

“She knows who I am,” Vos says, waving a hand airily and leaning back in his sumptuous chair. “This favor. Name it, and it’s yours. Within reason, obviously.”

Mando pauses for a breath before launching into the pitch you devised. “While working a recent job—”

“Ah, working as a hunter? Warrior? ... Assassin?”

Has Mando worked as an assassin?

Alright, there's no need to be quite so naive. What else could the threat of bringing them in 'cold' mean? He's not referring to the carbon freezer, Thuli.

“My business is my own.” And the challenge in the Mandalorian’s voice is unmistakable.

Vos’s face tightens. “Careful,” he says softly. "I would hate to have to teach you manners, especially in front of the girl.”

At his words, Chirgar eases a hand down over one of the knives at his belt. In the tense silence that follows, you wonder if Mando really means to take down Vos and his bodyguard, armed only with his whipcord. He was a skilled fighter, but how would he withstand the Cathar’s cybernetic limbs, which could pulverize his bones to dust.

Finally, Vos breaks the quiet with a hearty stream of laughter. “I’ve forgotten that Mandalorians are not known for their decorum. My mistake. Please continue.”

The bounty hunter lets his gaze fall back to Vos. “I’ve come into possession of a wanted man whose contract I cannot collect on.”

“Being a wanted man yourself must make it difficult to navigate official, legal channels, I imagine.” 

“It’s not the Guild or New Republic I’m trying to avoid. But he was taken by mistake, and I would like to return him.”

“And you want me to arrange for his delivery?” 

Mando nods.

“Seems to me it would be easier for everyone involved to kill this man and be done with it.”

“It would,” the Mandalorian agrees. “But I think his safe return might be of value to you.”

Vos’s steepled fingers point toward the bounty hunter. “Now you have my attention.”

“This man is an engineer for House Galantis, one of the Nine Houses now ruling the Berchest system. With New Republic bureaucracy, it’ll be years before they obtain permission to sell their hyperfuel through official, legal channels.”

“I see. So, you are handing me a gift, which I may use to make an advantageous introduction. Very thoughtful of you. And what do you gain from this, Mando? My gratitude?”

“I need money.”

“Shocking how it always comes back to that. How much?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“Anything else? Perhaps you’d like my ship?”

Vos's tone is so egregious it's a struggle to keep from laughing. The sale of this yacht could finance a star fleet. Hell, he probably owned this yacht and a star fleet.

“You have the money,” Mando persists. “You have money and power because I freed you from prison where you were left to die.”

“Then you should have negotiated back in that cell. I’m not a bank, Mandalorian. And even if I were, given your current situation, I’d say your credit is a risky investment.”

“I’m not asking for a loan.”

“You want me to give you—" Vos paused. "Seventy thousand credits for some nameless nobody who might open a door for me?”

Mando looks at you questioningly. You shake your head. “A hundred thousand is the deal,” the bounty hunter says again.

It’s the first time since you walked into his office that you have Ryun Vos’s full attention. “And what makes you think you deserve anything more than what I dain to offer?”

“My Lord Vos,” you say, trying to match the reverence he so clearly felt entitled to. “We can sell this man only once. The political connections he provides will reward you many times over.”

“A brilliant assessment but, as I said, one that weighs connections he might provide.”

“House Galantis is offering a bounty of one hundred fifty thousand for his safe return. If his delivery doesn’t yield any business opportunities, there's still a profit to be made.”

Vos’s eyes darken as he considers his options.

“I will give you the one hundred thousand credits. But in exchange for my generosity, I would like a favor. One good turn deserves another, after all.”

Mando shifts his stance. “What favor do you ask?”

“I would like to borrow the services of your Miralukan crew member here—with the offer of an additional fifty thousand for you, my dear. Your talents are so rare; I would not wish to take them for granted.”

A lump the size of your fist lodges in your throat. 

Sure, you’re disguised as Miraluka. And here was confirmation that the disguise had worked. Because if Ryun Vos knew that you’re a wanted fugitive facing a death sentence back on Hapes, he’d have no reason to ask for your help.

No, it’s the creeping feeling that this entire encounter has been orchestrated to catch you in this moment that fills you with dread. 

Mando steps closer to you in a few quick strides, shielding you from Chirgar’s view. “She’s not part—”

“She can speak for herself,” Vos asserts, raising a hand to silence the Mandalorian. “The man whose life you saved on Danvar II has since made some accusations that I must verify.” 

“How would I—?”

“Don’t be coy,” Ryun Vos drolls. “The Mandalorian may rely on your services as a healer, but we both know the Miraluka can do much more than that.” 

Fuck! Fuck, shit, fuck. Hadn’t you just told Mando that you could sense when the other players were bluffing? Is that why Vos had left you to sit there for hours until a spot at the card table conveniently freed up? Had it all been a trap just to test you?

“I’m not asking you to tell me how you know…but you would know if someone was lying?”

“Yes,” you say in barely more than a whisper. Beside you, Mando’s body stiffens.

This is why he cautioned you against using your powers unless it was absolutely necessary. The quarry Mando captured on Danvar II had told Ryun Vos about his crimes and conspirators...but also about the young woman who'd healed him.

“Good,” Vos says cheerfully, clapping both hands together. “There are a few associates I’d like you to question.”

That he has them ready and waiting in the next room is confirmation of your worst fears, that this plan was set in motion the minute you stepped on board. 

“And what happens once I’ve found the person who’s been lying to you?”

Mando stands even closer, his broad shoulders enveloping you like a cloak. He was readying himself to defend you from attack. 

“I thought questioning a client’s intentions went against your professional code?”

You stare up into the Mandalorian’s viewplate, hoping that he understands—that he might be the only man in the galaxy to understand your conviction. “I’m not a hunter,” you tell Vos. “I’m a healer. And I took an oath to do no harm.”

Vos laughs with delighted surprise, smiling at you like the adorable idiot he believes you to be. “Very well. You have my word; I will not kill them.”

You scoff, “I’m sure it’s been some time since you bothered with wet work, Lord Vos.”

Next to you, Mando lets out a hushed curse in warning.

“Do no harm,” you repeat. “I need you to promise that this person will not be harmed. Evidence of their betrayal is what’s valuable.” A little taken aback at your own courage, you add, “These are my terms.”

Ryun Vos’s smile grows wider but doesn’t reach his eyes. “All right,” he says jovially. “Why not?” And he turns to a bristling Chirgar, “Bring in Pia'vak.”

The woman wears a tattered nightdress, a fine layer of grime, and several ugly burn scars. You shoot Vos a reproachful look. She'd obviously been snatched from her bed in the middle of the night to be tortured.

When she sits down at the table opposite you, your instincts have you reaching out for her. "Pia, give me your hand."

Pia’vak's spirit had been broken. You might have asked her to jump up and down on one leg, and she would have leapt onto the table to oblige. Subservient, she gives you both her hands so you quickly remove your gloves and hold them together between your bare palms. You can't remove the filth from her skin, but you do manage to clear up all the cuts and bruises.

She reaches up a hand to feel her mended nose. "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Pia sobs. "Does...does this mean I get to leave?"

"Perhaps," Vos rests his chin on his knuckles. "You claim to have overheard Ivan say his information came directly from one of my lieutenants?"

Tears run down Pia's face as she nods frantically.

"Do you know who?"

"No! I swear! I never met him or saw his face or heard his voice or knew his name or —"

"She's telling the truth." You decide to save the woman from her helpless babbling. "Pia," you ask, staring into her wide amber eyes wet with tears. "You said you've never met him...if you didn't hear their voice, why do you think this person is a man?"

"That's what he said! Ivan said," she pleads hysterically. "That he knew where to find the weapons."

"Does Ivan know who this man is?"

"I don't know..." Pia'vak chokes, hiccuping as more tears spilled down her face, cutting trails through the grime on her cheeks. "I don't know...Ivan didn't tell me anything! I was out on the balcony, and I...he didn't know I could still hear him."

At that, she collapses into a fit of sobs.

You turn to glare at Vos. "Can we get Pia some clothes and a meal before she's on her way?"

He throws back his head to laugh. "You are a condolatory influence, my dear. I'll give you that. I can see why the Mandalorian is so...protective of you."

Mando's deep voice rumbles from over your shoulder, "Let's get on with it."

Chirgar hissed, but Ryun Vos merely gestured impatiently, "Bring in Ivan."

Ivan's appearance confirms your suspicion that these two were taken in some sort of pre-dawn raid. He wore a thin, ratty tunic over his briefs, and that was it. They hadn't even let him put shoes on.

Ivan also showed signs of torture. His face was a mess, with one eye completely swollen shut, his zygomatic bone likely floating around in several pieces.

"I need your hand, Ivan," you say calmly, reaching across the table.

"Stay away from me, witch!"

He draws himself back, looking both terrified and disgusted. The Miraluka were primarily known as healers and diplomats, but being able to see the world without eyes can make some folks superstitious. He was probably imagining grotesque, empty eye sockets behind your visor.

"Hold him down," Vos commands.

Chirgar shoves Ivan forward, pinning his chest against the table's edge. When you grip his wrist, the man tosses his head with a hateful sneer. Should you attempt to heal his wounds, or would he prefer not to be tainted by your witchcraft?

"Pia's safe now," you say, trying to garner some goodwill.

"What?" his brows furrow.

You don't pick up on any sense of relief, and no remorse either for endangering her life. Ivan could give a shit about what happened to Pia'vak.

Well, that made you feel less conflicted about incriminating him. You might have saved Pia, but you doubt Ivan will get out of this alive, whatever promises Ryun Vos had given.

"I know you've been stealing from me, Ivan. That much we've established," the crimelord drones. "The only reason you're still breathing is because I need to know how deep this rot reaches. Who gave you the stockpile locations?"

"I don't know! I never knew who he was. He didn't reveal anything about his identity!" Ivan yells desperately.

"So you say..."

You close your eyes to avoid watching Ivan's hysteric meltdown. The tangle of his emotions is a frustrating knot to unravel. His skill—like all good liars—was to weave in certain truths, along with things he told himself were true, to create the falsehoods.

"Is he lying?" Ryun Vos asks.

"No. He's telling the truth that his source never revealed themselves," you explain, and Ivan's shoulders sag with reprieve. "But he does know who it is."

"Fuck you, witch!" The man howls, but the shocked horror on his face is another kind of truth. One he can't hide.

"Give me a name," Vos demands, slamming a fist onto his desk, shaking loose his perfectly coiffed hair.

"He'll kill me," Ivan splutters, his one good eye darting around the room. "I'm fucking dead. I'm a dead man."

"Tell me his name, and I just might let you live," Vos growls. You throw him another glaring look. Could he not wait until you left the room to make a mockery of your principles?

Ivan turns his head back and forth, over both shoulders, hissing, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" and dissolves into unbridled weeping.

"Tell me his name," Vos roars, his voice full of cold fury.

The man raises his head, taking a deep breath. Then, a look of astonishment flashes across his face. Ivan gurgles, choking down the blood spilling from the knife protruding from his throat.

You sense, rather than see the second knife—the one that's meant for you.

It plunges down in a shining arc, ready to tear open your chest. You turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut in terror, but as you do, you glimpse the Mandalorian, his arm slashing through the air. There's a twang of colliding metal, and then…nothing.

Until you're knocked from your seat, landing with your face buried in the soft carpet, Mando's body shielding you.

“Stay down!” he yells.

You twist your head and open an eye to see the bounty hunter reaching for a gilded axe mounted onto the wall behind you. His fingers barely close over the handle before Chirgar upends the table and lunges forward.

Mando blocks the first swing of claws with the axe, but the next catches him in the ribs. Chirgar's bionic hand closes over the ancient weapon, and the wooden shaft splinters into pieces.

Grunting, Mando drops his elbow to launch a solid uppercut at the organic underside of the Cathar’s jaw. But Chirgar sees the blow coming and throws his head back to lessen the impact, blindly gripping the Mandalorian by both shoulders.

Mando’s body shoots upward to the ceiling, slamming into the crystal chandelier and crashing back to the floor with bone-rattling force. Chirgar lands kick after kick over the Mandalorian's prone body until he raises his knee high, intending to stomp the life out of the bounty hunter.

But at the last second before impact, Mando rolls between the Cathar's legs, launching to his feet with surprising speed.

Chirgar lets out a loud oof as Mando wraps his arms around him, pinning the Cathar’s cybernetic limbs to his side to neutralize their advantage.  He snarls, muscles straining, teeth bared as he tries to break Mando’s hold.

In answer, the Mandalorian drove his helmet into Chirgar’s nose with a nauseating crunch. Before you can blink, he releases the Cathar and lands a solid, well aimed punch to the solar plexus.

Chirgar hunches over, struggling for breath as blood gushes over his open mouth. Mando pivots on the balls of his feet to deliver a brutal kick to the back of the Cathar’s legs. Chirgar falls to his knees, swaying but somehow still upright. Mando lashes the whipcord around Chirgar's throat and dives for the floor, using his body as an anchor to drag the Cathar to the ground.

Chirgar makes a series of frantic choking sounds, slashing at the Mandalorian’s fists. But the Beskar gauntlets safeguard his relentless grip. Steadily, the grunting fades, and the flailing limbs still, until finally, the Cathar's body goes limp.

Staggering to your feet, the Mandalorian's arms surround you, holding you to his chest in a crushing grip. He looks down at you, raising a gloved hand to cup your face. You feel his gaze searching for yours to make sure you're okay. When you nod in answer, you can tell he doesn't believe you.

Despite the blood splattered across your face, you're unhurt. The shock of violence had turned your guts into jelly, but rugburn is the extent of your physical injuries. As long as you don't faint.

With Mando’s gasping breaths and your thundering heartbeat, it takes a moment to register the sound of clapping behind you.

You whirl around to find Ryun Vos leaning back in his chair, applauding. The Mandalorian had said the man would search for any source of leverage, and the look in Vos’s eyes, broadcast in his steadfast gaze, affirms what you know to be true. That Mando had betrayed his weakness with a single gesture, that comforting hand holding your face.

It had all been a trap. Or a series of traps that Vos had laid just to see what he could catch. Now he understood that a Miraluka and Mandalorian were within his grasp, and he only needed to catch one to get at the other.

Heeding none of this, Mando furiously demands an answer. “Why let him in here—armed—if you suspected him?” 

Vos shrugs. “Something’s different about you, Mando. I needed to see if you’d lost your edge or just gone soft,” he shoots you another glance. “Now I know.”

The crimelord looked bemused. “This prisoner of yours, how will I find him?”

Mando places a communicator down on the desk. “Once we’re off the ship, I’ll let him know it's safe to contact you.”

“Mando! This paranoia of yours is unfounded. Can’t you see, if you simply worked for me, there would be no need for all this worry? You’d both be highly rewarded for your talents as members of an organization that could protect you. And as you can see,” he nodded toward Chirgar’s lifeless body. “I have an unexpected vacancy.”

“My 'prisoner' will be in touch. Send Morrigan to collect him.”

Vos looks between you and the Mandalorian in surprise. “I’ll let her know she has your endorsement.” Sensing that there would be no further discussion of employment, Vos stands and places a hand over his heart. “You have my word, that I will return him safely to Berchest.”

With that, the office doors open.

“Is he really going to let us leave?” You mumble once you're back on the gangway. By the time you step onto the dock, your entire body is drenched in nervous sweat.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

***********************

Continue reading Volume 3- Post #5: What did the wall ever do to you?

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[dumbtruk]

The Master of Shadows

In the bustling heart of Fontaine, where the laughter of children mingled with the symphony of splashing water, a sinister undercurrent flowed beneath the city’s pristine surface. It was a place of wonder, but also of secrets—secrets that Pulcinella, the enigmatic Harbinger, thrived upon. His cunning and resourcefulness allowed him to navigate the shadows, manipulating events to suit his needs.

You had recently arrived in Fontaine, a curious soul drawn to its vibrant life and intricate waterways. However, beneath the glimmering facade, you sensed an unsettling tension that seemed to pulse through the streets. Rumors whispered of a figure that moved unseen, a puppeteer pulling strings from the shadows—none other than Pulcinella himself.

One evening, while exploring the winding alleys of Fontaine, you found yourself entranced by a street performer. The way he danced and twirled captivated the crowd, but your gaze kept drifting to the dark figure lurking just beyond the lantern light. His presence was almost magnetic, yet shrouded in an unsettling air. As the performance drew to a close, the crowd erupted in applause, but you felt an inexplicable pull to the shadows.

Before you knew it, you had followed the figure into a narrow alley, the laughter of the crowd fading into the distance. The atmosphere shifted; the air grew thick, and the shadows seemed to stretch and twist around you. You caught sight of him then—Pulcinella, his features partially obscured by the darkness, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“Curiosity can be quite the double-edged sword, wouldn’t you agree?” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “What brings you to my domain, little moth?”

You took a step back, heart racing. “I—I was just watching the performance.”

“And yet, you chose to venture into the dark,” he mused, stepping closer. “Not many dare to tread where shadows linger. You must possess a spirit of adventure.”

“Or foolishness,” you replied, summoning your courage. “What are you really doing here?”

His smile widened, revealing a glimpse of the cunning mind behind those sparkling eyes. “Ah, the eternal question! I am but a humble observer, a collector of stories, if you will. But every story has its secrets, and every secret has a price.”

“What price?” you asked, intrigued despite your better judgment.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Knowledge, dear one. The knowledge of what lies beneath the surface of this grand city. Fontaine may appear idyllic, but it harbors darkness, secrets that can be used to your advantage if you know where to look.”

“What do you mean?” you pressed, feeling a mix of fear and fascination.

Pulcinella stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Imagine the power of invisibility, of slipping through the cracks of society unnoticed, manipulating events from the shadows. Would you not want to know how to weave your own destiny?”

You hesitated, the allure of his words tugging at your heart. “And what would I have to do for this knowledge?”

He chuckled softly, the sound echoing against the brick walls. “Nothing more than a simple favor, a small act of courage. Help me retrieve something that has gone… astray, and I shall share with you the secrets of the unseen.”

“What is it you need?” you asked, curiosity burning brighter than your trepidation.

He gestured with a flourish, and a small, intricately designed box appeared in his hands. “This box contains a device—a tool of invisibility, crafted by the greatest minds of Fontaine. But it has fallen into the wrong hands. Retrieve it, and the knowledge will be yours.”

Though a voice in your head warned you against the path he proposed, the thrill of adventure was intoxicating. “I��ll do it,” you agreed, steeling your resolve.

With Pulcinella’s guidance, you set out into the night. He led you through the winding alleys, instructing you on how to move with stealth, to remain unseen. You felt his presence behind you, a dark shadow guiding your every step. The thrill of the chase consumed you, the pulse of adrenaline racing through your veins as you approached the hideout of the thieves who possessed the box.

The thieves’ lair was a crumbling warehouse, illuminated by flickering lanterns. You could hear their raucous laughter mingling with the clinking of bottles, a sense of bravado hanging thick in the air. As you crouched behind a stack of crates, you could see the box, gleaming under the dim light, resting precariously on a table surrounded by drunken revelers.

“Now,” Pulcinella’s voice whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “You must be quick and clever. Distract them while I retrieve the box.”

With a nod, you prepared yourself. Stepping out from your hiding place, you let out a loud shout, your voice echoing in the hollow space. “Help! Someone’s after me!”

The thieves jumped, startled, their laughter cut short. In the chaos, you darted to the side, watching as Pulcinella slipped into the shadows, his movements fluid and silent. The thieves scrambled to their feet, trying to grasp the situation.

“Get her!” one of them shouted, but Pulcinella was already moving, a blur in the night as he made his way toward the box.

You caught a glimpse of him as he deftly retrieved the device, his expression one of triumph. But just as he turned to leave, one of the thieves spotted him and lunged forward. Without hesitation, Pulcinella reached out, pulling a string from his pocket that shimmered like silk. The string danced through the air, ensnaring the thief’s feet and sending him crashing to the ground.

“Now, let’s go!” Pulcinella urged, his voice filled with urgency. You both dashed back through the labyrinth of streets, the sound of angry shouts fading behind you as you made your escape.

Finally, you reached the safety of the shadows. Pulcinella halted, catching his breath, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Well done, my daring accomplice! You have proven yourself more than capable.”

You felt a rush of exhilaration. “What now? What do we do with the device?”

He held the box up to the moonlight, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Now, we reveal the truth of the unseen world, but first, allow me to show you how to use it.”

With deft fingers, he opened the box, revealing a small orb that glowed with an ethereal light. He gestured for you to take it. “This will grant you the power of invisibility for a time. Use it wisely.”

As you grasped the orb, a strange sensation washed over you—a heady mixture of power and responsibility. “What will you do with it?” you asked, intrigued.

Pulcinella’s smile faded for a moment, replaced by a flicker of seriousness. “I will continue to operate from the shadows, influencing events in ways that many cannot comprehend. There are forces at play in Fontaine that require a careful hand.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine as you realized the extent of his ambitions. “And what about me? What role do I play in this?”

“Ah,” he replied, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “You shall be my eyes and ears, my little partner in crime. Together, we can weave a tapestry of influence and intrigue.”

As you considered his offer, you felt a spark of excitement. The thrill of adventure, the allure of the unseen world—it was intoxicating. With Pulcinella at your side, the possibilities were endless.

“Let us begin,” you said, determination igniting within you. “Show me the way of shadows.”

And with that, you stepped into the darkness together, ready to manipulate the world around you from the hidden corners of Fontaine, where secrets thrived and the invisible danced just out of reach.

[justpked]

I used this song suggestion on another blog but figured ya know what? It fits MeidhxMC...

At least...I feel like it does.

"We'll meet again" by TheFatRat & Laura Brehm

Poor Meidh has been waiting so long n here the MC come blasting back, yet they gotta wait just a litttlleee longer.

(Also I blindly clicked upon the Asol link and it didn't occur to me what I walked into until 'Breeding' ...Maiden have mercy on those sinners)

Oh, for sure, the song fits Meidh.

Suddenly, you're nowhere to be found I turn around and everything has changed Looking for a way to work it out I'm trying to find some peace to navigate

The Harbinger disappeared without a trace. How? Why? When? Meidh sees all so how did the Harbinger disappear right before their eyes. Something isn't right. Who? Who was it that made them blind to this? No matter where they look they can't find the Harbinger.

It's lonely. Oh so lonely.

The doll in their hands can only give them so much comfort. No matter what Meidh does, it isn't the same. What Meidh wants is to touch the Harbinger's flesh, to feel their essence against their own, to provide the comfort they so desire.

But you are no longer here.

Dark for the sunrise Clouds for a blue sky Space for the travelling star Strong from the inside You're still my lifeline I feel you wherever you are

Meidh searches beyond what any Divine will go through. Even if it causes their body to slowly decay, they will look even into the Void. If it's for the Harbinger, it's worth it. Meidh cannot bear a world without them. There are so many words left for the Divine to say. So many things they have yet to do.

This realm, beautiful and cruel as it may be is a realm Meidh adores. Truly. It is the world Meidh had grown and lived with you. But it seems the world did not love the Harbinger back. Despite everything the Harbinger had done, it did not love you in return. If that is the case;

Would it be best to lead it to sunder?

So that this imperfect, beautiful, both old-and-new world will better suit you?

We'll meet again.

It's a promise. An oath. A vow.

Meidh will see the Harbinger once more, face to face, one day.

Until then, go on and take your first steps into this new age. Journey to new lands far beyond your understanding. Find and meet new friends, allies or even foes. No longer, will you be burdened by the weight of your duties. No longer, will you be tied down.

Meidh wishes nothing, but the best for you, oh darling Moíhím.

(Also, look away from the sin. Do not be influenced by it. Return to wholesomeness-)

[mochidreambubble]

one more word and you won't survive [Day 4 chapter]

Written for OC x Canon week organised by @theocxcanonweek

Day 4 Prompt:

Cuddling / Western AU / “Take me with you!...”

Childe/Genshin OC. Dragonspine shenanigans - actually more like Sheer Cold shenanigans.

Ao3 link here.

Day 5 prompt here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ruyi normally doesn’t like equating anything to is childhood; nothing is usually truly as horrid or mentally stressful on such a personal level these days. That said, he could chalk up being lost and close to freezing on Dragonspine a pretty close second…

It was meant to be a simple request and despite his poor sense of direction, he’d normally be fine so long as he kept the Traveler and their little floating friend in sight. But amidst the snowstorm, everything all round him became a blanket of white. 

So it’s no wonder Ruyi finds himself stranded on the mountain, unsure of where he is, to begin with, and absolutely freezing as he wades through the snow. He starts to worry as daylight seemed to be fading from the skies and he could barely make anything out of it. He hates to think what it be like to try and navigate on a snowstorm on a rather steep mountain…

“Squint any further and you’d look like Teyvat’s most miserably drenched kitten.”

Ruyi would jump was he were not genuinely soaked and freezing, and bogged down by snow. Or maybe the smart reaction really was to be stunned in shocked silence mixed with an undercurrent of fear.

“I also don’t think it’s a good idea to be gaping like that you know?” The eleventh freaking Harbinger of the Fatui says, casually as if completely unbothered by the snowstorm. He reaches forward to push Ruyi’s jaw shut, a little amused.

He gets his hand slapped away for good measure, Ruyi stuttering from the cold and disbelief. “Wh-Wha- How….?! Wh-what are y-you d-d-doing here?!”

Childe shrugs. “Just hanging around. Nothing nefarious, promise!” He crosses his heart for good measure, speaking loud against the storm. “Though I guess you don’t believe me?”

“C-Course I d-d-don’t believe you!” Ruyi snaps, turning around in a huff to walk away. He tries to ignore the ache in his heart and the inner shame of having put even the amount of trust he had given the other young man initially. 

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Ruyi doesn’t even respond. He doesn’t make it very far though, a hand grabbing hold of his shoulder firmly and pulling him back.

“Wh-what now?!”

“I’m just trying to stop you from walking off the edge.”

“....Oh.”

“Look, you obviously freezing and it’s not like you can make out where to go right now,” Childe motions vaguely in the opposite direction. “I have a camp and fire set up in a small cave, so how about just coming with me for a bit?”

“W-with you?!”

“Well, it’s my mini campsite right now, after all. I’ve even got blankets and some food with me,” Childe acts as if Ruyi doesn’t seem utterly mortified, still unbothered by the frost beating down on them.

Ruyi blanches again. “You’re crazy if you think I’d go anywhere with you right now?”

Childe sighs, a degree of frustration apparent. “Look, I know I’m not someone you’d want to run into, but I’m not here to antagonise you, alright?”

“But why do you care if I walk off a cliffside or freeze up here?!”

“Consider it an act for your forgiveness. How about that?”

Ruyi does deliberate for a second, between being lost in a snowstorm and following a dangerous man to who knows where. “Fine.”

“Great,” Childe grins and grabs hold of Ruyi’s hand to drag him on a path. Ruyi wonders how he could even be so unbothered by the weather. He knew Snezhnaya was basically known for its icy weather but…

He tries not to think on it. Anything on the eleventh Harbinger shouldn’t even cross his mind. All he has to do is survive the storm and hopefully never run into him again. At least this whole ordeal would be as painless as he can make it-

 “So,” Childe chuckles once they reach the rather tight-fit space for a cave. There was indeed a fire going, as well as a sleeping bag and… “I actually only have one blanket, but we can share it.”

“What?!” Ruyi’s teeth have stopped chattering but he can still feel the chill in his bones. “Now why would I ever-”

“What, you’d rather get frostbite rather than huddle for warmth with a guy you fought just one time?”

“Y-You..! You were not j-just some guy! You-”

“Yes, yes, I’m a horrible person who nearly destroyed your home with Osial,” Childe settles down on the sleeping bag, blanket over his shoulder, raising one side of the blanket in invitation. “Now would you just get over here?”

Ruyi ends up making a reluctant show of it, both absolutely freezing and needing just any source of warmth and the nervousness of being close to Childe in close proximity. Once he’s under the blanket, his heart jumping when Childe wraps his arm over Ruyi’s shoulder along with said blanket, he tries to focus on the flickering flames and the sounds of the howling winds.

“What in the world were you doing out in the mountains all by yourself anyways?” Childe asks, breaking the unspoken promise of silence.

“I wasn’t by myself. I just got separated…”

“From everyone’s favourite Traveler and flying fairy, then?”

Ruyi finds himself turning to face Childe, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s it to you?”

“Whoa now, I’m just asking friend.”

“Hey, since when were we ever-”

“Hey now, what’s a little bit of sparring anyways?”

“You call what you did back at the Golden House sparring?” Ruyi asks in disbelief.

There’s a grin and glint in his blue eyes. Ruyi rolls his own. “Nevermind, shouldn’t have asked.”

Maybe he was far too tired by wading through the storm, for he accepts a mug with what seemed like broth when Childe passed it over to him without much protest this time.

“...What about you?” Ruyi asks, taking a sip. “What are you doing on Dragonspine, really?”

He hears Childe hum in contemplation. “Fraid I can’t tell you. I’d have to… Silence you permanently if you knew. And I’m deeply hoping to avoid that.”

Ruyi finds himself tensing again, but Childe simply laughs. “Look, I’m taking steps to make sure I won’t, alright?”

“I don’t find the idea of dying a bloody death that humorous…”

“Having you all bloody doesn’t make me happy either you know?” There’s a sombre pause before Childe continues. “Look, I know you probably won’t believe me but I wasn’t enthusiastic on using Osial, you know?”

“But you still went through with it…”

“All that havoc, and all for naught,” The bitterness is greatly apparent. “No gnosis by my hand and I burned every bridge I made in Liyue.”

“What, you’re saying that some of the friendships you made were genuine?”

“A complete game of masks and deceit sounds awfully boring, you know?” Childe gives a small smile. “And I appreciated getting to know you, and a lot of others.”

“...You sound pretty lonely.”

Childe laughs again, but Ruyi could wince at the hollowness of it all. “Nonsense. I get to move around freely as much as I like to on all the missions I get and I get to fight a whole feast of different enemies. How alone could I be?”

There’s a new ache in his heart, but Ruyi can’t find his words. Childe doesn’t continue either. There’s nothing but the fire and storm once more.

…

When Ruyi wakes, his heart almost jumps out of his mouth. He’s warm, but how could he not be, bundled in a blanket and in the freaking arms of his impromptu companion. 

Said companion, unfortunately, gets a rude awakening as a shocking gust of Anemo to the face and strong enough to blast him out of the cave. At least the storm had halted, and it was nothing but a mountain coated in snow and stilled icy air.

“For the record, Ruyi, you were cosying up to me to- Hey, where are you going?!”

And the young man who refused to respond, flustered and now warm enough to potentially melt the snow, continues up the mountain path with the eleventh Harbinger hot on his heels.

(fin)

[emissaryoftheguilty]

“Then you may help to your heart’s content for as long as you stay here,” Wriothesley acquiesced, nodding once.

It was a little odd, the thought of having someone who’s not already employed under him or under his watch working around the Fortress, but if that’s what Diluc needed in order to distract himself during his stay, then so be it.

As Diluc began the retelling of his history, Wriothesley quieted down and simply listened.

After their very first meeting, the Duke looked more into his new companion as well as business partner, wanting to learn more about this fiery young master. What he found mentioned that Diluc was accomplished ever since a young age, yet it didn’t have too many details on the hows or whys. So hearing about him becoming a Cavalry Captain at just fourteen was impressive, but also…shocking.

Even Mondstadt had child militants? How strange.

However, he didn’t question this nor did his face contort to indicate any emotion. He was a blank slate, one clear of any judgement. He knows that would be the last thing Diluc would need, even if said judgement wasn’t directed towards him.

The way he spoke of his brother was fond, that was undeniable. It sounded as though the two moved as one, acted as one. He wondered just when and how things went wrong, if their beginning was so wonderful.

What separated these supposedly inseparable brothers?

That question was soon put aside in lieu of Diluc speaking of the attack, and the loss of his father. He’s heard of those delusions, has seen one on the Harbinger during his stay, even if not in action. He was aware that they were dreadful things, but perhaps didn’t know the full extent as to why they were. He would think that such dangerous things would be recalled, although it seems that was merely just a ‘feature’ of those accursed items.

The loss of a father was understandably devastating, especially when a boy such as Diluc had been so close to him. To lose a parent is never easy, especially when so, so young. An eighteen-year-old is still a child, even if seen as an adult by the rest of the world. It’s arguably one of the more tender ages, as suddenly you’ve gained more responsibilities that you’ve yet to learn how to properly navigate. So to suddenly lose a parent that has normally guided you up until then…

He can’t begin to fathom the discord and turmoil the young man has gone through, no less when the supposed protectors of his nation wanted to simply brush what had truly happened under the rug.

With a frown, he let the silence linger for a bit before the young master apologized. Shaking his head, he lifted a hand in assurance. “You never have to apologize to me, Diluc. You haven’t done anything wrong, especially not towards me. You’ve had a lot on your shoulders since you were a mere child. I’m sure at the time it was something you were absolutely proud of, to become the youngest Cavalry Captain… Yet, that’s a lot of weight on a young boy’s shoulders,” he assured, his voice gentle despite his words.

“I also offer my condolences over your father’s loss. Please, take as much time as you need to recenter yourself.”

"No, I really must insist. Besides-- It will help me not to dwell if I have something to focus on."

And Diluc knew just how often he fell into that same old pattern of lingering too long on that which was chiefly unpleasant. If left to his own devices, he's prone to getting wrapped up in ideas that might be considered actively harmful. He sought to stave that off for as long as possible, lest Wriothesley get the impression that he's too unstable to work with in the future. He simply wanted to be dependable to someone.

To start from the beginning made sense -- but he dreaded the length and complexity of his family history, and their links to the Fatui. He dreaded speaking of his father: of admitting to actions that he wasn't proud of.

"I was once a Knight of Favonius." He starts, mentally debating what was too much (or too little) information to give. "Cavalry Captain by age fourteen. I gave my all to my duties as a Knight and trained relentlessly, because it was all that my father ever dreamed of for me. My little brother followed my every step, in the way that little brothers do. We were close, almost like twins in spite of our obvious physical differences."

Attached at the hip, they were -- and even now he feels lost without Kaeya, fearing the day that they would come to have spent longer apart than they ever were together.

"On the same day that I came of age, a foul dragon targeted one of our convoys -- and we were easily overwhelmed. My father never had a vision, yet somehow he drove the dragon away. As it turned out, he'd come into the possession of a delusion. He intended upon passing it down to me, though I really had no need of it since I'd had my vision ever since I was just a boy."

A hand moves to soothe his furrowed brow, and for a while, he's silent. It's still hard to reconcile with the events of that day, and his own failures as Captain.

"And in the next instant, he was lying between my arms in unending agony. So I put him out of his misery." He can say it so matter-of-factly nowadays, but it did not mean that his heart hurt any less. Even now, he feels his chest squeeze tightly, and Diluc attempts to put his father's final, dreadful moments out of his mind as quickly as possible.

He sinks low into his place on the sofa, and sips at his drink, savoring the warmth that rose in his chest.

"With the Dragon still on the loose, it was decided that the reputation of the Knights would likely suffer if the people learned that it was a businessman who put an end to the attack. The order was put out to cover up the truth and bury my father with it. I quit the Knights on the spot, and threw in my vision at the same time. As a captain, I couldn't tolerate such dishonesty -- and as a son, I wouldn't accept the disrespect."

This... Was enough for one moment, he thought. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, drowning out the calming ambiance from the phonograph, and his countenance disappears under the shade of his hood. The teacup is set down, and the cloak about his shoulders is tugged close, as if to stave off a sudden chill.

"I apologize; It's heavy for me to speak aloud."

[danger-noodle-uwu]

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖?

ZHONGLI is experienced and slow. The God of war has both loved and lost before, therefore each-time your lips meet, there is a roughness as if you were to fade away yet a sense of un-rushedness to it as well. He kisses you to mark you his and remind you that no-matter how much time passes, his love for you will never fade. For he wishes to savor the moment while it lasts as well as carve it on his heart.

XIAO is shy and sensitive. 'Love is like karma' He thinks but each-time your lips cage his, he is proven wrong. Love is to heal and you heal him. You love him. And he loves you too! And he tries to show it by kissing back with passion and intertwining his hands with yours or sometimes... he may even take you in his arms and vanish away into your own world. Away from worries and stress, where you can kiss him forever.

CHILDE is hungry and fierce. You may kiss him a thousand times yet it will never be enough, your sweet taste or your love. Might be that he is greedy or acts like a teenager but can you blame him for the addiction that you are just too sweet. This yearning and need for you and your touch is gonna kill him one day, he swears. But hey! At least he'll die happily.

XINGQIU is hesitant yet honest. He hesitates in kisses wondering if you are ready or perhaps even he is enough for you or not. You are what he considers an angel from celestia and he is just...him. But as you're lips meet, his hesitation slowly melts away and more affectionate and tender Xingqiu is revealed to you. The one that promises to protect you and love you as long as he lives.

CHONGYUN is serene and sincere. Maybe it's his yang energy or just you but you could swear you feel more safe and free in every kiss. He just drains you off all the concerns and becomes your home. He confesses his love through the softness in the kiss and his joy to have you by his side yet a blush tends to dust his cheeks despite his attempts.

KAZUHA is gentle and sensual. Like ever-flowing wind, kazuha tends to travel more than settling. Which is why, his lips find yours with a gentleness, that makes you melt and the butterflies in your stomach start making you shy but not only that! In that kiss, he also expresses his devotion to you and that you will forever hold his heart and cloud his thoughts, no-matter how far he roams.

SCARAMOUCHE is submissive and impatient. The sixth harbinger is addicted to you and longs for those kisses you steal from him. The desire for your kisses is overpowering yet he just doesn't want to control. Just not yet. He wants to see you show him what he's longed for. He wants to be weak, vulnerable without being judged and so, he let's his guard down. 'But only this time...' he lies.

THOMA is loving yet rushed. As someone who strifes to help those in need, he doesn't have much time to spare but he believes if the kiss is not getting the message through then it's not enough. So he'll do it again and again, to remind you that he loves you and he wishes he could spend one moment more with you. You are his, he knows and he is yours, he'd admit. It is a promise of eternity.

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○ Monstadt boys

[patxhwrk]

Ong helo again, i want to req reverse streamer au w childe when the reader acc dies at the golden house where the traveller aka childe fight them amdjjsjsjs, i kinda wanna see how his reaction is. (Lets just say the liyue harbor osial attack was done by another hsrbinger)

Just this and if yoi dont write for angst or you dont wanna write this feel free to delete thsi req. (I got the request idea when j was reading your latest work, it was really good 🤸‍♂️)

Yeah give me that angst baybee im a sucker for sadness

I may be a bit bad at writing angst tho, its not my strongest in writing

Also i know you cant see in game bruises/scratches but lets just pretend they exist even out of cutscene

Lets pretend Y/n's little sibling in game is also named Teucer

-ˋˏ✄— Fallen Harbinger

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ Tartaglia x Reader [ Reversed + Streamer AU ! ]

Pronouns: they/them

"Farewell, Fallen Harbinger."

CW: Angst! Death! Mentions of blood!

.navigation. // .genshin impact masterlist.

'Go to the Golden House,' the quest read.

It had just been another regular day for Childe. Wake up, do his morning chores, then do his regular, messily scheduled streaming.

And, as per usual, he had been streaming Genshin Impact, a well known game in the streaming community.

"The Golden House? Uh, okay then..."

He stole a glance at his chat, who were telling each other to shut up, while some only asked what would happen in confusion. Spoilers were probably deleted by his mods.

"Chat, you're scaring me, chat. What the hell is going to happen? No, no, don't tell me, I don't think I want to know yet."

Something in his head screamd at him, as a cutscene played. His chosen traveller looked around the Golden House before stepping closer to the Exurvia of the former Geo Archon.

And then, in stepped familiar h/c hair, their e/c eyes devoid of light despite the golden mora shining within the Golden House.

"Hey! The lil skrunkly!" He whispered, low enough to not desturb the cutscene.

They conversed for a bit, before the cutscene ended and a battle began.

"Surreder is a valid option, I promise I'll be gentle."

Childe swallowed his saliva, laughing quietly to himself.

"Oh I am going to have fun. Maybe."

─𖠄࿐

The fight ended, and Childe was shaking in his seat. He had barely finished phase 3, getting disracted many times.

Another cutscene played, revealing a tired, worn out traveller. But Y/n was no better, not even on his level.

Standing across the traveller, now out of their Foul Legacy form, was same old Y/n, shaking in their place as scratches and bruises littered their skin.

"Hah, you've bested me. How... intriguing. You truely are...as strong as they say."

Childe, having a chill run up his spine, stared intelty at his screen, deathly quiet.

"La Signora has even praised you for your strength, even if she had not faught you herself, yet. Hah, to get a Harbinger's attention and praise... You sure are a special one, huh?"

─𖠄࿐

Having none of their energy remaining, Y/n collapsed to the floor, on their knees. They could see the traveller hesitate to approach them, but they spoke before he could move.

"Well? What are you waiting for? I may have overused Foul Legacy, and it wont be too long."

They spared a glance at the traveller, and even in their weakest moment, a competetive and mischievous glint shone in their once dull eyes.

"Go on. Aren't you going to kill me?"

The traveller's breath hitched, before they chuckled once again.

"Haha, only joking... Unless you're up to it, of course. I'm not quite a fan of dying to Foul Legacy, but after a fight with the oh so great traveller? It was a fight worth dying for, I guess."

Coughing, blood trickled down their chin, and they wiped it off with the back of their hand.

"May I be able to hope to see you again? To have another battle? Perhaps in the far future, perhaps never again at all..."

Taking a step forward, the traveller ceased his motion as the Harbinger raised a hand.

"No need. Whatever healing you might try to do would not work. Foul Legacy takes my energy, decreasing my life span. Perhaps I wasn't meant to live long, perhaps my only purpose was to serve the Tsaritsa."

A chuckle, breathy and tired and solemn and...happy.

Happy to have someone to pass one last message for them.

"Before you leave," they spoke. "You'll probably be able to find one or two of the Harbingers here. One of them would be summoning a god banished to the depths below. You cannot stop them. Or maybe you can. But, before you leave."

They looked up, and despite the scratches and blood on their face, their half lidded eyes shined a thousand times brighter than all the mora in the Golden House.

"My siblings... My mother, my father... Everyone..."

They smiled, brighter than their eyes. It was soft and kind and solemn and genuine and sad.

A million words spoke through that smile. A million messages, a million apologies, a million grateful thank yous. Directed to their family, their parents, their siblings.

A million farewells. Directed to everyone.

Directed to the traveller. To Childe.

"Give them one last goodbye for me, will you? A hug, for everyone. A kiss on the cheek, for mum and dad."

A smile, solemn and bright. But never remorseful, never faux.

"Tell Teucer I'm sorry."

Falling to their side, they collapsed on the ground with a thud, and the Golden House was deathly quiet.

─𖠄࿐

Childe stared at the screen. Eyes wide, mouth agape. If you looked close enough, you could see his shaking form as the cutscene ended.

Another quest popped up.

'Bid Y/n L/n a final goodbye.'

And he wailed in his seat.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he made it seem more dramatic to make people assume he wasn't really badly affected by their death.

"I— what— NO! My skrunkly! My little meow meow!"

He moved his character to stand in front of Y/n, an interact button popping up.

'Bid your farewells.'

He did so, seeing his character change to the traveller, who kneeled down beside Y/n. Paimon floated down to the ground, placing a hand on their head.

"...We promise you, Y/n. Your family will be alright."

Taking a flower, a Cecilia from Mondstadt, the traveller gingerly placed it atop their head.

"...We'll be going now, Y/n." He said, and stood up.

Childe had been quiet the whole time, and he could see his chat going wild on the corner of his eyes, all screaming 'NO' or 'o7' or anything alike.

"What the fuck!?" He exclaimed, not touching the game. Rolling his chair backwards a bit, he turned his head to chat, hands intertwined in front of his face, covering his mouth.

He wiped his teary eyes and wet cheeks, trying to find his voice.

"That was too early! I thought I could ignore the death flags until further!!" He exclaimed, staring directly at his face cam. Running a hand through his hair, he dramatically slouched on his chair, groaning loudly.

"Nooo! I would have protected them!"

Suddenly springing up from his seat, he wailed even louder.

"THEIR FAMILY!! THEY'RE GOING TO BE FUCKING DEVASTATED! And— and— their siblings! TEUCER!" He exclaimed.

"I'm sueing Mihoyo Hoyoverse what the fuck."

─𖠄࿐

@Tartaglia Tweeted!

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT WHY I— NOOOO

@ScaryMouche Tweeted!

@Tartaglia do u know how loud u are wailing up there??

@Tartaglia Tweeted!

THEY KILLED THEM SCARA THEY KILLED Y/N

@ScaryMouche Tweeted!

WE KNOW YOUVE BEEN FUKIN CRYING ABOUT IT FOR THE PAST HOUR

@ScaryMouche Tweeted!

Honestly if u didnt pay most of the rent Dottore probably would have kicked u out before you lasted an hour in this house

@Tartaglia Tweeted!

Guys who wants to come with me lets make a personal shrine for Y/n in our backyard

@IlDottore Tweeted!

@Tartaglia Do that and I will burn you and the shrine.

—PATCHWRK !

[archonadeptus]

Genshin Impact Masterlist

Requesting Rules & Information

About the writer

Masterlist Navigation

Sereniteapot Builds

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Creator!Reader

A Simple Dream. - Genshin Impact x Creator Reader. (Mainly Venti, Zhongli and Xiao mentioned.)

You awake within Genshin Impact, only for your favourite Characters to refer to you as their creator and for their undying loyalty to lay with you.

Sign Here♡. - Genshin Impact x Creator Reader (Zhongli & Xiao)

Finally reaching Zhongli and Xiao, you all make a contract between one another for love and protection. They are utterly devoted to you.

Serenitea pot - Introducing Tighnari - Genshin Impact x Creator reader. (Tighnari, Kazuha, Thoma, Ajax, Zhongli & Xiao)

As the Divine Creator, you've just finished creating Sumeru and have brought back Tighnari to introduce him to your other acolytes in your teapot.

Sleepy Anxiety - Genshin Impact x Creator reader. (Mainly Tighnari, but Kazuha, Thoma, Ajax, Zhongli & Xiao are mentioned.)

Despite waking up within the arms of those you adore, anxiety seems to claw at your heart. Where's the medicine Albedo made fir you? Luckily, Tighnari sees that something is off.

Swayed Nightmares - Genshin Impact x Creator Reader. (Tighnari and Kazuha, brief mentions of others. Bonus Zhongli and Childe at the end.)

You awaken from a horrid nightmare about your beloved acolytes hunting you down. Thankfully, Tighnari and Kazuha are there to help you.

Vivid Loss - Genshin Impact x Creator!Reader (Hu Tao & Tartaglia.)

You're having bad nightmares about your previous life, thankfully your devoted acolytes overhear and come to your rescue.

Winters Bird Cage - Fatui Harbingers x Creator!Reader

Awakening in your newly mortal form, you open your eyes to see the bitter cold of Snezhnaya. Thinking you'd have to make your own way to somebody, you see a group of Harbingers heading toward you. Oh Divine Creator, don't you know how devoted they are to you?

Call for us - Genshin Impact x Anxious!Creator!Reader (Xiao, Kazuha, Heizou, Albedo & Zhongli)

Anxiety attacks... You shouldn't deal with those alone. You know it's okay to call for them right?

Sickness and Health - Genshin Impact x Creator!Reader (Thoma, Tighnari, Xiao Kazuha, Albedo mentioned.)

Falling ill as the creator in a mortal body felt horrendous. Thankfully, your devoted beloved acolytes are there to assist you and care for you.

Control - Genshin Impact x Creator!Reader (Kazuha, Tighnari, Wanderer, Xiao, Zhongli.)

Killing your own beloved acolytes was a form of torture you had never seen coming nor ever anticipated in the past. Can you be freed from this dreadful dream realm?

My Golden Flower - Pantalone x Isekai!Reader (Coming Soon.)

You get isekaied into a dying NPC body. You ultimately choose to settle down in the countryside and live what final days you have in Teyvat peacefully. Days though that become low with mora are worth fighting for. But do you know what goes well with Mora? Pantalone.

Freshly baked fairytail - Genshin Impact x Creator!Reader ( Coming Soon.)

Fairytails of a magical bakery are popular all throughout Teyvat. Only the children and Albedo know that this is true and you, their creator run this bakery. Your favourite characters are your customers, I wonder if they figure out its true?

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Ship Fics

Light of Kshahrewar - Alhaitham x Kaveh

An argument after a bad day is normal, but today? Today its a little too much and it results in a bigger communication breakdown than inticipated.

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Yae Publishing House

Love and Power (I)

A popular story in Inazuma containing truths to a long told tale of love between an Illuminated beast and a supposed Allogene. (Ocs Riku and Makoto telling a tale of love between Alatus (Xiao) and Aether.

Xiao

Call my name. - "Xiao, will you keep me safe? I just feel a little anxious is all…"

A smaller you. - Xiao, Scaramouche, Albedo & Venti with a smaller s/o.

Meetings with Immortality. - Xiao & Venti (separate).

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Kazuha

A letter to you

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Albedo

Glowing Eternity. - "Albedo... Do you love me?"

A smaller you. - Xiao, Scaramouche, Albedo & Venti with a smaller s/o.

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Thoma

Supporting Smiles. - "Thoma! Let me put a smile on your face?"

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Venti

A smaller you. - Xiao, Scaramouche, Albedo & Venti with a smaller s/o.

Meetings with Immortality. - Xiao & Venti (separate).

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Scaramouche

A smaller you. - Xiao, Scaramouche, Albedo & Venti with a smaller s/o.

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Bennet

Archons path.

Bennet and you end up facing your scary seeming abilities together.

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