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kirikorik · 1 month ago

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Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena)

Part1! Part2 ! Part3...

Summary: “General Acacius has fallen,” exclaims Emperor Geta. “But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!” If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose? “In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!” Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse. “Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child,” a warm, sticky whisper. “And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive.” She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession,Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex,Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.

Chapter 2

The Day Before the Verdict

The hot Roman air is thick and motionless, saturated with the scents of dust, sweat, and blood. The scent of death. The Colosseum lives and breathes like a beast. Its stone teeth bite into the sky, while within its depths, a crowd seethes, hungry for spectacle.

The hum of voices, laughter, shouts, the clinking of cups, and the hoarse melody of a flute merge into a single rhythm—oppressive, all-pervading. The smell of roasted meat from food vendors mixes with the aroma of rose oil, which the patricians lavishly pour onto their wrists. But even in this whirlpool of scents and sounds, one pierces to the bone—the smell of blood. Raw, heavy, sticky.

Helena steps forward. Her back remains straight, but her heart beats too loudly. A gown of ivory, embroidered with golden threads, flows softly over the marble floor, accentuating her slender figure. A light, transparent cape, perfumed with myrrh and saffron, rests on her shoulders. But even these fragrances cannot mask the stench of decay soaked into the walls.

Beside her walks Lucilla. Her toga, adorned with silver-embroidered eagles, sways gently with each step, and golden bracelets chime on her wrists. Her face remains impassive, but the fingers clutching the fabric betray her tension.

“Smile, child,” she murmurs barely audibly, without turning her head. “Do not let him defeat you before the battle even begins.”

Helena does not answer. She knows who awaits her ahead. For six years, he had been nothing but a name, a shadow in her memory. But now she is here. And he has suddenly become real. Tangible.

Glancing at the floor, Helena suddenly recalled their first meeting…

A secular evening in the imperial palace was noisy: the clinking of glasses and laughter—pure and childish or muffled and adult. The summer air was thickly saturated with the aromas of blooming jasmine, wine vapors, and expensive oils with which the noble guests were anointed. Between the columns, the lights of torches flickered, casting trembling reflections on gilded garments.

While the adults immersed themselves in conversations and conspiracies, the children played in the inner courtyard under the watchful eyes of nannies and guards.

Eight-year-old Geta sat on a bench by the fountain, tense, sullen, pressing his lips together. He felt irritation—nasty, like the stale smell of sweat on a hot day. Children always disgusted him: they were noisy, fussy, intrusive. Their sticky hands, dirty clothes, the way they would cling, tug, try to please. He despised them. All of them, except his brother.

Caracalla sat nearby, accepting attention with pleasure. Both of them were adorned with jewelry like temples on a festive day: gold bracelets, chains, expensive fabrics. Their thick, red hair, like autumn leaves, shone in the firelight.

Parents taught all the children that they had to befriend the emperor's sons, but whom to choose? No one could decide, so they tried to please both at once.

Geta hated it. He noticed how some boys would approach him first, then hurry over to Caracalla, how the girls giggled, flattered, but their glances darted between the brothers.

His brother, already surrounded by several children, spoke loudly, laughed. It was easier for others to befriend Caracalla—to dig in the dirt rather than stare at a sullen face, not to wonder when Geta would grimace at the sight of dirt under children's nails or on their faces. Geta was gloomier, more withdrawn, and everything happening around him annoyed him. He preferred the company of adults, but he never left his brother’s side.

And then he noticed her.

His gaze caught on a small, fragile girl. He had never seen her before. And most importantly—she was not hovering around them, not trying to get his attention, not ingratiating herself. She sat among other girls, weaving a wreath. Boys bustled around her—some, bolder, tugged at her hair, some peered into her bright green eyes, some simply laughed nearby. Her golden strands gleamed even in the twilight. They were bright as the sun, like golden rays on marble. And the girl seemed to them something light, warm, special. But Geta saw that she was completely smeared—her dress stained with grass, her hands dirty, leaves tangled in her hair, and a dark smudge on her cheek—perhaps dirt, perhaps the remains of a sweet fruit.

She laughed, and that laughter cut into his ears.

The emperor’s son watched intently as the girl, tilting her head, twisted stems into neat patterns. He didn��t like that others surrounded her, didn’t like that she laughed—not with him. He was angry at the stranger without understanding why.

And when her wreath was ready, one of the children pushed her forward. Geta watched as she stepped closer and then stopped between him and his brother. She lifted her eyes, deciding—Caracalla, who smiled at her, or Geta, who frowned, watching from under his brows. She lingered on the first, but then, without further hesitation, stepped toward the second.

Geta froze, lips slightly parted.

She chose him.

She did not walk between them, did not try to please both, did not glance at the others. She simply held out the wreath to him, with her small palms.

Geta did not move. His hands remained folded, his face tense. He was not used to children giving him anything. Everything he had, he received because he was the emperor’s son. Because people sought his favor, because they wanted something from him, while he wanted nothing from them.

But the girl, unknown to him before, simply looked at him, asking for nothing. And then something flared in his chest—unpleasant, sticky, like honey dripping behind his collar. And this feeling spread vilely inside him.

She chose him. Only him.

"A gift," the girl said softly.

She was still very small, clearly a few years younger than him. Her height didn’t allow her to reach, so she rose onto her toes and, not waiting for the emperor’s son to take the wreath himself, carefully placed it on his head. Geta caught the scent of fresh flowers and, without noticing, leaned slightly toward her.

"Only for you," the golden-haired girl repeated firmly.

Geta heard one of the adults huff, the servants whisper. But he did not take his eyes off her, struck by the fact that, for the first time in his life, someone had chosen him just like that. Not out of fear, not because of power, not because they had to.

Again, Geta did not know how to react. Something inexplicable boiled in his chest. And the girl suddenly, just as he reached out to help her climb onto the bench—allowing someone to sit beside him for the first time—jumped back and, laughing loudly, dashed back to the children.

"What’s your name?" burst out before he could think.

"Helena!" she called over her shoulder, not stopping.

Her name is light, flame and fire.

Geta watched her, unbelieving. How could this be? She chose him—so now she must stay near! She couldn’t just leave! And jumping up from the bench, he took a step after her—but stopped. Froze.

Helena must stay close now. She must be his.

Geta was used to everything he wanted ending up in his hands. Toys, treats, attention, praise. Everything was for him. He only had to reach out—and he received. But now? Now Helena had smiled at him, given him a wreath, and ran off, as if he were nobody, as if her choice meant nothing.

Geta clenched his fists. This feeling, constricting him from within, was new. Childish, yet fierce, like a child who had suddenly been denied his favorite toy. For the first time in his life, he didn’t get something immediately. And for the first time in his life, he wanted something so badly.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the boy trudged after her, unable to let Helena go. Not understanding, but already feeling—that now, she must belong only to him…

Geta saw her immediately.

He was hiding in the shadows of the massive colonnade, dressed in a purple toga lined with fine fabrics, fastened with golden clasps. His strong arms were crossed over his chest, and his dark eyes, deep as whirlpools, watched her. And when he began to walk, the crowd parted before him, as if fate itself was weaving a path for him.

Helena entered the spacious hall, and the firelight reflected in her golden hair, playing like sparks in her spring-leaf-colored eyes. "The Sun and Joy of the Empire"—that was the name she had earned over the years.

Geta took a step closer. His smile was slow, lazy. But there was something dangerous in it.

"Well, hello, meus sol," his voice was deep, thick, like warm honey. "I have waited for you for so long, my little bird. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you, heard your voice, imagined you before me. And now, at last, you are here. Just as I remember you… even more beautiful."

It is vulgar. It is wrong. This should not be.

But he is the Emperor.

Geta reached out his hand, and before Helena could recoil, he leaned in, his fingertips brushing against her cheek. A light touch—like silken cobwebs, but behind it lay something commanding. He smirked. There was something hungry, dark in his eyes, yet admiring at the same time.

"I thought you would smile at me, as you used to, when you ran to meet me in the garden," a note of disappointment flickered in his voice. Geta leaned in playfully, just a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Did you not miss me? Admit it, little bird, you did, didn’t you?"

Helena jerked away. Her chest rose with anger, her eyes flashed like lightning. She looked at him as if he were a stranger, an enemy.

And suddenly, Geta realized—this was not the girl he remembered. The one who laughed beside him, admired his stories, chased sunbeams on the marble walls—she was left behind in her ancestral home, where she grew up under her father’s wing. But this Helena—this one was different.

She hated him. And she was right to.

"Do not touch me," her voice was as cold as the steel of Roman blades. But then, suddenly, she huffed, curling her lips into a mocking smile. "Or has my Emperor forgotten that he sentenced my father to death?"

She stepped forward sharply, and Geta stopped breathing. He had expected anger, fear—but not this defiance.

"You dragged us into this nightmare. And you think I should be glad to see you? How foolish…"

The Emperor watched her in silence. His lips still held a shadow of a smile, but his eyes darkened, growing heavy like storm clouds over a battlefield. Slowly, he lowered his hand—but he did not look away.

"Your father condemned himself," his voice was firm, almost indifferent. All that remained was the cold certainty that the one who is stronger is always right. "He knew that betrayal is never forgiven. Just like your stepmother. Geta's gaze slid past Elena, cold and uninterested. "Isn't that right, Lucilla?"

The woman remained silent, but her fingers tightened around the fabric of her stepdaughter’s toga. And Geta looked at Helena again. But now his smile grew wider, more poisonous—like a hawk finally closing in on its prey.

"I ordered your whole family to be brought here," he said lazily, as if speaking of something mundane. "So where is your mother, Helena?"

He let out a bitter chuckle, as if he had just remembered something amusing. Though he had never forgotten. He was taunting her, mocking her, humiliating her, avenging even the smallest refusal. The slightest disobedience.

"Ah, yes…" amusement rang in his voice, a sneer played on his lips. "She can only enter this place as a whore. That is, of course, if she hasn’t completely lost her mind already."

Geta stepped forward, towering over Helena.

"Or has she found herself another patron?" the Emperor scoffed, making her skin prickle, her knees tremble, her shoulders tense to keep from shrinking away. "Perhaps she has even taught you how to properly please noble men?"

Helena flinched as if Geta had struck her. Her face twisted in disgust. Anger flared in her chest, scorching her from within. Through clenched teeth, she hissed:

"Do not dare speak of my mother like that!"

Helena stepped forward, dangerously close, nearly colliding with him. In that moment, she did not care who he was. Did not care what Geta could do to her. A storm raged inside her, demanding to tear him apart.

But Geta only smirked.

"My defiant little bird," his voice was almost gentle. "Rage, scream… But you are still here."

He did not retreat.

"Standing before me," his voice dropped lower, barely a whisper, but full of command. "And soon… soon you will understand before whom you must kneel."

His fingers barely brushed against a strand of her hair, but Helena jerked away.

Geta did not blink. Did not flinch.

He simply watched her—with the same hungry, merciless interest as a predator gazing at prey already caught in its snare…

On their last meeting before the breakup, the night enveloped the palace in a sticky darkness, like an old heavy cloak. The air was thick and damp, saturated with the scent of decaying rose petals that had fallen onto the marble floor. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls of the chambers, the night song of crickets sounded. But here, in the corridors, everything was too quiet. A silence filled with rare, unsteady breaths, mixed with the nervous echo of bare footsteps against the icy marble.

Geta walked ahead, tightly gripping Helena’s tiny fingers in his palm. Her skin was warm but damp with fear, and when he pulled her harder, her fingers trembled in his grasp. He squeezed her hand so tightly that her thin knuckles turned slightly white. Helena felt that his palm was hot but sweaty—whether from tension or the heat of the summer night, she couldn’t tell. She felt uneasy, but she didn’t try to pull away. Everything inside her tightened as they moved forward. The corridors stretched into long, echoing tunnels, the marble beneath their feet was freezing, and each of her careful steps made a faint slapping sound. Sometimes Helena stumbled, catching her foot on the rough edges of the tiles, but Geta didn’t even slow down, continuing to pull her along. The girl glanced around fearfully, pressing her chin against the hem of her light night tunic.

"Geta..." Her voice broke into a whisper, filled with fear. But he didn’t answer. He only pulled her along more insistently.

His gaze was wild, burning. Expectant. Like a child who had finally gotten hold of the promised toy. They slid like shadows through the dark corridors, hearing only their own breathing and the dull pounding of their hearts. Helena tried to step more quietly, but her bare feet sometimes caught cold droplets of water that had dripped from vases standing against the walls. She shuddered but did not stop. Geta led her forward—persistent, determined.

When they finally stepped into the garden, the air filled with the heavy scent of blooming jasmine. Geta’s father, the emperor himself, sat behind a stone table, thoughtfully pouring wine from one cup to another. The emperor lazily turned the goblet in his hand, letting the dark liquid trickle down the edges, leaving thin red streaks on the marble surface. He didn’t drink—he played with the wine, like a man who was in no hurry. Beside him stood a tray of fruit—overripe figs, split in half, dripped sticky juice onto the silver, while a handful of grapes, already touched by dark spots, looked forgotten.

Opposite him stood General Acacius—stern, upright, his face tense.

Geta and Helena hid behind one of the massive columns, concealed in the dim light. Their breathing became quieter. Geta could feel her trembling beside him, but he didn’t look at Helena. He only looked at his father.

"Geta will become emperor," the ruler’s voice was low, lazy, but there was steel in it. "And he needs a worthy wife. Your daughter. A good match."

"She is only ten!" Acacius exclaimed.

The emperor smirked, taking a lazy sip of wine that stained his lips.

"And my eldest twin is fourteen." He paused. "They can marry when your girl reaches the proper age. Time flies fast, General. You understand what kind of alliance we will create, don’t you?"

Helena felt the ground beneath her feet cease to be solid. The world suddenly became unstable, like a reflection in a pond after a stone was thrown into it. Her thoughts scattered, and each breath came with difficulty, as if the air had turned thick, heavy like honey. The words spoken by her father and the emperor echoed in her mind, their meaning seeping into her heart, leaving cold splinters. This was not a conversation about her—this was a deal. Without her will, without her consent. Her fate, sculpted by foreign hands, now stood before her like a locked door with no way out.

Geta looked pleased, unshaken. He was calm, as if he had known about this all along. But Helena’s world was crumbling. A sharp, tormenting fear rose in her chest—fear of the future, of something inevitable, something she did not want. She had never thought about marriage, much less imagined herself next to Geta. He was her friend...

Her fingers trembled as she instinctively grasped the edge of her nightgown, clutching the thin fabric until her knuckles turned white. Marriage. The word that had once seemed distant suddenly became a nightmare, a trap from which there was no escape.

Her vision darkened. She didn’t know what to say, how to react. She looked at Geta—at his indifferent face with a smirk, at his gaze, which was not cruel but impenetrable. Did he really think this was normal? That her life could be decided so easily, without her consent?

But I... I'm still a child... I’m only... A scream wanted to break free, but her voice refused to obey.

"And yet, I say no."

Geta tensed. His nostrils flared, and his fingers on Helena’s hand clenched so tightly that she let out a thin whimper. He heard her, but he did not loosen his grip.

"Helena... is not suitable," Acacius’s voice was firm, but there was caution in it. "Her mother... is merely—"

"A prostitute," the emperor lazily finished, savoring the taste of the word as if swallowing tart, spoiled wine. "And you want to say she is unworthy of my son?"

Geta didn’t understand. He heard the words but could not grasp their meaning. How can they refuse? How can they say ‘no’ to him?

"Stupid," the emperor waved his hand dismissively. "Elena is beautiful, smart. Her father is my best commander. Don't you want your daughter to become an empress? My son likes your girl, so let this union be beneficial."

"Helena is not a match for the future emperor," Acacius said slowly, his voice becoming firmer. He was defending himself.

And Helena was not breathing. Her heart pounded so hard she heard it in her ears. Her skin burned with heat, then turned cold, covered in goosebumps. A sticky fear rose from her chest, wrapping around her throat.

"Wait..." she exhaled in a whisper, but Geta did not hear. He heard only one thing: rejection. Dirty, humiliating, cutting deep into his soul.

He could not remain silent any longer.

With a sudden jerk, Geta stepped out from behind the column, clenching his fists. His face was ablaze with anger.

"Why?!" His voice was loud, strained, almost childish in its wounded pride. "How dare you?!"

Acacius turned sharply. And at that very moment, he saw his daughter. Helena.

Her eyes were huge, black with terror. Tears ran down her cheeks, dripping onto the collar of her nightgown. She pressed herself against the column, trying to disappear from all of this, but her hand clutched at her shoulder, where red marks from Geta’s fingers were imprinted.

"Helena," her father’s voice became soft, almost frightened. He stepped toward her, but she did not move. Her lips trembled.

"She is mine!" Geta exclaimed even louder.

The Emperor lazily lifted his gaze. The wine in his cup swayed slightly.

"How interesting…" he smirked.

"Emperor," the general bowed his head. "My decision remains unchanged. If you allow…"

Acacius did not wait any longer. Gently but firmly, he took his daughter by the hand and led her out of the garden. They walked in silence until the palace walls hid them from prying eyes. Only then did the general stop, kneeling before her, placing his hands on her small, trembling shoulders.

"Helena…" his voice was low, warm, but tired. "Forgive me. I lied… but only to protect you. You were never supposed to be there. That wretch…"

The girl lifted her eyes to him, and they filled with tears once more. She sobbed, her breath unsteady, her lips quivering.

"You… you said it…" her voice was barely audible. "And I believed you… even though I knew…"

The general carefully clasped her hands in his—firmly, but gently. He lowered his head as if trying to hide his exhaustion and slowly ran his hand through her disheveled hair.

"Sometimes, a lie is the only thing that can save," he spoke slowly, as if weighing every word. "You are always my girl; nothing else matters. Do you understand?"

Helena sobbed louder, burying her face in his shoulder. The general embraced her, sheltering her with his strong arms, as if protecting her from the entire world.

"I am here," he whispered. "And no one will harm you. As long as I live. I promise."

Helena took a deep breath, clutching his clothes tighter in her small fingers. She knew this moment wouldn’t change everything. But in her father’s embrace, the fear receded for just a moment. And that was enough.

A few hours later, they left the palace.

And then, years passed.

Geta rarely saw Helena, but rumors about her spread throughout Rome. He heard them.

She danced like a goddess. She was called the Sun of Rome, its light—for her kindness. They said her laughter was like the chime of spring, that her smile illuminated anyone near her. And she became something he could not have, though long ago, he had decided she belonged to him alone.

But even the sun could not hide from the gazes that followed her everywhere. Geta heard the stories—of her grace, of her gentle voice that could melt even hearts carved from stone. He imagined her—surrounded by hundreds of admirers, flatterers, hungry eyes. Every time he thought of someone else daring to look at her, his fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms, leaving painful marks. He could not allow this to continue.

And because of this, he wanted her even more.

And because of this, his obsession grew, like a black, poisonous flower.

Helena was the only thing he could not take. And the only thing for which he was ready to crush Rome.

I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok^

#emperor geta #emperor caracalla #the emperor #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator geta #gladiator movie #fanfik #gladiator ll #Publius Septimius Geta/Original Character(s)#Publius Septimius Geta #Publius Septimius Geta/Original Female Character(s)#Publius Septimius Geta/Original Female Character #Emperor Geta/Original Female Character(s)#geta and caracalla #Emperor Geta/OC #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta x femOC #emperor geta x oc

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yoyowrites · 6 months ago

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Au where shen jiu is an assassin/murderer and binghe grew up in hua hua palace.

After Binghe's adoptive mother died, the old palace master found him and took him in. At first, he's treated very well. Binghe is excited to have family, to be safe, to be free. Then, he notices he's actually very restricted. Everywhere he goes there's someone. When he was younger, he considered it wonderful to have friends and family but he soon found out they weren't friends. They were spies. His every move was being monitored. His real situation really hit him when he tried to leave.

He wasn't trying to leave for ever. It'd been about eight months since he'd been brought to huan hua palace and he's been missing her. He wanted to visit her grave, tell her how he'd been, and see if any of her things were still in tact. Yet, he barely made it pass the gates when other disciples stopped him. They dragged him to his room and he wasn't allowed to leave for days. When the old palace master returned, binghe tried to explain what happened thinking he'd be on Binghe's side. He was met with lies.

The old palace master explained that it was for his own good. How binghe just needed to stay there and listen. How he should never leave.

Binghe had made one 'friend' after that. A slightly older girl who seemed to take him under her wing. He shared his thoughts and worries with her. One day he mentions how he wants to try leaving. he just wants to be outside, how he missed his home.

The next day, he was imprisoned in his room again. There were guards in front of it that refused to speak to him. When the old palace master visited him, binghe knew what happened.

After that, binghe noticed how he was truly alone. No one ever actually talked to him. They didn't share anything about themselves. They were only collecting information on him.

He became closed off. He still played the part of kind, sweet, naive disciple but he never truly opened up again.

Years later, when binghe is a few months shy of fifteen, he hears rumours about this thief and murderer that has been targeting cultivators. Said murderer had been rumoured to be spotted near huan hua palace. Everyone was whispering how he'd attack them next. Then, binghe made a plan. He needed out.

So binghe plans to stage the murder of the old palace master. However, the real thief shows up and sees binghe. While binghe is strong, he's still young. The murdered captures binghe but doesn't kill him. Instead, he lets him escape. Binghe wasn't sure what to do but follow the murderer (who's name he learns is shen jiu).

Shen jiu wasn't killing to kill. He just needed cash and cultivators tended to hoard so he helped himself. Sometimes cultivators were in the way of his treasure and he needed to not leave evidence. He never leaves evidence.

So what was this ... tall child doing. Shen jiu isn't sure why he didn't kill him, much less kept him around but now he's keeping binghe with him. Mostly because he isn't sure what to do with him Or it was like that until they reached the next town over.

Shen jiu starts to notice that binghe is the luckiest unlucky person he knows. The only room available in the in they can stay at is near a forest that is infested with demons but their room is the only one that doesn't get attacked. Shen jiu chucks it up to luck

then, they're forced to travel through that same forest. shen jiu allows lou binghe to cling to him and sees that nothing serious tries to attack them.

shen jiu decides to keep binghe around. they grow pretty close. he even teaches lbh easy pick pocketing and disarming techniques, though he refuses to allow lbh to kill anyone again. if asked, shen jiu would deny it but a soft spot was rapidly growing.

they had been companions for around a year when lbh's demonic heritage was revealed. for one reason or another, shen jiu decides to push him in to the abyss. it hits him harder than he expected but its for the best. lbh is a demon, demons should be with their own kind. the reason lbh is so odd is probably from being around humans his whole life. shen jiu decides he must move on. life doesn't stop.

lou binghe spends his years in the abyss planning how he would confront sj. he would also prove himself to still be useful because that must be why he was abandoned. even if sj doesn't want to, he'd never be rid of lbh again. years later, he emerged and started searching for his dear shen jiu

TLDR:

Binghe murders old palace master and is on the run, sj helps hide him. Sj keeping binghe around like a rabbits foot until he finds out lbh is a demon. He throws binghe into the abyss and binghe returns for him.

#svsss #mxtx svsss #shen jiu #original shen qingqiu #lou binghe #svsss au #idk the distance between these places #bingjiu #lou bingge #drabble #plot bunny

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colemorrison · 7 months ago

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Falling down a tree, which didn’t seem possible twenty minutes ago but as you stood up and walked through the dark and pumpkin lit town it seemed very possible.

“Who’s this?”

Many voices sung as they peeked out from various places. Some small, some horrifying, some so ugly they were cute.

“Nobody knows! They should meet Jack, Jack will know whom they are, yes!”

A trio of what seemed to be vampires grabbed your arms, hooking their own with yours. So many.. 'Unique faces' you would think but in reality ‘monsters’ were the right word.

The soft clicking of.. Heels? Against wood caught you off guard, your eyes slowly slid up the long legs, they were so skinny, inhumanly so and then it occured to you once you saw his head, so smooth and.. Dead.

"What have we here?"

His height had to have been double however tall you were, he had to have been over eight ft tall.

"You are.."

"Oh look! How cute! They're scared of you jack!"

"You are pretty."

The comment made his eye's soften, the black abyss they were was somehow inviting. You wanted to stare further into them.

"I don't believe I have ever been called such a thing. What about me is... Pretty?"

Your voice betrayed you, small hands sliding over his own, he was practically bent in half just for you to be at nearly face level.

————

Uhh.. So, I used to watch this every Christmas when I was younger and now that I'm watching it... Mmm yummy.

#nightmare before christmas #the nightmare before christmas #the nightmare before xmas #jack skellington x reader #jack skellington #jack skellington x you #cole’s drabbles #uh yeah i write this now

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viperrot · 2 years ago

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⇁slasher season | leon kennedy | pt. 1

re4 remake ghostface!leon kennedy x fem!reader NSFW 18+

MINORS DNI: BEWARE OF THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME.

a few days have passed since you gave leon permission to be a lil creeper. the stage is set, and you thought you were ready, but you couldn’t have been more wrong.

series content warnings: porn with little plot, cnc/dubcon, depictions of chase, stalking, knifeplay, size difference, and possibly more to be added

content contains: stalking, verbal and physical threats (threatens to unalive you), knifeplay, oral (fem-receiving), p in v, cnc, leon is trying to be mean, size difference, voyeurism, masturabation, degradation (use of “slut” and “bitch”), cervix kissing, unprotected sex, implied aftercare

not proofread i am going beddie bye time

????words

song rec: “voulez-vous” by johnny goth

i’m back from the grave. also 300+ FOLLOWS WHAT WHAT I LOVE YOU BIRDIES SO MUCH!! IM SO SORRY I WAS GONE FOR SO LONG T^T IVE HAD A HORRIBLE SUMMER BREAK.

You always felt a sense of shame when you tell your classmates that you don’t work often. At minimum, you work twelves hours a week, and it isn’t for college but more for yourself. It was hard to admit you hail from a well-off family, your rich aunties and uncles all pitching in for your college funding and your quaint apartment, so you never talked about your riches with your friends no matter how close, not wanting to make them feel less-than in anyway.

Time and time again, you’ve offered Leon help with his tuition and summer-class prices, and he always denied it, saying something gruff and mildly misogynistic like, “I don’t need a lady’s money” with a dumb expression. Instead of arguing, you put your extra coffee-shop money into food, clothes, and other gifts for your dear boyfriend, who works far more than you do.

And work means he’s not always around.

In the summer, he’s kicking around in a pool with a handful of little ones, teaching them how to swim “like a better Michael Phelps” as he’d stay at the pool for nearly twelve hours a day. When pool season is over, he's working at the bakery near downtown part-time or focusing on school. Despite the busy schedule year-round, Leon always found time for you, never passing an opportunity to snuggle in the nearly eight months of you dating.

You lazed away on your bed, the summer heat missing as a result of your precious air-con working its ass off in this weather. The bedroom was lit only by the afternoon sun which sparkled in from your balcony a few feet away from your queen-sized bed. You watched the clothes you hung up to dry sway in the gentle breeze as you laid on your side, hands tucked beneath your head as you dozed off.

Rrrrring! Rrrrring!

The sound of your phone going off catches you off guard, the call practically vibrating your entire bed. You sigh heavily and snatch the device from the cotton abyss of your duvet, the screen's brightness slightly stinging your corneas as you squint at it confused.

"Unknown Caller?" You mumble, trying to think of anyone that could be calling you at this time. "Maybe its something about college..." You swipe the screen to the right with your thumb, sitting up and bringing the phone to your ear.

"Hello?" You greet questioningly, eyebrows furrowing together as your free hand comes down to fiddle with the hem of your oversized jumper.

"Hello?" A man's voice responds, deep with a slight rasp. Your confusion worsens.

"Can I help you...?"

"Who is this?"

"(Y/n) (L/n)," you respond curtly. "What do you need?"

"I don't know," they reply. Your lips tug into a slight frown.

"I think you have the wrong number, then. Have a good day!" With a feigned happiness, you quickly ended the phone call and slumped back down into your bed, the springs creaking as your weight pressed into the plush mattress. Your eyes begin to droop once more, breathing slow as you succumb to sleep.

Until the phone rings again.

You grunt and claw around for your cellular device once more, checking the screen to see it was from the same unknown caller. Your eyebrows knit together. Who is this?

“Hello..?”

“Hang up one more time, and I’ll fuckin’ slit your throat,” the mysterious man threatens, his words voiced through gritted teeth and a clenched throat. At that moment, everything clicks.

It’s Leon, your sweet and harmless boyfriend. Leon Scott Kennedy, a man who’s like a giant puppy, is threatening to kill you.

Your mouth grows dry as you ponder on what to say, eyes wide as your hand grips the phone to your ear tightly.

“I-I’m sorry…” You stammer, somehow terrified despite knowing exactly who was on the other end of the line.

“Aww, it’s okay, sweetheart…” you can hear the slight apologetic tone through Leon’s voice changer, and it makes your heart flutter ever so slightly. Even so, he continues this cruel act of his. “I’ll spare you—for now, at least. How about you tell me a little about yourself, hm?” His honeyed voice made your thighs clench together.

“W-what do you… want to know…?” You swallow dryly, tongue pushing out to lick your chapped lips. You hear Leon hum in thought, and you can’t help but imagine him tapping his index finger against his chin.

“Mmm… you gotta boyfriend?” He coos.

“Y-yeah. He’s uhm… very sweet,” you respond shakily, breath hitching in your throat. “I-I’m waiting for him to come home n-n-now, actually!” you hear Leon chuckle at this.

“Really now? Is he making you wait long?” you notice a bit of background noise come through as he speaks, like foliage rustling in the wind. You make a noise signifying your agreement.

“A little, yeah�� he works a lot, but I try not to make a big deal out of it,” you clear your throat.

“He leaves a pretty thing like you alone? How cruel,” the “stranger” notes, a teasing tone dripping from his tongue. “A girl with a body like that, I’d do anything in my power to be with you all the time, sweetheart,” your heart beats against your ribcage as you try to figure out what to say.

“How do you know what I look like?!” you sputter out, hoping he can’t somehow hear your blush through the phone. Leon lets out a soft snicker.

“You tend to leave your curtains drawn, bug,” you nearly laugh at his small slip-up, and you’re sure that he realized it too. Even then, you fake your distress, jumping out of your bed in a flurry to stumble into the living room of your quaint apartment. It was true—your curtains were pulled back to let in the golden light of the setting sun, blinds drawn up completely. You fumble with the strings and fabric, nearly falling as you shoo away the natural light from your home.

“You creep! I’ll call the cops-“

“And what? You think they’ll find me?”

“Th-they’ll keep watch of my neighbourhood, an-and-“

“Well, let’s hope they can keep watch of your actual apartment, cuz I’m already here, sweetheart,” Leon’s smirk is evident in his voice, and before you can say anything in rebuttal, you hear a door slide open with a heavy thud coming from your room. Your heart skips a beat as you stumble backwards slightly, nearly dropping your phone in the process.

“Th-this isn’t fucking funny!” You yelp, oddly afraid.

“‘Not funny’? Baby, I never said this was a comedy show,” he chuckles. “You gunna call the cops now? They won’t get here on time, and you know that,” you supposed he could hear you fumbling with your phone, getting ready to dial the police department. Shakily, you begin to bound towards your bedroom, pushing the door open with your hip seeing as it was slightly open. The door to the balcony was wide open, the breeze that dried your hung clothes blowing in gently and causing your curtains to billow in the wind. Apart from the soft drawl of the summer currents, the room was deathly silently. You stood in front of your bed, legs threatening to give out beneath you as your eyes scanned every corner of your room.

“I-I’m not afraid of you!” you call out, phone about to break under the force of your grip.

“Not afraid, huh? We’ll see about that,” the line cuts, and you realize the call has ended. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and yet you’re completely unaware of the presence behind you. Suddenly, a hand presses against your mouth to muffle you as the other wraps under your arm to detain you, a sharp edge pressing into your throat which bobbed in discomfort. Your yelp is bitten back as you teeth at the leather against your lips, trying to bite the hand that kept your pressed against the strangers body. Your eyes as wide as dimes, you decide not to struggle against your attacker, fearing that the blade will slit your throat as he has promised only a few minutes ago.

“You seem pretty scared now, bunny,” he whispers, a shiver running down your spine as a result. His voice is muffled by something, and you realize he’s wearing a flimsy white mask of the iconic Ghostface. “You should be more aware of your surroundings, baby. Otherwise, you’ll find big scary men like me sneakin’ around,” the man digs the blade a little deeper, and you’re thankful that the knife is a bit dull—had it been a sharper blade, you would be bleeding by now.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart… calm down for me. I don’t wanna- ruin this pretty little body of yours,” you can tell he nearly breaks character, his softer side trying to fight for control, but he continues his aggressive front. Your body is practically pudding in his muscular arms, knees nearly giving out beneath you. Your cries are stifled by his gloved fingers as he begins to drag the Buck 120 knife down the length of your neck and against your collarbones. Your attacker pays no mind to the weak punches you throw against his side, barely faltering at the contact and simply holds you tighter against his toned chest.

“So fuckin’ pretty, bunny,” he whispers, admiring the glint of his weapon against your skin. “All for me, too~ You know how crazy it drives me seeing you change in front of that damn balcony door? Sometimes I think you’re begging for me to see this slutty body all the time,” the vulgar languages catches you by surprise, but it quickly leaves when you feel the knife catch between a button of your Leon’s shirt. It tugs upward and snags the thread, popping open the shirt one button at a time, exposing your breasts and baby blue panties to him. He lets out a low laugh, vibrating from his chest.

“My favourite colour, too? Baby, were you expecting me?” His hand drops from your mouth, allowing you to breathe evenly. His free hand immediately finds your breast and gives it a tight squeeze, pinching the perky little bud harshly. “Of course whores like you would welcome a guy like me, hm? You like this, sweetheart?”

“Y-you’re sick…!” you cry, moaning slightly at the pain he inflicted onto your sensitive chest. You feel the blunt end of the knife’s handle push just above your v-line, harsh and brutal as it digs into your body.

“Don’t fuckin’ act innocent with me,” the masked man hisses. “I know exactly what girls like you want—you put up this sweet act around your friends at school so they don’t know you like getting fucked like a toy.”

“Th-that isn’t tru-“ before you finish your sentence, he slams your body into the bed, front pressed into the plush duvet. He leaves his knife laying next to you, taking one hand to keep both of yours behind your back while his other reaches down to paw at the gusset of your underwear.

“‘Not true’? Then explain why it’s practically dripping down here,” the slick gathers on the black leather of his gloves, and you whine as his fingers press against your clothed slit. “Admit it—tell me you love to be used like a little fleshlight,” his voice is rough beneath his mask, and you try to look at him over your shoulder as you struggle against his tight grip. You take note of his outfit consisting of black cargos, an ebony, long-sleeved compression shirt, his leather gloves, and the mask. Its inky black eyes stared back at you as you wiggled beneath him.

“I-I’m not…! I don’t like being-“ you gasp when you feel a sudden intrusion, rendering you speechless. Slick, leathered fingers force their way between your folds and into your hole, scissoring slightly in attempt to stretch you open. He hisses at the feeling of your walls squeezing against his middle and ring finger.

“Christ—Bunny, does your boyfriend not fuck you hard enough? I swear-“ his breathing grows heavy as he thrusts his fingers in and out of your cunt. “You’re tighter than a virgin-“ your thighs clench against his hand as you babble for him to stop.

“P-please… st-stop touching mme,” you hiccup, trying your best to hate the fluttering feeling he was giving you. The man’s fingers curl against your inner walls, pressing deeper and harder into your most pleasurable spots.

“Aww, you want me to stop? But why? You look like you’re having so much fun, baby~” His grip around your wrists grow tighter as he begins to thrust his fingers a little faster. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as you moan at the pleasure. The knot in your stomach begins to tighten you grow closer to your release, the wet sound of your arousal echoing through your room. Just as you feel as though you’ll explode, the man pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you breathless.

“N-no, please!” you cry, squirming beneath him. He makes no sound, instead releasing your arms and flipping you to lay on your back. You watch him get on his knees before grabbing the discarded blade next to you, making quick work of your delicate pair of lace panties. The fabrics tears as he pulls the knife through it, throwing the bits of it to the floor as well as his blade before pulling up his mask. It drops to the ground, too, laying next to the tattered blue fabric before he looks up at you between your legs. Your boyfriend’s attacker’s hands grip the fat of your thighs tight as he gives you a coy smirk.

“What was that, bunny? ‘Yes, please’? Well, don’t mind if I do,” Leon licks his slightly chapped lips before dipping his head down, blonde hair shielding his eyes as his tongue presses against your sensitive clit. Your fingers tangle into his thin tresses of hair, eyes rolling back as you feel his tongue bully itself into your pussy. Leon grunts when your thighs squeeze his head, only urging him to tongue-fuck you deeper.

“St-stop it-“

“You keep telling me to stop, yet you keep pressing your pussy into my mouth like you’re forcing me to eat it,” he says, mumbling onto your cunt casually. “I should punish you for lying to me, but I’m feeling generous tonight. Just take this like a good little bitch and we won’t have any problems.”

Leon continues his work on you, his skilled tongue having its way inside of your tight little hole as his thumb presses against your clit. You beg for him to stop, trying to push his head out from between your thighs, but he makes no effort of moving, continuing his assault on your poor pussy. He devoured you like it was his first meal in weeks, drinking up every drop of your slick like he wouldn’t eat ever again. You grew embarrassed at the sound of your moans mixing with the wet squelches of your juices. Leon could only laugh as he takes quick peeks at your dazed expression, lapping up at the arousal that practically leaked out of your body. Before you could cum, he pulls back, forcing himself out from between your thighs.

“How ‘bout we get to the good part,” the blonde smirks, picking up his Buck 120 before standing at his full height. You watch him unbuckle his belt, the gentle clanging of metal reaching your ears as he then reaches to unzip his cargo pants. Your body stiffens as you take in the sight of his bulge, threatening to burst from the confines of his black cotton briefs.

“N-no way—you c-cant-!”

“Can’t what? I can’t fuck you?” his brow quirks up.

“M-my boyfriend’ll-“ He rolls his blue eyes, annoyed at the mentioning of himself your partner.

“Fine, we’ll play it your way, bunny,” he shakes his head, picking up one of your legs with his free hand. “Don’t squirm, got it? You may be acting like a bitch right now, but I really don’t wanna nick you, sweetheart,” he grunts, setting your knee over his shoulder. You lay there, wondering what he’s planning, and your eyes widen when you see him hold the knife by its blade, the shiny silver in the palm of his gloved hand as he positions the hilt just before the entrance of your cunt.

“W-wait- don’t-“ Leon pays no mind to your pleas, pressing the blunt handle into your pussy. You clench and cry out, the cold material surprising you as well as the sudden stretch. He clicks his tongue is disproval as you whimper beneath him, thrusting the handle in and out of you.

“You’re so fuckin’ worried about your boyfriend, sweetheart. Why can’t you just admit he can’t fuck you right?” Leon fakes his concern. “You know you love this—You just don’t wanna admit that your stalker’s foreplay is better than your own boyfriend’s dick.”

“S-s’not true! Nngh, it’s nn-not truue~!” you claw at the hand that was squeezing your thigh, silently begging for Leon to stop. Even then, your body betrayed you. Your cunt spasmed around the smooth handle, giving Leon a bit of a struggle as he continued to thrust the weapon in and out of you.

“What a fuckin’ slut…” he smirks. “You keep saying you don’t want this, but your pussy is so goddamn wet,” he pulls the handle out of you, and you cry, babbling for him to put it back in. He only chuckles lowly before taking his cock out of the confines of his underwear. It springs out at a nice six inches, thick and cut with a vein trailing up the side. The Buck 120 is left to be forgotten once more.

“You’re taking this—whether you like it or not,” Leon takes your other leg and throws it over his free shoulder before dragging the head of his cock against your wet slit. Your hands pathetically reach for him.

“P-please…” you hiccup. Leon hums, a teasing expression painting his face.

“What’s that, bunny? Oh, you wanna be fucked like a bitch in heat? Well, if you insist…” with a sudden force, he shoves himself into you with one smooth thrust, splitting you open with ease. You cry out, the back of your head craning into the mattress as you begged for your stalker to pull out.

“O-out~! P-please, nno more~!” you sob, tears flowing from your eyes as he pulls out enough to just leave the tip in. With a grunt, his hips slam back into yours, the full length of him back inside of your tight cunt. Leon lets out a slight moan as he begins to jackhammer himself into you, seemingly not having a care in the world for your comfort as he grips onto your hips and folds you in half onto the bed.

“So tight, baby- fuck! This pussy was made for me,” Leon’s eyes squeeze shut as he fucks into you, relishing in the feeling of your cunt squeezing around his thick cock. “You love this, I fuckin’ know you do. You love being my free-use slut, bunny—tell me you love it when I fuck you like my personal- toy!” he chokes on his words, clearly lost in the pleasure.

“L-love it so much~! M-mmore, more pl-plleaase~” you babble, fingers threading into the man’s hair. Your noses graze each as he bucks up further into you.

“Drives me fuckin’ crazy watching you from your damn balcony, sweetheart,” Leon pants, beginning to break his persona. “Watching you hump your pillows, moaning my name—I couldn’t keep waiting. I was pl-planning- f-fuck, you’re so tight, baby-! Trying to…! To creep on you for a week, b-but you’re just so gorgeous…!” His hands grip harder on your hips, bruising them as he pounds his cock harder and harder into your abused cunt.

“You looked so desperate trying to fuck that stupid pillow of yours—I can’t tell you how much I wanted to just jump into your room and take you then and there, bunny,” his breath tickles against your lips as he speaks, and you can only moan and squirm in response, barely able to form words with how good he made you felt. Your fingers weakly tug at the base of his hair as his hips roll into you, and you swear you can feel the head of his cock trying to push past your poor cervix.

“L-Leon-!” You cry, your legs applying pressure to either side of his head as you feel the knot in the pit of your belly begin to unravel. Leon’s grip on your sides becomes rougher, bruises blossoming in deep purples and reds against your skinz

“Cum for me, bunny—please…!” your lover drops the harsh act, fully embracing his typical nature of sweet boyfriend despite his white-knuckled grip on you. A near-scream erupts from your throat as you finally release, your cunt spasming around Leon’s cock. With gritted teeth, he pulls out and releases onto your stomach, the sticky substance staining the wrinkled white button-up and the soft skin of your belly.

Heavy, hot pants filled the room as you and Leon took a moment to pull yourselves together, his lips pressing soft kisses onto your calves and ankle as he gently leaned back to remove you from your folded state.

“You alright, bug? I-“ he gulps, catching his breath. “I didn’t get too rough, did I?” the worry is apparent in Leon’s voice as his gentle blue orbs gaze into yours. You feel his hands gently caress the bruises he left on your skin.

“M’okay, Lee,” you assure him, chest heaving up and down. You watch his eyes trail down to admire the mess he made on your stomach.

“You look good like this,” the blonde comments, picking up a little glob of his seed between gloved fingers. “We should do this more often, bunny,” he teases, pulling away from you and allowing your legs to fall limp. You were about to protest until Leon moved to pick you up bridal style, carrying you towards the bathroom that was just outside in the hall.

“Let’s get cleaned up, though. I’ve got a feeling you’re ready for a good sleep and some cuddling, yeah?” Leon coos, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You can only hum in agreement, nuzzling your face into his neck as he carries you to the tub.

hi. lol. idk how i’m still alive. i’m being worked to the bone. i hope everyone is well.

#resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #resident evil/biohazard #resident evil 4 remake #biohazard #fanfic #>>lsk: the slasher series.

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gullemec · 28 days ago

Text

Red Light

Golden Ruin - Chapter Eight

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Solitude does funny things to people.

Warnings: Just reader and Hughie going shack wacky, reader doing dangerous things!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5k

A/N: I knowww we miss Billy. I miss him too. But I promise this is going somewhere and *dutch van der linde voice* I'VE GOT A PLAN

On a particularly cold evening, as the fire crackles softly and Hughie snores faintly from the other room, you find yourself unable to sleep.

The ultrasound photo lies on the nightstand, an anchor and a weight. You roll onto your side, staring at it for what feels like hours before a memory surfaces, one you’d buried somewhere deep, perhaps because it hurt too much to hold onto.

The rain had drummed steadily against the roof of the van that night, a low, relentless rhythm that filled the silence. You’d sat in the passenger seat, your breath fogging the window as you stared out at the drenched, empty street. Butcher had been behind the wheel, one hand resting lazily at twelve o’clock, the other drumming his fingers against his knee, impatient, as always, even when there was nothing to do but wait.

He hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes, which had felt like an eternity in the cramped space of the van.

“Are we just gonna sit here all night?” you’d finally asked, your voice cutting through the quiet.

“It’s called waiting, love,” he’d drawled without looking at you. “Some of us are quite good at it.”

You’d huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Sitting still doesn’t exactly scream ‘Butcher’ to me.”

The corner of his mouth had twitched, just barely, but you’d seen it. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

For a while, you’d let the silence settle again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The windows had fogged up from your shared breath, the air thick with that familiar mix of damp leather, stale coffee, and the leathery scent of Butcher’s jacket. You’d watched him out of the corner of your eye, jaw set, brow furrowed, his usual scowl carved into place like armor. But something about him that night had been different. The low light had softened his edges, and the rain had turned the outside world into a smudged blur. For once, he’d looked… human.

“Something on your mind, love?” he’d asked suddenly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You’d blinked, caught off guard. “I could ask you the same thing. You were staring into the abyss for, like, an hour.”

“Better than starin’ at you mopin’ about,” he’d muttered, though there’d been no real bite in his tone. He’d shifted in his seat, stretching his legs. “Spit it out, then. What’s eatin’ you?”

You’d hesitated, unsure how he always seemed to know when something was bothering you, even when you hadn’t said a word. “It’s nothing,” you’d deflected.

Butcher had snorted, his eyes never leaving the rain-streaked windshield. “Bollocks.”

The way he’d said it, so matter-of-fact, so certain, had knocked the wind out of your sails. You’d sighed, leaning back against the headrest. “Fine. It’s just… Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s never enough? Like you’re always two steps behind where you’re supposed to be?”

Butcher hadn’t answered right away. He’d stared out the window, silent, like he was searching for words in the rain. When he finally spoke, his voice had been quieter than you’d expected. “Yeah. More often than not, I’d say.”

You’d turned to look at him then, surprised by the honesty. Vulnerability wasn’t something he offered freely. But that night, the cracks in his armor had shown just enough for you to glimpse the man beneath.

“You’re too good for this,” he’d said suddenly, almost like he was talking to himself.

The words had stung, and you’d frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He’d shaken his head, still looking straight ahead. “You’re smart. Strong. Got your whole life ahead of you. Shouldn’t be wastin’ it sittin’ in a van with a miserable bastard like me.”

You’d scoffed, turning in your seat to face him. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, Butcher had looked at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “Maybe not. But you’re meant for more than this, more than me. And I reckon you know it.”

Frustration had bubbled up inside you then, because it was so him—to push you away, to act like he was the villain in everyone else’s story. “Why do you do that?” you’d asked quietly.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re some kind of poison. Like you’re protecting me by keeping me away.”

Butcher had been silent for a moment, his jaw tight. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost too soft to hear. “Because that’s what I am, love. You just don’t see it yet.”

You’d shaken your head, refusing to let him believe that. “You’re wrong. You care about The Boys, about me. You wouldn’t fight so hard if you didn’t.”

He hadn’t said anything to that. Instead, he’d rested a hand on your shoulder, the weight of it warm and solid even through the thick layers of your coat. It was such a small gesture, but Butcher wasn’t a man who touched people often. For him, it had meant everything.

“Don’t need to fight so hard if you’ve got nothing to lose,” he’d murmured finally. “And you, you’ve got everything to lose. That’s why I’d rather keep you far away from this shite. Far away from me.”

You’d swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “Tough luck, Butcher. I’m already here.”

That had earned you a faint chuckle, a quiet, almost reluctant sound. His hand fell to your side, lacing his fingers with yours and bringing your hand to his mouth for a kiss. Before you had the chance to react, he’d placed it firmly back in your lap, turning back to grip the wheel, his gaze fixed on the world beyond the rain.

Now, looking back, you can still see him so clearly, jaw set, knuckles white on the steering wheel, a man convinced he wasn’t good enough for the people he loved. He hadn’t understood then that pushing you away didn’t protect you; it only made the distance between you feel wider.

And yet, even in his own broken way, Butcher had believed in you. He’d believed in your strength, your resolve, and maybe even in the parts of you he thought he’d ruin. That night in the van had been the closest he’d ever come to telling you he loved you, not with words, but in the way he’d looked at you, in the tenderness of his kiss, in the rain-soaked silence that said more than either of you ever could.

And maybe you’d hated him for that, back then. For never having the courage to say it out loud. For not believing in his own worth the way he believed in yours.

But now… now you just miss him.

Your hand drifts to your belly, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your sweater. You wonder what he’d think if he were here, looking at the ultrasound picture alongside you. Would he let himself believe he was enough? Would he fight to be here for you, for this?

You hope so. Because no matter what he thought, he was enough. He was the only man you’d ever trusted to hold your heart, fractured as it was. The only man that ever came close to convincing you of your own worth.

And now, more than anything, you just want him back.

~~~

Over the next month, the shoreline walks with Hughie become a sort of ritual, a bright spot in your otherwise deliriously boring days.

The mornings are sharp with cold now, the salty breeze slicing through the layers you pile on. A heavy sweater, a man’s barn coat you found in a closet, gloves that don’t quite match. But none of it matters. You look forward to these walks more than anything else, eager to escape the confines of the cramped cottage and its suffocating stillness.

The walks never have a plan. Some days, you barely make it down the path before turning back, the wind too brutal or the skies threatening rain. Other days, you wander for hours, boots sinking into damp sand as you follow the curve of the shoreline until the world behind you feels miles away. The rhythm of the waves and the call of gulls and the wide, open sky brings you something like peace, a fleeting quiet that soothes the wild, restless thing inside you. The same thing that only grows louder with every long, uneventful hour spent inside those four walls.

It’s during one of those aimless walks that you first see it.

The cliff rises out of the earth like a jagged tooth, as if the land itself had been split apart long ago and left to erode into its current, precarious state. Twenty feet tall, maybe more, its face is a chaotic mess of craggy rock and streaks of moss, tufts of stubborn grass clutching at cracks like survivors of some long-forgotten storm. The waves slam into its base, spraying a mist of saltwater into the air and filling the silence with a deep, rhythmic crash.

You stop walking, the wind whipping your hair into your eyes as you stare up at it. Something about it, the sharp angles, the defiance of the rocks against the endless pull of the ocean, sends a spark through you.

“Think it’s climbable?” you ask, shielding your face with a gloved hand to get a better look.

“Climbable for someone with a death wish,” Hughie says, not even pausing as he skims a stone across the water.

You shoot him a look. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He turns to follow your gaze, his expression equal parts incredulous and concerned. “Look at it. That thing’s barely holding itself together. Half those rocks are probably ready to give way. One wrong step, and you’re swan-diving into the water.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He grins at that, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, there are less painful ways to deal with boredom. Safer ways, too. Ever heard of knitting?”

You roll your eyes and drop the subject, letting Hughie distract you with some inane story about his childhood neighbor’s cat and its vendetta against his father’s garden. But as you walk back toward the cottage, the cliff stays with you, lodged in your mind like a splinter.

In the days that follow, you can’t stop thinking about it. Each time you and Hughie wander the beach, your gaze drifts toward it. You trace the rock face with your eyes, imagining routes upward, handholds that look sturdy enough to grip, footholds barely wide enough to plant your boots. You start to see it not as a danger, but as a challenge.

It becomes an obsession, though you never say so out loud. Hughie would lecture you again, probably calling you reckless or stupid, though his tone would be soft, his concern hidden behind jokes and sarcasm. But you’re not reckless, not really. You’re not after danger for its own sake.

You’re just… desperate.

The cottage, with its peeling wallpaper and its lingering smell of damp wood, is a prison. The hours drag endlessly here, blending into days that all look the same, like you’re living inside a loop, waiting for something to happen but knowing nothing would. You memorize every knick on the dining table, every squeaky floorboard underfoot. You’ve played so many games of Scrabble with Hughie that the sight of the box now fills you with dread. And you’ve read The Old Man and the Sea so many times you start to think you are the old man, stubbornly clinging to some unspoken battle against a world you can’t control.

The monotony claws at you, scratching at your insides until you feel like you’ll crawl out of your own skin if you have to spend one more day doing nothing.

And the cliff.... it feels like an answer to a question you hadn’t even realized you were asking. A reminder that you’re still alive. That you can do something, feel something. It would be a rush of adrenaline, a satisfaction you haven’t known in months. You can picture it already, the scrape of rock under your fingers, the burn in your muscles as you pull yourself upward, the cold wind whipping through your clothes as you stand at the top.

And the view, the view would make it all worth it. From up there, you’d see everything:. The vast, endless sprawl of the ocean, the horizon stretching further than you could fathom, like freedom itself.

In a place where you feel so small, so trapped, the cliff is a promise. A promise that you still have control over something, even if it was just the choice to take a risk.

Hughie would think you were crazy, of course. He’d probably try to talk you out of it.

But he doesn’t understand.

The cliff has already decided for you.

~~~

One night, when the cottage settles into its usual silence, you make your decision. Hughie’s snores drift through the thin wall separating your rooms, soft and rhythmic, a steady cadence that lulls you into believing he won’t wake. You move quietly, slipping into a thick wool cardigan and lacing your boots tightly, the movements deliberate and slow.

The cool night air hits you like a shock as you step outside, sharp against your skin. You hesitate for a moment, the familiar weight of guilt tugging at you. What if Hughie woke up and found you gone? But the thought passes quickly, swept away by the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. They call to you, insistent and relentless, pulling you toward the cliff.

When you reach it, it looms in the moonlight, dark and jagged, every edge sharpened by shadow. You crane your neck, taking in the full height of it, and for a fleeting second, doubt creeps in. The rocks seem steeper than you remembered, the climb more perilous. But you shake the thought away, clenching your hands into fists. You didn’t come this far to back out now.

You run your fingers over the rough surface, feeling the cold, gritty texture beneath your touch. “You can do this,” you murmur under your breath, a mantra as much as a challenge.

The first few feet are deceptively simple. The handholds are large, the footholds steady. Your boots find purchase with ease, and the climb feels almost manageable. But as you ascend, the rock grows less forgiving. Edges sharpen, jabbing into your palms, and loose stones dislodge beneath your grip, clattering noisily to the ground below.

Halfway up, you pause on a narrow ledge, pressing yourself flat against the rock face as you look down.

The ground seems impossibly far away, the shoreline a distant strip of pale sand. Below, the waves churn and crash, their whispers now a low, angry roar. The sight sends your stomach lurching, and for a moment, fear sinks its claws into you. Your arms tremble with exertion, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

You could stop now.

Turn back.

Retrace your steps, carefully make your way down, and slip back into the cottage before Hughie notices you’re gone.

But no.

You’re not a coward.

Gritting your teeth, you press on. Each movement becomes slower, more deliberate. Your fingers scrape against sharp edges, your nails catching on cracks in the stone. The muscles in your arms and legs burn, but you push through the pain, refusing to stop.

The final stretch is the hardest. The rock smooths out, leaving few handholds to grasp. You cling to the surface, fingers aching, searching desperately for a way up. The wind whips past you, cold and biting, and for a moment, you wonder if this had been a mistake.

Then, just as your strength threatens to give out, you spot it. A tuft of grass growing defiantly near the top.

You stretch your arm toward it, your body straining with the effort. Your fingers curl around the brittle stems, anchoring you as you pull yourself up.

When you finally haul your body over the edge, you collapse onto your back, gasping for air. Your chest heaves, your limbs feel like jelly, and your palms throb with raw, stinging pain. But none of it matters.

Because when you open your eyes and look up, the stars stretch endlessly above you, glittering and cold against the vast, inky sky.

After a moment, you sit up, turning toward the view.

It’s breathtaking.

The beach sprawls far below, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. The waves glitter as they roll toward the shore, whispering secrets to the sand. Beyond them, the ocean stretches into infinity, the horizon blurring into the sky until you can't tell where one ended and the other began.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alive.

No cramped walls, no suffocating silence, no waiting for something to change. Up here, it’s just you and the world, untamed, infinite, and indifferent to everything that weighs you down.

And for a fleeting moment, you feel free.

Sitting up, you let the salty breeze whip through your hair, the chill stinging your cheeks but waking you in a way you haven’t felt in months. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, a live wire under your skin, making your hands tremble, not with fear, but with something close to exhilaration. This is what you’ve been missing. The feeling of being alive. The reminder of why you joined the Boys in the first place.

It was never just about fighting back or making a difference. It wasn’t even about vengeance, not entirely. It was about proving something, to yourself more than anyone else. Proving you were capable. That you weren’t some fragile thing waiting to be saved, but someone who could save others. Someone who could matter.

And for the first time in months, as you sit atop that cliff with the ocean spread wide below you, you start to believe it again.

You pull your knees to your chest, staring out at the endless stretch of dark water and rolling hills. The waves below crash in rhythmic bursts, a steady reminder of the untamed power of the world around you. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, letting the night envelop you. But when you open them again, something catches your attention, a faint glimmer in the distance, just beyond the horizon.

You squint, focusing on the thin silhouette rising against the dark expanse of sky. It blinks, a tiny, rhythmic flash of red light, steady as a heartbeat.

A cell tower.

You sit up straighter, your breath catching in your throat.

For a moment, the sight feels surreal, like some cruel trick of the moonlight. But no, it’s unmistakably a tower. The blinking red light winks at you like it knows a secret, mocking your isolation with its quiet, unyielding flashes.

Your pulse spikes, your mind racing. Mallory had told you there was no signal out here, that you were too far removed from civilization for anything but silence. And for weeks, you and Hughie hadn’t bothered to try. But now, staring at that lone tower, a thought sparks in your mind, sharp and electric.

What if?

What if Mallory was wrong? What if, up here, with the elevation and the proximity to the tower, you could catch even the faintest bar of service? What if you could hear something, anything, from the outside world?

The idea sinks its teeth into you, relentless. The isolation has gnawed at your sanity, the lack of updates driving you to the edge of your patience. For weeks, you’ve been stranded here, cut off from everything that matters. No news. No reassurance. No way of knowing if Butcher is alive—or worse, if he’s dead and no one has had the guts to tell you.

Your mind spirals as the possibilities take hold. What if he’s been dead for weeks, and they’ve kept you in the dark to protect themselves? What if the rest of the Boys are scattered or captured, and you’re here, wasting time on beach walks and Scrabble games while the world burns without you?

You can practically feel the phone in your hand, the smooth of the glass beneath your fingertips. You imagine the vibration of a text, the sharp trill of your ringtone breaking the stillness of the night. You imagine Mallory’s sharp, chastising voice on the other end, berating you for doing something reckless but alive, present. Even her disapproval would feel like a comfort, a tether to the world you’ve been ripped away from.

But then, the warnings creep back in, unrelenting as the tide. Mallory’s grim face, her voice low and certain.

“Stay dark. Stay hidden. A cell signal could be tracked. And if they find you, it won’t just be you they’ll come for. It’ll be Hughie, too.”

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply. You know the risk. You’ve seen what Homelander can do, how quickly and mercilessly he can snuff out anyone he sees as a threat. A cell signal would be a beacon, a neon sign pointing directly to your hiding place.

And yet...

The solitude has become unbearable.

You fall back against the soft earth, letting your head rest against the cool ground. The blinking red light holds your gaze, its rhythm hypnotic. It feels like a lifeline, a fragile connection to the world you’ve been forced to leave behind. The rational part of you knows better than to entertain the idea. But the part of you that’s starving for connection, for control, for something real—that part wonders if the risk might be worth it.

For now, you swallow the thought. Rising to your feet, you brush the sand and grit from your pants, forcing your attention back to the path ahead. You need to climb down before the tide comes in and traps you here. But as you descend the cliff, the tower’s blinking light lingers in your mind, its faint promise burning itself into your memory.

By the time your boots hit the sand, you’ve convinced yourself you’ll forget about it. That you’ll stay the course, follow Mallory’s orders, and keep the signal dark.

But deep down, you know that blinking red light has already ignited something dangerous inside you.

~~~

You spend the next few days pretending everything is fine, doing your best to hide the fact that your mind has become dangerously, deliriously warped. You force smiles at Hughie, nodding along to his nervous chatter during your walks, cooking meals you can barely taste, and flipping aimlessly through the same dog-eared paperbacks. But when the silence creeps in, so does the red light.

The night you climbed the cliff, you dreamed of it, burning behind your eyelids in perfect rhythm, like a pulse you couldn’t quiet. The next morning, you saw it again, reflected in the dark surface of your tea, winking at you as though it knew what it was doing. By the evening, it appeared in the crimson glint of the sunset on the water, shimmering like a cruel mirage.

It’s always there. Mocking. Knowing. Goading.

You tried to ignore it. Tried to push it out of your mind. Really, you have. You’ve thrown yourself into the monotony of cottage life, reading, cooking, walking the shoreline until your legs ache. You’ve tried to find satisfaction in the small, safe rituals of your exile, to reassure yourself that waiting is the right thing to do. But the blinking red light has planted itself deep in your brain, a seed of temptation that refuses to wither.

And each passing day, each endless, wondering moment spent trapped in the limbo of not knowing, feeds it.

You wonder if Butcher is alive. If the man you love, the father of your child, is somewhere out there fighting for his life, or if he’s already gone, lost to you forever. You wonder about the Boys, the strange, mismatched family you’d built for yourself. Are they safe? Are they together? Are they even still alive? And then there’s the world itself, so far away it feels unreal. What’s happening out there, beyond these hills and waves? What fires are burning while you sit here, idle and powerless?

The questions loop endlessly, clawing at your mind, their weight germinating the seed until its roots stretch deeper than you can bear.

But you’ve never been the type to give up easily. Determination is as much a curse as it is a strength, and if nothing else, it’s always been your defining trait. Whether it’s a battle worth fighting or a doomed cause, you’ve never been able to walk away from something once it’s lodged itself in your heart.

And this time is no different.

The blinking red light doesn’t just haunt you, it calls to you. It dares you to make a choice, to risk everything for even the faintest chance of connection.

At least no one could ever say you weren’t determined.

The night air feels heavier this time, thicker, pressing against your skin like a warning as you step silently out of the cottage. Hughie’s faint snores filter through the thin walls, steady and familiar. At the door, you pause, guilt nipping at your resolve. For a fleeting moment, you consider turning back, crawling under the safety of the blankets. But the pull is too strong, gnawing at the edges of your mind. Clutching your phone in a trembling hand, you slip outside, the soft crunch of your boots on the gravel the only sound in the stillness.

The climb up the cliff feels more treacherous than before. Your hands shake—not just from the exertion, but from the weight of what you’re doing. With every grasp of the jagged rock, you battle the voice in your head, the one whispering, What if this is a mistake? Yet the blinking red light, steady and unyielding against the dark, pushes you forward. You dig your boots into the rocky surface, ignoring the ache in your arms, ignoring the way the cold wind bites at your exposed skin. When you finally pull yourself over the edge, you collapse onto your knees, panting, your legs trembling beneath you.

The tower’s pulse feels like it’s syncing with your own frantic heartbeat.

You force yourself upright, pulling your phone from your pocket, holding your breath as the screen flickers to life. The battery indicator mocks you, barely above five percent.

You haven’t charged it since the night you spent at Annie and Hughie’s. The fact that it’s alive at all is a small miracle. Swallowing your frustration, you navigate to the settings, hands fumbling, searching for a signal.

Nothing.

The bars remain empty, unyielding, mocking your desperation.

“No, no, come on,” you whisper, pacing along the edge of the cliff, your arm outstretched toward the blinking light. The desperation in your chest rises like a tide, threatening to drown you. Your gaze darts around, frantic, until it lands on a spindly tree growing close to the edge of the cliff.

It isn’t tall, not much more than a weathered silhouette against the stars, but it’s tall enough.

Your breath catches as your resolve hardens. I can do this.

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you approach the tree. Its thin branches tremble in the breeze, and for a moment, doubt prickles at the back of your mind. But you push it down. Without thinking too hard, you begin to climb.

Each branch feels weaker than the last, threatening to snap under your weight. The sharp bark digs into your palms as you maneuver carefully, your small bump making the climb more awkward than it should be. The higher you go, the more the branches sway, the wind catching you like a phantom tugging at your cardigan.

Halfway up, you wedge yourself into the crook of two sturdy branches, clutching the trunk with one arm as you fumble for your phone with the other. Your hand shakes as you power it on again, holding it high, stretching your arm toward the blinking red light as if you could pull a signal straight from the air.

Then, it happens.

A single bar appears on the screen.

You laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound that cracks in your throat. Relief blooms in your chest, sudden and overwhelming. You stare at the notifications flooding in, your fingers scrolling instinctively.

You squint, smile faltering.

The messages are all from… Adam?

Your excitement curdles into confusion. Adam. You haven’t thought of him since the gala. You haven’t had the time or energy to think of him.

The first message was sent the day after the gala.

Hey, you left so suddenly last night. Are you okay?

You frown, scrolling to the next one, sent weeks later.

Haven’t heard from you. Just want to make sure you’re alright.

But it’s the last one, sent less than twenty-four hours ago, that makes your stomach drop.

You’re going to think I’m insane, but I swear I just saw your dad walking into Vought Tower.

Your pulse stutters as you stare at the words, your mind struggling to comprehend them. Attached to the message is a photo, grainy and blurred, clearly taken in a rush. But the figure in the image is unmistakable.

Your father.

The world tilts beneath you. You grip the phone tighter, your knuckles whitening as the branches around you sway in the breeze. The man in the photo isn’t a ghost of memory, isn’t the distant echo of a childhood long buried. He’s alive. Alive and walking into Vought Tower.

The realization crashes over you, knocking the air from your lungs. Your father is alive.

Your breathing quickens, shallow and erratic. The suffocating silence of the night presses in, broken only by the distant roar of waves below and the steady pulse of the tower’s red light, colder now, like the unblinking eye of something monstrous, a mocking metronome counting down to something you can’t yet fathom.

Your phone buzzes weakly in your hand, its screen dimming as the last of its battery begins to drain. You stare at the photo, willing yourself to believe it’s real, that this isn’t some cruel trick of the isolation.

Your voice echoes into the dark, empty night.

“Dad?”

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @buckybarnesbestgirl

#fanfiction #billy butcher #billy butcher fanfic #billy butcher x reader #the boys fanfic #the boys #william butcher #fanfic #the boys tv #the boys amazon #billy butcher x female reader #billy butcher x you

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lemonwrap · 1 year ago

Text

Imagine: a Dishonored AU where Ghost is marked and gifted with the Outsider’s powers, and Soap is the royalty he protects.

As a young child, Simon grew up poor—so poor that his father couldn’t repay the debts he racked up. Not when he spent nearly every cent on booze.

When Simon is eight, the street gang his father had been avoiding for nearly a year finally catches up with him. Although Simon manages to escape, the gang kills his entire family as retribution—his father, mother, and older brother, Tommy. Ghost didn’t care for his father in the least, but it’s still a shock to see a corpse.

That night, as he sobs on his cracked front doorstep and mourns the loss of his mother and brother, he falls asleep. He awakens in a strange place, where chunks of buildings and land float throughout a vast abyss.

Simon wanders around for an unknown amount of time investigating—it could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been years. A flurry of inky black particles form in the air and quickly arrange themselves into a…being.

There’s something distinctly godlike about the being. He isn’t human. His eyes are pitch black, an abyss with no bounds, and his skin is pale as snow. He holds himself with a rigid posture, arms crossed, and chin lifted as he looks down upon the young boy.

“Hello, Simon,” the being says.

“Who are you?” Simon whispers.

“I am the Outsider. Your life has taken a turn, has it not? I have chosen you and drawn you into the Void,” he says. “There are forces in the world and beyond the world, great forces that men call ‘magic’, and now these forces will serve your will.”

Simon doesn’t say anything else, mystified. What is he talking about? There’s always been stories of magic, of the Outsider, but magic doesn’t really exist, does it? But nothing else can explain how real this all feels, from the cold, empty air to the calls of the whales as they float throughout the chasm of this realm, to the Outsider himself.

“This is my mark,” the Outsider says, and he lifts his hand. Suddenly, Simon’s own left hand is burning, and he jumps at the pain, looking down at it in alarm. There’s an intricate design forming on the back of his hand, and when he tries to wipe it off, it’s smooth and stays firmly in place like a tattoo would.

“Use this newfound power, my gift to you, Simon. How you use what I have given you falls upon you, as it has to the others before you. And now, I return you to your world—but know that I will be watching with great interest.”

In the morning, Simon wakes up on his doorstep again. He immediately checks his hand and is startled to see that it’s still there, and it doesn’t come off. It wasn’t just a dream.

He lives on the streets after that.

Simon spends years honing his abilities, including his ability to Blink moderate distances, Wind Blast opponents or objects, and his sword fighting skills. He also maintains a strong, agile body ready for just about anything, and even adopts the name Ghost, coming from his ability to Blink and his stealth.

In his dreams, Ghost sometimes finds himself in the Void, but he never sees the Outsider. His mark is as visible and strong as ever, though, and so he keeps it covered constantly.

At sixteen, Ghost enters the Blade Verbana, an annual sword-fighting competition. The prize is a spot in the Serkonan Guard, something he would have almost zero chance of gaining otherwise.

Ghost wins, of course. Even without his powers, most of his opponents were no match for him. He didn’t use his powers in the competition because using his Wind Blast to throw one of his opponents into a wall or Blinking to dodge would give him away. Black magic is feared and looked down upon, and its discovery would subject him to arrest or death. Ghost knows that is what he possesses, so he keeps it a secret, only using it when alone or in an emergency.

After two years of service, the Duke of Serkonos sends Ghost to Dunwall to serve Empress Anne MacTavish. The Empress assigns him to be the Royal Protector, specifically for her son.

That’s when he meets John MacTavish.

He’s Ghost’s age, has a stupid haircut in the form of a mohawk, and likes to be called Soap. Ghost thinks he’s insolent and irritating, with the most redeeming thing about him is that he doesn’t talk down on Ghost and doesn’t purposely flaunt his wealth or status. It makes his attitude a little more bearable. However, Soap has a healthy disrespect for authority and, to Ghost’s annoyance, likes to flee the elegant balls his mother hosts and sneak out of his room in the tower at night. It’s Ghost’s job to protect and guard him, and Soap is making it a pain in the ass.

Ghost isn’t particularly attached to his fiery ward until one night, when Soap slips out of his room yet again. Ghost tracks him down and eventually finds Soap in the middle of a brawl with three men in an alleyway, losing badly. Ghost helps him. He and Soap fight side by side, though Soap is clearly lacking in any real technique, and Ghost chases the men away. He could’ve easily Wind Blasted them, but he doesn’t want to try and explain that to Soap.

He’s about to yell at Soap until he realizes there’s a girl there, too. A teenager, only a few years younger than them. Soap had been defending her. Ghost is still annoyed, but not quite as upset as before as he drags Soap back to the tower. He tends to a pouting Soap’s scrapes and sends him back to his room with a blooming black eye.

The next day, when Ghost is reprimanded for allowing Soap to leave his room and get hurt, Soap jumps in to defend the Royal Protector. Ghost manages to avoid punishment, although Soap and his black eye make quite the sight as his mother chews him out.

After that, they get closer.

As it is his duty to do so, Ghost follows Soap just about everywhere, much to Soap’s annoyance. When Soap isn’t sneaking out, roaming the city streets, or meeting up with his friend Gaz, he likes to find reprieve in the small patch of woods near the tower. Sometimes he takes a dip in the small pond located there.

“C’mon, Ghost,” Soap urges, waggling his eyebrows as he tosses his shirt to the side. “The water’s fine.”

“I’m supposed to be guarding you,” Ghost says gruffly as Soap steps in. He tries very hard not to look at Soap’s chest, his strong biceps, or his tanned skin.

“You’re so serious all the time,” Soap huffs, taking his arm and playfully splashing Ghost with water. From the edge, Ghost is torn between wanting to splash him back and wanting to stay on guard.

“I won’t let you get in trouble,” Soap assures him. “You need to relax a little!”

Ah, fuck it. What’s a little fun? Ghost has more clothes back at the tower, anyway. He kicks off his boots.

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ghost says.

“Warn me about wh—“

Ghost doesn’t hear the rest of his sentence. Clothes on, he impulsively cannonballs straight into the pond, splashing water all over the place in a huge wave. When he rises to the surface, Soap is sputtering and spitting water out of his mouth.

“I didn't mean come in like that,” Soap laughs incredulously. Later, when they return to the tower, Ghost dripping all over the floors and boots squelching with every step, Soap tells his mother that he pushed Ghost in just so that Ghost wouldn’t get in trouble.

Between their banter and jokes, Ghost also teaches Soap more about self defense, and they spar frequently. Soap gets better and better, but against Ghost’s years of experience and unnatural talents, Ghost still wins. Soap gets some good hits in, though, and he can hold his own in a fight.

Soap quickly becomes likable—and despite his intention to stay distant, Ghost starts crushing on Soap. He’s still professional, of course, but it’s hard for him to not like Soap, especially when they spend so much time together. Soap treats him well, too, and the brazen-faced man often shows him a softer, more kind side of himself. Ghost’s own facade slips more often than he intends it to.

Sometimes, Ghost wishes he could tell Soap about the Outsider’s mark. He doesn’t, and the Outsider never visits him either. Perhaps Ghost is too boring for him now that he isn’t a street rat.

Less than a year after Ghost is appointed as Soap’s Royal Protector, the Empress falls ill and dies. At only eighteen, Soap becomes the new Emperor of the Empire of the Isles.

Soap doesn’t get a lot of time to process it all when the council urges him to make a public statement and officially inherit the title. After, Soap stands with Ghost at his side as the aides move Soap’s belongings into his new quarters—his mother’s old room.

Soap doesn’t say a word and just stands there with watery eyes. Unsure if this was a line he should cross, Ghost attempts to go stand outside Soap’s door, but Soap asks him to stay. The new Emperor cries into Ghost’s shoulder that night.

Ghost tries his best to help Soap deal with his grief, but even with personal experience, he’s not the greatest at it. Even so, Soap begins to get the hang of being Emperor and proves himself to be a benevolent and competent leader. The people become fond of Soap and respect him greatly.

It isn’t enough to keep him from being targeted, though.

It’s a quiet night, nearly three years after being appointed Emperor, when a group of assassins makes an attempt on Soap’s life. Soap and Ghost are resting in a gazebo, looking out at the water, and standing much too close for Ghost to even pretend he’s being professional. He can’t stop looking at Soap, from his grown-out mohawk that hasn’t been trimmed in months to his beautiful blue eyes. Ghost wants to kiss Soap so, so badly, but he does no such thing, and resigns himself to observing.

Neither of them are prepared for the attack, but Ghost recovers first. There’s six of them, all covering their faces like Ghost does—perhaps they had heard of Ghost’s fighting prowess and thought that they could overwhelm him with numbers.

He doesn’t let that happen.

Everything comes in a rush, and he’s using the Outsider’s mark to prevent them from even touching Soap. Soap knocks one of them out in the ensuing struggle and beats the shit out of another, but Ghost is a whirlwind, dodging and Blinking to avoid blows, Wind Blasting his opponents to the ground, and using his sword like it’s an extension of his own body. It’s over quicker than Ghost had expected.

“Shit,” Soap says breathlessly, visibly shaken when Ghost pulls his sword out of the last assassin’s stomach.

“You alright, Johnny?” Ghost asks, stumbling forward, and finds that he’s very out of breath.

“Simon? What’s that on your side?” Soap asks, his brow creasing with worry. “Are you—“

Ghost staggers, and suddenly his side is bursting with pain. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it before. He reaches his hand to where the pain is radiating and can feel the hot blood quickly gushing from the wound.

“Simon?!” Soap rushes forward, and suddenly, Ghost feels a little too woozy. Shit, they must’ve gotten him bad.

“It’s fine,” Ghost grunts, trying not to worry Soap too much, but it’s starting to get dark and Ghost is dizzy.

The last thing he hears is Soap frantically calling his name.

When Ghost wakes up, he’s in a dim room that he recognizes as Soap’s quarters. There’s a weight on his thigh, and he looks down to see Soap’s head resting on him. Soap’s closed eyes are puffy like he’s been crying, and there’s shadows under them, too. Ghost shifts and lets out a groan as a sharp pain shoots through his side, and Soap immediately notices, his eyes snapping open.

But then his face switches from relief and crumples into a terrible, terrible guilt.

Soap sits up and lays his hand on Ghost’s chest, and Ghost realizes that he’s feeling how his chest rises and falls. Ghost doesn’t know what to say, but anything he possibly could fades when Soap lets out a shuddering gasp and begins to cry. It quickly turns into hiccuping sobs, and Ghost worriedly grabs Soap’s hands in his own, trying to soothe him.

“Ah, shit. Johnny, it’s okay,” Ghost says, wanting to lean forward but wincing. Soap pushes him back against the propped-up pillows, his cheeks wet with tears, lip wobbling, brows upturned in utter sorrow. Ghost feels like an asshole for letting himself get hurt so badly.

“It’s not. I thought you were going to die,” Soap says, his breathing hitched.

“I had to protect you,” Ghost says, running his hands up Soap’s arms.

“But—“

“Johnny, I’d do it a thousand times if it meant you lived.”

Soap sniffles and lays his head back down on Ghost’s thigh, and Ghost pets his hair.

Later, they talk about what happened. At Soap’s probing, Ghost cautiously admits that he had been marked by the Outsider as a child. Soap doesn’t seem to find this off-putting, nor does he call for Ghost’s arrest or beheading. He doesn’t seem to think any differently of Ghost, although he does seem incredibly intrigued by the mark on Ghost’s hand that he’d diligently kept hidden until now.

Only a day and a half after being stabbed, Ghost gets out of bed and hobbles around some, much to Soap’s displeasure.

When he gets tired, he lets Soap lead him back into bed. They’re close, and Ghost just can’t help himself. He strokes his hand through Soap’s hair softly, and Soap allows it—seems to enjoy it, even.

And then he’s using the hand in Soap’s hair to urge him closer, kissing him before he can stop himself, because he’s wanted to do this for three years at this point. Ghost quickly pulls back, though, stunned at what he’s just done.

Soap looks just as stunned for a moment, but then he grins.

“Is this your way of telling me you’re feeling better?” Soap laughs, following Ghost’s lips and kissing him fiercely.

“Better because of you,” Ghost manages to say between their desperate kisses. He doesn’t even care that his side still hurts like a bitch and that it’ll likely be weeks before he’s back on his feet.

“You big fuckin’ sap,” Soap says. “I love you.”

“Yeah?” Ghost breathes.

“Yeah,” Soap affirms, and that’s that.

#if you haven’t watched/played Dishonored before please do it omg #Wanted to make Ghoap’s situation similar to Jessamine and Corvo’s when they first met :)#This has been in my drafts for months but it’s probably not going to be a full blown fic #so I made it a drabble instead #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #cod #call of duty #dishonored #dishonored au #lemonwrap writes #drabble

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yume-tsuki · 18 days ago

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🔰🐉Seven deadly Sins:Eight Guards of the Abyss🔰 chapter 63 of my next gen au can be found on my ao3 and wattpad✨ In the picture you see Galahad who remembers good times with his grandpa and also the day he had killed him... ao3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57915655/chapters/166726561

wattpad

#eight guards of the abyss #nanatsu no taizai #seven deadly sins #four knights of the apocalypse #mokushiroku no yonkishi #7ds #7ds oc #4kota oc #ban 7ds

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emanation-aura · 1 year ago

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can i ask for your rant on Genshin regional specialities? your meta on the bosses was very entertaining, and i largely agree–although i do have to argue that the ruin serpent is worse than the wenut in the spiral abyss

(Meta on boss drop bloat in Genshin)

Ok, well don't say I didn't warn you, anon.

Regional specialties suffer from the same problem as the boss drops as we always need to have at least one or two per expansion, and that as the expansions have gone on, the drops have become more and more mismatched. I mean, I have problems with some of the Liyue characters' regional specialty assignments too, but I'll deal with them too.

I'm gonna address them region by region.

(Highlights: Chongyun why do you use Cor Lapis, Dendrobium Chiori but she doesn't seem to be killing people?!, Thoma you poor soul on Fluorescent Fungus, Navia using Primordial Water, the thing she nearly died to—)

Liyue

Here is the current canonical list of who ascends with what in Liyue. Besides the obvious paradigm of why Gaming, a Pyro Vision user, is ascending with the Starconch (which has, for literal years, been a Childe and then Childe + Yelan exclusive, making it pretty much "Hydro Liyue ascender" for everyone released after 1.0, plus it's also literally a conch from the ocean, the theming—), I actually have more issues.

Chongyun using Cor Lapis, for instance. Like, let's look at the other two characters that use Cor Lapis: ah right, Zhongli aka Rex Lapis the (former) Geo Archon, whom this ore is named after, and Keqing, relentless driver of an ideal of change for Liyue Harbour, who is so dedicated to the idea of Liyue she is willing to blaspheme its Archon to do so. Both of these people, in very different ways, hold a great love for Liyue and wish to see it prosper.

Chongyun doesn't have this. It's not like he's disloyal or hates Liyue Harbour, but it's not a focal point of his character. He's more along the lines of Xiangling and Xinqiu as passively treating and treasuring Liyue as his home, but he doesn't carry the strong convictions that the Cor Lapis (lit. "Stone Heart") implies, at least not in the direction of Liyue Harbour. His character is all about his yang spirit and exorcism,

Honestly, I know it's not a regional specialty, but Chongyun would theoretically make the most sense ascending on Mist Flowers. Beyond that, my opinion is that he suits Qingxin more— like, come on, Qingxin (清心) means "pure heart" (or "mind cleansing"), and what's Chongyun's most famous motto? That's right, "Heart be pure, evil be erased. Mind be purged..." (and, via Shenhe, "world be saved").

Note: Ok, now the Chinese version of the motto is obviously very different, which might affect my argument. Combining what Shenhe completes for us, the motto is:

驅邪縛魅，內外澄清，回向正道，保身護命。 To expel evil and restrain demons, inside and outside pure and clear, turn back towards the upright Way, protect life-destiny and guard the body.

Translation courtesy of this site, since these mottos are based on the Eight Great Incantations in Daoism, specifically the "purifying the heart incantation" and "pacifying the earth incantation".

But I'd argue this makes the Qingxin argument even stronger. First of all, it straight up uses 澄清 chengqing "pure and clear", the same as the 清 qing in Qingxin. Second of all, the Daoist chant this comes from is the 淨心 jingxin "purifying the heart" mantra, like come on, I don't have the energy to explain even further how this suits him. Plus, the Qingxin description says "It eschews the warmth and moisture of the plains to gaze out afar from the solitary mountaintops." Apart from applying to the three (pseudo-) Adepti very well, doesn't this perfectly describe Chongyun's character struggle? Having to deny the warmth of life and keep himself cold (physically, mostly) and under control so that his yang spirit doesn't lose control??

Like, I know Qingxin is somehow the 'adepti' ascension material (excluding Xianyun and Yanfei, because Qingxin only applies to adepti/adjacent who don't really fit into the mortal world), but Chongyun fits this too well, and he can join his aunt Shenhe in using it too.

Other sins of Liyue ascension materials: ok, this one is less egregious, but I feel like Xinyan deserves Jueyun Chilli and not Violetgrass. Like, I get that the description of Violetgrass says it has a "strong vitality" and that its "downward-blooming flower keeps its fragrance from dissipating", both traits that reflect Xinyan's rock'n'roll persistence and her character, but Violetgrass is also a medicinal herb both factually and given that Baizhu and Qiqi both use it, so it's sending out mixed messages here. If anything, Xinyan suits Jueyun Chilli as well for being the "kick up the ass" for Liyue traditionalists (paraphrased but the sentiment is there). I'm not as sure on this one, since Jueyun Chilli also doubles as "Madam Ping's disciples' ascension material" with Yaoyao and Xiangling, but it doesn't even make sense for Yaoyao, swap her with Xinyan since Yaoyao is a healer and takes care of people and would make more sense ascending on a medicinal herb.

There's also, glaringly, the issue with Clearwater Jade and Xianyun being its only user. This has an easy hotfix: remember my problem with Gaming? Let him use Clearwater Jade instead for Chenyu connections, therefore fixing the 'there's literally only one user of this ascension material' problem. I know it's Clearwater Jade and Gaming is Pyro, but at least he has a lore connection to Chenyu Vale.

Speaking of the 'only one user of this ascension material' problem...

Inazuma

Q: Thoma, why the fuck are you the only one to use Fluorescent Fungus??

A: Because Thoma released in 2.2, just like Tsurumi Island.

There are two ways we can go about hits. First, we scrap the Fluorescent Fungus entirely and move Thoma to a different ascension material. The question is, which one? None of the others really have an MO that fits Thoma...

at least, in Inazuma.

Remember, Thoma is half-Mondstadtian. And if we wanna bend the rules a bit (or, in fact, actually give this half of his heritage some weight rather than just ignore it), why don't we give him a Mondstadt regional specialty?

Let's take Fluorescent Fungus' description. "A mushroom that glows like a night-light... [and] can help to light the way." Great, so we're dealing with only one theme here: bioluminescence and 'lighting the way in the dark'. Thoma has a Pyro Vision and works as a retainer for the Kamisato Clan, this isn't too strange. Hey, wait, isn't there also a bioluminescent plant from Mondstadt?

Small Lamp Grass: "A wild grass that emits light at night. Used in cooking to enhance other flavors. Just as the subtle fragrance of wild flowers will not distract a focused person, Small Lamp Grass' delicate glow will not attract their attention either, even at night."

Thoma could use Small Lamp Grass as a substitute, which three other characters already use, therefore reducing the amount of regional specialty bloat and making farming him not contingent on completing the Tsurumi Island questline, (which can be a good or a bad thing depending on what type of player you are), but as his """intended""" playstyle was a Hu Tao shielder at his release, the Lamp Grass choice also makes strategic sense since a Hu Tao owner will have likely already gotten a lot of Lamp grass by being in Mondstadt already, versus having to explore all of Inazuma. Plus, the Lamp Grass has an even better theming boon: "used in cooking to enhance other flavors" (like as a retainer, Thoma enhances the Kamisato Clan by his dedicated service).

If you wanted to play up Thoma's nostalgia for his homeland, you could make him use Windwheel Asters, which cannot grow in places with no wind or plagued by strong storms, only where the wind is gentle and nourishing. Inazuma, literally surrounded by a strong storm due to the Sakoku Decree and ravaged by the storms of war (metaphorically), would not be able to grow the Windwheel Aster until after the events of the Inazuma AQ and Raiden SQ II (assuming, for the sake of it, that Windwheel Asters can theoretically grow outside Mondstadt), reflecting how Thoma is stuck in a 'windless land' antithetical to his very nature. Big sad. I wish this was touched on more often, but that's an Inazuma critique, not just regional specialty reorganisation. And believe me, if I got into the Inazuma problems (as I have done in the past) we would be here all week.

The other option is not to scrap the Fluorescent Fungus, which in that case, someone else should use it. The only obvious candidate are our two new Inazuma releases: Kirara and Chiori. Out of the two of them, I think Chiori doesn't deserve Dendrobium, because it's such a reference to the red spider lily and death that even Chiori, who has her 'dark side' (being a blunt communicator??) doesn't exactly fit its MO. I mean, Sara is a war general. Of course she gets Dendrobium the flower that grows where blood was spilled. If Kokomi were a more competent character she would get Dendrobium too— *gets shot*

but it's hard to make a case for Chiori using Fluorescent Fungus unless you lean really hard into it being the "Inazuma outcast ascender", i.e. Thoma, a non-(full)-Inazuman living in Inazuma (everyone treats him considers him a 'naturalised' foreigner despite being half-Inazuman because that's the inevitable consequence of not being the picture of conformity in a society like this, trust me, I know the feeling), and Chiori, an Inazuman not living in Inazuma. The bioluminescence angle could also reflect Chiori's aspirations to become a fashion industry leader, like "the light shining in the dark", something like that. Alternatively, Chiori could use Amakumo Fruit, which fits her MO far better: "as if showing its defiance, it will bear fruit while facing the peals of thunder from the sky." Chiori is determined and defiant of the odds to achieve her dream, a "bold spirit" (quote from the desc.) for someone who emigrated and is struggling to make her life out there.

Kirara doesn't suit Amakumo Fruit either, given what I've described of it. She's neither 'defiant' (in the way that the description implies) nor strongly Electro-tied, she's just an international cat courier. That's why Fluorescent Fungus could suit her more— like, the luminescent angle lighting the way (through the fog of Tsurumi Island), just like her traveling self. It's not a deeply strong connection, but it tracks better than Amakumo Fruit does.

(Moving Chiori and Kirara away from Dendrobium and Amakumo Fruit respectively means that we're only moving the 'one character one material' problem, but given how well those two suit Sara and Raiden respectively, I'm loath to move or delete one of them. The ideal balancing factor would be moving Kirara to Fluorescent Fungus and Chiori to Amakumo Fruit, leaving Dendrobium with a single but extremely fitting user, which is more than Thoma + Fungus can be.)

Also, Yae Miko not ascending on Sakura Blooms is a sin. Swap Miko and Ayato (like, Ganoderma lore is literally the souls of dead children, what better way to imply further darkness in Ayato raising child soldiers in the Shuumatsuban especially given this is a criminally overlooked aspect in his character). Hell, if this aspect was further emphasised in Sayu's character, we could move Sayu to Dendrobium too, move Aloy literally anywhere else don't you think the Subdetection Unit, Trishiraite, or any other ore/mechanical thing would suit her more, time of release be damned??, and scrap Crystal Marrow. But that's getting dangerously close to talking about an Inazuma rewrite again, so I'll leave it there.

Hey, wouldn't it be really fucked up if Kokomi used Crystal Marrow to ascend? HYV, you cowards—

Sumeru

(Warning! I am going to be factoring the ascension material of Sethos, who was recently drip-marketed for 4.7 and hails from Sumeru. This is minor leak territory, but if you don't wish to see it, skip the section double-labeled Sethos at start and end.)

Sumeru is an interesting case because a lot of the regional specialties do clearly fit well, but at the same time are organised weirdly. I won't get into Collei and Wanderer using Rukkhashava Mushrooms because those, while weird on the surface, there is an interesting explanation behind it (ft. Ashikai's video on Eucharist lore) that coheres well. Nor will I take issue with Kaveh and Mourning Flower, since it's so clearly themed around the Iranian cultural significance of the Kaiser's Crown and dovetails with Kaveh so well, so we can let his single usage of it slide.

My first issue is with Sand Grease Pupa on Alhaitham and Dehya. Alhaitham does not really fit Sand Grease Pupa. Like, I will hear the argument that the description "the hardened shell is meant to protect the Quicksand Eels' larval bodies until they finally acclimate to the conditions of the dry desert" is a subtle reference to Alhaitham's character and temperament, where his """"callousness""" and blunt personality are a method to enforce boundaries and keep the personal peace he strives for in life amidst the sea of uncertainty. But the thing is that doesn't hold for Dehya, who also uses Sand Grease Pupa and doesn't have this kind of thing unless you count her being a hardened mercenary? Which is incredibly strange.

But things are complicated by the fact that there is no satisfactory place to move Alhaitham, unlike previous occasions where we found better places for Chiori and Kirara, etc. Like, I've tried my best, but against all odds the quote I mentioned from Sand Grease Pupa is the only one that remotely seems to work for him, and that's even if I ignore release order and consider Trishiraite or Mourning Flower.

So I feel compelled to keep Sand Grease Pupa. In that case, let's eject Dehya from using it, because it clearly doesn't fit her apart from the desert origin, which isn't even consistent because of Alhaitham. I'll talk about where Dehya should go in a moment, but now we have the problem that Alhaitham is the only user of the Pupa, which is something we try to avoid unless the theming is strong enough (like Kujou Sara - Dendrobium). So, taking into account "a hardened shell" theming, who else fits this?

"I must make a lot of Mora." "With enough Mora, my family will never have to smile at me while swallowing their pain, and I will never have to lose anything due to lacking Mora..."

Ding ding ding! It's Dori. In fact, I want to make the case that she fits Sand Grease Pupa better than Kalpalata Lotus, which she currently uses. The motif of Kalpalata Lotus is about "it looks like a lotus, but it isn't", which... works with Dori, I suppose, but isn't particularly compelling. Meanwhile, the Pupa is a 'hardened shell'— like Alhaitham's own boundary-setting unique personality, Dori's shell is her love of Mora, something she uses to face the outer world after the pain of losing her sister to a disease that could have been cured had they had enough money to purchase the herbs needed. Dori's obsessive love of Mora is real, of course, but it's the "hardened shell" that protects her from disappointment after the trauma of losing her sister. It's almost too perfect! (And, Alhaitham and Dori are some of the only rainforest-origin characters to have a slightly strong enough connection to the desert to justify this, not that we really need to.)

This, obviously, ignores release order. My previous comments on reordering regional specialties in Liyue and Inazuma just so happened to be compliant with the order in which they released the items. However, from Sumeru onward, I no longer care.

Ok, but that leaves Nahida high and dry on Kalpalata Lotus, another single case user. Again, the theming works for her, but it isn't really perfect— of course Nahida represents the "looks weak, is a lot more" archetype pretty well, but it isn't exactly congruent with "looks like a lotus, but isn't", because that's more of a question of identity than of power. I mean, I guess our meeting her in the AQ is kind of like that, but that's also a weak argument.

I think, therefore, we should move Nahida to use the Padisarah, which has hitherto only been used by Nilou, fixing another one of our single-character-material problems and allowing us to delete Kalpalata Lotus (or make it a quest exclusive item to Caribert, that would be cool). Like, I hope I don't need to elaborate why the Padisarah is suitable for Nahida, being a "holy and noble" plant descended from GoF and the era of the Three God-Kings of Sumeru, plus it being a calque (more explicitly in CN) of Padishah, the sovereign title used in Persia and beyond, which of course suits Nahida as she is, like it or not, sovereign ruler of Sumeru (would be a nice fuck you to the Sages too).

Sethos

At this juncture, we need to talk about the elephant in the room. Before Sethos was drip-marketed for version 4.7, I would've completely discounted Trishiraite as useless and said to dump it. However, I now have to reconsider, since Sethos has been leaked to use Trishiraite (wow, were they setting this up more than 9 patches ago?).

We don't know much about Sethos, admittedly, but we know he's a desert native and seems to be affiliated with the Temple of Silence and has connections to Cyno (I have not fully played through Cyno SQ II at the time of writing. If you have a more compelling case based on its events, please give spoiler warnings). Given this, Trishiraite seems perfectly reasonable for him, although there is the question of if he's a Temple of Silence member (albeit seemingly opposed to Cyno, given implications in the trailer), why he isn't just using the Scarab, because just read the Scarab lore:

Legend has it that when the desert king ruled this land, the souls of those vanquished by him would be sealed within these insects by the magically-skilled priests at great triumphs held in the City of the Pillars. The scarabs would then be charged with defending the sacred temples and palaces for all eternity in the name of Al-Ahmar. In the end, the temples would collapse and the palaces would fall, and only these golden insects would remain, fulfilling their ancient, forgotten oaths.

Like, even if we don't know Sethos' true role, his Temple of Silence affiliations (?) would make this far more fitting.

But, as you may have noticed, I've been delaying assigning Dehya anywhere. That's because I think if Sethos does use Trishiraite, Dehya should too. Read the description:

During the sun-swallowing battles of that bygone age, even the hardest of stones were set aflame. As the flames of war died out, all that remained from the calamity were these deep-red ores.

Trishiraite is ore born (allegedly) from the flames of the Cataclysm setting fire to stone. Like, it's a very warlike thing, and it's something that might be ok with Sethos but definitely suits Dehya more than Sand Grease Pupa. The thing is, nobody wins here because if I think Sethos suits Scarab more, that leaves Dehya alone on Trishiraite; if I don't, then Sethos + Dehya use Trishiraite while Cyno stays alone on Scarab, which is fine but ugh....

...unless, of course, we put Dehya on Henna Berry, which is very definitely the "female desert ascension material" and annoying stereotypical (fits with Dehya's love of makeup, though). Then we could make Sethos use Scarab alongside Cyno and just delete Trishiraite anyway, but this is a problem I don't want to propose a definitive solution for. I just think that Dehya shouldn't use Sand Grease Pupa, and Sethos seems weirdly better with Scarab, at least for now.

Sethos

Fontaine

(Warning! I am going to be factoring the ascension material of Clorinde and Sigewinne, who were recently drip-marketed for Version 4.7. This is minor leak territory, but if you don't wish to see it, skip the sections labeled Clorinde and Sigewinne.)

Fontaine is obviously still a nation-in-progress, so I'll cut it some slack, however:

Why does Navia use Spring of the First Dewdrop. Please. For the love of god.

Spring of the First Dewdrop is heavily implied to be somewhat related to Primordial Water, which is just—? Can I say how cruel this is for being Navia's ascension material? Like? Navia, who almost dissolved in the Primordial Water??

Although, the description calls it Ichor, which according to Wine Goblet of the Pristine Sea is the 'essence' extracted from Primordial Water, but then we have the question of why Dewdrop's description calls it "a final gift from Egeria" even though it was Remus who isolated and created Ichor, like we know Egeria was the substitute Heart of the Primordial Sea created by the Shade of Life to replace the Hydro Dragon, so technically the creation of Primordial Water is her domain, but this shouldn't even be her "final gift" anyway because logically that would've been literally anything else she did, because she abandoned that Heart role when she ascended to become the Hydro Archon and then died in sacrifice at Tunigi Hollow to repel the Cataclysm—

But this isn't a rant about Genshin lore, this is about the regional specialty. So.

Navia should not be using this. So, what should she be using? I'd suggest Lumidouce (French: soft-light) Bell, given the variety of people with whom Navia has parted and wishes to be reunited with ("Lumidouce Bell is said to represent parting and the wish for reunion"), but given that this is already being used by Chevreuse and Lynette and is absolutely slated for Emilie, the perfumer, whenever she releases ("...is often used for making rare perfumes"), that would be a bit of a crowd when Fontaine still doesn't have many characters.

Chevreuse doesn't really seem to fit Lumidouce Bell, though. Like, every attribute and theming doesn't seem to relate to her, unless you count the events of Roses and Muskets, which is about her personal feelings on justice, not the actual events that happened which could, possibly, fit the parting and reunion theme. So maybe we can boot Chevreuse off to Subdetection Unit, which actually suits her better— it's a detection unit, which gathers data, and it being used by Wriothesley seems like a not-so-subtle indicator that it's used to gather intelligence and for lack of a better word, spy. Which is something that Chevreuse's job involves, as once again demonstrated by Roses and Muskets.

So, with the Chevreuse tangent out of the way, Navia and Lynette can use the Lumidouce Bell. But what about Dewdrop? Should anyone use that?

Well, the obvious argument for Dewdrop as a Primordial Water thing is that Neuvillette should use it. Like, he's the reborn Hydro Dragon— thematically it makes more sense than Lumitoile (French: light-star). Let's again set aside the problem of time (Neuvillette released Version 4.1, Dewdrop came with the Tower of Ipsissimus in Version 4.2) because it makes things boring...

that being said, it's not entirely unreasonable to have Neuvillette use the Lumitoile, and simply delete the Dewdrop instead. Let's examine that below.

Clorinde and Sigewinne

So, what should we do about Lumitoile? If we move Neuvillette to the Dewdrop, that leaves Clorinde the sole user of the Lumitoile, and it's pretty justified in her case given the unsubtle implication of the Lumitoile as an environmental cleaner/digester and Clorinde's job as a Champion Duellist but with the Marechaussee Hunt techniques she inherits. After all, remember it's Clorinde who starts the plan to 'hunt' Furina in the AQ, to entrap her. She's good at hunting and cleaning up, so that makes the Lumitoile quite suited for her...

...Although, there is a scheme I'm cooking up. See, Sigewinne uses the Romaritime Flower, which fits fine with the Hydro stuff just fine, but I was reading the description of the Romaritime Flower, and it said: "Romaritime Flower is said to represent loyalty and unswerving oaths." And what, apart from being a strong hunter, is Clorinde known for?

Clorinde: Mr. Callas' last wish was for me to ensure your safety, and I will not betray his trust. Like the Faint Moonlight of Yesteryear, in As Light Rain Falls Without Reason, after Clorinde saves Navia and Traveler from the Gardemek attack

It highly depends on what you think her character hinges more heavily on: hunting, or her loyalty/oath-swearing.

As for Sigewinne, using the Lumitoile would also work, because apart from the obvious Hydro theming, the Lumitoile is also about 'underestimation'— "though the weak light they give off is often ignored by divers, these small soft-bodied animals have the remarkable ability to consume and degrade industrial waste." Sigewinne's surprise gun attack in the AQ earns her this, in my opinion.

This is quite a complicated web to unravel. If Neuvillette no longer uses Lumitoile, then either both Clorinde and Sigewinne should use Lumitoile, or neither. Therefore, let's examine two cases.

1: Neuvillette uses Dewdrop. Therefore, nobody else uses Lumitoile, ergo, Clorinde should use Romaritime Flower alongside Sigewinne to avoid the 'single-user' issue.

2: Neuvillette does not use Dewdrop, and that material is deleted from existence. Therefore, Clorinde and Sigewinne can stay with their current specialty materials: Lumitoile and Romaritime Flower respectively.

I like case 2, personally.

But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself by analysing the ascension materials of characters that haven't released yet. Let's get back to normal.

Clorinde and Sigewinne

Quick recap: Neuvillette uses Dewdrop instead of Navia, and Navia uses Lumidouce Bell in place of Chevreuse, whom we boot off to use the Subdetection Unit. Therefore, we have solved the problem of Navia and Wriothesley being the only user of one ascension material, and realistically we have to leave Neuvillette alone with the Dewdrop because no one else actually makes sense ascending via Primordial Water, what the fuck.

Ahem.

We also leave Furina alone, being the Lakelight Lily dovetails with Erinnyes and the lore of her weapon, Splendour of Tranquil Waters.

So that leaves Charlotte with the Beryl Conch. Hey, Charlotte, what the fuck? Like, the Beryl Conch doesn't have anything visibly in common with her. It glows, and it's not actually a shell but something condensed from elemental energy. It's theorised to have connections to "ancient civilisations". What else? If you take this from Charlotte's 'investigative journalism' angle, perhaps the Conch can symbolise Charlotte digging for the truth, but the "oh perhaps the Conch has marks left by the Hydro Lord or is related to ancient civilisations" is such a weak connection to that kind of "what is the truth" ethos that Charlotte represents.

So, get rid of the Beryl Conch. Then what should Charlotte use? There's an obvious option here: what ascension material have we just talked about that applies to information-gathering, spying, and mechanical parts? What boss did I assign Charlotte to in this post about boss material bloat that also fits her mechanical companion, Monsieur Verite?

That's right.

The former two, as justified above, also share the Subdetection Unit. So why not Charlotte? It's the 'mechanical' ascension material of Fontaine, just like Prototype Cal. Breguet is the corresponding 'mechanical' boss material. Last time, I justified this with the mechanical focus of the three characters: Wriothesley's gauntlets and his rule of the steampunk-themed Fortress of Meropide, Chevreuse's gun and rifle focus, and Charlotte's entire kit and lore revolving around Monsieur Verite in her pursuit of journalism. This applies here, but it gets better because they also share the theming of the Subdetection Unit's 'spying/detection/information-gathering'.

It's so perfect that it feels a bit too perfect, actually, but who am I to complain? This would cut down on another ill-fitting regional specialty and make farming easier for all of us.

***

Thanks for reading! And letting me rant about this. I have problems with how Genshin treats boss and ascension materials with some degree of lore relevancy, only to also throw some of that relevancy out the window when it suits them. It's inconsistent and bothers me, lol.

#genshin impact #genshin meta #meanwhile weekly boss mats being absolutely insane #congrats hyv

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