#faffing about (crack) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

little-miss-dilf-lover · 6 months ago

Text

ROLES REVERSED.

tangerine x fem!reader — fluff/ comfort

summary. as the eldest daughter, you’re used to taking care of others. tangerine notices, and wants to be the one to care of you.

requested by @sdddoobydoobydoo here <3

word count. 1186

warnings. couple blood mentions. no established relationship

As the eldest daughter, you're naturally gifted with traits that stem from your role as the second parent: the ability to help and care and nurture and understand and peacekeep in ways most will never.

You appreciated your broad span of empathy, loving how easily and seamlessly you could help others. But it was tiring, and yet, it all you've ever known.

It was normal for you to sit on the back burner when it came to getting care, always being the one to give and never receive. It was why Tangerine took your interest more than any other guy before.

It was like all he wanted was to tend to you, love and care for you - do things for you. Something about him was so unlike the other men in your life; they'd let you exhaust yourself for them, let you work yourself silly, but that was not Tangerine. That's not the man he is.

He noticed how you seemingly always knew what to do, all this infinite wisdom and knowledge swirling inside your poor, tired mind. Anytime he was snappy, you'd assume he was hungry - heading into the kitchen to whip something up for him, or if you were public, always offering to buy him lunch. Anytime he stopped past yours, all battered and bruised, you'd fetch things from around your house to patch him up - wanting to mend him as fast as possible. Anytime he had that distant look in his eyes, you'd always sit him down - suggesting that he talk his problems over with you.

You always seemed to know what he needed - what anyone needed. And while he appreciated your simple, loving and, albeit, persistent gestures, he knew you needed the same treatment. Maybe even, more so.

He wanted to give you that care you give to everyone else, though he didn't want to step over the romance line. Well not yet, anyway.

Tangerine was over yours for the evening, the casual hangout designed for dinner. He had previously made you promise to keep it small, to not go overboard with the food. Though, when you started cooking the meals, you could not seem to stop - all the prior dishes making you question if it would be something he even liked at all. So, in your mind, preparing four different meals to choose from would be a safe bet.

"Sit down, would'ya? Stop faffing," Tangerine calls out to you in the kitchen, his arse parked on a dining seat you had previously directed him to.

"I'll be five minutes, ten max— shit... think we're looking at fifteen."

"You gonna let me help you?" he questions, getting ansty from his unhelpful sitting. He wanted you to let him help. "Give me something to do."

"Got it all covered," you call out, poking your head through the door to see him. You were frazzled, and you took on more than you could handle.

His head tilts softly, a faint tut of his mouth letting you know he didn't buy your lies. "Oh yeah?" he entertains your fib, eyes playful. "What was that all that swearing for then?"

You look down at your bleeding finger and subtly move to hide it - putting it out of Tan's view. "Dropped my teatowel," you shrug. "Pasta is almost cooked— so uh, that's good. Okay, then. Just pick at the bread there. Will be done soon."

You head over to one of your cupboards and search for something to stop the bleeding, a plaster hopefully. But all you can find is a lonely, crumpled-up one in the crack —all your others going to Tangerine's cuts and scrapes— and you sigh. Picking it up, you attempt to unwrap it, but your bloodied finger makes you lose your grip.

"You alright?" Tangerine asks, his stealth-like walk peeking up on you from behind. "What you doing?"

"Yeah," you hum, looking at him over your shoulder. "Just waiting for this water to boil," you partially lie, nodding to the pot on the stovetop.

"You're a shit liar," he scoffs in his usual way, walking to get closer to you. "What have you done?" he asks, voice reaching a pitch that can only indicate worry, his eyes glued to your finger.

"It's just a cut. It's fine— it'll stop in a minute," you deflect, acting casual as you fiddle with the wrapper, still trying to open it.

He shakes his head and inhales harshly, reaching for the plaster in your hand.

You protest, tightening your grip. "It's alright, I got it."

He shakes his head again, clearly displeased. He loosely holds under your hand, guiding you towards the sink, where he directs it under the water - trying to stop the bleeding quicker.

"Seriously, it's okay. I'll put—"

"Just," he interrupts, tone pointed, though it holds no malice. "Let me help you for chrissake."

You close your mouth with a snap, his comment halting any further dismissals.

He holds your finger under the warm, flowing tap, watching the water turn slowly from a soft orange and back to clear. He's quiet, silently taking care of you in the ways he's almost longed for. The moment when you finally allow his help - all of it feeling like a small step forward.

He reaches for a piece of kitchen paper and wraps it around your finger, drying it with his gaze focused down.

"Why won't you let me help you?" he asks quietly, his question cutting through the comfortable silence. It sounded like it was weighing heavy on his mind.

"What do you mean?" you question, unsure what he meant.

He glances up to look at you, head cocking to the side. "Come on," he chuckles faintly. "You know what I mean."

"I do let you help."

He's amused, or so you think. He was too hard to read. "Hardly… I want to do things for you. I want to help you. Why won't you let me?"

You pull your hand away and hold the paper compress by yourself - feeling embarrassed from his mild ridicule. "I always have it covered, that's all," you shrug. "I don't need help."

He could tell you were shutting yourself off, though he's adamant not to let that happen. "I ain't gonna disappoint you, you know that?" he says, words firm, but they were filled with something far softer: unexpressed, repressed love. "You look after everyone else... I want to look after you."

A soft frown-like smile lines your lips, and you finally look up to meet his eyes. He really meant it.

"Just give me a piece of cucumber to cut or a towel to fold— something," he attempts a joke - trying to lighten the mood. "Just let me be useful to you, yeah? Let me in."

You nod, even more progress.

"Good," he nods back, a faint grin spreading across his face. He reaches for the plaster, opening it as if it were nothing and grabs your hand - carefully holding your finger. "Now let's cover this fucker up before it gets all over your pretty top, hm?"

so independent reader coded

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine fluff #tangerine bullet train

271 notes · View notes

hellenhighwater · 1 year ago

Note

hello madam highwater!

so i turned 21 a few weeks and while i absolutely realize that i am very young, practically a baby according to some, i still feel very hm unaccomplished and like i haven't made the most of my life thus far so! i'd like to ask you (an incredibly accomplished person by any standards) when you started feeling like you were Doing something with your life or even how you made the most of your early 20s (i'm assuming a fair amount of outgoing-ness will need to be peppered into my personality...)

thanks much!!

You know, I spent most of my early 20s working and in college--where I am it takes a juris doctor degree to be a lawyer, so it's...a lot of school--but I don't know that I'd consider myself accomplished. It's more that I have these things (job, house, hobbies) that I have piled into a Heap Of My Things that I sit crankily atop, shooting fire at any clanking idiot who wants to take my stuff.

I guess I didn't feel like I was doing much of anything until I was out of college. Not because getting my (excessive) education was trivial, but the constant schedule unrest that is living from term-to-term made it hard to feel settled into anything at all. But in terms of feeling like I'd made the most of it, I can give you the advice I always give.

Which is to say yes to things. If I am invited somewhere, and it's not a schedule conflict or a serious risk of injury that wouldn't be worth it, I'm there. Even if I'm tired, even if I think I won't like it, even if I don't really know anyone--I get invited, I show up, and I try my hardest to have a good time. And sometimes when I'm not invited, but I think something will be interesting, I do the inviting myself.

I find that times like right now, when I'm flopped out on a couch covered in kittens, faffing about online, are good and necessary parts of life, but they happen without effort. I'm going to wind up scrolling and heaped in cats if I don't try to do anything, and this time is going to fall through the cracks of my memory when I look back at this year decades from now. I might remember yanking out my brother's bushes with a truck this weekend, or the wedding I went to, or the potluck at a friend's, or any of the three D&D campaigns I'm in at the moment.

So if someone says "hey would you like to do something," I say yes...and my life fills up. Early 20s is a great time to be doing any fun and new thing that occurs to you! Try everything, see what sticks.

402 notes · View notes

dont-offend-the-bees · 4 months ago

Text

If the Shoe Fits, Then I Won’t Try It On

Omg I made it! Threw this one together today, so might not be my best! But thanks to my pal @every-moment-a-different-sound making these gorgeous gifs for my fic Outside Looking In, and also @wordsinhaled writing this lovely little fic inspired by it, I felt compelled to pop back in and give the disguise altar egos a little love! So this one is set pre-canon, about seven years into the boys' friendship/detective agency, and it's the first outing of the disguises (in their very early and imperfect forms! I like to think Charles has been experimenting over the years and the ones we've seen in show are just like, the latest versions!). It can really only be called case fic by the barest technicality but it's the best I got xD There's some nebulous Edwin gender-feelings, I'll leave it up to your personal preferences/interpretation whether it's a bit of transfem/nonbinary/genderqueer joy or just a boy's formative experience with drag, this baby can fit so much gender!! And references to fictionalised alcohol abuse, gambling and infidelity, but it's all just banter and tall tales, really. 2k, T-rated, also available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Perhaps we ought to rethink this strategy," Edwin muttered, fussing with his skirts.

"Relax, it'll be fine," said Charles. "No one's gonna suspect anything."

"They may suspect something," said Edwin. His voice sounded different, but the tone was one Charles had heard a thousand times before — pessimistic and haughty. Edwin seemed to pick up extra helpings of poshness when he was rattled. "They needn’t ascertain the exact nature of our ruse to know we're playing one."

"What? You think they're gonna be expecting someone to go in for fake marriage counselling?" Charles laughed.

"Stranger things have happened, Charles." Edwin spread his hand and swept it, gesturing between them and their magical disguises. "Q.E.D."

Charles looked at him blankly.

"Quod erat demonstrandum."

"Mate. They haven't taught Latin in that school for donkey's years."

Edwin made a noise of frustration — it had a bit of a high pitched, trilling quality with his fancy new vocal chords. "What I mean to say is that you and I are — figuratively speaking — living proof that real life is stranger than fiction."

"Well, yeah. But only to people who know ghosts exist," Charles reasoned. "And if this lady knew that, our client wouldn't've needed to come to us, would she? She'd've haunted the information out of her already."

Edwin exhaled, a quick, nasal huff like a bull, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His fingers bumped the chunky plastic frames of his enchanted glasses. "Pity. If she could see us, there'd be no need of these ridiculous costumes."

"I think we look brills," Charles beamed, proudly straightening out his big red rain mac. Sure, the disguises weren't perfect — he was still getting the hang of tweaking the enchantment. And yeah, he'd ballsed up his own bald spot at first, made it too big and just a little bit sort of... Australia-shaped. But all in all, he thought they looked mint! No one was gonna suspect them of anything, couple of old geezers. Who'd think they were a crack detective team?

Edwin was obviously having a harder time settling into character. He kept on faffing about with his unfamiliar layers of flowy clothing. Kept tugging on his little blue cashmere scarf, changing his mind on the drape of it — getting thrown whenever a tug of the fabric dislodged the waves of hair on his shoulders. Charles really hadn't got the hang of hair, just yet. He'd been aiming for something a bit classic and classy for Edwin, something honey-blonde and neatly coiffed. Instead he'd ended up with straw-like, brittle strands of peroxide white with... maybe just a hint of green. Charles would have to get that sorted out sharpish before they brought these disguises out again. Edwin would never let himself walk around looking less than his best if he had any say in it!

Charles turned to him, properly, grabbing Edwin's restless hands away from his scarf. "Eds. You look fine. Nice, even! Leave it."

Edwin glared at him, brow wrinkled. If Charles was being honest, the weirdest thing about seeing Edwin like this wasn't the fact that he looked blonder or older or, well. Like a woman. No, weirdest thing by far was how much thinner his eyebrows were. Charles had probably made them a bit too thin, he'd have to fix that, too. They were decent eyebrows! Visible, at least. But they were skinny and pale and neatly plucked, no little dusty dark hairs in between. Charles sort of missed them. He'd gotten used to those thick, dark brows scrunching up at him like grumpy caterpillars when Edwin was ticked off about something.

"It hardly matters if I look nice, Charles," he said, with a little belligerent flick of his hair that sent it flying. Charles probably should've made him a hairband or something — all long and loose, Edwin couldn't seem to get his hair off his mind. "But I do need to look convincing."

"You do! It's a good disguise, mate — made it special, didn't I?"

"I never said it wasn't." Edwin sighed, eyes fluttering closed a moment. Charles winced — maybe he'd overdone it a bit with the eyeshadow. There was a bit of colour-clashing going on, but hey-ho. Sort that in the next edit, too. "I am not concerned with the quality of the work, Charles."

"What is it, then?" asked Charles, dropping Edwin's hands to squeeze his shoulders instead. "What's got you all het up?"

Edwin shifted on his feet. His high heels clicked on the concrete porch. "I am merely concerned that I'm not... wearing it well," he said, a little bit through his teeth. "I don't want to compromise the entire investigation because I'm unable to act in a... befitting manner."

"Well, you're not gonna. Mate, you're doing brills." Charles smoothed down the big, floppy collar on Edwin's trenchcoat — he tried to do a Casablanca thing, but he might've gone a bit overboard — and grinned at him. "You're a natural. The way you stand all straight and that. Christ, you could've been walking in them heels for years! You're smashing it. For reals."

Edwin ducked his head, with the smallest smile. It was so Edwin that Charles could almost see the shape of him through the disguise; high, sharp bones under those rouged apple cheeks. Could almost spy that little spot on his chin. Actually, the chin wasn't a million miles off Edwin's own, with that barely noticeable little dimple in the middle. Maybe Charles had been taking some inspiration, subconsciously.

"I don't come across... peculiar?" asked Edwin.

"No. 'Course not." Charles sighed and patted his shoulders. "But look. If it's too weird for you, I can be the girl."

Edwin's brow twitched.

Alright. So maybe Charles could've worded that better. He coughed and took a step back, shoving hands in his pockets. "I mean, y'know. Bet I can manage it. How hard can it be? Probably won't be as like, chic as you, but I could give it a go."

Edwin pursed his lips, looking off to the side. He was fiddling with the rings on his fingers — maybe Charles had overdone them too, a bit.

"It... doesn't feel strange," said Edwin, quiet as a mouse. He couldn't seem to look Charles in the eyes. "It doesn't feel strange at all."

Charles smiled, all warm in the chest. Edwin had been a closed-off, buttoned-up sort of chap as long as Charles had known him — seven years and counting. Every time he offered up something of himself, Charles wanted to cup it in his hands.

"Oi," he said, gently, waiting for Edwin to look at him. "Suits you, mate."

Edwin smiled again, a barely-there twitch of his tinted lips. But he gathered himself quickly, clearing his throat and adjusting his scarf. "Well. We'd best be be getting on. We're due for our 'appointment' any minute now."

"Right."

"Shall we walk through the plan once more?"

"Go in, introduce ourselves, spin a backstory for a bit, make her think we're legit," said Charles. "Angle for a bit of one-on-one time. I keep talking, see if I can get her to slip up, drop us a hint — while you sneak off, search the office."

"Spot on," said Edwin, with a brisk nod. "According to our client, this woman writes down everything. No doubt she stores her more sensitive journals somewhere apart from the rest, somewhere discreet. Find the journals..."

"Find the body," Charles agreed, tilting his head side to side to crack his neck. "She'll have written down what she did with it for sure."

"Precisely. Right. That's the aim." Edwin steepled his fingers. "And we are...?"

"Edie and Colin Cromley," Charles replied, automatic. He should bloody well hope he knew that one — he'd had to put up with Edwin calling him Colin all night, trying to get him into character.

"Correct. And we are here because of discord in our marriage, resulting in my alcohol dependence and your extramarital affair."

Charles frowned. "Right..."

Edwin cocked his head a little. "Is there a problem?"

"You, uh. You ever actually been drunk before, mate?"

"Not as such, no," said Edwin, primly. "But, as we've quite thoroughly ascertained, I've never been a woman before, either."

Charles snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Fair point."

Edwin's manicured finger hovered over the doorbell. "Right. Are we quite ready?"

"Yeah," Charles mumbled, fidgeting on his feet. "Yeah, s'pose."

Slowly, Edwin lowered his hand. "Charles. We must be on the same page if we're to go inside and sell a convincing fiction."

"Just... feels a bit weird, is all."

"Why? You've always enjoyed undercover work in the past."

Charles shrugged. "Just... feels off. I wouldn't do that to you, y'know? Cheat, I mean. If we were married."

Edwin stared at him. "But we're... not married."

"Yeah, obviously." Charles felt all hot in the face, embarrassed. He should've just kept his big mouth shut. "Just saying, like — I wouldn't mess around on you like that. Or anyone," he added, quickly, because he was making things weird again, fuck's sake —

"Charles," said Edwin, amused. "Are you having ethical qualms about the character you're playing in this scenario?"

And alright, yeah. It sounded bloody ridiculous when you put it like that. Charles huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Just — it's hard, yeah? Dunno how I'd even pretend I'd screw you around like that."

Edwin hummed, toying thoughtfully with the dangly end of his scarf. "Perhaps... I could play the unfaithful partner?"

"You want to?"

"... No. No, not particularly." He pressed his fists together. "Hm. Perhaps infidelity is the wrong narrative for Mr. and Mrs. Cromley."

"Not believable, is it?"

Edwin chuckled. "No. No, I suppose not. Hm. Back to the drawing board..."

Charles mulled it over, tugging on his earlobe. "How about... right, okay, how about, yeah, if I have a secret gambling problem?"

"That does feel more authentic — we've had plenty of words about your impulsive decision-making," Edwin teased. He nodded, eyes sharp as he formulated the new story in that big brain of his. "Very well, a gambling problem is it. You've been losing money at the races —"

"Reckon I'm more of a footie bloke. Big bets on the big games."

"You've been losing money at various sporting events," Edwin corrected, rolling his eyes. "And the extent of your debt has recently come to my attention."

"You should see how much I lost on the cricket world cup," said Charles, seriously.

"Oh, believe you me, I did. Hence, marriage counselling."

"And boozing."

"Indeed. I knew the problem needed addressing a month ago," said Edwin, fingers gesticulating as he spun his little yarn. "When I visited our local public house for a consolatory tipple and became positively sozzled on sherry."

Charles chuckled. "Sure you wanna go with sherry?"

"Is it not appropriate?"

"I mean. It's fine," said Charles, raising his hands. "Nothing wrong with it! Just doesn't sound like your usual sort of, uh, blackout drunk sort of booze. Never heard of anyone going on a sherry bender."

"Well, what would be your suggestion?" Edwin challenged.

Charles wasn't actually sure, come to think of it. What did middle-aged classy ladies drink to get sloshed? "Um... well. Me and the lads used to get pissed on White Lightning after school."

"Very well, then. I overindulged on White Lightning. Happy?"

"Aces."

"Right. Well, now that's all straightened out..." Edwin lifted his finger to the bell again. "Shall we?"

"Go for it."

Edwin rang the bell — and when he dropped his hand, Charles picked it up. Edwin looked at him, quizzical.

"What?" said Charles. "Meant to be a couple, in't we?"

"One in the throes of marital strife," said Edwin, a little smile on his lips. "I doubt we'll be expected to be affectionate."

"Right. 'Course not," Charles agreed — but he didn't let go.

Edwin chuckled, and stayed put. His hand felt small, smaller than it ever had the few times Charles had held it — usually when he was hauling Edwin out of harm's way. Small and bony, lined with soft wrinkles, dotted in sun spots. Couldn't be much further from Edwin's long, lean, smooth hands if it tried.

But it fit in Charles' hand just the same.

Hope you liked it! Probs won't be one tomorrow unless I can whip up something suuuuper short/quick or I find an existing WIP to polish off, but there'll defo be fic on Sunday! Thank you so much for all your love and comments I seriously appreciate them beyond words 💛💛💛💛💛💛

#painlandweek #painland week #payneland #dead boy detectives #dbda #my fanfic #BARELY scraped this one together #i wanna shout out the lovely payneland community who helped me brainstorm ideas for a fic that #sadly #untimately ended up too involved for me to write/finish today #y'all are angels and also SO fucking funny holy shit #anyway have fun!!#REALLY interesting writing charles and edwin at a different level of friendship/intimacy than i've done before #not brand new not 30 years in #just sort of... beginning to find their way #god i love them

78 notes · View notes

bamber344 · 1 month ago

Text

Birds Of A Feather

prev/next

masterlist

time for birb :)

got this one done quickly as I'd already written like a thousand words of it before i started writing that Viv chapter, so the groundwork was already laid

usually i would upload this in the morning (for me) but rn i can't be bothered to deal with all the faffing about so you're getting it now. wahoo yippee ect ect

side note, project genesis document is now at 100 pages including the taglist and all of my rambling notes, so that's pretty cool.

enjoy!

CWs: general violence, cigarette use, gun violence, knife violence. just a whole lot of action typical violence really.

Birds Of A Feather

The woman sighed, looking out over the city as the wind whipped through her hair. She brought the cigarette up to her lips and took a long drag, admiring the pink and orange sky coloured by the slowly setting sun. Say what you would about Tombguard; it was truly a beautiful place, if you knew where to look. Granted, the woman had never actually been outside of the city, so she didn’t have much frame of reference. Still, after spending the first nine months of her existence locked in an underground prison, the sight of any space big enough to spread her wings in was enough to bring a tear to her eye.

Things weren’t perfect, though. She was never completely safe from Andreas’ pursuit, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that she was actively antagonising him. Still, he’d be hunting her even if she didn’t fuck him over at every possible opportunity, so it was justified. That dickhead deserved everything she threw at him.

A dark figure flickered across the rooftop of the building opposite. The woman sighed again, taking one last puff to finish her cigarette and shaking her wings out. She didn’t want to have to do this, but it was the only way to keep herself and Hex safe. There was no doubt in her mind that Andreas had already told Jordyn to kill her on sight, even before she made a mess of the first assassination attempt. In an ideal world, they could leave each other alone and Jordyn could go on her merry, naïve way being ordered around by her ‘father,’ but that just wasn’t reality. It was kill or be killed, and the woman refused to let Andreas continue to have a hold on her life. Jordyn had to die for the two of them to live.

She cracked her neck and double-checked that her pistols were fully loaded before re-holstering them on her hips. She made sure her knives were secured against her thighs. The target was in sight. She pulled the mask over her face and stomped her cigarette out on the floor.

“Sorry, little sister. I’m not gonna miss this time.”

With that, she flapped her wings and took flight.

—

Something was wrong.

The afternoon was calm, and up until a few minutes ago, I’d been enjoying my time relaxing on the rooftops as the end to my patrol grew closer. As per usual, I’d been lounging on the edge of a building, watching all the people and traffic go by, but when I got up to make my way back to the facility, I was immediately hit with the sensation that something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I had to resist the urge to look over my shoulder as I ran from building to building.

I knew that feeling all too well. I was being watched.

I slowed down, landing on a rooftop and surveying my surroundings. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and as far as I could see, there wasn’t anyone around that was paying any attention to me. That didn’t mean I was safe, though. For all I knew, this was another one of the Godling’s attempts to get in my head. The pain that would usually accompany that hadn’t hit yet, but still. I needed to be on my guard, just in case.

A memory flashed through my mind; one of discarded feathers, and a suspect flying away after shooting me down.

I looked up.

All I could make out was a beak-shaped mask before my instincts kicked in and I flung myself backwards, out of the way of the hammer kick coming straight for my head. It cracked the concrete as it made contact with the floor.

I fell into a roll before hopping back to my feet, dropping into a fighting stance as I analysed my opponent. Based on their figure, they were most likely a woman, dressed in a tank top and some baggy combat pants, along with a heavy-looking pair of boots. Her arms were thick with corded muscle, her tan skin nicked with countless tiny scars. A large pair of black wings flared out behind her back, spread to show off their intimidatingly huge wingspan. Behind her bird-like mask, dark, thick hair cascaded down over her shoulders. She was about the same height as me, with a similar build, and based on the way that she dropped into an identical stance to my own, she knew how to use it. This would be no easy fight.

Kill the black-winged one on sight should you see it.

Father’s months-old command pierced through my mind like an arrow. Whoever this woman was, he wanted her dead, and I had a duty to see that order through. After all, she shot me. It was completely justified. She had to die.

A large part of my mind protested against the thought, but I pushed it down. I knew Father was watching. I couldn’t fail him again. I wouldn’t fail him again. Better to get it done quickly.

I whipped my hand forward, and a spike of shadow extended from the seams of my armour, heading straight for the gap between the woman’s fourth and fifth rib. It would be over for her in an instant. Painless, for the most part. It was better this way. My gut clenched as time seemed to move in slow motion, waiting for the countdown towards the woman’s demise to hit zero.

All of a sudden, she was moving, quicker than I could possibly have anticipated. She deftly stepped to the side, dodging the spike by millimetres, and flapped her wings, using the upward force to lift herself into a frontflip over my head. I spun as she landed and ducked my head to dodge another kick. The woman pirouetted as she backed up, pulling combat knives from the straps around her thighs. There was a single moment of tense stillness before she came at me again, stabbing and spinning back and forth with those knives aimed right for the unprotected spots of my armour like she knew exactly where they all were.

She had me on the ropes, backing up as I dodged this way and that, deflecting knives with my shadows when they came too close. I was far too focused on staying out of the way of her attacks to even think about focusing the darkness in my armour into any sort of attack. Maybe if it was nighttime, and I had shadows all around me to call on, I could put her down. As it was, I’d just have to do without the full use of my power.

I grabbed her wrist as she came in for another attack and twisted, pulling her over my shoulder and aiming to slam her onto the ground. She was surprisingly heavy at first, but that quickly changed as a rush of wind hit my ears and the woman’s weight shifted behind my back. She moved with my throw, twisting in the air as she came back into view and wrapping her legs around my neck. Her movement stopped as she hit the ground with her other hand, and suddenly I felt myself lift off the ground as the woman pulled a reversal, throwing me over herself and slamming me onto the concrete with enough force to rattle my bones even through all of my armour.

In my daze, I could just about make out the woman flipping back onto her feet and rounding on me once again. Something glinted in the light of the setting sun, and my instincts kicked back in just in time to roll out of the way of the knife coming straight for my face.

It snapped as it hit the ground where my head had just been, and the woman’s fist followed through hard enough to leave another cracked dent in the concrete. Just what was this woman made of?!

I threw myself back onto my feet and conjured a whip of shadow before she could get close enough to stop me. She lifted herself, discarding the now-useless hilt as she settled back into her stance. Her head cocked to the side, and my stomach dropped as my own voice came out from behind her mask.

“Well shit, Jordyn. I thought you’d be a pushover, but you’re not half bad. Still not as good as me, though.”

My shadows flared in alarm. “How do you know my name?”

The woman didn’t reply. Instead, her arm disappeared, moving faster than I could process, and reappeared with a pistol. She pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, and I stumbled back as each shot hit me in the chestplate and knocked more and more air out of my lungs. My shadow whip turned to dust as my concentration dropped from the sudden attack.

The woman didn’t waste her opportunity, flapping her wings to kick herself off and charging at me. She spun, and the last reserves of oxygen were expelled from my body as her steel-toed boot hit my side with the force of a train.

The hit sent me flying, flipping head over heels in the air as I flew over the edge of the building we were on and onto the roof of another. I landed in a sprawling roll, desperately trying to regain control of my body and my lungs while fighting through the pain of a few definitely broken ribs. Eventually, I managed to jab a spike of shadow in the ground to stop my momentum and centre myself. I tensed my abs, sucking in as much breath as I could as I got back to my feet. There was no time to process, though. She was coming at me again.

All I caught as I looked up was a flash of wings before something hit me in the face and I was sent flying again; this time, with a brand new scrape in the viewscreen of my visor. I refused to let the hit stun me again, forcing my body into a flip that landed me back on my feet. She wasn’t the only one with a good core.

I quickly glanced around, trying to ascertain where she went. She wasn’t hard to find now that I knew where to look; swooping through the sky, gliding her way around for another hit. She lined herself up and began her dive, speeding towards me faster and faster; one knife in hand. She wasn’t going to get the drop on me again, though.

I stanced up, amassing my shadows beneath my armour, fortifying my body as she came closer and closer. This might be the only chance I had left to get out of this. I had to time it right.

There.

I dropped and spun right at the moment of impact, sending my boot launching up into her gut like a piston, powered artificially by my shadows and strengthened by her own speed. Darkness shot out of my armour as I made contact, following the hit through with dozens of tiny blades that cut into her stomach and pierced through her skin.

The woman let out a gagging cry as she flew away, crashing into the side of a building with a burst of feathers and falling into the alley between. Relief washed over me. It had worked; for now, I was safe.

I knew better than to think it was over just like that. The woman was far too strong and clearly far too hell-bent on my death to be turned off just from one attack. I got lucky with that one; there was no way I’d be able to land a hit like that two times in a row, and it was becoming obvious that, as things were, I was outmatched. What I needed was a plan.

I turned to the west, looking at the setting sun. Its light was the only reason I wasn’t able to unleash the full strength of my power. Even if I ducked into an alley, the woman would probably have no trouble corralling me back onto a street, directly in the sunlight. What I needed was the complete darkness of night. I needed time. I turned to the east and I ran.

Adrenaline still coursed through my bloodstream, providing me with the strength needed to ignore my pain as I jumped from rooftop to rooftop, pulling myself along with shadowy tendrils where necessary. Only a few more minutes until sunset. I could make it.

Sure enough, I heard the beating of the woman’s wings against the air behind me, steadily growing closer. I knew my counterattack wouldn’t hold her back for long, but I was hoping to get a full minute out of it, at least. Oh well, there was nothing for it. I’d just have to evade her until the sun went down. Easier said than done, but I would manage. I had to.

More gunshots cracked off behind me. The impact against my back threatened to throw me off balance, but I stabilised, spinning mid-sprint and flinging spears of shadow at her to hopefully keep her at bay. I could hear her swooping back and forth and I zig-zagged in turn, trying to keep my movements unpredictable.

The hair at the back of my neck rose and I instinctively dove to the ground - just in time for the woman to blur through the space I’d just been in, crashing onto the rooftop just in front of me. We both jumped to our feet, but I was just a millisecond behind her, and she used that time to launch a powerful roundhouse kick right into my cheekbone.

My head whipped to the side, and everything around me suddenly clicked into high focus. The scratch in my vision was gone. I could feel the cool air on my face and in my sweat-soaked hair. The sounds of the city became loud and sharp; no longer muted by my helmet’s audio processors.

Oh, that was it. My helmet just came off.

Time seemed to move in slow motion as I watched it spiral through the air, flying over the edge of the building and falling into the alleyway, disappearing from sight. Father was going to be so mad with me.

Time sped back up and suddenly I was moving; flying across the rooftop as the hit knocked me off my feet. I landed in a sprawling heap, tumbling over myself before managing to roll onto my back, staring up at the sky. My vision spun as pain throbbed through my skull, and my neck angrily protested any attempt to turn my head and spit out the bloody taste of whatever had come loose in my mouth. By the feel of it, it was probably a tooth.

The woman appeared in my line of sight before I could recover, planting one boot on my chest and aiming her pistol straight at my face. My heart leapt into my throat.

She wheezed, clutching at her bloody abdomen with her other hand. “That… was a nice fuckin’ hit you got earlier. You’re pretty good, Jordyn.” She straightened out, putting her finger on the trigger. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, little sis.”

“W-wait!” I pleaded. All I needed were a few more moments. This wasn’t the end. “Wait, please… Who… who are you?”

The woman hesitated. A few tense seconds passed, and she shrugged. “Yeah, why not. That’s the big question, isn’t it? Who am I? I asked myself that a lot when I was in your shoes. All you need to know is that I’m someone that daddy dearest doesn’t like very much. Though, I’m sure you already knew that.”

“B-but…”

“Who are you, Jordyn? Can you answer that? If you can, maybe your story won’t have to end here.”

That… that was a trick, right? She clearly already knew my name. If I gave her the obvious answer of ‘Jordyn de Vygon,’ I was gonna get shot. No, she was looking for something else. I racked my brains, searching for some sort of clue.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, little sis.”

“-daddy dearest-”

“Madeline Holmes, will you marry me?”

“Are… Are you me?”

I swallowed, praying to god my hunch was right. “I… I’m y-your sister. A superhero. I-I’m M-Madeline Holmes’... wife…?”

Silence reigned over the rooftop. The woman cocked her head to the side. “Huh. What gave you that idea?”

Not immediately dead. That was a good sign. “You… you called me ‘little sis,’ and… I had a dream, wh-where I was proposing to her.”

“Hmm. You’re not totally hopeless, I guess. Still, you’re a little confused. I’ll give you a hint: you’re not Madeline Holmes’ wife. I’ve had that dream, too.”

I frowned, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment in my gut. “Then… I was right about the sister thing?”

“Smart cookie. Say hello to your big sister. You can call me Maggie.”

This was all way too much to take in. Was this woman serious?! “B-but, if you’re my sister, why are you trying to kill me?!”

Maggie sighed. “I don’t want to, honestly. But I gotta prioritise number one, and Andreas would have sent you after me sooner or later, regardless of what I did. So long as you were just a mindless soldier following his every command, it was safer to just put you down. Now that we’ve had the chance to chat, though… I can see that you’re not totally under his thumb. You’re asking questions, you’re thinking for yourself a bit, instead of following blindly along with whatever he tells you. I might still have to kill you - we’ll see - but it’s a promising start.”

My head felt like it was about to explode. “S-so… You know who I am? Who I really am – the person I was before my injury?”

Maggie slumped. “See, and then you go and say shit like that, and you have me worrying again.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I wish I could tell you the truth, Jordie. I really, really do. You don’t deserve to live in ignorance, stuck under that bastard’s grip. But, if I tell you now, things are gonna go tits up faster than I can flap my wings, and I sure as shit don’t have the resources to help you when it does. You gotta figure it out for yourself. I’m sorry.”

…What? So, after everything, she just wasn’t going to tell me anything? I was this close to finally having some answers about myself, and she was just gonna keep them to herself?! Frustrated tears prickled in my eyes. “B-but, but why?! I don’t understand! Why can’t you tell me?!”

“I just told you why, dumbass. I get that you’re desperate for some answers, but that’s the best I can do for now. You want my advice? Don’t stop asking questions. Don’t take anything at face value. Andreas is gonna try every trick in the book to make you feel like you’re too stupid to understand anything, so why even bother wondering? Don’t let him. You’re smart, Jordyn. You’ve shown me that in this conversation, and during our fight. I know you can figure this out, just like I did.”

Maggie finally lowered her pistol, holstering it as she looked out over the city. The sound of police sirens echoed through the air, steadily getting louder. “I’ve stayed out too long,” she said. She looked back to me. “I’ll let you go this time, Jordyn. But if you come after me again, I won’t hesitate to blow a hole in your head, sister or not. Good luck.”

Her wings flexed, extending out to their full length. I realised she was about to fly away.

“Wait! What am I going to tell Father? He’s ordered me to kill you, I can’t just ignore that! He’ll… he’ll punish me.”

“Yeah, that’s a tough one. For today, the best you can tell him is the truth. I kicked your ass, and got away. If he’s in a generous mood, he’ll let you off. I can’t promise that, though. As for if he orders you after me again? Maybe that would be a good time to question why he wants you to kill your own sister so badly. Don’t actually ask him that, though. God, he’d whip you bloody for that. Just… think about it. See you later, Jordyn.”

With a gust of wind and a quick, painful burst of pressure from the boot on my chest, she was gone, disappearing into the night sky.

Oh. I’d totally forgotten. I was meant to be buying time until sunset so I could muster up the shadows for a surprise attack. Oops. In the wake of everything Maggie was saying, it just slipped my mind. I couldn’t say I was particularly upset about that, though. I had a feeling that that conversation had been more valuable than I could currently comprehend.

The sirens grew louder and I continued to lay there, contemplating what I’d learned as the pain from my injuries steadily intensified in the comedown from the adrenaline of the fight. I… had a sister. Why hadn’t Father told me about her? What else wasn’t Father telling me about? Why were things so clearly fraught between my two only family members? And why did Maggie’s voice sound exactly like mine?

The swelling from my throbbing cheek was starting to spread up to my eye, forcing it shut. Worried, I reached up and gently poked it. It felt about as good as could be expected, from a kick that knocked out a tooth and took my helmet right off my head; in that doing that really, really hurt. Ow.

I gingerly sat up, trying not to move my neck too much. Speaking of my helmet, I needed to find it, and quickly. The police would no doubt be here soon, come to investigate the gunshots, and I couldn’t let any of them catch sight of my face.

It was slow, painstaking work getting myself down from the rooftop into the alleyway, but I managed. Thankfully, my helmet stood out pretty obviously against all of the trash and junk, and I was able to retrieve it with relative ease. As soon as I put it on, Father’s voice rang through my ears. Hearing from him filled me with relief, but Maggie’s words still sat heavily in the back of my mind.

“Seven, what’s your status? Did you complete your mission?”

I swallowed thickly, trying to sum up the courage to lie. “I-I… I’m sorry, Father. I failed. She got away.”

Silence stretched on for a long, tense moment. Finally, Father spoke again. “Return to the facility at once. We will discuss this more once your injuries have been seen to.”

I nervously bit my lip. “Yes, sir.”

I could already tell. Father was not in a generous mood.

—

“Three cracked ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a missing tooth, and a nasty case of whiplash,” the medic said, reading off my diagnosis. “It was good that you kept the tooth in your mouth. We can probably find someone to stick it back in, but as for the rest of your injuries, the best I can suggest is taking it easy.”

Taking it easy sounded nice, but I seriously doubted Father was going to let me take another break so soon after my last one. Sure enough, his frown immediately deepened.

“You’re dismissed,” he said to the medic. They nodded their head and left without another word. Father turned to me.

“You’ve disappointed me today, Seven. All you needed to do was follow one simple order, but clearly I expected too much from you. It’s obvious that you’ve been neglecting your combat training. From now on you will be doing double training shifts every day, as well as double patrols for the next two weeks. Oh, and forget about getting your tooth back. Maybe I will reconsider once you’ve done something to earn it.”

With that, he turned and followed the medic out. I sighed, looking up at the ceiling, running my tongue along my teeth and feeling the gap in between my upper molars. Having to work double patrols through my injuries definitely sucked, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I could survive that.

I tried to turn my head as I got up from the examination table, but a lance of pain shot through my neck and down my back. I gasped, returning to my previous position as gently as I could.

Okay, maybe this was a problem.

Double combat training every day with my neck like this?!

…Fuck. Maybe it would have been better if Maggie had just pulled the trigger.

—

Maggie landed heavily on the fire escape outside of her apartment, clutching her abdomen. Adrenaline had made it a bit easier to ignore during the conversation, but now that things had calmed down, the real damage that Jordyn’s kick had inflicted upon her was becoming clear. Every breath felt like needles stabbing into her ribs.

She lifted her shirt to check the damage. Aside from the absolutely gnarly bruise, the kick had somehow also left her with multiple bleeding lacerations. The little soldier was crafty with her shadows, that was for sure. One thing was clear, though: she needed stitches. Ugh, her favourite.

She shook out her wings, trying to work off the spare anxiety, and opened the window, slipping inside.

Diego was sitting on the couch when she entered. He turned to her, a conflicted but relieved expression on his face as he looked her up and down.

“So… Did you do it?”

Maggie shook her head. “Nah. I almost did, but…” She sighed. “Seeing her scared face looking up at me like that, it… reminded me too much of Hex, on that day back in the facility. I decided to give her a chance.”

Diego’s face relaxed into a smile. “I’m proud of you. You did the right thing.” He stood up, walking over and planting a soft kiss on her lips, one that she happily returned.

She pulled out of the kiss, resting her forehead on his shoulder instead, enjoying the warmth of his arms wrapped around her. “I wish I could believe that. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see how it pans out. Where’s Hex?”

“In her room, playing Minecraft on my laptop. She’s been waiting for you to come back.”

Maggie closed her eyes. “I’ll go say hi later. Right now, I should probably focus on patching myself up.”

“You want my help?”

“After what happened last time, I think I’ll just do it myself.”

“Fair.”

Taglist: @steelandblood @sapphicwhump @urnumber1star @alsolucakairomi @idkwhattodowiththisaltiamsorry

@iamheretohurt @anoyedartist @dontyoubleedoutonme @seastarblue @lettherebepain

@bacillusinfection

Bird lady! Maggie! Yay! honestly up until writing this chapter her name was gonna be 'Fila' but i wasn't loving that so i decided to change it. Her full name is Magpie btw :)

listening to the yakuza soundtrack is quite motivating when it comes to writing fight scenes I've found. makes the imagery play out in my head like a QTE or something. It's great :)

Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought in a comment or reblog, it's super appreciated! also let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist :)

see you guys next time for another Steve'o chapter. Ciao!

#project genesis whump series #whump series #whumpblr #whump #whump writing #living weapon whump #creative writing #writeblr #original fiction #winged character #superhero whump

14 notes · View notes

ratofthemedievalsewers · 1 year ago

Text

Danse Macabre

Astarion x M!Tav / Astarion x M!Dark Urge

TEASER - Can be read as a stand-alone

A03 Link: Danse Macabre

Warning: Vague explicit content

Dain gave a frustrated huff as he threw the strip of leather he was attempting to use as a hair tie into the dirt beside him. This had been his third and decidedly final attempt at tying his hair up; wanting to keep the mix-matched strands of snow and onyx out of his eyes while he fought. He ran bony, calloused fingers through his hair, freeing the now mostly tangled waves from each other.

“What a mess.” Dain spun round at the sudden sound of another’s voice, dagger unsheathed from the hilt that always sat snugly on his lower back. He lowered it when he recognised Astarion’s bright white curls, the colour reflecting the moonlight like a dulled mirror. “What is it you’re even trying to do?”

Dain felt a frown twitch on his face in the slight embarrassment at being caught, ‘noble hero of the grove’ defeated by his own head of hair. “... I wanted to tie my hair up… it keeps getting in my eyes when I fight.” He always felt himself struggling to speak when it came to Astarion, with every word the vampire spoke his mental self was on his knees taking in each drop the other provided like he was a beast dying of thirst.

He thought himself vile. Some sick, twisted part of him knew, without a doubt, that he would be dead in the other man’s hands if they had met in Baldur’s Gate during Astarion’s slavery to Cazador. Found wanding in the night-blanketed streets, it would only take a few honeyed words and Dain would follow him like a lost puppy, drunk on false love to the very clutches of the Vampire Master. He was a simple, easy-to-manipulate fool, his soul lost and his memories along with it.

Maybe he should be glad someone else had found him first.

“Why not cut it shorter then? Save the faffing about and getting all in a huff.” Dain looked at Astarion as if he had just punched him directly in the stomach, his face contorted in a look of obvious disapproval at the suggestion. “Alright, alright. No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Astarion gave a dramatic sigh and sat himself behind Dain, the other’s shins pressing firmly against his back, trying to get as close as he could to the other.

Dain did not stiffen as he did with the others’ contact, Astarion’s touch never burned in the way others’ did - instead it felt like silk, the contact tingling but never in a way that was unpleasant. It was a sensation he had never felt before and he craved it and hated it in equal amounts. Dain’s mind, for reasons he himself did not know, found himself refusing the smallest touches of another, but with Astarion it was the exact opposite. He would never ask though, for that would show his weakness to a predator that was seeking the cracks in his “hero” facade.

“Brush,” It took a moment for his mind to come back to reality. He passed the wooden comb he had begrudgingly borrowed from Shadowheart a few hours prior. Astarion took it, cold, undead fingers brushing against his gloved ones. Granted, the gloves were quite possibly the reason he was struggling so much, but he had become accustomed to always wearing them that taking them off made him feel as if he were naked.

Astarion began with the ends of his hair that rested just past the middle of his back, where his waves became closer to loose curls, slowly working his way up. Dain allowed himself to get lost in the little tingles another brushing his hair caused at the base of his skull, a suppressed shiver travelled up his spine and he felt his shoulders begin to lower as he relaxed. Then there were gentle fingers at the back of his neck, pretending they needed to manipulate his hair in order to properly run the comb through. Then the comb was running slowly, languidly over his scalp and then all the way to the very ends before repeating the motion. Over and over.

Dain felt himself start to lean back to the presence behind him - he stopped himself before he was fully laid in Astarion’s lap. It scared him a little; that he fell so easily into the roll of prey when it came to the vampire. Maybe it was his scent, a trick of his smile, something magical in his aura that anyone could fall victim to? No, the others weren’t falling so easily into his arms, the root of the problem began within Dain.

Was it a problem?

He gave it a little consideration, yet the only conclusion he came to was that he did not truly care. Dain would willingly, even happily let Astarion drain him utterly and completely whether he held him like a lover or like a boar he found sleeping in the alcoves of the forest they had set up camp in. It was shameful and exhilarating all at once.

Dain found himself tilting his head to the side as an offering, words of ‘Are you hungry?’ no longer needing to be spoken between them. Astarion let the comb fall through Dain’s hair one last time, the tangles being loosened many minutes ago. Both of them had been lost in their own minds it seems.

“You sure?” Astarion spoke just above a whisper, as if his words would disturb the surface of the lake that sat in front of them, its surface having acted as a mirror for Dain before Astarion had supposedly come to his rescue. Those same gentle fingers brushed away the few strands that had stubbornly laid themselves across the junctor of Dain’s neck.

“Only if you are.”

Dain heard Astarion shift behind him as he uncrossed his legs to rest on either side of Dain’s. With another’s arms wrapped around his middle, he pushed himself backwards into Astarion’s body; he felt the other’s chest against his back, cold seeping through both their camp shirts, unsure who it belonged to.

“You are always so cold, yet your blood runs warm.” Astarion spoke against his ear now and Dain had to suppress the shiver that threatened to pass over him, the other felt the way he tensed and a small, wolfish smile played on his lips. A hand moved from his waist and fingertips caressed up his throat in faux consideration before his whole hand wrapped around his neck and softly guided his head to the side. “I could only describe your taste as nectar, crafted by the gods themselves. Cruel gods no doubt… for to give in to my desires and have all of you would kill you… and I would forever be left without the very things that caused my addiction.”

Astarion placed a gentle kiss on Dain’s neck, a small apology for the pain that came next.

This time Dain could not hold back his reaction. He heard the moan leave his lips before he even realised it was his, and felt his back arch from Astarion’s chest before he could hold himself still. Astarion let out a gentle hum as the taste of his blood wet his tongue, the hand that sat comfortably on Dain’s hip moved to rest low on his inner thigh, applying the smallest of pressures to where he knew Dain desired but would not ask nor seek it. Astarion wanted him to give in to this little dance they played, wanted him to fall complete victim in his arms.

It took every peice of Dain’s will to hold his own hips in place. His breathing became airy as his mouth fell slightly open and the vampire’s venom began branching out like roots within the earth. He could feel its tendrils curling and twisting through his veins; up his neck, down his chest, gently burning as it moved. If his blood was not being slowly drained from him he would blush; the tips of his ears, cheeks and across his nose turning a soft lilac against greyish skin. A tender heat settled between his legs as the sensations begin to overwhelm him.

Astarion brushed his thumb over Dain’s heat, the pressure barely noticeable through the albeit thin leather of his trousers, but Dain keened, a long exhale parting from his lips. He took what was offered to him and savoured it. He would not ask for more.

Dain felt his body begin to go limp as he became bloodless; he barely had the energy to move his hand that had been gripping the dirt below them. He tapped Astarion’s lower thigh twice, a signal they had silently agreed on to mean ‘no more’. Another moment and the vampire pulled away, licking the twin little dots of blood that began to pool at the opening of Dain’s wound.

Astarion was a little dazed with his stomach now full. He propped himself up with one arm behind his back, the other now removed from Dain’s thigh to hold him around his chest, hand over where his heart should beat, keeping him upright as the other leaned against him. Through his foggy mind, Dain felt another tender kiss placed on his neck, just above the bite the vampire spawn had given him.

“Full?” Dain asked, somewhat breathless himself.

“Sated,” Astarion whispered in response, slowly guiding Dain to sit upright, holding his shoulders in case he fell back again.

“Now… back to your hair.” Dain gave a small chuckle, brain barely functioning with what little blood was left in him trying to keep his cogs turning. The gentle caresses against his scalp returned, but only briefly as Astarion began the plait his hair, gathering more hair as he went so it would follow the curve of his skull before running down his back, preventing it from possibly swinging and hitting Dain in the face if he were to quickly turn. Although, the idea was somewhat amusing. “I’ve never seen someone with hair like yours.”

“You’ve said better lines.”

“I’m not trying to flirt, darling.” He could feel Astarion’s eye roll as he spoke. Dain reached for the leather tie he had thrown to the floor earlier as Astarion reached the end of the braid, but when offered Astarion ignored him and pulled his own leather band from his wrist and wrapped it around the end of Dain’s hair. “I swear it's darker, especially after our little clash at the goblin camp.” Dain gave a simple shrug, mind still too drowsy to think clearly. After a long pause where he assumed Astarion was thinking, he finally spoke again, breaking the awkward quiet that had begun to settle. “My dear, you are a mystery to the fashion world.”

“Thank you… I think.” Dain stood as Asatrion did, swaying slightly on his feat like a common drunkard. “We should get back to the others before their minds start cooking up something nefarious.”

“No doubt they already have, everyone here has such simple minds.” Dain gave him a deadpan stare, crossing his arms to further his lack of amusement. “Apart from you, of course.” Astarion tucked one of the stubborn, pale strands that refused to be tied up behind Dain’s ear, a crooked grin plastered on his face. It was Dain’s turn to roll his eyes.

*****

Teaser 1

#baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x male reader #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x male tav #astarion x dark urge #astarion x male dark urge

111 notes · View notes

mina-scribbles · 2 years ago

Text

of gods & monsters

Summary:

Since the dawn of Olympus, Titans have become nothing more than footnotes in divine history, leaving them to roam the earth with no purpose for eternity.

You are the primordial goddess of love, and in present-day Greece, in the golden time of the Olympians, no one utters your name anymore. But occasionally, someone remembers, or the Fates suddenly decide that you have some purpose left in the threads of your immortal life.

It is one of those occasions where you find yourself called to a cave where a monster lies with his fresh kill.

Forgotten as you are, you are still the goddess of love, and to love is what duty tells you to do.

Notes:

I got the idea from references that say Eros is the primordial god of love, but then replaced him with Aphrodite. Just--y'know, creative liberties, and whatnot.

Hurt/comfort & angst & feels ahead. This is purely self-indulgent faffing as I loved the thought of having someone comfort Seraphim in a non-sexual way, you know? So, nothing spicy at all. Just--softness.

Unbeta'd btw, so yuh. Hope you enjoy !!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The sharp tang of blood greeted you the moment you stepped into the cave.

You’d seen this before - scattered intestines, cracked and jagged parts of a skull, a femur here, an ulna there, a spine torn in two strewn across the cavern floor - yet you still couldn’t hold in a gasp.

This of course drew seraphim’s attention, who knelt by the mangled remains of his uncle, a puddle of blood under his knees.

Quicker than any human, he rose to his feet and whirled around, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. In one bloody hand, he clutched his bident, both tips still gleaming crimson.

This should’ve insulted you, made you bristle. Any god, titan or olympian, would have struck him where he stood for even daring to defy powers greater than himself, a puny human desperately trying his hand at godhood. it was pathetic, really.

But at your core, you were what creation intended; you were the personification of love and all its nuances - the warmth and chaos of it all, the unconditional acceptance of the insanity that came with loving and the loved. this was your essence since you dawned alongside the universe, birthed long before the concept of humanity was even imagined; the primordial goddess of love, a titan of no equal. Even when you’ve been made obscure and obsolete, this was still your duty as divinity.

And so, standing before seraphim now, soaked in gore with his humanity barely visible anymore, you saw.

Somehow, he did, too. his features grew less sharp, transforming his snarl into a grimace as he leered at you. “Another god.” He spat the words like a curse.

“Titan,” you corrected. “And I mean no harm.”

Recognition dawned on his face. But you’d seen this before - recognition for the sword but not its wielder. This time, however, you refused to let disappointment settle in your stomach. It wasn’t his fault.

Neither of you moved. Your gaze darted to his crimson-tipped bident, and he to your form. The questions were easily recognizable in his eyes - who were you? why were you here?

With a breath, you decided and stepped forward. Seraphim watched you approach. Your dress trailed behind you, red blooming along the white, silken hem.

When you were a foot away from him, you extended a hand between you. “Come,” you said. “You need rest.”

He eyed it like it was a snake about to strike.

So you tried again. “Take your rest before Hera finds you again.”

At the mention of the goddess’s name, Seraphim growled, and you gasped when the cold tip of his bident pressed under your chin. This forced you to look up into his red gaze, your stomach churning at the miasma of bitterness and revenge swirling within them.

“Gods, titans, you’re all the same,” he spat. “We’re nothing more than playthings to you. like pawns on a board that you move and summon to your liking. when have any of you answered our prayers? where are any of you when we beg for your aid, your mercy?”

With a snarl that rivaled his, you answered, “Am I not an answered prayer? Have I not come at a moment of need?”

“You all come when you please.”

“I come when I can,” you hissed, unable to quell your outrage. What do you do when you were nothing but mythos? When the best you got was a passing thought because you were merely a footnote?

When they came, the prayers came few, until eventually there were none.

People had more faith in rocks and earth. You? Your existence was too irrelevant to even question.

Your tongue was a weight of all the spite and bitterness festering within you, the antithesis of your essence. You could’ve said more, could’ve made him see all that you had seen. But that would shatter him irreparably, and you couldn’t do that. that wouldn’t be very lovely, not when you were love itself. Not when you were supposed to love.

And you wanted to love in spite of it.

You were the chaos of it all, and so you understood. And with you, he would, too. In time.

So for now, quietly, you added, “Trust me, boy, you are not the only one the fates have abandoned.”

This—this broke him. His eyes dimmed and his form slumped, as if the weight of his bident suddenly became too heavy. Then, as if just seeing for the first time, his gaze darted all over himself, at the blood smattered across his chest and over his arms.

“I—“ he began, features rapidly shifting between grief and anger, and when he couldn’t decide, he finally, finally looked at you. “Hera will come looking for me.”

“She will.”

You read emotions as one would read letters on a page. And with his realization came the brief flash of fear -- bitter and sharp -- before emptiness took its place once more. Beneath it all, however, was the undercurrent of anger, a steady thrum while everything else ebbed and flowed.

A pause, and then, in a whisper, “He’s dead. He’s really dead.”

When you touched his cheek, images played in your mind — a mother and a boy against a world of greedy men, of gods and prayers, of swords and blood, of a yawning hopelessness and a desperation like teeth chewing through flesh.

All these just past a void, a wall of nothingness acting as a barrier between the memories and the red haze of anger facing the world. monsters hiding monsters.

“I know,” you answered just as softly, pressing closer. seraphim leaned into your touch—not out of want but out of necessity, and oh how your skin tingled. To be wanted. To be needed. And when he stepped further into your space, a soldier laying his burdens as seraphim rested his forehead against your shoulder, your very soul thrummed. Your arms wrapped around him, one hand carding through the hairs in his nape while the other trailed down his arm, to the hand circled loosely around his bident. "you need rest."

Hot breath fanned against your collarbone. "And in exchange for rest?"

Seraphim's muscles grew taught under your touch. A man awaiting judgment.

Skin to skin, the images became clearer, the sensations stronger--of your muscles straining to keep you standing, of hard rock digging into your knees as a force pushed you down.

You grit your teeth. You wanted, yes. But not that. Once, maybe. But not today. Not for a long while.

Cupping his cheek so he gazed up at you, you said, "Nothing you would not wish to give. And I have nothing I wish to take."

With your thumb, you swiped at the blood on his cheek. His skin was warm to the touch. Maybe, maybe, he was human still.

His gaze darted over your features, your eyes, your lips, and you barely stayed the shiver creeping up your spine as you pulled your hand back, allowing him privacy to his thoughts, for here was a man frozen in awe at the face of kindness.

"I will be a better god," you swore to yourself as a fist clenched around your heart.

Seraphim seemed to gather himself as he rose to his full height. His free hand twitched at his side before slowly taking yours.

"Where do we go?" He asked.

"Wherever you wish."

Together, you walked in contemplative silence toward the mouth of the cave. High above, the sun's glare was brilliant. It warmed your skin, and glimpses of a chariot burning across the heavens flashed in your mind. Most knew the sun god by another name. You knew him as a titan. And for him, for them, you would remember.

Seraphim pulled you from your thoughts when he said, "I do not have a place to come home to."

His skin shone like obsidian in the light, the smattered blood gleaming hotly as the red marks along his skin. "There is a wooden hut not far from here. It's not much, but it can be home." If you would like.

It remained unspoken, but when he squeezed your hand, you knew he understood.

#blood of zeus #seraphim x reader #seraphim x you #blood of zeus - seraphim

170 notes · View notes

nocompromise-noregrets · 2 days ago

Note

For the fic writer ask game, number 11, 13 and 18?

Hiiii! Thank you so much for asking! <333333 Hmmmm *cracks knuckles* let's see...

11. Link your three favorite fics right now Ooooh. Well, this is going to have to be Kairos and show a little faith, there's magic in the night by @scary-grace and Friends With Benefits by Dialas (that last one is a very funny and sweet Måneskin RPF by my old fandom friend who I've been reconnecting with over my utter scenery-chewing obsession with Måneskin at the moment XD )

13. what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow? I don't really pay any attention to any writing advice. The muses show up in my head and talk, and I write down what they say. Although I suppose I've been writing a little every day since May - I set myself a minimum of 200 words, which seemed manageable, and I've done it every single day except one, and a lot of days I manage much more than 200. I wasn't going to do anything NaNo-adjacent this year, but between fixing up Two of a Kind (the original novel I've been faffing about with for SEVENTEEN YEARS at this point >.< ) for posting and the utter scenery-chewing obsession mentioned above, I've actually written 40.5k this month without even trying O.O so it's entirely possible I'll actually hit 50k anyway.

18. Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles? It depends. Sometimes a title will come to me while I'm writing, and it's often a song lyric or a quote or a riff on something else (I'm still chuckling to myself about Sunday at the Pub with the Groupchat, which was a riff on Sunday in the Park with George which just came to me and wouldn't shut up until I made that the title XD ). Sometimes I can't think of anything and I end up using a line or a snippet from the fic itself. Sometimes I really can't think of anything. All of the Måneskin fics I've been writing on my second AO3 have had lines from their songs because they're all ridiculously inspirational, or at least they're setting the muses running, and a lot of My Heart Is An Empty Vessel-'verse is titled after lyrics by Empathy Test, because they're also ridiculously inspirational in a yearning-pining-wounded-boy sort of a way, and I was listening to them a LOT in 2020 when I wrote a lot of that stuff.

Wheeee, thank you so much for asking! <3333333 Anyone else fancy asking me more questions about fic writing? I do love rambling about this stuff. I'm travelling today and tomorrow but will try and fit answers in...

#ask game #go on #ask me stuff!#likethenight writes

5 notes · View notes

highqueenofelfhame · 2 years ago

Text

IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING. I didn't mean for this to go a whole year without an update. I'm so sorry. I hope this 4.5k chapter makes up for it somehow <3

masterlist // fafs masterlist // rowaelin

As soon as he took that first deep breath upon waking up, Rowan knew he was being watched. Maybe that was thanks to all his years as an agent for the bureau, or perhaps it had to do with the months he had spent with Aelin that had honed that instinct into a sharp blade. Regardless of what had made him develop the sixth sense, he knew that when he opened his eyes to the soft light filtering through the cracks of the curtains, there would be a golden gaze pinning him to the bed.

Instead of looking at her, he reached across the bed to rest his hand on her thigh. Rowan could tell she was sitting with her legs folded up like a pretzel, her hands in her lap while she watched him. He moved a fraction of an inch closer until he could easily press his lips to the spot just above her knee.

"Rowan?" The tentative sound of her voice had him cracking open an eye to look up at her face. A deep crease was set between her brows while she worried her bottom lip in thought.

"What has you awake so early?" This soon after waking, the lilt of his accent was heavier, his tone deeper and more gravelly than usual.

"It wasn't you, right?"

"Baby–" he started, pushing himself up on his good arm to a sitting position. He shifted so they were sitting knee to knee, one of his legs dangling over the side of the bed so he could move closer to her. Aelin looked away as she licked her lips before shaking her head. "Look at me, love."

"I know. I know you didn't; I just–" Her eyes found his again, and she huffed out a sigh. It sounded like she had been carrying it in her lungs for years. "Somebody found out. They found out, and they told her. But everyone I know is dead except for Elide and Gavriel, and they think I'm dead. Even if Gav put it together, I can't see him spilling everything to Maeve before talking to me to see what the hell happened to me all those years ago."

Digging her palms into her eyes, she took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. Rowan counted the seconds, his thumbs brushing in soothing circles over her tan skin. It was something he had been thinking about non-stop since everything exploded in the bureau lobby. Even as the bullet pierced his shoulder, he tried to make sense of everything that had come to light.

How had Maeve known? It definitely hadn't been Gavriel. At the very least, her uncle would have approached him before going to Maeve. It didn't make any sense for him to find his long-lost and assumed-dead niece and go straight to his boss. Rowan knew firsthand that the deaths of his sister-in-law and her husband had plagued him. He was one of the few people that Gavriel had ever talked about it with, him and Aedion never having fully given up hope that maybe she was out there somewhere. It wasn't something he voiced frequently. Those admissions came after everyone else had left the bar, and it was just the two of them sharing a beer in silence after a difficult case. No, it definitely hadn't been Gavriel.

Who then? Aelin was right. Essentially everyone from her childhood was dead now. All her confessions had happened in places where he knew they weren't being recorded. By that time, he himself had become paranoid enough that he checked all the pens in his pockets, his cufflinks, and the buttons of his shirts, even to ensure nobody had slipped a device somewhere in his clothes. If they had been recorded, it would have been inside his apartment. But he would have known about that, too. He checked regularly and had frequency blockers hidden in every room.

If working for the bureau taught him anything, it was to always be on your guard and that a healthy dose of paranoia kept you from being surveilled.

There was Elide, but Rowan had a strong feeling that any of her suspicions would have ended with Lorcan beating down his door in the dead of night in search of the truth. She wasn't even an option, not really.

Who, then? Had Arobynn Hammel let the truth slip to Maeve before his heart had been ripped from his chest? Did Maeve have eyes and ears everywhere that whispered back to her, even when they were sure no one was listening? It seemed far-fetched, but he knew his boss had her moments of being ruthless. But if she'd known the truth since Arobynn, why did she wait so long to tell Aelin she knew? The window of when she found out and when she spoke with Aelin had to have been a small one. Nothing else quite made sense.

Rowan looked back at the woman he loved, her eyes fixed on his face while he processed every bit of information they knew. All he could do was shake his head and rest his brow against hers.

"I don't know. I wish I could give you more than that, but where it stands right now, I have no fucking idea. We will figure it out– all of it. Who told her, what kind of jeopardy it puts you in, what our next steps are. We will figure it out together."

There was a determination in her eyes that was admirable. And though he could tell she wanted to push back about something that he'd said– he had no idea which part– she nodded slightly and repeated, "Together."

~*~

Hours later, Aelin was sitting on the floor in front of the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Despite a warmer day outside, a fire flickered in the fireplace. Watching the flames dance and twine around one another was a welcome reprieve from the near-constant headache she'd had for the last few days while trying to make sense of everything.

In the kitchen, Rowan hummed quietly while preparing dinner. The aroma of garlic, basil, and lemon was strong throughout the cabin. It felt bizarre that this felt like the most normal night she had ever experienced in her whole life. The sounds of dinner being prepared, a man she loved making everything with care. The reality was that it was the furthest from normal, considering she was on the run from the FBI. It was only a matter of time before she was found, captured, and dumped into a prison cell for the rest of her life. It made her stomach turn to know that the same thing would happen to Rowan for harboring a fugitive of her caliber and committing treason.

"I don't understand how this has become my life," she said aloud, and Rowan ceased his movements. The water turned on, followed by the sound of him washing and drying his hands before lowering his body to the floor beside her. "I don't mean I don't understand exactly how I ended up here. I understand that part. What I don't understand is how my life got here."

"You mean how you ended up an assassin in the first place." He shifted to drop his arm around her shoulder, and Aelin quickly turned into him, resting her face against his chest. It always surprised her when he understood what she was trying to say, even if the words were twisted and confusing on their way out of her mouth.

"How did I go from living in a mansion surrounded by family and friends, my father gearing up for a presidential run, having tea parties with my very best friends, or running through bonfires on Beltane with flowers in my hair to this?"

"What do you remember about that night?" The night she'd spent so much time running from, one that her brain had blocked out almost entirely. Aelin sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes still locked on the flames as she chewed on it for a moment.

"Not much," she admitted. "I've never talked about it out loud to anyone before, either. But it really isn't much."

"Do you want to go over what you do remember with me? Maybe something will spark, and we can work backward to figure out what is happening now." Only with Rowan would she ever talk about it, the night that ruined her life. Perhaps she had emerged from the ashes like a phoenix, but everything she had wanted to be before died that night. So she had become something else entirely. Something horrible that her friends and family would be ashamed of and would judge. But he wouldn't.

Aelin turned so she was leaning against the couch, her arm propped on the cushion with her fist against her temple. Rowan mirrored her body language, reaching out to lace the fingers of their free hands. A silent reminder that he was there, he understood her, and he would follow this path with her to whatever end it may have. The thought alone made her want to cry, but she swallowed her emotions.

"The night that my parents were murdered, I was sleeping upstairs in my bed. Every night I went to sleep snuggled in a mountain of stuffed animals. Most of them came from when my dad went on business trips. He always brought one back for me. I had to have at least twenty stacked on top of my bed, dozens more littered around my room. I rotated them out frequently so that none of them would feel lonely having to sleep by themselves." Rowan's lips had curved into the smallest of smiles, his thumb making circles on the back of her hand. He was there. He had her. She was not alone, and she would not be afraid.

"I remember having a hard time falling asleep that night. I'd been to my parent's bedroom twice because I thought I heard things. It was a big house; it made a lot of noise. My mom repeatedly promised me that everything was okay, and she and my dad tucked me back into bed. I remember still feeling unsettled and scared. Like something was wrong, but I didn't know what. I couldn't place my tiny finger on it then, but I would hold my breath to see what I could hear in the silence. Once, I heard soft voices, which my mom said I was just hearing the two of them talking downstairs. I heard footsteps, but again, they were still up and getting ready for bed. I was just hearing them."

Aelin paused then, tears already filling her eyes and threatening to slip down her cheeks. Not once had she said any of this out loud. Nobody had ever heard this part. With Rowan, she could do this. She could say it aloud despite her throat burning from trying to suppress her emotions. Maybe it was time she let them out. Had she ever really grieved? Those first few weeks at the keep, maybe. But Arobynn had quickly shut down her wildfire range of emotions some months into her training when he decided she should be over it by now. With a deep breath, she found it in herself to continue.

"I slept a little bit that night, but it was that kind of sleep where you hear everything around you. Somewhere between being awake and dreaming. At first, I thought I was dreaming. But I heard my mother begging someone. Her voice had so much raw fear; I will never forget how it cracked when she said my name. As scared as I was, you think you're invincible as a child, you know? So I snuck downstairs, tip-toeing down the hallway to their bedroom. And then I just… froze. There was enough moonlight to see my dad completely limp on the bed. Something dark was on his skin and the sheets, running down his arm and pooling on the floor. His eyes were staring at nothing.

A man had my mom's hair gathered in his hand; her head pulled back with a gun to her temple while she begged and begged. But she wasn't begging for herself; she was pleading that he let me go. Over and over, she just kept saying let my baby live, please don't hurt her. And then she saw me standing at the door, and the last thing she said was my name before the gun went off. I have never heard anyone's voice sound so panicked and full of terror. My mom slumped against my dad, and then I turned and ran. At some point, I slipped, banged my head on the ground, and I don't know what happened after that."

Aelin only realized she had fully begun to sob when Rowan pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her tightly. While she was talking, she had registered the sounds of gasping, sharp breaths, and broken words, but it hadn't registered that it was coming from her. When she started talking, it all started pouring out. One broken word after another until her shirt was soaked with tears. On the one hand, it felt so good to finally get it out and tell someone what had really happened that night. On the other, it shattered her into a million pieces to recount those events.

The papers had gotten it all wrong. Most of them said it had been a quick assassination. Aelin didn't know how fast it had happened for her father, but the man that killed her mother had stood there and listened to her begging for her daughter's innocent life for long enough that Aelin had made her way downstairs and heard the end of it. That she saw the end of it. That it was burned into her brain no matter how hard she tried to shut those images out.

Aelin still had nightmares about it.

Rowan didn't say anything for a long while, just holding her and stroking her hair while she let out every emotion she had kept locked in an iron cage in the back of her mind. Emotions she had been trained to keep a firm hold on for nearly her entire life. Arobynn used that against her, beating her down until she had become distant and cold. Only when she had met Rowan did any of it start to slip out, and she had spent months hating herself for it. Aelin had always known from the time she started to get to know him that he would be her unraveling one way or another. He would either throw her in prison or make her feel alive again. At the time, she couldn't decide which was worse.

"I know that there were two men. I saw a second one when I turned to run. But after that, I didn't know anything else until I woke up in a bed in the keep. Arobynn never talked about how I fell under his 'care.' For a while, I thought it was just an orphanage. That I had been found and taken there while I was unwell. It didn't click until I was a few years older that it certainly wasn't the case because I would have woken up in a hospital before I got taken anywhere, and then I would have been taken to my aunt and uncle. I just remember seeing all these papers about how I was missing and presumed dead. Arobynn would show me news footage of Aerin and Gavriel begging for someone to just let them know where my body was so they could bring me home."

Her tears felt cool against her flushed cheeks, even as Rowan chased every one of them away with calloused fingertips. The memories of her aunt, uncle, and cousin standing on the porch of their home, desperately asking for her return. They hadn't known if it would be her alive and well, or if it would be her dead body. It had not mattered. Her family just wanted her back. Wanted to keep or safe or lay her to rest next to her parents. The image of Aedion's young, tear-streaked face floated to the front of her mind, followed immediately by his unseeing eyes the day she had shown up at the crime scene to find him dead.

It was all too much. The murder of her parents, her upbringing to become the underworld's most deadly assassin, that she was now everything her parents hated about the world. All of her friends that now lay six feet under simply because they were tied to her in some way.

The guilt had been gnawing at her bones since it all started. Aelin would give absolutely anything to trade places with them. The cost didn't matter. It would have been better if she were the one that was dead because if she had died that night, at least everyone she loved would still be breathing.

Throughout the years, Aelin had kept tabs on each of them, knowing they would do incredible things. They all had done their best to put something good back into the world. Dorian was nothing like his father, doing what he could to speak out and back his words up with actions to pave a better way for the rest of the world. Aedion had spent countless hours working with underprivileged youth in Big Brother programs right up to his death. Even Sam was taking steps to better his life until he was killed for trying to run with her.

Nehemia… gods, the things she could have done if her life hadn't ended so shortly. She had been a beacon of hope to so many, her charity work speaking for itself. It was only about doing everything she could to help people in need, including raising money through the Lotus Foundation, one her parents had helped her create to build housing in underdeveloped parts of their home country, Eyllwe.

Yet she was the one still living. She who had taken countless lives, that had so much blood caked onto her soul she would never be clean. It didn't matter what she did going forward; it didn't matter the circumstances of how it all happened. Aelin was the one that lived, and she had brought so much shame upon everyone in her life.

There were no bright sides to her friends being dead. That she would never have to face them, never have to tell them the truth, though… She was too much of a coward to ever have looked any of them in the eye after the life she had been forced into.

"Do you remember anything about the men that killed your parents? What they looked like?" Rowan's voice stirred her from her thoughts, soft, deep, and lilting. His thumbs still brushed the tears that fell from her cheeks.

"The men Maeve captured and convicted were the ones that did it. I know that for sure. I could never forget Cairn's face. His accomplice is harder for me to piece together, but he confessed after Cairn ratted him out to avoid the death penalty. I only saw him for a brief moment before I fell. If the wrong people had been convicted, I would have hunted them down and killed them myself." And she would have. Those lives would have been two of the few she held no remorse over, and it wouldn't have been quick. It would have lasted long enough until some of the grief had eased in her chest. Until she wasn't so scared to look back on her childhood memories anymore.

"That case got her the appointment for FBI Director." Rowan lifted the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe the snot gathered in her nose and upper lip.

"She deserved it for that. Even though I had just turned nine, I was hyper-aware of what my life was turning into by that point. And seeing justice brought down on them… it brought some relief. Not much, but enough to know they were behind bars. I would have preferred the death penalty for them both, but at least there was a confession." Aelin shrugged her shoulders. It was true. She would have killed them after her arrest if she had been in the same prison. Clearly, the gods had other plans for her, though.

"Is there anything else you can piece together?"

"Right now, no. But if I have any eureka moments, you'll be the first and only one to know."

Aelin had been waiting for Rowan's apology. The one that came from a place of empathy, that made her feel like she was pitied. But it never came. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. The gesture said more than words ever could. That he understood, that he hated the shitty hand life had dealt her, that he stood with her. That he was there.

And that meant more to her than any words ever could.

~*~

Whitethorn had been right. In the days after Sardothien's arrest, he had gone on and on about how it was too convenient. It didn't make sense that she was just a whisper in the wind and suddenly became so sloppy in her work that boxes of evidence had, literally, been dropped on the steps of the FBI headquarters.

Raking through every piece of information that they had on her, he could see that clear as day. For years their department had chased a ghost, someone quick and silent. There had never been a drop of her own blood, a single hair that fell off her head. No fingerprints, no saliva. None of her DNA packed under someone's fingernails from a struggle. They didn't even have proof that it was her at all, actually. They only knew that the legendary assassin was a woman based on one witness account, and the woman had been so old and frail and unsure of her account that it would have been inadmissible in court.

All of her alleged crime scenes had been scoured with a fine-toothed comb. They knew it was murder; that much was clear. But Celaena Sardothien had dozens of aliases, hundreds maybe. He was sure of that. Yet the "proof" they had received in a box full of her fake passports and IDs seemed too good to be true. None of them led them anywhere; it was like she'd never touched them, never used them at any point. Anyone could pay someone to make fake identification, and what they found in those boxes was so blatantly fake that it wouldn't fool anyone.

Her case was a puzzle that he was dying to solve. Usually, he loved cataloging evidence that led to a trial. Sure, they would have to find and capture her again before she saw her day in the courtroom, but he enjoyed this part of the work. Except for right now, when not a single loose thread took him anywhere at all. The woman simply did not exist.

With tired eyes, he pushed away the file he'd been reading and turned to another that kept him up at night. Lorcan wasn't usually so personally invested in the cases they solved, but the look in Gavriel's eyes when he found out his son had been murdered still haunted his nightmares. The sounds of the sobs that broke free from his throat were the sounds of a soul dying. Gavriel had loved his son with everything he had, and Lorcan almost couldn't forgive himself for having to be the person that broke the news.

Flipping open the Ashryver file, he scanned the evidence log and accompanying photos. When he got to the images of Aedion's lifeless body, he started to flip faster, not needing to see the pictures to remember them in vivid detail.

Just as he was about to skip the last one, a close-up shot of his face and neck, Lorcan's fingers froze against the glossy page. In the photo, Aedion's glassy eyes stared at the cloudy sky. Eyes that were a bright turquoise, his pupil rimmed with gold. They were dimmer now than they had been while he was alive, but…

But he knew those eyes. Not just because they were a strong trait of the Ashryver gene pool but because he had looked into them himself. Yes, he had met Aedion several times at various get-togethers and holiday parties. But his eyes were identical to a different pair he'd become all too familiar with for the last several months.

Then there was his face. Gavriel's son favored him strongly, but there was a softness in his features that he had spent months looking at on a different face. A woman's face. The same shade of golden hair, though in these photos, it was sticky with dried blood.

Lorcan pulled his laptop closer to him, quickly opening a tab and sending his fingers flying across the keyboard. It was probably the fastest he had ever typed, and he had never been so impatient for the single second it took to get hundreds of images back from the search result.

He clicked on the third photo down, one of a small family standing on a stage. The man and woman waved to the crowd while the young girl beamed where she stood between them. No older than seven, her little hands clasped her mother and father's tightly.

Rhoe and Evalin Galathynius pictured with their daughter, Aelin, on Vice President Galathynius's presidential campaign trail in Perranth.

A few weeks ago a conversation of Lorcan arguing with Rowan about Celaena's involvement in Elide's attack had him pushing back from his chair. Ice slithered up and down his spine, blood turning cold as he recalled one specific thing that Rowan said to him that he hadn't caught in the moment because he was so upset and worried about his fiancee's life.

Rowan had called her Aelin. Said that Aelin didn't have anything to do with what happened to Elide. He vividly remembered feeling bothered by the conversation afterward, that there was something between the lines that Rowan hadn't been saying plainly with words, but perhaps they were there. Whitethorn had been so fiercely sure that Celaena didn't do it, didn't have it ordered, had clean hands where Elide was concerned. He might be a raging dumbass for dating a woman with multiple charges of murder to her name, but the man was not stupid.

Lorcan's eyes snagged on another image, a group photo of two dozen or so people. Standing in the front were five children. All of them were dressed in their holiday best, standing before a towering Yulemas tree covered in glittering ornaments and twinkling lights. They appeared to be gathered in a great hall of sorts. Everyone in the picture shared wide smiles as they looked at the camera.

In the middle of the group of children was a young girl with long dark hair wearing a red and green plaid dress. A bright red bow gathered some of her soft curls from her face. A face that Lorcan would know anywhere because not only had he seen hundreds of childhood pictures of her, but he woke up to that face every godsdamn morning.

Elide's arms were looped through two other girls, one with long golden hair and fair skin, the other with black hair in carefully woven braids, her skin dark. The three of them wore similar dresses, the color being the only thing different about them. The blonde girl on her right had a silver and dark green dress, while the one on her right had a dress of purple and silver.

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was on Elide's right. That was factual. Beside Aelin, Aedion Ashryver stood with his arm thrown around her shoulders. Dorian Havilliard and Chaol Westfall were on the other side of Nehemia Ytger. Behind them were their parents and friends of their parents. All of them gathered before one of the famous Galathynius family Yulemas parties.

It wasn't just Aelin standing beside Elide, though. That thought clanged through Lorcan hard. He felt it in every nerve and bone of his body; he had never been so absolutely positive of something in his entire life.

Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, a girl long since presumed dead to the world and everyone that loved her.

Holy gods.

80 notes · View notes

zannolin · 2 months ago

Note

★ (LEMONS) ✿ (NT polyfic) ↻ (polar express au but somehow. it's star trek characters. your choice of which)

★ what was the scene you most wanted to write in [when life gives you lemons]? what was the hardest scene to write?

for the uninitiated the so-called "LEMONS" aka my national treasure crack treated vaguely seriously fic, is basically 3k of me faffing about answering the age-old question in national treasure fan spaces everywhere: why the fuck does patrick gates have so many lemons in his house? (in this version, he does not. hijinks ensue.)

honestly i just wanted to write the concept, not a specific scene. i was like but what if he DIDN'T. what if they're out here, actively pursued by the FBI, in possession of THE most beloved/idolized/renowned historical artifact in the wider american historical consciousness, still dressed for a party, cannot use their credit cards—and they have to buy lemons. like don't you just hate when you're on the run from the feds but your dad doesn't have any goddamn lemons to decode the hidden map on the back of the declaration of independence? it was just funny as hell to me to think about and once i had the concept of "i'm not leaving you alone with the declaration!" "well i could say the same of you!" "i said it first" "well i'm not leaving you alone with riley then" in my head i just had to go for it, you know?

hardest...i don't know, probably the grocery store itself, specifically when riley's buying the lemons, because i was typing it like "...is this too much? this is too much. this is definitely too much, right?" i second-guessed the entire thing but i could just See it happening in my brain and i had to bring it to life. hence the crack tags.

✿ did anything major change when you started writing [three's a crowd] to when you finished?

well. the length, for one. i believe in the span of like 2 days it went from "teehee lil post-book of secrets oneshot!" to "please send help this fic spans like 20 years and has just broken 10k". also i recall i was watching the terrible, horrible national treasure show WHILE writing and made the decision to incorporate the funeral episode into my canon (thus extending the timeline of the fic by a DECADE) because that shot of riley in sadusky's study seeing the pipe from the charlotte changed me on levels chemical, spiritual, and previously unknown to man. those were really the only serious changes that happened, which is impressive, considering i did not finish the outline before starting the fic. like a fool.

↻ pick a fic and a different ship and I’ll tell you how I’d rewrite it

well i had a whole intelligent answer here that was very in depth and then accidentally deleted it and started screaming so you get a really cut down vers. i'm not sure i could ever replicate that fic with a different set of characters because the Vibes don't fit very well with anyone i'm familiar with, esp not star trek. like it's about growing up. and faith. and belief. not even in a religious sense, strictly. just, like. magic. goodness. christmas. whatever. it's about losing the innocence of childhood and looking at the world with a cynical eye, unable to take anything at face value anymore—but then finding magic in the wreckage of your childhood. (okay well when i put it like that i could totally do this with mike but i'm not going to because i don't think it would be transformative enough from the og. it would just be me writing the same story, and not in a cool and new way like please don't hold me to it being the spiritual sequel to planetarium stickers ykwim?)

if i did it with anyone it would probably have to be the PIC s1 crew and be not a polar express situation at all, which is highly dependent upon children as characters and i just could not do that with them. would probably just have to pull elements like idk it's a magical transport of some kind. or we're thrown together under unlikely circumstances. they're all on a train going home for the holidays or something idk. just something about connection, not necessarily childhood. maybe b'elanna or sisko could work as an MC too but i don't have enough brainpower to consider how to fit spots for other characters from VOY or DS9 into the story when PIC falls together pretty easily. i dunno. that au was sort of lightning in a bottle and i don't know if i can ever do something like it again barring. you know. the narnia au i already did.

send me fic asks!

#answered asks #beautyofsorrow

4 notes · View notes

a-student-out-of-time · 1 year ago

Note

Teach me your massive writing nerd ways, senpai!! 😫

(For real though, hope you get better soon ^^)

//Thank you ^^

//I'm not really an expert in this department, but here's Sixteen Steps on how I oversee the Fangan writing process:

Decide on your story's theme first and foremost. What's the major conflict? What ideas are being put forward and challenged? How will your Killing Game's story, character and environment reflect these? Are you sticking with the classics (Hope vs. Despair, Truth vs. Lies), something similar but new (Trust vs. Doubt, Growth vs. Stagnation, Redemption vs. Corruption) or are you going with something completely different? All of these can and should play a role on the nature of the Killing Game itself.

When you've decided on what kind of story you want to tell, work on the characters. Your characters shouldn't just be there to die and crack jokes, they should be an active part of the story and their arcs should ideally reflect the conflicts and themes. You also are not bound by the archetypes used in canon and can vary it up however you want.

Character arcs: Have them. Even with characters whose fates are sealed and they aren't going to die, there's no reason not to allow them some degree of growth and change in the time that they do have. Their arcs can even naturally conclude with their deaths in trials or the like, which can vary from them choosing to save someone else to one final act of spite against the rest of the group.

You are not bound by the almighty outline. You're also going to need at least a general idea of where you want your story to go, but it's okay to provide yourself with a degree of flexibility. Who's going to survive? Who isn't? Why? What are the motives? Are they doing anything besides just faffing around waiting for the next murder? Maybe your ideas will change, just make sure you can smoothly integrate those new ideas without upsetting the flow and clues you've established.

Small moments are more important than big ones. Moments of characterization in the plot, like vulnerability, small confrontations, even casually-provided pieces of dialogue can do more for your characters than just having them die horribly/dramatically or them revealing something major in or after the trial. FTEs should be supplemental, not the place you dump all their best/worst character qualities.

Characters should communicate. You shouldn't define characters purely by their relationship to the protagonist or to one other character. See how many dynamics and interactions you can come up with, and how you might be able to include those into the story. Diversifying interactions opens up a lot of potential new dynamics and story opportunities.

It's okay to be a LITTLE self-indulgent. I say this because I got flak for saying writers shouldn't let their self-indulgence overwhelming their fangans. I will clarify that it's okay if you want to include something just because you want to include it, as I have in my own writing, but if you want a murder method/execution/confrontation/what have you in the story, please at least integrate it in a way that makes sense. If you don't, it's going to feel jarring at best and actively harmful and disruptive to the story at worst.

Your setting should feel like a part of the story. The place where your cast is trapped shouldn't feel like a featureless prison with setups for murders, it should have an active role in the situation and clue us into the story. Is it run-down and grungy? Unnaturally clean for an inhabited space? Is it dark? Is it colorful and lively? What's keeping them from leaving? What do they find as they explore?

Avoid stereotypes about mental health. If you're going to use DID, Schizophrenia, Autism, OCD, depression, PTSD, Bipolar Disorder, any personality disorder, etc., PLEASE do your research before you even think about writing a character with any of these. Mental health being equated with violence is grossly exaggerated; people with these conditions are more likely to be victims of violence, not the perpetrators. Please don't make a character built out of negative stereotypes just for the sake of drama or making the story "interesting." A good character is vastly more interesting than another Genocider Syo knockoff.

Idiot Plots are Unacceptable. There's a fine line between a character making a bad decision because of pride, fear, miscalculation, or any sort of understandable flaw, and them making one because the story needs them to in order for a murder to happen. Your characters can make all the right decisions that they reasonably could, and still ultimately fail. That often makes the antagonists seem much smarter and more threatening.

Do not overly focus on the rival. If you've ever heard someone say that villains are more interesting than heroes, that person is probably just bad at writing heroes. Your protagonist does not have to be boring and your rival doesn't have to, and preferably shouldn't, be the most important and well-written character in the story. A good rival challenges the protagonist and serves as their foil in some way, but that also means the protagonist can challenge them in other ways; e.g. Byakuya has no chance of solving Trial 4 because he couldn't even conceive of a situation where someone would sacrifice themselves for another.

Suffering does not equate to sympathy. Yes, a killing game would be a miserable experience, but just making the characters miserable and putting them through the wringer constantly, with no chance for them to breathe or get any kind of victory often feels more exhausting than sympathetic or interesting. This extends beyond fangans and into writing in general; if you've established that a character is never going to succeed at anything they do, people are going to emotionally check out of the story because there's no reason to get invested that something might go wrong.

The mastermind should reflect one side of the conflict. For the driving theme, whichever side the protagonist is on, the mastermind should represent the opposite. For extra thematic flair, maybe have their backgrounds parallel each other in some manner and see how their lives too very different paths as a result. If they don't, they're going to feel very disconnected from the story and like they had no reason to do this at all.

Ask yourself what kind of mastermind works best for your story. Do you want someone loud and bombastic? Quiet and scheming? Angry and bitter? A deluded paragon who thinks they're doing good with their killing game? Someone not even human? When you have it in mind, work backwards and ask how this person would then decide to become the mastermind of this killing game in the first place.

If you're stuck, try reverse-engineering. A lot of us have the outcome of a story in mind first but aren't sure how we get there, especially with murders in these games. I find the best way is to work backwards, starting with the outcome (basically the Closing Argument) and scattering all the pieces of the murder scene around to where it becomes a mystery. Motivations, of course, should be the first thing on your mind and why they targeted a particular character.

EXECUTIONS ARE NOT A STORY. This is probably the biggest hurtle I see with a lot of aspiring fangan writers, where they focus very much on the deaths and executions over everything else. Your fangan can't just be a paper-thin plot designed to get us from one execution to the other, it needs an actual story and characters to keep us engaged. Furthermore, your executions shouldn't just be spectacle, they should have a purpose in the narrative and provide character insights in and of themselves, whether it's ironic punishments or some final revelation about the character.

//And there you go, some tips for writing a fangan. Hope these help! ^^

#mod talks #a student out of time #writing advice #fanganronpa #fanganronpa writing advice #fangan writing advice

29 notes · View notes