#i still need to figure out what monikers to give them too

[viric-dreams]

Born in a Welsh mining town to a working class family, Euros was determined to escape the life set before him and to scrabble up the societal ranks, however possible. He had no desire to spend his life underground.

As soon as he was able, he ran away to London to try to make a new life for himself. London, however, was less than kind to a boy from the valleys, with a strange lilt to his imperfect English. He spent his nights in pubs near the harbour, listening in and imitating the sailors occupying them. At the age of thirteen, he signed on with the Royal Navy, listing his name as Elias Roberts and gaining the rank of cabin boy. He grew particularly fond of the officer he served, one of the first to treat him like the other English boys. Elias decided that he would follow this officer to the ends of the earth, should he be asked.

And then London fell.

Elias’ devotion never wavered. Not even when his officer split from the Admiralty, renaming himself The Commodore. Elias sailed with him to their new port of call, the Grand Geode, and dutifully helped to build the Dawn Machine, embracing the New Sequence.

Decades passed in the Neath. Then one day, the Commodore called him into his office. He had a task for Lieutenant Roberts: He should sail to London and infiltrate a group of revolutionaries trying to bring about the Liberation of Night. With the group’s name and his alias scrawled onto a piece of paper, he took to zee.

London, however, had changed much since his departure decades before. Its denizens were not the cheerful, smiling sort he was used to back at his port of call. It wasn’t long before Elias found himself set upon by a group of criminals, intent on robbery. In the scuffle, however, his dark glasses broke, revealing his dazzling golden eyes. The next thing he knew he had a bag over his head.

He woke up bound in a Benthic basement laboratory, half a dozen scientists watching him intently. He was a Sequencer, they said, clearly controlled by a master he was forced to serve against his will. But they had a cure—one that would free him from his slavish dedication to the sun the sun the sun the sun the sun the sun the s—

Nicholas Nite came to in an alley in Ladybones Road with nothing but a scrap of paper with what he presumed was his name, and an address.

Nicholas followed the address to what turned out to be the meeting place of a group of anarchists. These revolutionaries, he’d learned, were set on the Liberation of Night. Enraptured by their words, Nicholas devoted himself to the cause. At the recommendation of one of his newfound colleagues, he found an inn for the night and settled down to his new role.

Elias woke up with no memory of why he was in London.

There is no set time or indication of what might bring about the change. Usually Elias/Nicholas will feel poorly, and have to excuse himself. Neither man is aware of the other’s identity or activities.

Whilst they both share a deep devotion for the cause in which they believe, Nicholas is more likely to look outside of the box or to bend the rules to achieve his goals. He is unconcerned with decorum. Whereas Elias initially appears far more cheerful and therefore approachable, Nicholas is by far the politer of the two, more likely to kindly talk his way through a solution, rather than Sequence-sanctioned force. And whereas Elias is perfectly content to stand in the proverbial shadow of the Dawn Machine, Nicholas has a bit of a showmanship streak, at least to his fellow revolutionaries.

Bonus:

Nicholas spent several months haunted by mysterious words lurking in the back of his mind. The word he was seeking would be lost, suddenly replaced by foreign consonants. He eventually went to his fellow anarchists with this information, concerned that between this and all of his missing time, that the Correspondence had somehow infected him and that he was losing his mind. Instead, one of his associates simply laughed. “Fy mrawd yng Nghrist, siwd wyt ti ddim yn gwybod bo ti’n Gymro?”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

End Game 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your gaming buddy asks to meet up but it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: have a great friday, dudes.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Maris Street. You rarely go that way. It’s near the core of the town, closer to the west end where green hedges and white picket fences cordon off the suburban elite from the commoners like you. It suits him, doesn’t it? You assume this is what he’s used to. 

The venom roils in your gut as you approach Oxford Drive. You stop before the sleek grey exterior. The black trims and large golden moniker in all caps add to the extravagant effect. Flowers boxes stand outside the windows that glow amber with rich ambience from within. The nicest place you ever went was the Korean Barbecue your dorm mate dragged you to; this is well beyond that. 

You take a breath and look down at yourself. You’re still wearing the black jeans and plain tee you sport for your job. Former job. Your beat-up sneakers perfectly match your thrifted aesthetic and the purse strap twisted around your hand and wrist frays as if to assure everyone that you don’t belong. 

You go to the front door and pull it open. You step inside to the low drone of stringy music and the subtle clink of glasses amid the low murmur of voices. You chew your lip as you approach the tall round desk where the hostess stands over the open reservation book, like some mystical keeper of scrolls. How very Skyrim of her. 

She gives you a look, one you expect. You sniff and cross your arms, the strap of your purse further straining your circulation. You exhale and peek over at the dining room. 

“Hi, I um...” your cheeks pinch as you find it difficult to speak. “I’m meeting someone.” 

“You are?" Her skepticism drips from her voice, “are you certain they’re... here?” 

“Yeah. I don’t know if he made a reservation or whatever. Obviously, I’m not a regular,” you snipe back. You’re too exasperated to hold back. You don’t need her judging you too. “Older, beard, uh, tall... Andy Barber. Is he in the book?” 

She flutters her pretty lashes and looks down. You watch her. She’s a few years older than you. Tall, balayaged hair, slender, perfectly bowed lips. What about her? Or someone like her? Why wouldn’t he want that instead? Why is he bothering you? 

“Barber,” she nods, “yes, he’s here.” 

She seems surprised by that. She steps out from behind the desk and tells you to follow. You obey. You have to. This is all just pulling teeth. He has you toothless already. 

You keep your head down as you trail behind her. You only look up as you sense a figure on the other side of her. Andy stands as you approach and you nearly choke. You want so bad to just turn around and run away. 

A line deepens in his forehead and disappears. He smiles as the hostess waves you forward. He comes around to pull out the other chair before you can. You retract your arm and barely withhold your frustration. Can’t he understand you want nothing from him? 

You sit stiff and fix your bag in your lap, slowly unwinding the strap from your wrist. The hostess promises a server will be with you soon and struts away. You stare at the table cloth and as Andy sits, darkening the edge of your vision, you turn to glare at the far wall. 

You feel even more demeaned sitting there in your jeans in tea among the crystal and tall-stemmed lilies. The tinkle of the soft woodwind music makes your head buzz yet the smell of the food teases your empty stomach. Your eyes drift to a group of older women, laughing over wine, a symbol of what you’ll never be. Happy. Free. 

“Thanks for meeting me. I guess you’ve never been here before,” Andy begins. 

You shake your head and flick your eyes to the ceiling. You grit down on his words. Why is he acting like this is normal? 

“Nice place, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” you snap and look at him directly, nearly growling in his face, “very nice. Upscale. Well above me.” 

You cross your arms and sit back, your purse strap still loosely clinging to your wrist. His chest rises and he exhales through his nose. He leans forward and his cheek ticks. 

“I brought you here for dinner, so we could talk, get to know each other--” 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” you insist, almost teary-eyed from your rage. You don’t like being angry. You’ve never been very good at and more times, you end up blubbering. “Kara, my friend--” 

He tilts his chin up and sets his gaze firmly on you, “we’ll get to that.” 

“No, now,” you hiss. 

He huffs through his nose. He looks around, silently chewing his agitation. He sits up and replaces that manufactured smile as a server approaches. 

“Good evening, can I get you started with drinks?” He asks, his dark shirt finely pressed and buttoned to the very top. 

“No thank--” you begin. 

“We’ll take a bottle of cabernet,” Andy interjects, “for the table. Oh, and could we get some fresh bread. This has been sitting out.” 

The server acquiesces and takes the basket as Andy hands over the wine menu. You barely keep from rolling your eyes. You’re not here to eat and drink and be merry. Kara is quite possibly behind bars. 

You glare at him and wait. The server leaves as you keep your arms folded, fingers clamped tightly. He looks at you as if there’s nothing wrong. As if this is all normal. 

“I want to know what’s going to happen to Kara. You said you can help--” 

“I can,” he says casually, “so let’s have a nice dinner and then I’ll do just that.” 

“But she’s--” 

“They’ll have her in holding, question her, then they’ll have to figure out charges, yada, yada,” he explains, “don’t worry, I’ll give them a call after, tell them my client is invoking her right to an attorney.” 

Your chest thumps and your ears ring. He’s so confident. He already knows you can’t say no. Not to him or this dinner. You have to sit there and celebrate his victory that came with your defeat. It’s not right. It’s... it’s... deranged. 

“Why?” You croak. 

“Why?” He shakes his head. 

“Why are you doing this? Why me? Why not someone... someone you can relate to? Someone your age?” 

“Why you? You’re perfect, sweetheart. Perfect for me,” he coos, “come on, we get along. We did. I know I messed things up but it can’t change that we had fun. We did, didn’t we?” 

You swallow and shrug. Those nights you stayed up and mined or raced or whatever, they were fun, they were nights you look forward to. But every single one was a lie. 

“Sure, but... what if I’d lied to you? What if I wasn’t me? What if I was some guy in a basement--” 

“You weren’t.” 

“But what if--” 

“I know you weren’t.” 

“How could you know--” 

“I just did. You’re so genuine, so... kind, that can’t be fake,” he insists. 

You sink down, slumping your shoulders, and look away. What can you do? You’re exactly where you never wanted to be. With less options. With none. 

“What do you want from me?” Your dry mouth crackles around your words. 

He’s quiet as the server returns. He sits back and you lift your chin as you watch the server uncork the bottle. He pours the wine and Andy asks for a few more minutes with the menu. Again, you have no appetite. 

When you’re alone again, Andy takes a breath and shifts in his chair. He brings his hands together, pinching his left ring finger as if he’s missing something. He quickly pulls his hands apart. 

“You. That’s all I want,” he breathes. 

You stare at him. You don’t understand. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to. If you keep denying it, it might not be the very idea that makes your skin crawl. 

He reaches for his glass of wine and holds it out. You stare at it, then look him in the face. You can’t wipe the horror from your face. 

“Cheers to us, sweetheart,” he says, “me and you.” 

You shake your head as he waits. Slowly you take the glass before you and raise it. He clinks the crystal between you. 

“It’s the first day of the rest of our lives,” he declares, “we can both build the home we always wanted. Together.” 

🎮

Andy pays the bill as you wallow in futility. This is it. Your life is over. All because of one mistake. All because you trusted the wrong person. 

He stands first and you follow. He grabs the to-go box of the food you barely touched. You’re in such a fog, you can barely think. He gestures you towards the door as he nudges you with the box. You hug your purse to your stomach and walk between the tables. 

The cool night air wakes you up. As you come to the sidewalk, you stop. You turn back to him and wet your mouth, a hint of wine on your tongue. 

“Call. Right now,” your voice shakes. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart?” He inclines his head as if he doesn’t understand. 

“The police. Call. You said you would help Kara,” you insist. 

His brow arches and he nods. He holds out the container and you take it stiffly, letting your purse dangle from your shoulder. He pulls out his phone as he stares at you. Finally, he looks down and scrolls. He clears his throat before he puts it to his ear. 

“Hi, yes, this is Andy Barber, I’m an attorney for a woman in your custody. Yes, I do.” You listen to the piecemeal conversation, “name is Kara Orascio. Yes, she won’t be talking to the police any longer. That’s correct.” He pauses and listens intently, “I’m out of town but I can be there tomorrow. Sure.” 

He hangs up as his eyes cling to you still.  

“So, looks like we need to pack,” he says. 

“What?” You utter. 

“Don’t you want to see your friend?” He challenges. 

“Well, yes, but I thought you--” 

“I’m not coming back here again. So, you’re coming. We’ll deal with your friend’s charges then we’ll go home.” 

You blink, “home?” 

“Sure, sweetheart, I got it all ready for you,” he turns down the sidewalk and takes your hand. 

You have the urge to rip your hand out of his. You want to tell him not to touch you. You want to scream and run away. You don’t because you want to save Kara more. 

“I meant what I said before. I can get you into school down there,” he guides you along, “you’ll like it. It's close to Boston. Place called Nelson. You ever been to Massachusetts?” 

“Hm, no, didn’t travel much.” 

“That’s okay. We can do some of that too. Still got lots of summer left. We could go somewhere sunny,” he drawls, “you know, it gets gloomy in the fall so we may as well enjoy it while we can.” 

“Sure,” you murmur. 

Your feet are heavy, your head too, every part of you just wants to give up. Haven’t you? Isn’t that what this is? You surrender.  

“You okay, sweetheart?” He stops and lets go of you, fishing around in his pocket. 

“I’m...” your vision narrows in; just like the moment you first met him. As Andy. As the real him. As the twisted man you just sold your soul to. “...tired.” 

“Aw, yeah, well, it’s been a long few days. For both of us. You wanna come back to my hotel. The bed’s really cozy and the tub is deep. You could relax for the night before we gotta get on the road,” he offers. 

You shake your head, “n-no,” you stutter. The last thing you want to do is be alone behind closed doors with him. “You said... pack. I should... do that.” 

“Ah, I did. Alright, I’ll take you to your grandma’s. I’ll have to come early so we can get to your friend.” 

“Right,” you agree coarsely. 

“Trust me. I know how to handle cops,” he chuckles and pulls out his keys, unlocking the car right beside you. He opens the door and steps back, “I’ll call ahead. Get us a room as there too. I guess you’re going to want to catch up with your friend while we’re there. Might be a while before you see her again.” 

You wince and look at him. A while. You look around at the street lights. You’re not unhappy. Leaving this place doesn’t matter to you but leaving Kara, possibly forever, that’s a knife in the chest. But forever is easier if you know she’s okay. If you know she doesn’t pay for your stupidity. 

You nod and get in the car. You can’t speak. If you even try, you’ll bawl. The end is there, you feel it closing you in with the car door. 

[scribescrawls]

Thinking about Transformers One Liege Maximo and how he never went bad in TFOne. In the wiki in other versions I saw he had the moniker of “The Prime of Lies” and I like to think he still was in TFOne, but instead of using those skills for evil he used them to protect his fellow Primes and Cybertron. Liege Maximo using his skills in manipulation, scheming, and lying to create strategies that help them get the upper hand in the war with the Quintessons that might be underhanded but ultimately saves more lives. But also sometimes lying to motivate others or cheer them up as well in terms of keeping up morale (for example imagine him lying to someone that he asked Primus himself to give a person luck to succeed in a task that they are too scared to do that helps them succeed in doing it even though he never asked Primus anything. But he does it because he knows the person had the ability to do the task already just that their fears and self doubt were holding them back so he lies to give them the confidence they need. Liege Maximo going ‘I told them Primus has given them for this specific task his blessing of luck’ and his fellow Primes side eye him like ‘Bro you know that’s not how that works’ and he responds ‘I know that, but it worked look how much more confident the bot is!’). And yes sometimes these plans he makes toe the line of what is morally right, but that’s what he has his fellow Primes for. I imagine he and Prima sometimes get into arguments about what is going too far or if certain strategies cross a line ethically, but I like to think that in this version instead of it tearing them apart it makes the team stronger as they find compromises that combine both their ideals until they find a plan that they both agree to with everyone.

I’m also so fascinated by the different possibilities of the High Guard personally knowing the Thirteen Primes. I like the idea of TFOne Liege Maximo being a mentor figure for Starscream in the past before Sentinel’s betrayal and kind of took Starscream on as his personal student in a way because he saw himself in the other. Liege Maximo going “oh he just like me for real” seeing a younger Starscream who is not yet leader of the High Guard lie to an enemy to get them to lower their guard and when they hesitate to kill him he stabs the enemy in the back. Him observing Starscream use cunning in battle to win his fights that keeps himself and those under his command alive and thinks this one reminds me of me and he has potential to be great. Liege Maximo becoming his mentor and over the years they also become good friends. I like to headcanon that Liege Maximo loves to cause problems on purpose for his own amusement and likes to pull pranks on his fellow Primes with Amalgamous who is also a known prankster. I imagine the other Primes are exasperatedly fond of their antics. I like to think once Liege Maximo takes Starscream as his protégé he ropes him into helping them pull pranks with them.

I’m fascinated by the potential of TFOne Starscream before Sentinel’s betrayal still being a manipulator, liar, and schemer but at the same time someone who was loyal to the Thirteen Primes and believed in the cause they were fighting for of defending Cybertron. Like I still think he’s someone who would put himself first in terms of saving his own life, but I think he also does care for those under him and does his best to keep them alive too. I think he’s always been strong on self preservation, but I also think he lives by a certain honor code and has certain principles he stubbornly abides by even if most people would at first glance think he’d sell you out for one corn chip. I think this is most telling if we look at how not once did Starscream try to join Sentinel or the Quintessons by pledging his loyalty to them to save his own skin even if it might of been easier and instead chooses to live 50 cycles in hiding/on the run being hunted down on the dangerous surface with a planet whose flow of energon has stopped and still tries to sabotage Sentinel from the shadows and hates his guts for the betrayal. He did fail in attacking/killing Sentinel, but I think it’s important to note that he successfully kept everyone alive at the same time too.

After Sentinal’s betrayal and watching the Primes be killed in front of him in addition to being hunted down on the surface together with the rest of the High Guard for 50 cycles I think he slowly becomes disillusioned with the world and more cruel and ruthless as he does whatever is needed for their survival.

I headcanon that Megatronus Prime was usually the one commanding the High Guard and directing them in battle and that Starscream did really look up to him too and admired his strength. But I headcanon that Megatronus Prime was so strong that his approach to battle is very charge head on and brutally beat your opponent into the ground as a way to protect everyone else. A warrior who charges straight at the enemy and gets things done brutally and efficiently, very similar to D-16/Megatron’s fighting style. However, I think Megatronus was also way more experienced and was also able to direct the High Guard in a way that worked with multiple differing fighting styles that meshed different approaches to maximize the strength of their fighting force. (Which is partially why I think Starscream followed Megatron in the end, one he did manage to rip Sentinel in half, but also he might have thought D-16/Megatron had the potential to be a leader worth following and associated any similarities with a sense of hope that Megatron might become someone like his past leader Megatronus). Meanwhile, I think Starscream is more of an ‘analyze your opponent and then strike using your wits to best take them down’ kind of fighter especially if you can’t beat them in straightforward combat. I like to think Liege Maximo also fights like that and might have been the one to give Starscream extra fighting lessons when he notes the similarities of how Starscream likes to fight. And if you ever saw them fight side by side you could probably see Liege Maximo’s fighting style reflected in the way Starscream moves.

I also think with this headcanon it potentially adds a bit of tragic irony that this version of Megatronus and Liege Maximo never turned bad becoming “The Fallen” etc, but those who greatly admired them and tried to embody their legacy sort of become the fallen ones down the line.

[bloody-bee-tea]

A truth for a truth

Shouta can tell that something has Shinsou agitated the moment the boy steps into the gym. He doesn’t even try to hide it, which makes Shouta think that for once maybe surprise wins out over fear or pain and the need to hide them, like it so rarely does with Shinsou and yet Shouta still waits until he’s standing right in front of him to speak.

“What?” Shouta asks, not worrying about his tone in the slightest because Shinsou has been training with him for weeks now, so the kid knows how Shouta operates.

And they have found that usually less words work well between them. As if to prove him right, Shinsou huffs out an annoyed breath before he looks Shouta in the eyes.

“Your hell-class has accused me of being your kid,” he states, and it prompts a frown from Shouta.

“They know I teach you. That would make you one of my problem children as well,” Shouta easily says, because he’s long past pretending that he doesn’t use the moniker with great fondness but to his surprise Shinsou shakes his head.

“No, I mean—they accused me of being your actual love child, with an as of yet unnamed woman,” he clarifies and oh. Yeah, okay, that makes more sense, considering that his hell-class is involved.

“As of yet?”

“That guy with the double quirk certainly has theories,” Shinsou almost spits out and Shouta bites back a laugh.

Yeah, Todoroki has shown a tendency to obsess over one tiny detail for far too long and then come up with the most outlandish theories. It’s kind of hilarious, most times, so Shouta fails to see how it could agitate the kid so much.

“And that upsets you?” he asks, because he’s not a mind reader, despite what the rumors say and Shinsou huffs out another breath.

“What upsets me is that half of your class nodded along with that guy’s outlandish theories but then they laughed all straight in my face when I told them that it’s highly unlikely, seeing how you and Mic-sensei are almost disgustingly married.”

Now that brings Shouta up short. The staffs knows of their marital status, of course, but they make it a point to keep it a secret from the kids and to be found out so easily, doesn’t sit right with Shouta, despite the fact that it’s just Shinsou. He doesn’t mind at all if the kid knows about their marriage but still. He shouldn’t have been able to figure it out in the first place.

“Now what would make you say that?” he wants to know and levels Shinsou with a look; one of the few that still work on the kid.

It works now as well, because Shinsou drags his shoulders up to his ears and shuffles from one foot to the other.

Shouta raises an eyebrow when Shinsou stays silent.

“Permission to speak plainly,” he finally mutters out and it almost makes Shouta laugh, because for all that he’s giving the kid a hard time right now, it’s hardly that serious.

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to promise me that no matter what I say next will not get me expelled or punished or—I don’t know, make you mad at me. That I can talk freely.”

Shouta immediately tenses as he’s reminded that Shinsou clearly did not grow up in a loving home if he has to clarify that, but this, at least, is easily rectified.

“Permission granted to say whatever you want,” he gives back and Shinsou takes a deep breath before he goes off.

“It’s just—so obvious,” he almost spits out and before Shouta can ask for more clarification, Shinsou goes on. “You go all—soft around him, and I don’t just mean the way you slouch when he’s in the room, because your slouch becomes more relaxed when he’s there, but your face—” Shinsou points an accusing finger at Shouta’s face and Shouta almost feels as if he’s done something wrong. It’s a novel feeling. “I’m pretty sure you don’t move a single muscle but whenever Mic-sensei is there your face does this thing, where it goes all soft, here,” Shinsou points to the corner of his eyes, “and here,” and then his mouth.

In all honesty, Shouta wasn’t aware he’s doing any of that, and Hizashi hasn’t pointed it out either, but maybe the kid is on to something. It’s worth inquiring after, later.

“Mic-sensei took a phone call in the middle of class one day, and he very loudly and very clearly called out ‘Shou-chan’. As far as I am aware Shouta is your first name so—” he trails off with a shrug but then seems to find his groove because he ploughs right on and Shouta is way too entertained to interrupt him, no promise at all needed in the first place.

“You always carry something for his throat around and he has your eyedrops at the ready and you may think you’re all subtle with the way he always just conveniently carries two cups of coffee when he arrives at school, but let me tell you, you’re not. Not to mention that you always get his cookies from the vending machine when you go for one of your jelly packs.”

Shinsou takes a deep breath, but he’s clearly not done yet.

“And you’re so—you’re always slightly annoyed with Midnight-sensei, though in that way that only friends have, and then you’re barely tolerant of Vlad-sensei and you’re downright hostile with All Might and really, Mic-sensei should be the same, because they are both loud blondes with blinding smiles but you’re just so—unbearably fond of him. Sure, you snap at him and he riles you up on purpose and you threaten him with your quirk when he threatens you with his but it’s so—” Shinsou lets out a frustrated groan. “It’s like you’re dancing to a song only you two can hear and you’ve been doing that for years, you have to, because it makes no sense otherwise. You wear a ring around your neck, at all times and even though Mic-sensei hides it well with his gloves, he's literally wearing a wedding ring all the damn time, too and you bicker! Like a disgustingly married couple. Which you are!”

Shinsou takes a few deep breaths before he completely deflates again.

Shouta is almost disappointed, because while all of that is true, Shinsou didn’t mention the most damning facts. Shouta has not been trying to keep his relationship with Hizashi a secret around him and he knows Hizashi is the same, though really, Shinsou should have picked up on so much more than he already has.

And as if just to spite him Shinsou speaks up again.

“And I’m only deliberately mentioning the things everyone can see. You all but said to me in private that you’re married. I know what it means when you say the staff knows you at that one restaurant, when you tell me you two have favourites together, when you leave training together. I’m not stupid.”

“Clearly,” Shouta drawls out and waits for anything more from Shinsou, so he doubts that he still has something up his sleeve.

“I’m done now,” he hoarsely whispers and it’s an unwelcome reminder that Shinsou is clearly not used to talking so much or so loudly without being interrupted and this might not be the right choice right now, but Shouta has to take a chance here.

“Am I wrong about any of that?” Shinsou wants to know when Shouta is too busy formulating his plan to speak but that finally gets him going.

“How about a deal?” Shouta asks and he clearly has Shinsou’s attention with that already. “How about I’m allowed to speak plainly for now as well, without you yelling at me, or getting angry, or shutting down and running off, and after I’m done we both tell the other if we are right or wrong?”

His words have left Shinsou tense and worried, Shouta can tell, and he almost wants to take it back, knows that it’s almost unfair, because the stakes are not at all the same for the two of them, but they’ve been dancing around this topic for so long. And Shouta is tired of it.

Tired of Shinsou flinching after several days at home, tired of spotting poorly hidden bruises, tired of faint marks on Shinsou’s face. He just wants him come to him with this, to ask for help, to accept help. Shouta just wants to get the kid out of the house he’s currently in and take him home, to his husband and his cats and a life he deserves.

And if he has to go about it this way, then so be it.

“Fine,” Shinsou bites out and Shouta doesn’t waste another second.

“Your home life is shit,” he plainly says and doesn’t let Shinsou’s flinch stop him. “They are keeping necessities from you; clothes that fit, stuff for school, money, even food.”

He personally made Shinsou’s meal plan, specifically tailored to him and the amount of training he’s doing and he should have put on so much more muscle than he actually has which can only mean one thing. He’s not eating enough and Shouta would bet his hero license on the fact that it’s not voluntary.

He’s being starved at home.

“They hurt you, physically but also verbally.”

Shouta doubts that Shinsou came up with half the insults he calls himself almost daily on his own.

“Sometimes they don’t allow you to come home at all. They threaten you with punishment. You’re not allowed to ask questions, probably not allowed to speak much at all and if you do, there’s a—”

Shouta’s voice fails him here briefly because he still remembers the tears running down Hizashi’s face as he makes helpless sounds behind the muzzle strapped too tightly to his face and the knowledge that it’s happening still, and to one of his kids, is almost unbearable.

“There’s a muzzle,” Shouta manages to finish and he doesn’t miss how Hitoshi ducks in on himself, as if he has to brace for a hit.

“You know it’s wrong, and you hate it there, but you’re too scared to say something because you don’t know where you’ll end up next and it could mean you have to pull out of U.A.,” Shouta goes on, and he’s certain in this, because he has seen Hitoshi’s file.

There are too many foster homes to count, too little time spent in too many of them and he doesn’t even want to think about the amount of trauma the kid must have accumulated.

“Are you done?” Shinsou spits out when Shouta is quiet for a moment too long, and he guesses that’s fair.

“I am,” he agrees and watches how Shinsou jerks his head to the side, and he pretends he doesn’t see the tears glistening in his eyes.

“Great, then how did I do?” Shinsou demands to know and Shouta gives him a small smile, because this right now, is the second part of this entire spiel.

“Not too bad, kid,” he admits. “Hizashi and I are married and have been for almost ten years now. But there is one thing you don’t know.”

“And what’s that?” Shinsou asks, still too rough, too sharp but Shouta’s smile doesn’t waver.

“We both have foster licenses. And we’re more than prepared to take in a kid, or, let’s say a stubborn, sassy, diligent, hard-working teenager from Gen Ed with a mob of unruly purple hair. Under the Emergency Foster Protocol at first, because that way the teenager would have to go home with us on the very same day, but we’re prepared to go through the proper channels to make it permanent. And then later official.”

It prompts a shuddering breath from Shinsou and Shouta is not too alarmed when he sees tears sliding down his cheeks.

“So, how did I do?” Shouta throws Shinsou’s words right back at him and for all that he knows that this is emotionally very difficult for Shinsou he was not quite prepared to find himself with an armful of sobbing teenager, so they both fall to the floor in an undignified heap.

Not that he minds it much, because Shinsou is clinging to him and surely that must mean something.

“They also sometimes lock me into the closet,” Shinsou gets out between his sobs and Shouta bites back his almost automatic response of ‘Wonderful’.

He and Shinsou have an understanding, sarcasm and sass one of the things they share between each other, but he doubts that the kid has even a thought to spare for that right now.

“Not anymore, kid, not anymore,” Shouta reassures him, because there is not a single universe out there where he will allow Shinsou to step back into that environment ever again.

Shinsou only clings tighter to him, hiding his face in Shouta’s chest as he cries and cries but not once does Shouta tell him to stop, because clearly Shinsou needs this out of his system.

It takes him a while to calm down again, time Shouta spends cradling the crying boy to his chest, but eventually Shinsou falls silent.

“Mic-sensei won’t mind?” he rasps out and Shouta shakes his head.

“I can call him right now, if you’re worried. He’s on his way to the radio station but since you’re coming home with me now, he’ll want to be there anyway.”

“He can’t cancel his show for me!”

“Kid, he cancels his shows all the damn time, that’s just the risk of being a teacher and a pro hero. It happened before and it will happen again and he won’t mind at all, I can promise you that.”

“I don’t—he’ll be mad.”

“He won’t be,” Shouta gives back and then takes the decision out of Shinsou’s hands, because he has no idea just how excited Hizashi will be.

Shouta gets his phone out and presses the speed dial before Shinsou can even think to protest and it takes Hizashi less than three rings to accept the call.

“Shou? Everything alright?” he greets him with, his voice tinny because he’s clearly still driving and Shouta can just picture him balancing the phone on his thigh.

“Shinsou is coming home with me today,” Shouta plainly states and feels how Shinsou tenses against him.

“Finally,” Hizashi breathes out, the relief so stark in his voice that there’s no way Shinsou can miss it. “He finally asked for help?”

“More like Aizawa-sensei cornered me,” Shinsou speaks up and Shouta pats his head.

His hair really is soft. Maybe he’ll have to do it again, and often at that, he decides when he notices how Shinsou leans into the contact.

“Hey, there, little listener, how are you doing?”

“Have been better,” Shinsou admits between sniffles.

“He figured out that we’re married,” Shouta tells Hizashi because he’s still very proud of him for that and it makes Hizashi laugh.

“Yeah, if anyone would, it’s him. I told you he’s smart.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Shouta sighs out when Shinsou ducks his head in embarrassment at hearing that. “You coming home?”

“Of course I am! I’ll bring take out, what are you in the mood for?”

“Can you drive to that diner next to the cat café? The staff knows our orders, and you like their food as well,” Shouta suggests, because he thinks it might be a bit much, forcing Shinsou to think about anything right now and Shouta has taken him there enough times after training to know that the kid likes the food there.

“Sure. I’ll also call Tsukauchi, to get the ball rolling. Shinsou, kiddo, you’re safe now and I’m very proud of you for letting yourself get cornered.”

It prompts a new sob from Shinsou and Shouta decides it’s much more important to hug him close again than to say goodbye to his husband, so he simply hangs up and throws the phone down, so he can better gather Shinsou up in his arms.

“We’ve got you now, kid, it’s going to be okay. I promise.”

He doesn’t expect Shinsou to respond, not really, because clearly the kid has other worries right now—mainly breathing—but he still speaks up.

“I trust you.”

Shouta wasn’t prepared for the way that simple statements makes him feel warm all over but he’s beyond glad that it’s the case.

And he and Hizashi will make very sure to never do anything to make Shinsou regret that decision.

[chongoblog]

My First Pokemon Playthrough

So I've noticed in my time of talking about Pokemon, I've told a lot of various anecdotes that are all a part of my very first time playing Pokemon. I was feeling nostalgic, so I figured I would share what I remember about this playthrough for everyone to enjoy. There may be a tangent or two in there and people who have followed me a while may have heard these before, but hey.

For context, I believe I was about 8 years old at the time, and after collecting some Pokemon cards, watching a kid play Crystal at summer camp, watching some of the anime, and generally being a pretty big fan (I even have Pokemon Yahtzee burned into my memory for some reason...), I finally got myself a Game Boy Advance with Super Mario Advance 2: Super Mario World, some Frogger game (after looking it up, it was Temple of the Frog), Tony Hawk Pro Skater 2, and, of course, Pokemon Sapphire.

I remember that my starter was Torchic. I don't remember why I chose that one, although I remember really liking the color red at the time (which I still do), so that was probably why.

I don't remember too much about my team or the general progress I made in most of the game, but I do remember Slateport City. For those who do not recall, in Slateport City in order to advance you need to get into the museum, which is blocked off by Team Aqua Grunts until you talk to someone in the shipyard. There are also Team Aqua grunts blocking the route ahead

Now, my 8 year old brain for some reason concluded that the only way to get past the Team Aqua Grunts was to intimidate them with a high enough level Pokemon or something like that. So one night, while I was supposed to be asleep on a family beach vacation, I beat down more poor level 13 Pokemon than I could count. I learned later what I was actually SUPPOSED to do, which led to me finally fighting the Team Aqua Grunts.....with a level 42 Blaziken.

And since the Name Rater was in Slateport City and my starter had evolved, I figured it was only appropriate to give him the new moniker "MAGMA MAN"

The rest of the playthrough went about as normally as tearing through the game with mostly Blaziken normally would go. There were a couple exceptions though. First off, at the Weather Institute, after I saved the day from Team Aqua, they were kind enough to gift me a Castform, but my party was full, so I couldn't get it. My 8 year old self did not read this. (Remember this, it will come back later). But I managed to make my way through the game, catching Kyogre with my Master Ball and giving it the nickname "LEGENDARY"

Then we come to the Elite Four where I hit a brick wall. I don't remember my team at the time exactly, but I do remember it was MAGMA MAN which had reached about level 80 or so, LEGENDARY which was about level 48, a level 36 Pelipper, two level ~35 Tentacruels, and some other sixth Pokemon I don't recall. And for some reason, I just couldn't beat the Elite Four with this team for some weird reason. The best I could ever get to was Drake. I felt I was utterly defeated.

That's when we bring a new character into the story. A member of my friend group at the time who we'll call "John" to protect the innocent. Now John had a very "uncle who works at nintendo" type energy to him. The group used to play Gauntlet: Dark Legacy together all the time, and when I got the GBA port of it, he convinced me to trade my recently obtained copy of the Pokemon Trading Card Game Boy game for a Gameboy-Gamecube cables, only for me to learn too late that it didn't work like that, and from there, there were no backsies (but then I got ahold of a copy of Pac-Man VS and Four Swords Adventure then I learned to emulate, so who's laughing now).

Anyway, John saw that I was struggling and he decided that he wanted to help me out. You see, he had come across an incredibly powerful and rare Pokemon that couldn't be found in the wild. He had gotten it exclusive, and I had never seen it before. It was called a "Castform". Now John had Ruby version, so he decided that as much as it ached him to part with it, he figured it would be a reasonable trade to trade this powerful Castform for the slightly less powerful LEGENDARY. I agreed.

And then he moved to Ohio.

To this day, Castform is my least favorite Pokemon because of this betrayal. I was so distraught at 8 years old that I completely restarted my game of Pokemon Sapphire. I don't remember much about that second playthrough, but there's a reason why.

This rival battle on Route 110 is somewhat infamous for being quite the sudden difficulty spike. And since I knew how to get past Team Aqua now, I didn't have an over-leveled starter to stomp my rival with ease. After losing to her about five or so times, I got frustrated and figured that whatever team I had wasn't cutting it. So I restarted again.

In my third playthrough, I made it all the way to the rival battle on Route 110. Then she stomped me repeatedly. So I restarted again.

This cycle would go on for, like, 15 resets. I didn't count, but it felt like there was hundreds. As I would keep on resetting and playing through the early-game of Pokemon Sapphire (which I had practically memorized at this point), I would start to take things a lot less seriously, sometimes picking the girl character, making my name random gibberish, etc.

Eventually, on one of these playthroughs where I started with Treecko, I actually managed to beat the Route 110 Rival Battle! And on my first try too! And thus began the epic journey of a girl named DE.

Now, I'd figured at this point that maybe only leveling up one Pokemon wasn't the best approach, so I was trying to balance my teams a bit better (I guess my rival taught me something). I was making my way through the game, and one day I'm checking out my best friend's Pokemon in Ruby, and who do I see in his box, but a Kyogre. I take a look at his name, and I can't believe it. It was LEGENDARY. John had traded it to my friend before he moved.

My friend didn't know that it was originally mine, so he offered to trade it back, which I accepted. LEGENDARY was a disobedient little bastard since I didn't have enough badges, but he got the job done. I don't remember the team I ended up using to finally beat the Elite Four, but it included my Sceptile starter, a Sableye that somehow knew only Fighting-type moves, and two Kyogres, LEGENDARY and LEGENDARY2.

And that's my first playthrough of Pokemon Sapphire. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.

[yourdragonisinanothercastle]

"One Half of a Whole" Meta

One Half of a Whole is a fic that really sent the hamsters in my head spinning. Before I even started writing it, I had theories coming out my ears about how ORV's world would work with this setting. All the changes to canon I ended up making, I made for a reason.

And since I’ve had readers on other fics tell me that what I wrote sometimes helped them understand ORV and its characters better, I figured I could expand a bit on the meta behind this one!

I’m going to explain from the point of view of somebody who’s finished the novel, so obviously

SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE ORV NOVEL

Chapter 1

Kim Namwoon

One of the big differences in chapter 1 is that Kim Dokja ends up sparing Kim Namwoon. You might remember that Kim Dokja, in one of those rare moments of honesty that come to him in the late novel, explains at some point why he hates Kim Namwoon so much.

"When I was young, I really hated you." When I was still absorbed in reading the 'Ways of Survival', Kim Namwoon was the only character that I couldn't sympathise with. If every person appearing in that novel was my hyung, my father, my dongsaeng, and my noona, then… …Then, the character 'Kim Namwoon' was the cautionary tale for me. […] When I thought about it, the reason why I hated Kim Namwoon was pretty simple in nature. "Yoo Joonghyuk always took you in as his companion." Out of everyone from the 'Ways of Survival', Kim Namwoon most closely resembled me. "Even though he knew that you are an evil bastard, even though he knew that you did evil things… Even then, he took you in." If I was him, how would I have turned out? — Chapter 480

Kim Dokja hated Kim Namwoon because he saw himself in him. He asked tls123 multiple times whether Yoo Joonghyuk could, pretty please, not make Kim Namwoon his companion in this round; or the next; or really, in every round, please just skip that guy Author-nim!

So when ORV started, Kim Dokja jumped at the chance to do away with a character he had always deemed evil, and who forced him to confront some pretty dark things about himself.

But in One Half of a Whole, Kim Dokja’s opinion on Kim Namwoon is naturally different, because while he still dislikes the way Kim Namwoon acts and he still feels ill at ease with the similarities between them… Kim Namwoon is not filling a space where young Kim Dokja was trying to project himself. Because young Kim Dokja could always see a space for himself by Yoo Joonghyuk’s side, and that was the space reserved for Yoo Joonghyuk’s soulmate.

If anything, I expect young Kim Dokja would have vehemently hated every character who tried to pass themselves as Yoo Joonghyuk’s soulmate (at least until their deception was revealed and he could bask in the violent vengeance Yoo Joonghyuk enacted on them 😏).

But as for Kim Namwoon, in OHoaW, Kim Dokja didn’t have as much resentment for him, and he also cared far more about making a good first impression on Yoo Joonghyuk, and so Kim Namwoon lived.

Weaver of the Twin Threads of Fate

OK, so. Weaver of the Twin Threads of Fate is a problem. For me, at least. 😭

I knew heading in that I would need to flesh out a bit the soulmate setting, because I always flesh them out. I find it’s not much fun for me to write a soulmate AU where the canon worldbuilding doesn’t change at all.

So Yoo Joonghyuk’s world would naturally have mythology pertaining to soulmates, and constellations derived from that mythology seemed a given. I only needed one constellation to make my point, and I didn’t really need to give her a name outside of her moniker or to dig into her backstory, since she was just a placeholder. Having her be friendly with Uriel seemed like a nice humorous touch. So far, so good.

The problem came when I dug too far into the meta. Because ORV is, at heart, a story that asks you to think about stories, about their relationship to us, about the bonds between writer and reader and character.

And so I made the mistake of asking myself: who is Weaver of the Twin Threads of Fate to ORV? And the answer is: the entity who added soulmates to TWSA.

Me. Weaver of the Twin Threads of Fate is me.

And I want to make one thing clear, here: I’ve been writing fanfictions for 20 years. In that time, I have never written a self-insert. Never even had the temptation.

Figures that ORV would be the fandom to make me do it without even realizing. 🤣

Abyssal Black Flame Dragon

Yep, he ended up not offering to sponsor Kim Dokja in this fic since Kim Namwoon is still around and is, after all, at least 10% more chuuni than Kim Dokja. At least.

Now, constellations can technically have more than one incarnation in ORV, but from what I understand it dilutes the power a bit. It's hard to tell since it's not much shown on-screen in the novel. I should do some research on that before I decide what to do about Han Sooyoung... (If anybody can remember more, feel free to tell me! I'd also welcome any information on this subject that'd come from the ongoing side story, but keep it as vague as possible because I still haven't started it.)

Secretive Plotter

I don’t think I need to explain why Secretive Plotter is throwing wayyy more money around in OHoaW… but I want us all to take one more moment to contemplate the utter chaos that is N’Gai’s Forest right now. ♥

[pinksparkl]

Do I dare to hope?

Redacted-tober - Day 3 - Adam - Surprise

Waking up under Wonder World is a draining experience, but Lovely still hopes of escape.

Referenced physical torture/abuse, Adam is his own warning, psychological torture, emotional whiplash, gaslighting

@tepid-judas an Adam fic for you~~

1336 words (read here or on ao3)

Sleeping always felt great, like a fluffy blanket that soothed any worries and brushed away the stress of the day. But it was only temporary, until the next night. Waking up, Lovely left the cosy warmth of unconsciousness and returned to the cold grip of reality. Eyelids feeling too heavy to open, they settled with focusing on their other senses.

Touch. They couldn't move, bound in place by the Trance so couldn't let their hands wander around and feel out their location. Regardless, they knew where they were. Still in the underground hellhole that Adam called his “home away from home” which was far too unassuming of a moniker to give such a depressive space. They were still lying on the extremely uncomfortable mattress. The one that was covered and soaked in their own blood. At this point Lovely was barely cognizant of the blood that had seeped into their hair. Even the thought of it made them feel particularly ill, but the lack of food for the past day and a half left them grateful for small mercies.

Taste. Speaking of food, without eating anything since before they stupidly ventured to Wonder World that second time, and only receiving a scant amount of water every so often - Adam's memory of how much hydration a human needs certainly slipped during his time as a vamp – Lovely's mouth was dry and coated in that horrible, lingering, acidic flavour of wretching at being denied sustenance and their body having to accept the harsh treatment of its new master. They hated that. Lovely's stomach turned at the very word, but there wasn't much they could do... they were only human. They had no hope of resisting him.

Smell. Fortunately, the human body stops reacting to scents after being in a place for long enough. Lovely didn't exactly enjoy the coppery smell of blood. Unfortunately though, this left nothing to cover up the unmistakable odour of burned flesh. Adam kept his word on the various creative ways to disfigure their body. The slices and scorch marks that littered their skin were too many to count, too many to feel individually. Every little wince and flinch pulled at the injured flesh. Shallow breathing prevented most of the hurt, but they couldn't keep that up for long, the lack of fresh oxygen causing their brain to scream, longing for a plentiful gulp of air.

Sound. It was quiet. Too quiet. The only thing Lovely could hear was the rasp of their own rattling breath. Oh. He did break rib... maybe two. They were weak. Adam's trance kept them in a semi-lucid state, only aware enough to hear his whispered degradation of their entire existence. Sometimes he flipped the script, plying them with sweet words poisoned with disdain and vile intent. But the silence meant he wasn't here, right? A brief moment of respite to just exist. To heal. To hope. Maybe he'd forgotten about them. Then if only they could just move and get out of here-

Footsteps. Lovely could hear them. Coming closer.

They reluctantly opened their eyes with an exhausted sigh. If he was coming down here that must mean he was hungry. And Lovely had learned very quickly that the feedings went easier for them if they complied with his demands without being told what to do. He was breaking them down, moulding them into his perfect, little thrall. So obedient and compliant.

The door opened, and a figure walked through. Their vision was blurry, yet another symptom of the severe bloodloss they had to contend with. How much blood had they lost...? Too much. Lovely tried to think back. Vincent had bitten them, Marked them. Then Adam had kidnapped them and had taken his fill twice before they blacked out... he must have taken more while they were out, and then-

"Lovely?"

A confused thought tried and failed to form in Lovely's mind, "why would call me...? Why does he sound diff..." words failing them, coherency all but lost in the swirling haze. They were so tired.

Then Lovely felt a hand on their shoulder. A gentle, reassuring weight, not at all like the vicious clawing grip they had become used to as of late.

Lovely blinked their eyes once, twice more. If he was close enough to touch them, he was close enough to be seen. Not that they wanted to look at him, but their wants meant nothing to the trance and Adam's demands. He liked to watch the light in their eyes fade away as he drained them just a little bit more.

Dim light filled the room, and combined with their bloodloss induced vision impairment, it was hard to pick out the features on his face, but Lovely was sure that something was... off.

"Lovely, I'm here. You're safe." Eyes full of concern and a mouth curved just so, a comforting smile meant only for them.

"Vi-" They still couldn't say his name. The trance wouldn't let them. But it was him! Vincent had come to save them!

Their gaze followed the contours of his face, much softer than the terrible beast that locked them down here. Eyes that didn't hold a crazed stare that pierced deep into the fears hidden in their heart.

Hope fizzed up inside Lovely like sour candy, sugary sweet and left them wanting more. Vincent would take them out of this godforsaken place and they'd be safe and everything would be fine and good and-

"Surprise~ meat." That acidic voice coming from Vincent's beautiful face. No. It couldn't be... The saccharine taste of hope died almost as soon as it had arrived, congealing and decaying, filling their mouth with acrid despair.

"Aww... did the little bloodbag think that pathetic, simpering Vincent had come to save you?” Vincent's face contorted into Adam's signature sneer, a wicked smirk that looked all kinds of wrong on those lips Lovely loved to watch so much. “My Maker taught me a lot of tricks. I just hope you survive long enough to see ‘em all," he whispered into their ear as Lovely could only imagine recoiling away from the horror of what was happening. "Hiding in plain sight is one of ‘em, taking on the appearance of another." He laughed, his breath causing a sickening shiver to roll its way up Lovely's spine, threatening to escape out of their throat, but to no avail. Adam loved to hear their whimpers of pain, but his sensitive hearing was unwilling to even acquiesce anything as abhorrent as shrieking or yelling.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Adam leaned in close. Taking his time, letting the vision of their precious Vincent about to drink them to unconsciousness fill their sight, his breath ticking their neck as his fangs extended.

"Oh, don't cry... or do," he crooned, faux concern dripping from his words. "I don't care either way.

The next thing Lovely felt was the ice cold chill of fangs breaking through the barely scabbed-over bite marks. The ragged edges finally lost any remaining sensation with how often Adam fed, silver linings and all that, but they could still feel the pulsing blood being forcibly removed from their body, gulp by gulp. Looking up into soft silver eyes that flickered and hardened, darkness soon took over. A welcome distraction from the horror of their reality.

At this point it didn't matter what he did to their body. Lovely had foolishly thought their mind had been safe, that they could hold onto hope and battle through whatever he threw at them. The devil works hard, but Adam works harder. It had only been a matter of time before he perversely twisted their affection for the Vampire Prince against them. And their reaction was worth it, even if they couldn't move or speak. The sinking fear in their eyes had been enough, and it would see Adam through another day, and so would the ambrosia that flowed from their veins and down his throat. At least they were good for something.

[idyllic-affections]

Hello hello helloooo again, Aphe my good friend!

Tis' I, 🐉Anon!!!!

And I'm back again to scratch that HSR x Reader brainworm you've been afflicted with.

But first, I'd first like to congratulate you on bringing Imbibitor Lunae home! And I absolutely feel you on the sudden amassing of oc ideas (I may or may not have come up with a couple of whole ass planets of my own, one of which I've been working on writing up, but that is a tale for another time!)

Anyhow, I approach you tonight (in my timezone) with a brainrot appropriate for both my anonymous moniker, and the occasion at hand. That's right, this ask features the one and only... Cold Dragon Yooooooung! Not to be confused with Cold Dragon Younger or Cold Dragon Youngest

Imagine, the reader is a member of the Astral Express, among the younger members, let's say pre-teens to early teens, and they're a bit of a bookworm. And since Dan Heng has essentially turned the Archives into his room, he's finds himself often being visited by them, sometimes [Name] chats him up, sometimes they're just chilling their quietly as they read through the stories and files that the crew of the express have accumulated over the course of their journey. Perhaps [Name] takes a particular shine to the numerous tales of dragons from across the cosmos, including those of their progenitor, the deceased Aeon of the Permanence, Long. Perhaps over time, Dan Heng takes becomes something of a big brother to [Name] looking out for them, and always makes sure to bring back stories from the world the crew visits for them to look at when they return from missions. Imagine [Name] gazing upon Dan Heng's true form as their eyes light up like stars, and they can't help but go on a lengthy tangent about how absolutely awesome he looks, and how they bet he's so super strong in this form (which like... he is!)

Just a kiddo having an absolute hayday as they find out their big brother figure is a dragon-person!

HI BELOVED..... ahhhh ty!!!! as i told 🐱 anon, i love and adore him. he came home within the first 10 pull and i just think that was so real of him. so much realer than kafka. who never came home. smh. /lh AND YEAH hsr is so fascinating, really. it gives me many oc thoughts.

OHHH I LOVE THIS BRAINROT 🐉 anon must know me well.... i am a professional dan heng liker. also, to be fr with you all, i kind of already know what's up with dan heng LMAO the lore-reading instincts were too strong. dan heng il was sitting right there... what was i supposed to do, not listen to his voice lines and read what little i have unlocked in terms of his story? /lh so this brainrot is fine for me. i don't know everything but i do know enough to respond well to this brainrot, i think.

dan heng would be a good brother i think... blood really doesn't matter. what matters is that he formed a cute bond with this little nerd /aff who is always in the archives with him.

his little sibling will only be allowed to go on trailblaze missions when he feels that they're old and strong enough (even if himeko and mr yang are okay with letting [name] go, if dan heng isn't, then they are stuck on the express LMAO but i don't think they'd mind. they'd just chill in the archives and read while they wait). speaking of which, you know how dan heng has that very... martial art style of fighting? i think he teaches them how to fight properly because, you know, they'll need it. he's always very careful not to hurt them and offers them his quiet form of praise when they do well. AND MAYBE. when the trailblaze mission is concluded, and the astral express is still docked, he'll take them to whatever planet has been visited and will let them explore and observe that planet's unique properties. probably also takes them to a local bookshop. just dan heng having a cute outing with his bookworm little sibling once he knows it is safe to do so.

and ohhhhjshsjg hear me out. dan heng in his true form being so so protective of [name], moreso than he already was before (BECAUSE HEAR ME OUT: dragon instincts)... like. first trailblaze mission. [name]'s in danger. dan heng quietly picks them up, tells them not to look despite the fact that they aren't some naive little kid (to which they oblige, hiding their face in the junction between his neck and shoulder, a little embarrassed that they couldn't handle it themselves), supports their weight with one arm, and fucking WRECKS everything that posed a threat to their safety with the other hand.

AND CONSIDER wounded [name]...... dan heng being something of a hissy, overprotective older dragon brother and refusing to let anyone get too close to them until the other members of the astral express crew manage to talk him down (mostly himeko and welt i think...... march would make it worse unintentionally LMAOOO and stelle is. chaos. so. yeah), eventually managing to convince dan heng to hand over poor wounded [name] so that they can treat whatever wound they got. he's hovering over their shoulder the majority of the time anyway, though, and that's honestly probably really comforting. like yeah. maybe it's a little excessive. but he so blatantly cares a lot about their safety and i just think that would be so reassuring. him letting them squeeze his hand if it hurts too much........ i love playing around with nonhuman characters and how their more feral instincts manifest. dragon instinct dan heng.... cries he's so protective in my brain

but on an even cuter note--dan heng always picking up books and trinkets he thinks they would like while he's on trailblaze missions. he sees something and he's like.... wow.... [name] would like that....

and [name] rambling about how cool he looks and how strong he is *head in hands* PLEASEEE i think he'd be a bit embarrassed and maybe even a little uncomfortable but he knows they mean well.... and it grows on him. like. he starts to find it super cute and endearing :(((

[gravltas]

It’s been a long time since Chuuya dropped his ( non-consensually given ) moniker of ‘King of the Sheep’, but even so, there were some things you just didn’t forget over time. Looking after people younger than you, was one of those things. He’d noticed the young teenager locked up in the basement before & for the most part he could ignore it. That’s what happened when members of the Port Mafia were too young or angry or too out of control & their powers needed to be locked away. He didn’t like it. He didn’t agree with it. But ultimately even as the Port Mafia’s current second longest acting Executive after Ane-san, he didn’t have the authority to overrule the person who had ordered their imprisonment, the Boss.

Still, he wasn’t completely heartless.

The basket he somewhat awkwardly shoves through the slot where the kid’s food tray was passed to them, contained an assortment of somewhat pricy goodies; chocolate, candy, a plushie of a purple dragon he’d spotted at the checkout that was kind of cool, a Nintendo Switch with a few popular games. There was also less fun items but probably still needed - a couple nondescript pyjama sets in their size, an oversized red hoodie, a hairbrush & package of ribbons, clips & ties, a little hand mirror ( plastic, he wasn’t stupid enough to give them anything that could be used as a weapon ), & some sanitary products because he wasn’t sure if the lower ranking mafiosi guarding the cells knew the teen’s name, let alone their biological information.

He’d done something similar for Q a few years ago, possible because the thought of a child being locked up like an animal made him feel a bit queasy.

There was also a notebook & a case of oil pastels & high quality markers. He didn’t know if they could draw, or liked to, but… well, writing had helped him get through a lot of pain, & he’d heard wrt therapy was good for kids.

“You’ve been in here a while,” he says as he leans against the locked cell door. “I know nothing can make this place nice to be in but I figured it might help you be a little less…” Bored? Sad? Afraid? He couldn’t pretend to know how they felt, he’d spoken to them all of maybe three times over the years. “…anyways, if you need anything & it’s urgent, the guards have my person number.“

kohaku is a feral cat of a person. they're cute but they do lash out with claws. it's best to approach them carefully. which chuuya does. kohaku eyes the basket for a second. gauging the level of peace offering brought to their barred door. they take it of course. looking through with swift fingers.

it's the hoodie that really does it. they slide it on, soft fabric adorning their skin for the first time in a while. they slide over their head immediately. shrinking into the red for a moment. before looking up at him. eyes shining just a little bit. they feel like a small genderless blob for the first time since they have been put down here. it's exquisite.

clothes in the port mafia are a luxury and a symbol. they try to ignore the ringing of mori's words in their ears. clutching the hoodie tighter and sticking their hands in the little pouch pocket.

" thanks. " it's a hard word to say out loud. they admittedly haven't been shown a lot of kindness in a while. but they want to make sure he's heard it before he leaves. kohaku is fairly smart or they would like to think. the jury is currently out on whether that's the truth. " i like it. "

but not biting the hand that let them have a hoodie that them gender euphoria. definitely going to try not to bite that hand. also they have the switch now, which is pretty cool. they've always wanted to play zelda. now they have the means to do so. / @chaosbled

[exileinwhyville]

The Passenger

Prefface: I wrote this vignette when I was 14. It's about Jim Jones becoming president.

---

As he sat, waking from a long nap, the president noticed cracks in his glasses. Very prominent cracks, too, not ones you could simply ignore as you were on your merry way. So, with a mighty reluctance, he removed the spectacles that had laid on his eyes for the past several years. He shifted his eyes around the room. It was night now, and a crescent moon gave off a blurry shine in the dark sky. Would've made great weather if the current situation hadn't made itself clear. The wind blew lightly into the office, glass shards gently pushed onto the floor. He took a sip of the whiskey that he so loathed to drink, and popped half a tablet. Many more lay on the floor, having been knocked over in a fit of anger hours previously.

A crash resounded in the near distance. It shook the president out of his haze as he leaned forward to spot it. It was a rusting typewriter that was peeking out from the hallway. It made him think of Donna. Such a nice girl, he mused. Smart, too. Got out while she still could. He sighed as he threw his head back. He desperately wished for a little light - what he got from the moon was simply not enough, and the lamp had been smashed. He peered at the notes stacked on his desk. Ink was spilled onto them, and they had been rendered near unreadable. He coughed up a little phlegm - scratch that, a lot of phlegm, with a little blood mixed in - before rubbing his temples. The headache never went away in the three years he'd been there. He would've surrendered the whole country to Somalia if he could've gotten a pillbox full of aspirin - good aspirin too, not the crap "Doctor" Bornstein was giving him. The pain wasn't his main concern, really, it was all the whispers. Can't go a second without them yammerin' this or yammerin' that.

The bastards in congress called him an egotist. A self-centered braggart. But surely, weren't they themselves self-centered when they dragged the kids into the bunkers? I'm the one staying here. I'm certainly none of the monikers applied to me, the president assured to himself. I'm a man of god, and God hasn't done much good for me.

The president, glancing at the scratched nametag reading "Jim Jones," chuckled. "You've come damn far, Jim. Damn far." he said to himself as if someone else was speaking to him. It had all started with such success - housing reform, education reform - all kinds of reform. For a while, it appeared as if he had stunned the establishment, and he was more than ready to deliver the finishing blow. Everything went wrong.

And now he was all alone. No, he thought. I don't even know if I have that comfort. Birch could be on his way over, or he could be laying in fifty pieces in Cheyenne. That's what drove him mad, having none of the knowledge. He needed it or everything would rot. That's exactly what's happened, too. He suffered another bout of coughing. There was more blood this time, and the metallic taste could be felt on the tip of his tongue. The whispers grew into a crescendo of misery. Now laid Jim Jones - a man who prided himself on simply being full of pride - a wreck. Not quite at gibbering level, but near enough. The past week had been such an eye-opener for him, as he had finally came to the realization that no, maybe what transpired wasn't the plan at all. He reflected upon this, wiping a little glass off his hair as he did so, when a voice came to him. A figure, draped in a black robe, with white bandages covering the face, floated in the corner. It came closer, but only by an inch. The president did not even flinch, as he was entranced.

He only snapped out of it when he dropped his flask of whiskey, spilling it. He saw the figure, and he continued to be still. He straightened his suit out, and sat up in his seat. "Do you come here for the obvious?" he said with a slight whimper. He awaited for a response, but none came. He blinked his eyes, and the figure reappeared at the other corner, taking Jones by surprise. "Jimmy, no. No," it said with a solemn demeanor. "You haven't died, unfortunately." the president sneered at that. "I'm just sitting here, waiting. It's all very very interesting, listening to you."

The president whistled. "You dare take upon the image of thy reaper?" he said in a flat tone without confidence. The figure refused to respond. Instead, it disappeared. Sighing, the president wondered about the validity of his sight and his mind.

All of a sudden, he lost his vision. The president pawed about, trying to find his way around his familiar surroundings. It was suddenly restored to him. For a brief fraction of a second, he saw visions that seemed reminiscent of the songs of Jefferson Airplane. The figure, now turning its 'back' from the desk, appeared in the hallway. "Do you not think it to be an appropriate date?" Frustrated, the president meekly responded with "what date?"

"Check your calendar, Jimmy." Jones threw his right arm forwards in frustration, slamming his fist on the table. "What calendar? The thing's probably burned out by now." He had taken on a dejected tone. The figure nodded. "My...apologies. It's October the Thirty-First. Do you get the significance?" He ran over the date in his head. "Oct...Thirty...why yes, I do. It's Halloween." "Very good Jimmy. Of course, I would be more partial to Hallow's Eve, myself of course." The figure disappeared in a puff of smoke. Jones, by now more frustrated than confused, again slammed his hand on the table, barely missing a shard of glass. "What significance? Answer me! These games can not be tolerated." At the utterance of those words, the figure appeared behind the desk, outstretching a cloaked finger at the president. "The horrors that have occurred. Surely, in your position, you are aware?" the finger was retracted. "You have made the gravest mistakes, Jimmy. These are not ones that can simply be made up for. You know what you must do." Jones pondered for a second, before realizing what the figure had meant. To the surprise of himself but not to the figure, he did not react with shock, but with feigned indifference, immense feelings of worry on the inside. The thoughts had entered his mind, he had discussed them with the members of the Peoples' Temple, but the implication had never been laid bare before him in this way.

"I'm not..." Jones couldn't finish his sentence. "You couldn't what? Do it, you mean? If that's true, as you were going to claim, then why - perchance - is the drawer open?" The president was on the cusp of reprimanding the figure for spouting nonsense before he looked down and saw a drawer nearly pulled off of its creaking hinges. A Sidewinder, wrapped in plastic for some unknown reason, was encased. The president, cracking his neck in an effort to show strength, was slowly reaching for the weapon against his wishes. The figure stood silent.

A wind began to engulf the Oval Office. The spectacles and many shards of glass swirled in the air for a brief moment before flying into the hallway, followed by paintings and flags. The sofas were knocked onto their sides and formed a barricade at the hallway door. The gun remained still though. Perfectly still. After thirty seconds of wrangling, the gun found itself clasped in the president's right hand, which was covered in sweat. Yet the gun had no chance of slipping. The wind, blowing back the cape worn by the figure, grew stronger. The president, still trying to keep defiance as the hand inched ever closer to his temples, kept a stern face. He began to shout. "Why have you chosen me to forsake? All my life, I've been trying to serve -"

"You've been trying to serve yourself, Jimmy. And besides, I am not in any manner forsaking you. You are doing this unto yourself. My control is...how you say, minimal." Minimal? What a crock, the president thought. "Jimmy, are you not the one who claimed that death was not an object of fright? The one who believes that only suffering can lend oneself the image of God? Though of course, you don't even believe in God, do you?" Jones did not wish to grant the figure any satisfaction from a response, so he instead asked him a question. "Before this happens," he began with a solemnly accepting manner, "can you tell me - who are you?"

The figure chuckled - not with delight, with something else - and unwrapped the dull white bandages as the wind grew fiercer, throwing the president out of his chair and onto the floor, gun still firmly in position. The president looked up, thick wisps of hair almost blocking his view. "What...aren't I?" the figure said in a declarational manner as the last bandage fell to the floor and the gun was cocked. Jones could only see for a second before his vision went again, but he saw a scaly face - reminiscent of a small lizard - with a spiked tongue and pulsating eyes. It laughed as he took a breath, hearing his heart beat as he did so, and pulled the trigger.

Smash. Another part of the windows that adorned the Oval Office was shattered into another hundred little pieces scattered along the floor. The president woke. What...had that been? Prophecy? No, must've been something of another stripe. He pulled out the drawer with such force that it fell to the scratched wood floor with a thump. No gun, though.

He felt his nostril. It was warm, and wet. He wiped the blood on his sleeve before standing up. He could hear harsh gunfire coming closer. No, them scabs aren't gonna get me. They could be straight from Frisco itself, and I wouldn't go with them. I am my own man. He peered at the nametag. The president. A far, far superior title than reverend. Orders were shreiked out in an unfamiliar dialect. Potentially Russian, potentially English. At this nigh-hellish point, Jones couldn't tell. As the president climbed over the window, loose glass shards piercing his palms as he did so, and leaped past the fires that ensnared the plants. The smoke had made breathing difficult, but the president wasn't willing to let such dalliances get to him. He had his own mission to fulfill. The voices were still singing in his ears, the figure's own drawn one most prominently. As the headache continued to pound, one line, thrice repeated, could be heard distinctively.

You stood a chance, Jim.

[dechagrin]

toulouse regretted most of his words the moment they came out of his mouth but that didn't make them any less true. the man was tempted to keep going, to keep talking, but then berlioz was chasing the tail-end of his last sentence with a thought of his own. hearing that berlioz didn't hate him shocked the elder in a way he hadn't expected it to, brows furrowing almost in disbelief — for someone who claimed not to hate him, it sure had felt like it for the better half of their lives. it wasn't entirely berlioz's fault, and part of toulouse couldn't be mad at him for it because he couldn't necessarily blame him for feeling that way. their father left, then all the sudden toulouse was acting in his place without any input or consideration from his siblings. his mother had encouraged the behavior, or... she didn't do much to stop it, and toulouse became a bit of an insufferable helicopter brother. he practically breathed down berlioz and marie's necks for years but that was solely to ensure that they were taken care of and looked out for; to this day, he still knew how they preferred their sandwiches and what snacks they liked from the amount of lunches he packed... even if he hadn't done it in a while. toulouse frowned, reaching up to rub the back of his neck; ❛ i'd never pretend you don't exist. i think about you and marie all the time. i didn't mean for... i just thought i was giving you what you wanted.❜ pretty much every second of his life was spent worrying about berlioz and marie... and now that they were all adults, it felt like he had no purpose since they didn't need him anymore. especially since he kept failing them as an older brother. toulouse realized now, far too late, the he had always just struggled to find that balance between being overly involved and... not being involved at all.

toulouse sighed, lifting the hand not clutching his own purchase to pinch his temples between thumb and middle finger, putting enough pressure on the points to make his eyes close. ❛ it's hard not to hover when you tell me shit like that, berli...❜ the elder brother sighed, his stomach twisting as berlioz continued; are you sorry i overdosed or are you sorry you weren't there to prevent it ?? toulouse didn't have an answer to that, because if they were being fully honest right now — he'd have to say both. anything that ever happened to his brother and sister, the eldest took personally- took seriously. his entire life's purpose had been dedicated to protecting them and it appeared, as cards were folded and hands were shown, that toulouse had failed them both. over and over again, he had failed them...and in turn, he had failed himself.

at the moniker, his head snapped back up, meeting berlioz's eyes with his own; the mist undeniable as his vision became clouded. ❛ christ, berlioz, i'm not — ❜ but the denial clutched at his throat and realization made the sentence stop itself before toulouse could even finish it frowning at berlioz, not entirely satisfied with the conversation and not wanting to let the other run off, toulouse cleared his throat and looked away. ❛ i'm not judging you or your... habits.❜ the man clarified, gesturing vaguely at berlioz's figure despite how much it ailed him to even think about what berli was putting his body — putting his mind — through. ❛ look if we're... if we're both just going to walk away from this and make shitty decisions can we at least do it together ?? ❜ the invitation was out before he could take it back, and something that almost resembled hope gleamed in toulouse's eyes as he looked back up, almost desperate. ❛ i've got a house on my own just a few blocks from here and... and we don't have to talk about — ❜ your overdose and drug use. my borderline drinking problem. how we haven't talked in what feels like years. ❛ — anything. we can just... i don't know...❜ stopping himself, giving up before even having a response, toulouse sighed deeply in defeat. shaking his head, waving apologetically to the patrons of the store, toulouse stepped back to push open the door for berli, holding it open for him.

❛ i'll just... i'll get out of your way. i'm sorry.❜

~

"I don't hate you," were the first words that came out of Berlioz's mouth. Words that came out so instantaneously that he hadn't had time to process anything else his brother said. The one that stuck out most was that Toulouse truly thought Berli hated him. Had he been so selfish and cruel while he pushed everyone away they mistook it for hatred? It was the other way around. Berlioz loathed himself, thinking that he was worthless or a waste of space. He knew he was selfish and hurt the ones he cared about and it's a heavy weight on his shoulders. He felt guilty, especially when he compared Toulouse to their father. It was unfair of him. He was still so hurt though. He knew Toulouse and Marie were too. Berlioz had tore them apart, limb from limb, until their family had shattered from the inside out. "There's a difference between giving someone space and pretending they don't exist. I suppose that means there's a difference between pushing people away and setting boundaries too then." He looked away from his brother, tears stinging his eyes. He could not cry in front of Toulouse. He had to pretend he was fine and not that he was starting to feel the early withdrawal effects of needing drugs. It was an itch that wouldn't go away no matter how hard or how long you scratched at it. In the end the skin would end up red and raw and one would succumb to easing the pain. Drugs were sort of similar that way. You scratched and scratched until you gave in and grabbed the lotion.

"I just wanted you to acknowledge my existence but not hover. I-- I do shit you would never approve of. Shit you don't need to know about so you can sleep at night." He glances back at his brother, trying to ignore the gaze of the cashier and other customers. He was growing paranoid and he needed something to ease that. Home was just around the corner but he knew it was too late to bolt now. He was stuck. "I don't know what you want from me either, you know. You can be sorry all you want but what are you apologizing for? Are you sorry I overdosed or are you sorry you weren't there to prevent it? It's not a fucking secret I was using drugs. The inevitable happened but I'm still here. So don't be fucking sorry for it." He stomach felt unsettled, specifically after he said the word 'overdose.' He could count on one hand how many times he'd said the actual word out loud. He hated it. It made things too real. He just wanted to be in his happy place and relax. Toulouse was getting in the way of that.

"If you want to hand out apologies, fine. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have compared you to our dad. That was a low blow. I'm sorry I'm such a piece of shit that you consistently avoid me, more than I avoid you or Marie. I'm sorry I'm not a carbon-fucking-copy of you, golden boy. I can hear mother saying it now. 'Oh, Toulouse, you're so wonderful. You're such a great big brother to look after your siblings.' When's the last time any of us have told her the truth about anything though?! She doesn't know you're at wits end or that Marie is a lot more fragile than she lets on. She doesn't know how unwell I am. None of you do." Admitting it out loud made it too real. Words were coming out before he could think of how to string them together. He was unwell. He was an addict and he had no intention of changing that. He didn't care. To him his own existence was a waste. "Just...just get out of my way, Lou. All I want to do is go home and I think you probably want to do the same and drink a bottle or two, huh? You cannot judge my habits when yours are no better."

[sondepoch]

Oh, Sister! (Pierro x Reader ft. Harbingers)

You’ve always been a useless sister, a thorn at his side, his lone weakness amidst all his strength—but Pierro realizes you might be useful, for once, when he sees just how interested his fellow Harbingers are in you.  

Or: Pierro gets the Harbingers in line by giving them an incentive. You.

WORD COUNT: 3.3k

TAGS: INCEST, dubcon, implied power dynamics, dom/sub, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fingering, implied orgy, reader has a vagina and clit

PAIRING: Pierro x Reader (feat. the Harbingers)

GENERAL: This fic is part of a series. Each part of this series will feature a different character from Genshin Impact and their beloved little sister. Smut. You can read the masterlist for this series HERE.

He hates how much he loves you.

It’s always irked him. He’s the strongest man in the world, probably, someone who’s lived for centuries and felled whole civilizations at his sword, someone who’s even now plotting world domination—and yet, the Tsaritsa was able to conquer him so effortlessly with a single threat, reminding him that while he’s nigh invincible, you aren’t.

Pierro knows it’s not your fault you’re only useful for warming his cock, knows he can’t truly blame you for the way you’ve only ever thought with that pretty pussy of yours when he’s always been the brainpower for both of you—and, deep down inside, he knows he doesn’t actually hate it. Your soft, warm skin is the only thing he truly looks forward to anymore, and the comfort of your arms is the one thing keeping him sane.

Still, though, Pierro has always been frustrated with how much effort he puts into protecting you both, how little you're able to help him in turn.

Now is the chance to undo all of that.

When this is over, he’ll pepper your face with kisses until you’ve forgotten everything, until there’s a docile smile glued to your face and you’re giggling sweetly, wrapping your arms and legs around his body and reciprocating his love like the angel you are.

Now, however, is the time for order.

“P-please,” you whisper, tugging meekly on the giant robe he wears. “I’m scared. What if they hurt me, they don’t know—”

“I promise none of their cocks are larger than mine,” Pierro hums, lifting a big hand to cup your face. And, really, that much is true. Pierro isn’t exactly human, and his monsterlike body ranks first in everything: authority, power, and certainly size. Arlecchino’s waist has the girth of Pierro’s bicep, Tartaglia’s broad shoulders are the length of Pierro’s forearm, and Capitano—

Well, you might have a little trouble with Capitano.

But Pierro will make sure you’re well prepared for all of them.

“I don’t want them, though,” you whisper meekly, sniffing. Your nude figure curls in on itself atop Pierro’s lap, and the man almost considers changing his mind until he hears the sound of his fellow Harbingers’ footsteps drawing nearer. “Please, I only want you, please, brother, please just—”

“Pierro,” the Harbinger says smoothly before you can utter his name. “For this night, you must call me Pierro. Understand, love?”

“Okay, P-Pierro,” you stutter, and he can tell you hate the way his moniker falls off your lips, hate the way you can’t even call him by his true name.”But Pierro, please—”

Three knocks ring out from the other side of the hall, and the Harbinger can feel your whole body go still. He presses a comforting squeeze to your waist, kissing your forehead once, twice, and then he steels himself. For centuries, he has risked his life to keep you safe, using his body, mind, and soul to ensure nothing but the absolute best for you. Now, just for one night, he needs you to reciprocate a fraction of that sacrifice. 

“I will watch,” he promises solemnly. “And if they push you too far, I will intervene.”

Slowly, you blink back tears and nod.

That’s all the affirmation Pierro needs.

“Come in,” he orders, and the double doors to the Fatui War Chamber swing wide open. Eight Harbingers waltz effortlessly into the deep blue darkness, their armors shining in the moonlight as you whimper at the sight. Already, they’re talking, bickering, arguing, and the noise raises a familiar headache to Pierro’s mind. Their countless squabbles overlap, and the Harbinger can hardly tell whose voice belongs to whom.

“—absolutely pointless, as always.”

“Is that so? I’d love to see you decipher the sacred texts. Or would you rather continue mourning—”

“Now, now, Dottore, let’s not go that far. I doubt—”

“Oh, is going far our concern now, Pantalone? If I recall, you were the one most adamant about—”

“Please, that was Pulcinella! I could never be so unmoved. Isn’t that true, Co—”

“Not at all. If anything, this entire argument is utterly—”

“Risible? I think it’s time to find a new adjective, dearest Marionette, or—”

“Must you always interrupt? Sometimes I wonder why Pierro hasn’t put you in your place yet.”

“Maybe it’s because Pierro appreciates my commentary. Isn’t that right, o' great lord Pi…”

All the Harbingers come to a halt when they finally look to the center of the room where their leader sits—but illuminated in the moonlight isn’t his figure alone. No, their eyes catch on the graceful shape of you, perched prettily on his thighs with a terrified, anxious look on your face that has each of them aching to get a better look. No one speaks. No one moves. For the first time since Signora's death, they seem truly stunned.

Good, Pierro thinks, enjoying their awed silence.

The man's lips curl into a grin when he sees how the sight of you instantly tames the lot of them. For the first time in weeks, these hallowed halls are dead silent even with every reporting Harbinger standing between them. Under their sharp, hungry gazes, you shift in Pierro’s lap, drawing your knees in so that they can’t see your pussy, your tits, but Pierro knows that the very sight of your flesh is enough.

“Well?” he calls, his empty smile bordering on a smirk. “You’re all late. Be seated at once.”

With unusual obedience, the Harbingers all move into their places, but they want your attention, now. Eyes fixed on you, they begin speaking.

“You had us under the impression that you wanted our efficiency to increase,” Capitano calls, his empty head of armor twisted your way. “Or have you already acquired Scaramouche’s whereabouts?”

“Maybe he finally got bored of figuring out how to hunt Scaramouche down,” Tartaglia taunts. "Or maybe he's just bored of us."

“Doubtful. The Tsaritsa ordered us to locate him. This isn’t the time for…” Sandrone’s cold eyes rake down your nude body. “...distractions.”

They’re right. Pierro usually only has you sit in on the most unimportant meetings: the ones where he doesn’t really need to be there but wants to simply keep them in line, playing with the folds of your pussy while his coworkers talk because he hates how their inefficient squabbling can keep him away from your loving embrace, hates how his position as Number One forces him to keep them in line even on the days where they don’t need him present.

Today, however, they have an important matter to discuss: something they’ve been debating for weeks.

For Pierro to bring you in now, when the time for them to finally agree and unite is drawing especially near—it goes against everything he’s ever done.

“Today, I have a challenge for you all,” Pierro says, and he can feel you squirm, feel you get nervous at the idea he’s about to pitch. “Since the incentive of the Tsaritsa’s favor isn’t enough for you fools, I’ve decided to give you another reward.”

Pierro wraps his thick fingers around your thighs, and with the barest shaving of his true iron strength, he pries your legs apart and pulls your back flush against his chest. Your pussy glistens from when Pierro had sucked on your clit earlier, twitches from how you’re still near that edge, and fully contracts in response to the eight hungry gazes that pierce it, and the pitiful whine that spills past your lips makes Pierro’s next offer even more tempting.

“Whoever pitches the idea to capture Scaramouche gets to make my little sister cum.”

And instantly, for the first time, all eight of them are actually trying to figure out how to acquire the Harbinger who got away, not one of them daring to ask why the ever-possessive Pierro is finally offering to let them fuck you when he used to threaten anyone with death for daring to look at you too long. Indeed, they're trying to make sure Pierro won't change his mind, trying to now complete the task he's presented them with in haste so that he won't take this tempting offer away—especially when they've watched him fuck you in front of them for weeks, all without ever having the permission to touch—and Pierro can only smile as his colleagues begin genuinely trying to determine the best way to bring Scaramouche back.

“—need to shut off the borders to Inazuma without starting a war. I can have my men pose as bandits around Ritou, and with him locked inside the nation, we can search for him island by island—”

“A dignitary like you could never understand, but such inaction is useless. Locating Scaramouche will never be enough. We’re better off distributing spies across the nearest nations with on-call skirmisher units to—”

“And risk losing valuable men and letting him realize we’re hunting him? The only people who can defeat Scaramouche are us fellow Harbingers. And I’m the strongest mobile fighter. I should go out on a hunt—”

“Oh, because you’re capable of being in every nation at once? A single bounty hunter isn’t enough. What we really need to do is contact every bank and threaten to cut off financial support unless Scaramouche is discovered. Then, they’ll have equal incentive to find him, so—”

For the first time, Pierro starts to hear real solutions.

He grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“See?” he whispers to you, grinning darkly. “You’re getting them to actually do something instead of sitting here like idiots. Doesn’t that make you proud?”

“They’re all looking at me…” 

You squirm as Pierro continues to hold your legs apart, and he almost feels bad. Even as they discuss, all eight Harbingers keep their eyes fixed on you, like starving wolves staring at the first food they’ve seen in weeks. And Pierro doesn’t know how often the lot of them fuck, whether they all even have such base interests…but it’s clear that each of them wants that prize he's offering for themselves.

You seem to realize it, too, and your eyes flicker away from Pantalone's skittishly when they meet. 

Pierro wants to tell you that your bashful little act, the way you’re so obviously anxious, only fuels them further. That these are monsters for men, and that they only want you more because of how scared you are of them. 

But, your bashfulness is also what is making Pierro’s reward so tempting, so he lets you be.

The humidity in the room rises, and Pierro begins playing with your pussy. Your soft, quiet moan draws their attention instantly, and the first Harbinger raises an eyebrow when they go silent in hopes of hearing it again.

“What?” he asks. “I won’t let her cum. I’m just getting her wet for you.”

Pierro presses a finger inside your pussy, and the lewd moan that spills from your lips—a moan that taunts, tempts, and teases all of them because they’re doubtlessly desperate to hear that sound again, aching to be responsible for you making that sound again—could shatter the warming air.

Their focus on the task at hand increases in turn.

“Forget all of that. Scaramouche has always wanted to go to Natlan, let’s just search there, so—”

Something strange is in the air, Pierro can tell. It’s getting warmer, thicker, wetter—but he chalks it off to the rising tension of his fellow, visioned Harbingers.

“Fucking dumbass. We can’t ignore the chance of him being elsewhere. We should just put out a bounty—”

Pierro starts fucking you with his finger, subtly rubbing his growing bulge against your ass. A single glance around the table confirms that every other man is hard, and Pierro almost feels sorry for them.

“And risk someone else finding the Gnosis? Forget that, let’s just—”

He wipes away the sheen of sweat on your forehead, curling his finger into the one spot that always has your toes curling. It works, and instantly, you’re spreading your legs even wider for the audience, moaning debauchedly as you babble mindlessly about how good it feels, whimpering his name.

“No, no, a bounty might work if we make it Fatui-wide instead of—”

Pierro can feel your core beginning to clamp tighter and tighter around his finger, and right when you’re at the precipice, right when you’re there, he retracts.

“What if we—”

All the Harbingers fall silent when Pierro pulls his finger from you, cruelly yanking you away from your high when you were so close. At once, you start whining into the silence. “No, no, no,” you mewl, hips bucking in vain as you tug on Pierro’s robes, staring up at him with desperate, wanting eyes, ignorant to how your display of absolute whorishness will only make things worse for you. “Please let me cum, please, please just—”

Pierro feels guilty. Edging has always been your weakness, and while he’s at last grown used to your utter…shamelessness when tempted, his fellow Harbingers aren’t nearly as unaffected.

A beat of silence passes, and your lip curls into a pout.

Then, the eight Harbingers get even louder, standing up and beginning to shout ideas at each other. It's so intense that the humidity in the air starts rising again, so Pierro looks around warily at the room to see if one of the Harbingers is doing it intentionally, but all he finds is Tartaglia looking especially intensely at your quivering hole, ignoring the ongoing discussion in favor of watching your wanton expression.

What a child, Pierro thinks. How pathetic.

It’s getting too noisy for him to keep track of who’s suggesting what anymore. All he knows is that everyone's ideas are equally flawed, so he leaves the Harbingers to filter out the best plans themselves and merely continues playing with your pussy—this time focusing his attention on your clit, rubbing slow, gentle circles.

“Oh,” you moan, eyes fluttering closed. All inhibitions seem to have vanished. “Oh, oh, Pierro—”

He builds you to another high, cautiously waiting for the moment he’ll have to rip it away, and the moisture in the room continues to rise unnaturally, your skin practically glowing with shine as you writhe and writhe, so edged from before that you’re already nearing another high, and—

Pierro pulls his fingers away from your hole with a smug grin, but he notices that the moisture of the room is getting higher. That it’s starting to get so wet and humid around your body that your little clit is reacting, and—

All the Harbingers fall silent when the humidity drops to nothing, cracking dry in the sudden, absolute absence of moisture, and you're so pathetic that the slap of evaporation that tugs through your folds is enough to push you over the edge even without physical stimulation. Pierro can only watch as your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open, a disgusting look of ecstasy washing through your face as you cum for all the Harbingers to see like a cheap whore, like a pathetic slut, like the useless little sister you are who can't even be put up as a reward without ruining things.

Pierro is furious.

“Tartaglia,” he hisses when he sees how the Hydro user is grinning in naivety at how his little trick with humidity made you cum. “Tartaglia, I could banish you from the Fatui for this, you—”

"What?" the young man asks, a broad grin on his face as he winks at you. "I didn't touch."

"You—"

“Do it again,” Pantalone interrupts, his ever-closed eyes opened into slits that stare, mesmerized, at your still-orgasmic face. “We may not be able to touch her yet, but—”

"No, let me try," Dottore interrupts, his own vision seeping into the air around you, and Pierro realizes that he might have tempted his soldiers too much. 

The discussion around Scaramouche has stopped completely. Pierro realizes that they only discussed him to begin with because it was a means to an end, a way of possibly getting to touch you, and now, they've found another way to do that entirely. His leverage is lost, his stupid plan foiled, and—

And there's still a way to control them, Pierro realizes abruptly, seeing that he can still increase his original offer.

The Harbinger looks down at you, your dazed half-smile, and he wonders if you even realize that it was Tartaglia who made you cum. He can tell it just made you hornier, can feel the slick pooling on his thigh as you stare up at him with big, adoring eyes and...

Well, he thinks. This is just repayment for everything I've done for her.

Pierro glances around to room to confirm that every single person in the room is now ogling your body, the way you’re still twitching, the way you were able to cum untouched in a manner that doubtlessly has them all aching to replicate, aching to feel, aching to cause, and Pierro realizes that pitting his friends against each other was a mistake.

They all want you.

Bad enough to overcome even their hatred for each other, perhaps.

“Let me amend my earlier statement,” Pierro says, eyes dark. He pulls you closer in a silent apology, brushing his lips against your shoulder. “If all of you can come up with a singular plan to locate Scaramouche, I’ll let all of you fuck her.”

You stiffen in Pierro’s hold, and he raises the stakes ever higher.

“At the same time.”

And they react so quickly that they don’t even hear your terrified mewl, don’t even see the way you stare up at Pierro with betrayed, teary eyes that have his cock getting harder beneath those thick, furred robes. 

"Don’t worry,” he mumbles. “I’ll prepare you,” he says, and he sticks two fingers into your twitching hole, stretching you methodically because he’s now certain you’ll need it.

But he hardly has time.

The Harbingers are so overcome with desire that they unite instantly under their shared goal to acquire you. No longer are they vying to win Pierro’s coveted award alone. At last, they’re on the same team, and with eight minds thinking together, they manage to identify a plan in unison that upholds the Fatui’s standards, minimizes resources and personnel wasted, and, most importantly, will locate Scaramouche with near-perfect efficiency.

Pierro is almost surprised at how quickly they do it: three weeks’ worth of arguments settling in a manner of minutes, and he wonders if this was always their plan, if they always wanted to put Pierro’s back to a wall so that they might get a chance at touching you.

Whatever the case is, he has no time to contemplate it.

Pierro kisses your forehead twice and then lays you out on the table.

You whimper pathetically, reaching out in vain for him, but all you catch is his shadow. Terrified eyes dart to the eight faces that are about to devour you, and Pierro sighs.

“First come first serve,” he says, and as punishment for Tartaglia’s earlier stunt, the man uses his vision to slow the eleventh Harbinger’s movements just a tad, letting all the others get their prized spots first, leaving the eleventh with only a hand that he quickly smells and nips and licks—and the sight that then graces Pierro has him thinking that you might truly enjoy this, that this will feel like a reward for you as much as it is one for them. 

Then, Pierro sees the monstrous smiles on each of their faces—Arlecchino’s grin as she kneels between your legs on the table, Pantalone’s smirk as he shoves his fingers inside your mouth, Dottore’s simper as he presses both thumbs against your nipples—and Pierro realizes that he’s handed you over to monsters.

Well.

Perhaps this will be a good exercise for getting you used to their touch, their habits.

Because after seeing just how well these Harbingers worked when Pierro set you as their goal and prize, he realizes that he’s going to be doing it much more often in the future. 

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

Word Count: 3.3k

Notes: finally had the courage to post this stuff on main!! comment who you want to see next! hopefully it wont take me nine months to update, this time

Reblog, Comment, & Like

Thank you for reading <3

[morganas-pendragons]

in loving memory of Jason Todd

we're going to follow the under the red hood plot for the sake of this fic, but this came to me in the shower as all good fics do! please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in any Batboy fics. and hello to all you new followers. welcome. I hope you love it here! this follows the Grayson!sister plot!

tag: @darth-vaders-bitch

***

3 days ago...

"JJ." Jason freezes mid-step in his trek back to his bike parked in the shadows - because he wasn't about to step in and save the baby bat replacement without a reason to - and very slowly turns around to meet your gaze. He would've glared the person to death who dared to call him something so juvenile. Coming from the person he'd loved since he was 13, though... he was okay with it. "Thank you."

He swallows the knot in his throat as you scoop Tim up into your arms. Little Tim, his Replacement, who is still a child and only trusts you to be vulnerable around. He's hurt. He's a kid and he didn't deserve what those thugs had done to him.... and after all you'd endured since losing Jason all those years and then coming back again.. he'd give you this. He'd let Tim live if it made you happy.

"Anytime, darlin'." He replied softly.

"You asked me a question, before." Black gloves reach outward to envelop his wrist. "If I still loved you. Here's your answer."

You lay a thumb drive in his palm. It's small, barely bigger than his thumb, and labeled with the year he had died. He should toss it into the Gotham River and never entertain the answers that are on that flash drive. He should let you go. Let you move on. Clearly the Bats need you.

But not like he does.

No one had sang him a song since the song of the countdown in that god forsaken warehouse. What hurts more, A or B? Forehand, or back hand? ha HA hA Ha hA!

The taste of blood in his mouth, the broken domino. The way he'd been so convinced that Bruce would save him.

The way he felt nothing but warmth until Death took him.

Jason Todd refuses to forgive Bruce Wayne for the torture he put him through. Manipulating the child he'd take under his wing and give the moniker Robin. The boy who loved Neopolitan ice cream and English literature and cooking in the kitchens with Alfred. That version of him is dead, but even then... somehow, someway, you still find it in you to love him.

And that's the best song he's heard in years. It rings with joy and hope and everything he's seeking.

Upon return to his safe house, Jason nudged the door open with his hip and slipped inside. He was starving and needed a shower. Some sleep. Clean his guns and check his security system, make sure it's up to speed. Instead, Jason sits down on the ratty yellow couch that's ten years out of date and curls his legs beneath him as he plugs the thumb drive in.

A folder with the year he died and the words In Loving Memory of Jason Todd shows up. His stomach turns at the sight of those words as his brain reads them repeatedly. Jason had been under the impression when he'd woken up in the Pit and begun being trained by the League that no one had mourned him. Why would they? Why would you?

You wanted to know if I loved you. Here's your answer.

You can do this. Jason opens the folder and is greeted with half a dozen or more videos, most of which are you and only you. They seem to have been recorded in the middle of the night long after the rest of the Bats are asleep and Bruce isn't around to be nosy about why you would be using the Batcomputer at 4 am. That was exactly what you needed, and it had worked.

Jason clicked on the one week after video and waited.

***

One week after Jason died...

Camera opens onto a dark room. There's a single figure that emerges from the shadow, enveloped in a royal blue sweatshirt that's far too big on her, and they come to sit in the chair that is meant for a grown man.

Little Grayson stares at the camera of the Batcomputer and begins talking,

"It's been one week, JJ." You murmur. "One week since Bruce came home and said your body had been claimed by an explosion. That you were gone, and that he hadn't been fast enough to save you. I still don't know why you didn't just let me go with you... maybe I could've done something." Your fingers curl around the cuff of the sweatshirt sleeve tight enough to turn your knuckles white. "I had something I was going to ask you when you got back home... but today we finally buried you, and that question died on my lips when we put that body in the grave.

It doesn't feel right, letting you go. Part of me, the part in denial, says you're not really dead at all. But I know I'm naive. I've always been naive. It's part of the reason why Bruce won't let me go in the field now."

Jason snorts. That's typical.

"There were so many things I loved about you. Things that drove Dick and Alfred and Bruce nuts..." Soft laughter falls past your lips as you rest your head in your hand. "But I would not and will never change a thing about you. If you are really gone, Jason.... I hope you're at peace." Your eyes meet the camera, dark circles just beginning to form and red rimmed from crying. Jason knows then that his death will haunt you. That you will never be over the guilt that comes with it. "I hope you knew I love you."

Camera goes dark.

***

It takes him several hours to be able to gather the courage to open the next video. Once he does, dawn has just begun peeking over Gotham's skyline and there's a steaming cup of the tea Alfred got him hooked on years ago in front of him.

You're way too freaking domestic for a serial killer.

Shut up.

He snorts softly and opens the next video. Six week after his death, and it's evident.

***

Six Weeks After....

Camera opens, and this time it's to a very obvious fight. Bruce is the one at the computer at 4 AM and he has his back turned to the camera, chair cast out of the way to show both his form and that of the younger Grayson. The audio is garbled and distorted until Bruce disappears off camera alongside a flash of gray hair, and then Little Wing is settling back in the chair.

Your eyes are dark. Way darker then he's ever seen them, and there's an air of loathing and despair that settles around you like the cape Batman wears. Dark as night and even more suffocating.

"I don't know why I keep coming down here. Is this a way to torture myself? My penance for not doing enough for Jason?" Jason's chest constricts too tight and he rubs at the dip in his sternum to try to ease the ache there he cannot actually do anything about. It's a phantom pain. Pain he can feel from you. "JJ, you will always be the best thing that ever happened to me. Let's note that makes Dick really jealous... but he can shove off and keep all his regal titles and all the things the obnoxious and overprotective big brothers get to do. And he's such a good brother. I wish he saw himself that way." Your eyes meet the camera. "I wish you knew how we mourned you. Bruce has been acting so distant and cold and I haven't seen him cry a single time since he brought you home.. but I know he mourns. Or at least I'd like to think he does. Who knows anymore. But he is not my father. My father wouldn't berate me for not being able to let the boy I love go. I hope you see yourself the way I see you, if you ever see this." Laughter bubbles past your throat. It's so.. bitter. Like the thought of what you just said is so utterly ridiculous you cannot even begin to comprehend why you said it. "Idiot. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am stupid."

Jason pauses the video before it goes dark to gaze at you. Your hair is longer and unkempt, like you haven't found it in you to have the energy to brush your hair. You're wearing the same blue sweatshirt that Jason hasn't recognized until now is his. It's highly likely that you wouldn't let Alfred touch it because it smelled like him. Alfie, you sentimental sap.

His fingers graze your cheek. When he finds you back on patrol, he intends to give this back. This isn't something you just throw away. Even with The Replacement in the picture and your obvious dedication to the Bats, there's something stirring low in Jason's gut that tells him you love him just as much now as you did then.

And well.... Red Hood is allowed to love. He deserves to.

***

The last video in the six is not you, but Dick. Dick Grayson is sitting in the chair spinning himself around repeatedly as he gazes at a small lavender box in his hand.

"Hey Jay. I didn't realize until about a month and a half ago that Little Wing was still making these videos for you. I'm not entirely sure why. Truth be told I think it's because you were you and someone doesn't just get over you.... which is why it's me in here instead of the little one." He holds up the box and opens it. It's a ring. A promise ring Jason had secured long before his death in the hopes of one day, being able to give it to you wit ha promise that he would marry you. "And then I found this when I was helping Alfie clean your room. You hid it in your underwear drawer, you scoundrel." Jason would've been lying if he said that Dick's laugh that followed didn't make him warm. Dick had always had that gift about him.. comforting when he didn't even realize he was doing it. Just the sound of his laughter was enough. "And just so you know... you have my blessing. Marry my sibling." Dick leans forward and lays the box just in front of the camera. "And have the life you deserve."

The laptop lid slams shut and Jason is out the door before he can stop himself.

***

"So do you believe me-"

The two of you are standing on the rooftop under the Vicki Vale billboard when Jason throws the Red hood helmet to the side and fixes your eyes head-on. There is not a drop of hesitation or fear but acceptance. And that look on someone who has suffered as much as Jason Todd has is probably the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

He is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"You kept the ring." You pull the promise ring from underneath your armor on the silver chain you'd gotten years beforehand. It kept it safe. Kept him safe, before you were the only one of the Bats who knew he was alive. "You kept the ring knowing you wanted to ask me something if you ever saw me again. I'm gonna ask you now."

Your whole world slows down as he sets himself on one knee and asks with all the confidence of a man finally allowing himself to accept love and be loved for the rest of his life.

Will you marry me?

[hurtthemgently]

Small victories

Masterlist

Cw: loss of autonomy, creepy/intimate whumper, whumpee forced to deceive caretaker in future, faerie deal, implied cold whump, whumper controlling what whumpee wears, non con kissing and touching, non con drugging, fear, emotional whump

——

Kimmi awoke to their shoulders being shaken.

“Hey wake up! Something came up that I need to talk to you about.” He sat on the bed, leaning over them.

They pulled the covers away, and gave him a tired glare, through bleary eyes.

“This is urgent. My sister is coming to stay here for a couple weeks. She’ll be here in the morning.”

Their tired anger turned to tired surprise. They’d heard about Mentari, the golden child with beautiful yellow magic. The oldest sibling, the protector.

“What’s this have to do with me?”

“I’m moving you out of the guest room. That, and, I want to make sure of something. Pack up your stuff and go put it in my room, I’ll clean in here.” He pulled the blankets off them and shoved them in a basket.

They shivered, the shorts and blouse not nearly enough to protect from the freezing air inside the house. Just another way of tormenting them. Keeping the house freezing while making them wear minimal clothing. They quickly shifted off the bed, and went to pack up everything.

Ceran put all the blankets and pillow covers in a basket before spraying the room with something they couldn’t smell. He kept cleaning even after they had taken all their stuff out, scrubbing the floor and taking an especially long time working on the drains and mattress.

Anywhere that might collect someone’s scent.

——

Kimmi took their bags to the other room. Ceran’s room. They were grateful that he had gone and picked a bunch of their stuff up from their dormitory, although they disliked the thought of him going through their things. At least they still had their own clothes, even if they could only wear the stuff he got for them.

They stopped in the doorway. They’d read too much fanfiction to not realize the implications.. but him? Their shoulders ticked thinking about being next to him while so vulnerable. Then and there they made up their mind to never read a ‘there was only one bed’ fanfic ever again.

Maybe they could convince him to let them sleep in that big cushy chair in the corner.

——

“Okay, now for the conversation we need to have. You can’t tell Mentari anything about what’s going on.” Ceran pinched the bridge of his nose, sitting on the bed.

“Why not? Isn’t she a vampire too?” They sat in the chair, trying to figure out what he was implying, while faced away from them.

“She has.. ‘different ideas’ on stuff like keeping blood bags… she gets it from our father. Now, I’m going to give you a command not to tell her, but I also want to make sure you agree no to, I don’t want you finding a way around the command.”

“Different ideas?” Maybe she would help them! They couldn’t imagine anyone related to this guy being a good person- but from the way he talked about her…

“She’s a protector… she used to like, put fallen baby birds back into their nests and rescue cats from trees.. regular low grade superhero stuff.”

“Superhero? That’s just.. regular nice person things?”

“She had a costume. And a moniker.” He smiled a bit at the memory, though Kimmi couldn’t see that.

“Oh. So you want me to agree not to say anything?”

He turned around. “I want you to use your vow ability, and promise not to do anything to allow her to find out. I’m willing to make some concessions for this.

“I want you to be willing to follow the order so go ahead. What would it take for you to behave?”

“I- I want you to.. vow not to hurt me the entire time she’s here. I- it’d be more convincing, if I could tell her you promised not to hurt me.”

“Nice argument. Okay, I’ll accept that. Outside of feeding of course. I’ll even promise to make my bite as painless as possible. Anything else?” He could always wait until after she left to dole out any punishment they incurred.

Emboldened, they went on. “I want to wear my own clothes. It’s freezing in this place and the shorts and shirts with wide necklines aren’t helping. At least while she’s here.”

“Fair enough. So these conditions, and you won’t try and find a way to circumvent my commands?”

“I- yeah..” they would always try to get around commands. A simple yes answer was vague enough that it didn’t change that. But also, any leniency was worth it.

They continued, “if you want we can put the deal in writing.. gives both a solid idea of what both of us are agreeing to.” And gives them a reference for how to get around the promise and the commands.

He got them a blank sheet of paper and a pen, and they set upon the task of lining out a faerie deal.

——

Kimmi sat curled up in the chair, trying to go back to sleep. They brushed their fingers over their wrist, hating how foreign it felt to not have the cuffs in place. They shouldn’t be used to being in restraints.

They pulled the blanket tighter when footsteps approached. He was finished with cleaning the house. Maybe they could pretend to already be asleep. The door opened quietly.

“Maybe you’d have an easier time sleeping if you laid on the bed. I don’t think that chair is a great place to sleep.”

Well that failed. “I’m alright over here.”

“What, don’t want to sleep next me?” He leaned against the arm of the chair, pressing his back to their own.

He felt their shoulders jerk, a reaction he’d come to realize was a sort of muscle spasm, something they couldn’t control. They’d said it was often caused by stress. Specifically they’d said physiological stress, like the cold or extreme emotions. He didn’t mind it at all. It was just another way for them to show how his torments got to them.

They tensed, trying to shrink into themself. “I think it would be easier for me to sleep in the chair.”

“Well I think you should sleep on the bed.” He carded fingers through their hair, enjoying how their breath quickened.

He couldn’t hurt them. The worst thing he could do right now is command them, so why were they so scared? They suppressed a sob, thinking of the possibility that vampires were immune to the effects of faerie deals.

Out of nowhere, a weight settled on their lap. He traced a feather light touch at their jawline, now sitting in front of them. Closing their eyes, they turned their head away, tucking their face into the cushion.

“What makes you think you can get away with contradicting me? Is it that deal? Do you think you’re safe just because I can’t hurt you?”

The fact that it worked on him should have been a relief. But they had an awful feeling that he had something worse in mind than just hurting them. The tears were already falling when he tilted their head into a kiss. The venom washed through them, the bitter raspberry taste making them feel sick and useless.

He picked them up and carried them to the bed. They were weeping quietly as he pulled the blankets over their shoulders, making sure to wreath every movement in gentleness. He pressed a kiss to their forehead.

“Okay. I’ll play along, for now.” He switched to the most genuine sounding comforting voice he could manage. “Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe for as long as the deal is in effect. I can’t do anything at all to make you upset, uncomfortable, or afraid.”

He ruffled their hair one more time before he got up and left the room. He heard their quiet sobs even from downstairs.

——

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpsday @whumpycries @pigeonwhumps @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @sola-whumping @greenwhump

[mercurygray]

I'm still spinning some plates with this TGM 1940s AU.

(An unwelcome but necessary reminder that segregation was official American armed forces policy until 1948, and it wasn't completely eliminated in practice until 1952.)

As was becoming the usual, trouble had found them. All they'd done was walk into the bar - all twelve of them, gussied up for a night out and ready to do the navy proud.

"Don't serve them here," the barkeep said, casting a disdainful eye over Fitch and Machado, his scorn heaviest for the men but none too kind on the women, either, who must be some kind of loose moraled types to walk into a bar with a group of men they clearly weren't related to.

Bradshaw looked around the room, the other soldiers at the bar and a few of the sailors in their chairs, and ran the odds on whether they'd win or lose whatever fight might be coming next. They could take 'em - Bradshaw himself had at least a foot on half the guys in this place and the others aren't far behind him. The room was deadly still. "Guess we'd better take our business elsewhere, then," he said, slow and calm, making eye contact with the rest of the aviators. "Afraid our money's no good here, boys."

Seresin looked like he'd like to spit nails being denied his beer, but a team was a team, and a line was a line, and the girls looked to be following Bradley anyway, so - out they went, scuffling their shoes in the parking lot.

So much for Friday night plans. "Who needs it, anyway?" Bradshaw said, trying to recover, smiling at Reuben and Javi. Everyone had worked hard this week, and a beer would have been nice. It wasn't their fault they were stationed where they were. "Go find our own fun somewhere else."

"There's a liquor store in town," Bob suggested, his hands in his pockets. "Someone could take some money and buy us a case or two." All eyes turned to him - Bob never drank, never, and for him to know where they could buy liquor? It was just this side of absurd. "Go to the beach?"

"Robert Floyd," Jake Seresin said with a grin, looping an army around his shoulders, "you're a damn genius."

The beach was nice, for the time of year, and Shore Patrol didn't seem to want to tangle with them, especially in such a big group.

"It's smart, what he did back there," Natasha said, sitting in the sand with Bob close to the fire they'd started with some driftwood. Someone somewhere had found a football, and they were tossing it around, shoes and socks thrown in a pile and pants rolled to their knees. "That's what'll get him made team leader. Seresin would have started a fight."

"Just so he could look good for Laura," Bob added dryly, taking a sip of his Coca-Cola. Natasha laughed.

"You don't miss much, do you, Iowa?" she asked, grinning at him in the dark. But Bob wasn't laughing. "And you're right. It'll be a cold day in hell when Laura gives him the time of day." She scratched at the label on her beer bottle, not really caring that it wasn't ladylike to drink straight from a bottle. "Any other brilliant observations to share on your fellow pilots?"

"I know you're wasted as a backseater," he said, looking out to the ocean for a moment. Natasha put her bottle down, stunned that he'd really just...said that. "You're a better pilot and a better hand at the stick. Ought to be me in the backseat with that machine gun." He nodded, almost to himself. "And I'm going to tell Maverick that, next chance I get."

Natasha was still staring. "You'd fly backseat with a girl?"

"With a better pilot," Bob corrected, meeting her eye with sincere admiration.

She sniffed, trying not to sound emotional, like this wasn't everything she'd wished for since she'd joined the program. "You're all right, Bob Floyd."

Bob smiled at that, and took another sip of his cola, and the two of them sat watching the fire, and the figures beyond it laughing and running in the dark.

Natasha gives Bob the moniker Iowa in this drabble here; you can read more of the 1940s TGM au at the tag on my blog.

[skiyoosmi]

to the stars above | z.

featuring. zhongli (genshin impact)

genre. fluff, angst, smut, ancient-liyue!au

word count. 5.4k

marga's notes. aAAAa look look, it's my first commission!! school has kept me really occupied for like the past month but after pulling a few all-nighters, i've finally finished my responsibilities along with this little baby! once again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you to my bubs @ramannnn for trusting me with this one <33

Nobody knows when the world began, how it came to be and why it continues to be. Even I, whose mind is filled with nothing but wonder for it, have no idea. One thing I am quite sure of... is how mine did.

It all started with him— a man of many titles, different identities yet at the end of the day, all these monikers are the same; it's all him. He adored Liyue more than anything else, knew it like the back of his hand. He went where the winds lead him, stayed where the moon shines upon him, stood where the golden sun kissed his skin. He found serenity in the walks he travels as he goes about his day, the sceneries his eyes take in and the calm sounds the nature resonates for him. And as if it was fate decided upon by the Celestia, it led him to me. Suddenly, my little world that used to be nothing became everything... quickly and all at once.

An exasperated sigh escapes from my lips, frustration and disappointment filling my whole being as I stare at the blank parchment paper I held in my hands. Another day was again wasted with no progress, I thought, mentally beating myself up for not being productive enough. Before I could further drown myself into such pessimistic ideas, I snap out of it and let my eyes cherish the view that lies ahead of me. Though I feel a little guilty for taking Vermeer's place, I can only whisper an apology with little to no sincerity. Because truly, nothing can beat the picturesque landscape of Luhua Pool— the crystal clear waters that would most probably reflect my face like a mirror if I were to ever look at it, the ruins that ignited the spark of curiosity within me, wondering about the pasts it holds and the stillness and feeling of peace it gives me as I sit in this cliff. Feeling somewhat a bit better, I place my things on top of the old bag I bring no matter where I go. There's always a better day for writing, I tell myself as a form of consolation, bringing my slim arms up to begin stretching. I've been sitting on this log for quite a long time now, after all.

"It seems like you are in a bit of a dilemma," a deep voice comments from behind me. Out of surprise, I lightly jump and turn my head towards the stranger. Right at that moment, it felt as if all the air circulating inside my body had been depleted. Captivating was an understatement as to how he appeared before me. With the sunlight striking his face and accenting his unique features further, he stood with his hands behind him, head tilted as he looked at me with interest, all while keeping his dignified posture.

"Oh, hello. I am afraid so, yes," I respond, or rather, mutter under my breath since I was not really used to having sudden encounters with other people, nor am I fond of it. I tend to keep to myself, finding it much more peaceful than having to tend to others' overbearing expectations and demands which is partly the reason why I chose to live in the outskirts, far from the center of Liyue that contrasts my comfortable abode, "I apologize. I failed to realize that somebody other than Vermeer liked to stay here," I told him, arching my eyebrows a little when he let out a breathy chuckle.

"Oh, you have no need for such formal apologies. I do not always go here, at least probably not as often as the man you call Vermeer. I was simply taking a walk and I think I got carried away by Liyue's view and eventually, my feet led me here," he explains, a hint of sheepishness present in his tone, "and I guess I'll have to thank my feet for that."

Because it led me to you, interesting one. For many years, it will remain unspoken, kept by the strange man to himself and unveiled once his heart gives up from the resistance he upholds.

For the following hours of lounging around Luhua Pool, I learned a lot about the stranger— he calls himself "Morax," and like the god of Liyue, he enjoyed history and is extremely knowledgeable about it, aspiring to know and understand everything of the world, he often brews tea, even going as far as inviting me once I am free from any form of work. Just as he shared facts about himself, I did too.

"So, Cheng, you said you have a bit of a dilemma?" he inquires, slightly angling his head towards the direction of the side I'm sitting on. I nod my head up and down, mouth forming into a small pout of disappointment as I remember that today has not been that progressive.

"Yes. I am trying to write a novel, you see. Something that will leave an impact on this world so that even if I may pass, I will still live on the memories of people," I tell him, an ambitious expression present on my face. He hums, eyes going over the terraces that make up the current view we have and the two huge statues standing by the ruins, "Why so?"

I pause for a moment to think of a reply, "I guess I just do not want to let someone alone in this cold world. Wouldn't that be too cruel and sad, to just leave them with nothing?"

If I'm able to write words that will provide comfort to my readers, then maybe... just maybe the world will be less lonely... even for just a little bit. At least, that's what I thought as silence consumed us, the sun setting as if to remind us that finally, another day is nearing its end. Now, what will tomorrow bring?

"Well then, I do hope I will be able to read at least some of your works at least once," he speaks as he stands up, lightly dusting away his clothes, "It certainly has been a pleasure to be your company, Cheng."

As he walks down the slope of the hill, his somewhat broad back facing me, I call out, "Will you be back?"

He stops and turns, a soft smile is plastered on his face as he responds, "Only time will tell."

But time was no friend of mine. At least that's what I have come to realize as many days passed without him returning to this place. Though maybe it's only because it almost felt as if time slowed down and I was only eager to see him again, something I have scolded myself to— what a fragile heart do I have to already seek a stranger's presence? That is what others call love at first sight, a devilish portion of my mind whispered cheekily within me and I gasped in disbelief, "Absolutely not," I lightly slap both of my cheeks, "I'm just too coped up in my own world. I probably need to go see more people."

That thought remains a simple yearning though because once again, I find myself lounging around the same spot in Luhua, a quiet hope ignited within me, fulfilled when I hear the familiar voice he adorns as he speaks, "You're here."

I release a sound that is between a giggle and a breathy chuckle, "And I see your feet had led you here once more?"

"They were curious, or should I say... I was," he explains as he takes a seat beside me, his posture remaining solid despite the uncomfortable position.

"Of what?" I ask.

"Of you," he simply replies, unaware of the sudden yet unsurprising effect it had on my heart that was already beating rapidly with just his mere presence. I try not to be so showy of it though, too embarrassed to even think of how fast I became fond of him.

But it was no wonder. After all, he himself was an interesting one; from the way he carries himself, the way he speaks, and the way he's just him... all and every action hold so much dignity that it just leaves me almost breathless and in awe every single time my eyes finds their way to his figure— and to think that this was just our second meeting? My mother would most probably let out the most shameless giggle as I tell her these thoughts, pushing me and teasing me like a normal person in their teens would. I shake my head to get out of these thoughts, listening to Morax as he tells another wonderful tale, almost making me think that he lived it himself with how he knew it, going over even with the smallest details.

"You know, Morax, you have such a good memory to remember all of those things despite simply hearing about it," I suddenly speak up in the midst of the silence that engulfed us while he tries to think of the next story to tell, "I hope I can stay in them too... in your memories, I mean. I know I am far from being the most interesting person but for some reason, I wish for that."

He pauses, eyes trailing slowly towards me, beyond my knowledge, before he lets out a somber smile. You already are, is another one of him that becomes an afterthought.

I heaved out a sigh before shaking my head again, "Ah! Why do I keep having such lonely thoughts? Forget about that. Please do not mind me, alright? I think I really need to stop being stuck in the mountains."

I pick up my small bag and shuffle inside it, letting out a quiet sound of 'aha!' as a sort of celebration when I successfully got a small book out, "Here."

He blinked his eyes in confusion, wondering what it was I handed to him so I spoke in delight, "You told me you wanted to read at least one of my works so, here. I am warning you though, it is not like the ones that sell best in the bookstores. It might bore you, or weird you out like what others say."

"What others say?"

"They say it's too unrealistic, too impossible... but I believe otherwise. We live in a world where gods and adepti watch over us. What makes my story impossible then?" I ponder, him still being confused.

"What is it about anyway?" He asks, having no idea of what the context my book had.

"It's about an archon who began living as a simple man in Liyue."

Our meetings became more frequent after that and eventually, we got comfortable with even just the presence of each other, having no need for long talks and such, but just peace. Today, like any other day, Morax was just reading the book I gave him, while I was thinking of what my next story would be about. Occasionally, he looks at me with an odd expression that is almost equivalent to astonishment, as if I have done something so great that it made him look at me that way.

"What made you think of this plot?" he asks all of a sudden, not forgetting to put a piece of paper that served as a bookmark on the page where he stopped just in case he accidentally closed it.

I hum, thinking about my answer to his question, "Hmm. Truth to be told, it was just a mere wonder for me. Archons and the adepti, although not entirely immortal, live so much longer than an average human does, watching over us as we go about our daily lives, waiting for sudden wars to break out and then fight the enemies that attack us. Growing up, those were the things that all the people around me told me. So I began to wonder, do they ever get tired? Is it not too taxing to keep on doing that? What if... they just lived with us, among the crowds? Because I think it is too lonely wherever they are. Would it not be better if they were with us, rather than above us, so they could at least have memories to live by?"

Morax does not give a response, or rather, he finds it difficult to find one. Still, it does not stop the affection that spreads within him. He does not say it out loud, but for someone who prefers to be alone, Cheng was full of empathy. And somehow, that did wonders to Morax's heart.

"Now that I think about it, I kind of actually want to address my books to them now," I hum once more, "It would be like a message for them: Do not be too lonely even if we pass. Because of your help, through these stories, we can show you that we lived a good life."

I huff as soon as I finish my sentence, "Although one of those who read it said that was impossible, because according to them, why would archons give up their power to live a life where there is only simplicity?"

Morax let out a sound that made it look as if he got offended himself, "Archons can do that, can they not?"

"I know! That was what I was saying to them. Anyway, I am not forcing them to like what I wrote. It's just a story, after all. It can do no harm," I shrug, beginning to fix my belongings as the sun began to set, "I should go now, Morax. It is still quite a long walk to my home."

"I want to live a good life too," he suddenly tells me, making me halt and turn to him in confusion, "With you. The good life and memories you shall tell in your stories, can I be part of them too?"

The universe does not stop for anyone, nor does time— science will consistently proclaim this fact matter what timeline we shall live in. No matter how much someone begs to the Celestia to grant their wish of controlling, or stopping time, no one will be able to do such things. But somehow, it seems like when it comes to him, everything is possible as I feel my world stop at his words, just like the way it also began when I met him. And as if planets were colliding with each other, I suddenly felt my heart crash upon him and as if out of instinct, I let go of the truth.

"Of course. It would be the greatest thing to have you."

Life was strange in its own way. That is what I have come to realize in this simple life of mine.

Despite the fact that the "me" of the previous year has never even thought about putting my whole being on my sleeve, it is pleasingly odd how right now, I find myself in this kind of situation with the man who swept me right under my feet and claimed my heart as his.

“You're cold," I whisper amidst the silence of the night in my abode, my index tracing the ears of the man who had me sitting right on his lap, the shorter strands of his silky hair tucked behind them. So, so alluring.

He takes hold of my wrist, planting a soft kiss on its side, all while maintaining eye contact as he quietly drawls, "Then I suppose you can keep me warm tonight. Will you?"

As if in a trance, I nod my head, letting him take the lead as he laid me down, back against the soft mattress, him following on top with his arms supporting his build. With arising confidence, I circle my arms around him and pull him down, bringing our lips together, a sigh of relief escaping both of our mouths as if to say, "Finally."

I wonder if he thinks the same way as I do— that this was Celestia in its own way. I felt like I could do anything as long as it was with him. The kiss felt like the power we once suppressed from each other became a supernova that changed our world's course all of a sudden. But despite the tension and heat we both emitted at the moment, there is a warmth that engulfs me the same time he fully wraps his arms around me.

I am here. I will always be here.

No noise disturbs the peace we have created, only the quiet sound of crickets reach our ears but even that fails to distract him from what he's doing. He gently tugs on the sash that keeps my coat tied. Nimble fingers explore the remains of my clothing, loosening all until I am set free from them.

His eyes raked over my body, an expression of awe plastered on his face for so long that it made me somewhat conscious. Because as he unravels his to me, I am enlightened by the fact that my figure is nothing worth comparing to his — not even close. A hint of sweat glints from his skin due to the moonlight, making him look even more ethereal. But who was I to complain?

So instead, I look down, fiddling a little with my fingers as I feel my cheeks heat up. How is it that I only realize now what kind of situation we are currently in? Before I further drown in such shameless thoughts, he lifts my head up by the chin, an amused look on his usually-gentle face, "Are you feeling shy, beloved?"

I meekly nodded, to which he lets out a soft laugh and whispers, "Don't be. You are the epitome of beauty itself. If you don't believe me, allow me to show you nothing but truth tonight, I swear under the moon and all these stars."

He dips down and captures my lips in a kiss once again with more passion, if it was still even possible.

"You are made for me, as I'm made for you," he proclaims as he thrusts inside me after minutes of preparation, soft pants and groans following his statements. I can only whimper in response, pain evident in my tone at first with my hands lightly clawing at his back. I pray to the heavens above that they don't leave awful marks after this.

He halts and utters an apology, thumb caressing the bone of my cheeks while he waits for me to adjust. He scans my face after a few seconds, relief flashing in his eyes when I nod for him to continue.

"I... b..." I try to speak out but the pleasure overwrites any sensical thought that goes through my mind. He slows down a little, looking over my face and smiles, urging me to talk.

"Stay with me, beloved. We still have all night," he tells me, encouraging me to voice what has been on my mind.

"I... I belong to you, always have and always will..." I manage to croak out, voice quite hoarse due to the sounds that I let out previously. Perhaps pleased with what I have proclaimed, he begins going even deeper and at the same moment, I begin falling deeper.

"Yes, yes, you do," he repeats like a mantra, his voice sounding more and more desperate to reach his high. I cry out with him, creating a harmony that even the best bards shall be ashamed.

It was a long night— the longest yet most beautiful night I have ever had in this simple life of mine. And in that moment, as we reach the stars together, I knew right there and then that this man is someone who will be etched in my heart for as long as I live, deep into its roots— for him, it shall beat and it shall love.

You, who are reading this, most probably have had enough of these teeth-rotting praises I kept on writing. But what can I do except to apologize? These words are the only ones that can flow out of my mind and mouth to show how magnificent it was to be loved by him.

Well, nothing significant really changed. He was still the same gentleman I met, if anything, more gentle. Just like in the beginning, he made my heart flutter every chance he gets, no matter how many years have already passed.

We built a dynasty together.

But maybe I should have known that ours were also bound to crumble like the ones that have long existed even way before us.

Days, months and years went on, I realized that he was actually the opposite of me— unlike me who was clearly not parallel with time, he held it right on the palms of his hand. I was not blind, nor was I a fool, I can clearly see how he looks like he has not aged a day, all while I was here, maturing more and more each second that passed by, the amount of signs of me aging increasing significantly.

Morax. Knowledgeable of history as if he lived it himself. Time. All these thoughts eventually congest my mind as realization dawns upon me. He was not merely a man named after the god himself— Morax was him, he was Morax.

"How appalling," I mutter with a hint of sadness and dismay in my tone. I stood in front of the mirror, fingers hovering over my face, wrinkles appearing as I scrunch it. A pair of firm arms snake its way around my lean waist, chin resting on one of my shoulders as he hums his words, "What has got your beautiful mind occupied, my beloved?"

Taking hold of his arms, I turn my body around to face him, a somewhat melancholic smile etched on my face as I look up at his much taller frame, "You are a sight to behold, even to this day." He arches one eyebrow out of amusement and curiosity, wondering why I suddenly started pouring him compliments. After all, my shyness prevents me from consistently doing so. Nonetheless, I continue speaking, "I wish... I could be with you even when everything changes into a whole new world."

I lifted a hand up to cup his cheeks and began rubbing it lovingly, a lone tear finally dropping from my eye as soon as I closed it, "but I cannot, I do not have the ability to do so... I am but a mere mortal, after all."

His eyes widen as he finally discerns my actions and concerns, immediately opening his mouth in hopes of consoling me but I beat him into speaking, "It's alright, Morax. I have been putting the pieces together for a while now. I am in no way angry. I just..." I pause, gulping hard before my lips start to quiver, "... I cannot imagine how lonely it must have been. And now... I think about it and I... I do not want to leave you alone again."

My cries eventually start becoming louder, something that is very new to the both of us, seeing as I have always been composed. Love can change a person into a whole new being. I remember a book I have read once and at the moment, I can only agree. Maybe it was the way my heart clenches at the mere thought of him walking alone, or the way I can imagine us taking our last breaths together yet I know that will never happen— but either way, it was painful.

He whispers sweet nothings to my ears, placing light kisses on my temple as he leads us to the bedroom to rest once my tears have finally ceased and I have calmed down. His hold on me gets tighter every time I let out a small hiccup due to crying, almost as if he was telling me that he was feeling the same pain as I was.

Hours pass by as we lay in silence. My tears have long dried up but we remain coped up in each other's arms.

"Would it not be interesting if you bear the name Zhongli?" I ask him in a somewhat croaky voice.

He peers down and tilts his head, "Now where did that thought come from?"

I shrug, or at least try to, and look up at the ceiling as we shift our positions to lay on our back, hands finding one another and intertwining, "Hmm... nowhere. Just a name I wanted to give you in case that you are needing a new one."

"Oh? How come it would be interesting then?"

I look at him with a comforting yet sad smile.

"Because it means it's time to leave, to go somewhere far away... and unfortunately, I will have to leave soon."

He furrowed his eyebrows together, "Do not say that. Who knows? Maybe you will be able to live a hundred years by my side. Besides, I think it sounds lonely. I do not think I would want to get reminded of the fact that you are not here with me."

I hum, "But if you bear the name I gave you, wouldn't it feel like I never went away? That no matter where your feet take you, no matter how far you go, I am and will always be with you, just as I have vowed."

The wooden door leading to my writing room slowly slides open and Morax's head peers in, an adorable smile plastered on his face, "You have been quite busy these days, beloved. I do not wish to disturb you but I am starting to long for your presence."

I let out a shameless giggle, "Alright, alright. Just let me write down a few more words while I still have ideas to input."

He peeks on the parchment paper out of curiosity, taken aback when he finds his name on it, "You are writing about us?"

I nod proudly, "My last piece."

"... But why?"

I smile and approach him, taking his hand and placing my forehead against his after he lowers his head down to my level, "I told you, did I not? I do not wish to leave the person I love with nothing. So that you will not be lonely, my words will be with you. I will be with you, always..."

"... and to tell the gods... to tell you, that I loved every second of my life with you— that it was, indeed, a good life."

"Who are you, young man? Are you my son?" I speak with a very hoarse voice, squinting my eyes at the figure in front of me, as if my poor vision will allow me to do that.

I hear a melancholic yet gentle sigh come from him before he takes my rough hands and looks afar, "Don't mind me. I'm just someone who vowed to be with you for as long as time lets us."

"Oh.... really? That’s quite endearing," I hum, "Well, may I know your name?"

"This… I think I may just have an idea to whom this book is for," Paimon trails off, looking over at the traveler who was in the same trance as her, "Paimon thinks we should let the strange person we saw a while ago give this directly to Zhongli!"

Lumine nods, turning around and starting to run towards the direction they were at previously, recalling the person named Cheng who gave them the novel they just finished reading. They were unique, dressed in layers of robes and it was almost as if they lived in the old times of Liyue. Even the way they talked and moved screamed ancient.

Just as they turned the corner, a woman near the Liuli Pavilion called them over, "Traveler! Here!" As they approach, Lumine cranes her neck to look around the area but to no avail, the strange person was long gone.

"Are you two alright?" the woman asks, much to their confusion, "I saw you talking to literal air awhile ago and I was worried you have eaten something strange."

The pair looks at each other in surprise before Paimon replies, "You didn't see anyone? Like a person dressed in the strangest attire? They dressed really anciently!"

The door of the Liuli Pavilion opens and there goes Zhongli, a calm expression morphing to an awkward one when he realizes he barged into an ongoing conversation. He apologizes for the disturbance and despite the curiosity he had upon overhearing bits of Paimon's statements, he starts his walk back to Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. At least not until he hears Paimon call his name, "Zhongli! Wait! A person named Cheng. Do you know them?"

He abruptly stops and turns to the two, eyes wide for a second before it returns to his usual demeanor, "How... how do you know of them?"

"We met them," Paimon says, as if it was the simplest thing to do, "Well, honestly, we don't know because we were apparently speaking to nothing but air! It's so odd!"

He stays still, honestly having no idea of what response he should give them because he himself found it hard to believe.

"Well anyway, they asked us to give you this nov— wait, where is it? It was just in your hands a while ago, Traveler!"

In the midst of the loud chaos made by the two in the middle of Liyue, he thinks he knows what to do and where to go now.

It was the day of the Rite of Parting, an event where he's supposed to be taking part of, even just a part of the audience. But he finds himself hanging around the Wanwen Bookhouse, eyes scanning the shelves until it stops at a familiar name engraved on the cover of a book.

"Oh! Greetings, Mr. Zhongli! I see you took a liking to a very great and romantic novel," Jifang comments as she sees the book in his hands.

He looks at her, "Is it really great?"

She gasps in delight, "Yes, indeed! Almost all of the Liyue folks have enjoyed this story! You can say it is a classic, especially for readers! Cheng definitely outdid themselves with this one! Such a mysterious person yet equally amazing. Imagine? Being able to make such a beautiful love story with Morax? They don’t mention the present name they gave Morax though, such a shame. Maybe it was due to old age, they wrote it until the last moments of their life after all. Anyway, I have to get back to work but enjoy reading that masterpiece!"

He feels his heart swell in pride upon knowing his lover had his wish come true. His nimble fingers carefully open the pages of the book and hours later, as he sat inside the Funeral Parlor after taking the novel home, he finds himself absorbing each and every word Cheng have written, the loneliness sitting idly inside him subsiding little by little.

I found solace in the countless cups of tea you brew whenever I encounter distress with my works, the endless stories you tell with a smile so beautiful that not even the most heavenly scenery can vanquish, but most of them all, the feeling of your hand intertwining with mine, providing me with serenity no one else has ever done before. Under the moonlit night of Liyue, I remember your wistful amber eyes, staring deep into my soul as you proclaim your love and desire for me. How foolish was it of me to think that I could live this life without even experiencing such warmth and intimacy?

It is a banality, really — how I wish to become a well-known writer with unique tales and yet the story I am telling is something so common to folks that they have most probably heard similar ones before. But I guess this is what it means to love and to be loved. Everything is like a cycle that just keeps on being repeated, yet we never get tired of it, of the feelings it brings. So, thank you, Morax. Words will never be sufficient to show how grateful I am to you for showing me a whole new world but I suppose this is still a way for me to give back to you.

With this little book of mine, I hope my heart reaches yours regardless of how many eras may have passed before and after us. So, my beloved, do not be too lonely without me. Even if you find yourself longing for my presence, just open this and my heart shall be with you.

This belongs to you, it always will.

And I do, as well.