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romaritimeharbor · 2 months ago

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HEIR. — In which Arlecchino's heir comes home after a tough mission.

— trigger & content warnings. references to violence and other dubious activities. mild blood.

— pairings & notes. fluff. arlecchino & heir!reader. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used). reader is a member of the house of the hearth and is arlecchino's chosen heir. 2.5k words.

— author's thoughts. arlecchino is the best harbinger fr <3

Being the Knave's heir came with many implications.

It was, firstly, a role that was never forced upon them; it was more of an offer that Arlecchino extended to them, the child who she felt would make a worthy king and successor should something ever happen to her. It was no obligation—not until they actually inherited her title, that is. Up until that point, they would always be permitted to withdraw. They could withdraw until they literally could not anymore, until they were the director of the House of the Hearth.

Shackles weighed heavily on their body, growing more difficult to escape from with every passing moment, slowly fusing with their flesh and bone until one could not identify where their body ended and the chains began.

Their time to dispel the House's darkness from their veins was there, but it was gradually ticking down… not that they particularly minded.

(They weren't sure that they would fully leave the House, regardless, so its darkness would always inhabit their veins in some way, shape, or form. It would simply be to a lesser degree, if they were to decide that they did not want to be the next Knave.

...But they weren't sure that they would do that, either. The spider's web was their home, entangled inseparably with their limbs; it simply felt right for them to become its next owner with how intensely it stuck to their skin, as if it was beckoning them and only them.)

The implication that they had limited time to leave was not such a heavy burden to bear.

What was quite the weight, however, was the nature of their missions.

Missions assigned to them were those that were unsuitable for the other children; generally, "unsuitable" meant extremely bloody and shrouded in the pitch-black shadows of the vile secrets of nobility or political figures. The darkness that their missions harbored ran deep. Missions assigned to them were more than simple intelligence gathering—there was something far more sinister about their work.

It was often about sending a message.

It was often about silencing the cackles of boisterous, rich fools who wrongly believed they had won by sending one of the Knave's agents running home like a frightened dog with its tail between its legs, bearing wounds they had not worn before leaving.

It was often about instilling the fear of those who lurked in the darkest shadows into unwisely confident people who'd only just stepped into the dark, new to the territory and unfamiliar with the dangers that prowled further within.

Over and over and over again, it was about sending a message.

Missions that other children failed, they would be sent to complete.

And often, those missions resulted in them walking home drenched in blood that was not theirs.

(They still were not quite as elegant as Father, and this was one of the most frequent things that she chided them for… but they were still learning. Arlecchino hardly thought it was worth holding against them when they could successfully complete the missions that others failed to. She was a bit harder on them in the beginning, typically subjecting them to difficult stealth trainings that often involved plenty of brightly-colored paint ready to drench them the second they made a wrong move.

Much to the Harbinger's intrigue, they had little issue with her trainings. It was never their stealth that was the problem. Rather…

'Things tend to get… physical quite fast, Father. The people I am sent after are often quite volatile, as I am sure you know, so I have few choices other than to get dirty.'

'I see.'

Now, all she usually did when they returned in a disheveled manner was click her tongue and tell them to go clean themselves up, followed by little to no tasks assigned to them the next day, unless there were absolutely necessary operations that could not be avoided or handed to someone else.)

They supposed that—at the very least—missions of that nature were not common, so they rarely had to tread home tired, bloody, and, sometimes, in a poor mood. It was rare that Father deemed a mission too unsuitable for the other children, yet still appropriate enough for them.

Unfortunately, however, this was one of those nights.

Their mission had gone well, as per usual. Nonetheless, they did not return well, and instead came home with a distantly tired expression and rather neat clothes… should one ignore the blood soaking their shoes and the tips of their pants, of course.

The sight of home only motivated them to walk faster and with more purpose, yet they kept their steps quiet and light to the best of their ability. It didn't take long to reach their destination when their veins were filled with newfound energy and enthusiasm.

Before fully stepping inside, they took their footwear off as to not drag the evidence of their mission all across the floor.

(Not that it couldn't be easily cleaned. The skills which their siblings possessed would make cleaning blood the simplest task in the world. No, they were not concerned that the blood would stain the floor or any of the carpets. In their mind, it was more about respecting the home that Father built and not tarnishing it with the blood of unworthy fools. That was what they were concerned about.)

Once their shoes were secured in their hand, they peered inside. It was vacant and silent. The only sound that filled the room was the quiet crackling coming from the active fireplace.

Most of their siblings were probably out, they thought, but someone had to be home if the flames were still burning. For safety reasons, everyone was required to put it out, should the House be completely vacant. Someone was home, then.

They felt no particular need to hide themselves in this state; it wasn't exactly uncommon for a child to return either bruised and beaten or soaked with blood that may or may not have been their own, or some combination of both. Such was the nature of living in the House of the Hearth; everyone came home like that at one point or another. It was mere curiosity that made them wonder who was home.

The little ones, Foltz or Heloir? No, Father did not permit them to be home alone with the fire burning, since they were too young and small to handle fire correctly.

Perhaps Lyney or Lynette, then? But those two had a show scheduled for tonight (one that they were a little upset to have to miss, but their sadness was met with reassurance by the twins, that they would both be more than happy to give them an exclusive show so that they would get to see what they missed).

Freminet? Maybe, but he was probably with the twins or out diving. He had mentioned that he was going to go if Father did not assign him any new missions.

With gentle steps, they made their way inside, closing the door behind them using their vacant hand.

A smooth, elegant, and calm voice called out to them:

"Welcome home, child."

"Ah." That's who was home, then. They turned to face the Knave with a polite bow of their head. "Good evening, Father."

Her gaze pinned them under the weight of scrutiny, eyes quickly taking in their disheveled appearance and tired disposition. "That blood is not yours, is it?"

There was a vague twinge of something in her tone that they could not quite identify.

Arlecchino was not a particularly easy woman to read, so it never much bothered them when they could not discern what she was thinking or feeling. Most couldn't. It was not a lack of ability on their part; it was simply a fact of life. The Fourth Harbinger was not a person easily understood.

…But somehow, it almost felt like she was concerned.

"No, it isn't," they replied.

Whatever it was that took hold of her tone a moment ago had dissipated, snuffed out like the small flame of a candle.

"Good. Go clean yourself up, then. You may deliver an oral report to me later. Worry not about a prompt delivery—concern yourself first with recovery." She turned on her heel. "Oh, and… [Name]?"

"Yes, Father?"

"You are not to partake in any missions tomorrow. Do not allow your siblings to include you in any of theirs, either."

'Do not get roped into your siblings' messes,' is what she meant to say. Their lips twitched upwards in poorly-concealed amusement. She almost certainly could hear it in their voice. She said nothing, however—perhaps she herself was vaguely amused by the implication of her own statement, or perhaps she was endeared by their capacity to clearly and completely understand what she meant to say.

"Yes, Father."

— flower of the universe !! 🌸

Flames and shadows danced and flickered on the walls, their dance of light and dark uniquely mesmerizing.

The radiating warmth of the fire caressed their skin, kissing away any of the cold that they might have felt as a consequence of the remaining water droplets clinging to their hair.

Falling asleep sounded so very tempting, surrounded by the hearth's warmth and safety, sitting… somewhat comfortably on the soft, red rug right with their back partially supported by the sofa behind them.

It wasn't exactly… uncommon for many of their siblings to take naps here, though that was typically during the day when the golden rays of the sun filtered in through the open window.

(Lyney and Lynette were notoriously fond of sleeping here in the afternoon when the sun streamed in so perfectly, bathing the carpet in its golden light until it became as warm and cozy as a blanket—they sometimes wondered if it had to do with those two's feline genes, though they dared not ask, in the case that either one would take their question the wrong way.

They probably wouldn't, especially Lyney. They're certain he would find amusement in their musings… or maybe he would get terribly embarrassed?

…Ah, well. They wouldn't pry. It was more entertaining to speculate nevertheless.)

It was not daytime. It was nowhere near daytime.

If they had to guess, it was more than likely the middle of the night; the only light that filtered in from that window was the cool moonlight, though it's cold light was largely drowned out by the flames roaring in the fireplace.

Still…

Sleeping right where they were sounded so much more appealing than getting up and making the lengthy trek to the room they shared with some of their siblings…

Truly, honestly, they had only intended to rest their body for a moment.

However, after what felt like a never-ending battle with microsleeps, they allowed their eyelids to flutter shut and finally succumbed fully to sleep, the crackling of the fire cooing its goodnights into their ears.

— flower of the universe !! 🌸

Arlecchino was a woman not easily fooled.

That much was a given, of course, considering her status as the Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers. The fact that she was a Fatui Harbinger was enough of an indicator of her sheer perceptiveness on its own—surely nobody in such a high position could be anything other than observant. A Harbinger at all, let alone a Harbinger so highly ranked, could not afford to be anything besides calculated, cunning, and sharp-eyed.

Her understanding of their state was instantaneous; the very moment they walked in the door, she knew.

She had seen the utter exhaustion seeping into their bones, permeating their very being and making even the simplest tasks quite a bit more challenging. It was all too clear to the Knave, as clear as the most cloudless of days, visible in the way their shoulders slouched and the way their eyes drooped.

She knew from the very moment they had stumbled—stumbled, their feet barely coordinated and legs struggling to support the rest of their weight—into the house, tired and dazed though still able to muster up respect and courtesy when faced with her. Had they been faced with one of their siblings, Arlecchino was certain that their formality would have quickly crumbled into nothing, but because it was her, they had maintained near perfect diplomacy and grace.

Nevertheless, they still failed to hide how worn out they truly were (but perhaps that was because she was the person she was; had it been any non-Fatui member, their exhaustion may have slipped by entirely unnoticed).

Therefore, it was only natural for her to check on them.

That was part of her responsibility as Father—to know how her children were doing, physically or otherwise, at any given time. A healthy child made for a good soldier. An unhealthy child, less so.

…But their state of being could only make her sigh as she walked over to them, steps light and soundless as to not disrupt their rest.

They needed it. That much, Arlecchino was extremely aware of. She was nonetheless irked at their blatant lack of consideration for their own body; sleeping in the position that they were, neck craned uncomfortably against the edge of the sofa and body still incredibly tense, would only serve to strike their body with in great pain the following morning. It was simply unhealthy, but it was also inconvenient, considering the responsibilities that loomed over their shoulder like a shadow of the past that could never be shaken.

The Knave slipped behind them, gingerly lifting their head with a pleasantly warm hand (though her rings were considerably chilly, but the sting was also a rather pleasant sensation against their skin) so that she was able to situate herself behind them.

Then, she gently laid their head back down. Now, however, their neck was offered far greater support by her thigh, and her mind was soothed. No longer did the Fourth feel that they would awaken sore and stiff.

Nails raked across their face and delicately brushed at the hair slightly sticking to their forehead; it had mostly dried by now, but there was still residual moisture clinging to their hair, causing it to adhere—albeit weakly—to their skin. Their eyelids seemed to twitch somewhat. A soft hush from their caretaker, however, and they ceased stirring.

Mad and cursed. To an extent, perhaps those labels were true; Arlecchino was mad and cursed, but then maybe her children found comfort and safety in her madness and her curses.

They most certainly did, for despite the brief consciousness they regained, they were quick to allow themselves to be lulled back into a peaceful sleep under the watchful eyes of Father.

Perhaps "madness" was subjective.

...Or perhaps her heir was simply following in her footsteps, slowly descending the same path she did, gradually growing to be as mad as she.

"Dearest child of mine…" she mused aloud, the tones of her voice soft enough to ensure that they would not begin to rouse once again yet not quite faint enough to be regarded as a whisper. Something one might call fond flickered in her voice as she went on, hand coming to a slow stop and settling on the top of their head: "How foolish you can be."

The darkness creeping up Arlecchino's arms day by day, indicative of her curse's growing severity, was sated, ceasing its ascent for the time being.

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#✧— aphe's creations.#divider by @/cafekitsune ♡#astronetwrk #platonic x reader #platonic genshin x reader #platonic genshin impact #platonic genshin #platonic genshin impact x reader #arlecchino x reader #platonic arlecchino x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader

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brayneworms · 1 month ago

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and teary faces know the craft | lyney

kinktober day one: lingerie

word count. 1.8k

content. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, lingerie, making out, both lyney + reader getting blueballed, allusions to jealousy + insecurity, somewhat established relationship, lyney is a bratttt, gender neutral reader

♪ death kink - fontaines d.c.

notes. call that lyngerie

kinktober 2024 m.list | regular m.list

He's a tease.

You should more than likely stop being surprised by it; like the owl is wise and the bake-danuki is curious, it's simply in his nature. The coy flutter of a lash, the point of a toned leg, the briefest catching of his amethyst eyes on yours at something that could be construed as innuendo. A flash like the white spark of a kamera bulb, and then gone again, retreating into shadow like it was never there in the first place.

Backstage smells like pine wood and wax. The stage squeaks with each turn of Lyney's boot upon the shining floor. In around an hour, the Opera Epiclese will be seething with audience members, packed in and huddled tight for the show. For now, it is only a palimpsest; the only people in the seats for now are you and Freminet, who maintains a shy distance a couple rows in front of you, fiddling with his little robotic penguin. You think he's started to grow used to your presence—and he's pretty sharp beneath the sandy bangs, his eyes snagging on little things others might gloss right over.

You suppose Lyney and Lynette are similar, though; beneath different veneers, all of Arlecchino's children are remiss to let any small detail slip by them.

You suppose it's a mark of the Hearth, that inclination towards neuroticism.

"And voila!" The twins' routine finishes with a swish of Lynette's skirt and Lyney's arms raised towards the domed ceiling. "What did you think?"

Freminet raises his head. "It was great," he mutters. "As always. The bit with the water tank is new, right?"

"It's merely a spruce-up of our old bit with the box," Lyney smiles. "But yes, essentially, it's new."

Freminet hums. "Well... be careful, is all. I liked it though."

Lyney beams. It's an inevitability that his gaze turns to you then, hunched a little further back. "And you, our dear guest? Do you concur?"

You raise your chin. "I think... it's your best work yet."

The smile Lyney offers is beatific—and genuine, you know, only because your own praise is such. As someone who lives a life half behind a mask, Lyney has become well-tuned to the frequency of other people's lies; it's why, you often think, he's so enamoured with you. Because you don't lie to him.

"Does that mean we can take a small break?" Lynette asks, fiddling with a glove. "I'd like a chance to refresh before the real show."

"Of course, of course. I would say we've more than earned it." As Lynette makes her way offstage, probably on the hunt for a teahouse, Freminet trails after her and Lyney catches your eye. You approach up the centre aisle that runs through the middle like a parting through a scalp, up to the edge of the stage. It’s so tall that it comes up to your chin, and Lyney extends a hand down to help you haul yourself up. It smells like rosewood and wax up here, settling pleasantly in your nose. Lyney watches you, eyes wide, earnest. He has such a sweet face, if you can learn to ignore the gleam in his eye.

“Want to help me get ready?” he asks casually. You bite back the urge to raise a brow; he looks stage-perfect already, down to the outfit. He doesn’t need help with a damn thing.

All you say is, “Sure,” and he leads you happily through the maze of corridors backstage to his dressing room. He and Lynette have separate ones here, which is nice; neither of them particularly like sharing space. Lynette keeps her things organised, and Lyney… decidedly doesn’t. He’s not a messy person by metric, but he does tend to charge forward toward the goal without realising the trail he was leaving in his wake.

The dressing room is modestly sized, draped in swaths of red and gold cloth that make it feel heady and hot and close. A sparkling mirror edged in something that glows lurid and blue-white, throwing your features into sharp relief; and a complimentary basket of local Fontainian specialities which you pick through with interest, coming up with foreign titian fruits and crystal bottles of fizzy alcohol.

“So…” Lyney hovers at your shoulder, watching you pick through the cellophane-wrapped morsels. “You really liked the show?”

“I did.” You put back some fancy chocolate thing and turn to face him; he doesn’t back off, watching with his hands twisting like snakes before him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was nervous. “You’re really getting into it. Lynette’s working very hard.”

It’s a prod, a careful poke—and as you guessed, Lyney pouts. If he had ears like his sister, they’d probably be pinned back against his head right now. “Only Lynette?”

A slow grin spreads over your face like molasses. “Oh, I see. You’re fishing for something.”

“Ahaha… I don’t fish.” He crosses his arms over his chest, chin jutting petulantly. “But when you go out of your way not to compliment me, you can’t blame me for thinking the worst. Perhaps my loveliest guest of all is losing interest?”

“Perhaps,” you say mildly, then backtrack as soon as his expression falters. “Oh, come on. You know what I think of you. Must I say it every time.”

“You could stand to say it more.”

“I bought you that lovely gift only a few days ago.”

Lyney’s eyes flash; that gleam, like the side of a cut amethyst. “Oh, I remember,” he says coyly. “I’ve grown quite familiar with it, in fact.”

The notion makes heat flare in your gut. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” He pauses, smiles—catlike, just a hint of sharp teeth between the plush peach of his lip. “You might say I’m familiar with it right this second, actually.”

You blink. Your mouth is as dry as the Great Red Sand. “Are you trying to tell me—”

Tease. It’s in the way Lyney’s face slips into an innocent little smile as he hooks a finger over the cuffed edge of his shorts and yanks it up enough to expose a glimpse of rouge lace. Unable to stop yourself, your hand flies out, keeping it there. You stare from it to him.

“Are you serious?” you whisper.

Lyney giggles. “I take this to mean you’re not losing interest, then?”

“I’ll kill you.” You sound too hoarse. “Show me.”

Lyney casts a slow, obvious look at the ornate clock hung open the wall. “Y’know, I’m just not entirely sure we have time right now, dearest.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you mutter, fingers hooking onto his stupid bodysuit and fumbling at the buttons. You can feel his stomach flex with silent laughter at your obvious eagerness; usually you’d be trying to reign it in—the last thing a tease like him needs is more fire to stoke the fuel of his ego—but sue you. He knows what buttons to press. He has way too much power in his sleek gloved hand.

You get a handle on the suit and yank it down with difficulty to his knees. What you’d seen a glimpse of were two thin silky garters, encircling the plush of his pale thighs, just about hidden by the hem of his shorts. One wrong move and they’d slip out from under the black leather, glaringly visible to everyone. The idea makes you feverish with anger and also so turned on you can barely see straight.

The garters clip onto dusky pink underwear, arching gracefully over his pubic bone to encircle the triangle of his waist. When you lift a trembling hand to lift his shirt, you see a matching bralette, satiny cups tight against the soft swells of his pectorals. You can see straight through the gauzy fabric, coffee-coloured nipples pebbled under your attention.

“I hate you,” is the first thing that come out of your mouth. The sight of him in this sparkling pink-red set makes you want to do unspeakable things. You want to ruin that fabric forever and buy him a new one. A dozen new ones in hundreds of different shades, ruin them systematically, rinse, repeat.

He laughs again, but even his facade has its limits; he sounds slightly breathless, and you can see the faint pink blush on his cheeks starting to crawl down his chest. His collarbones gleam like cut diamonds, archons you wish you could bite them. “I take it you approve?”

Your answer is as animalistic as you feel, the rough crush of your lips over his. You’re rewarded with a muffled mmphf?! as your weight pushes the both of you back against the table, sending the cute basket of edible arrangements sprawling in a mosaic upon the floor. You muscle your way between Lyney’s legs, the press of his stiffening cock so close through only the wisp of organza, hot and insistent as a brand mark. Your hand tangles in his hair, dragging him impossibly closer as your lips duck to press against his butter-soft skin, his jaw, his neck—

“N-no marks!” he gasps, even as he presses his hips against yours with a moan. “Dearest, lovely, mon chérie, please—”

“You’re so pathetic,” you whisper into his neck, feel the buzz of your words sink into the soft skin of his throat. Lyney shudders and whines his protest. “No time, remember? Whose fault is that?”

“I just wanted—you to look at me,” he grits out, legs locked around your waist. It occurs to you that his fears of you losing interest are likely to be grounded in reality, dressed up with a lilting voice and wave of a hand. Your heart twitches.

“I’m always looking at you, stupid.”

Lyney’s cheeks darken, brows coming together as a sort of glaze slides over his eyes. This look you’re familiar with; it makes your breath hitch. He leans forwards, lips parted—

Three sharp knocks at the door. “We’re on in fifteen minutes, brother.”

Lyney’s whole body scrunches up, a cold disappointment stealing over his face. He looks to you desperately, but you can only shrug. “Answer your sister.”

He droops like a wilting flower. “I… I’ll be right out, Lynette.”

There’s a pause, a deeply disappointed sigh, and you hear her heels clicking neatly back down the corridor. Lyney scrubs a hand down his face and awkwardly gets down from the desk, fumbling to right his clothes. His whole body shivers as he does his bodysuit back up, having to readjust it several times in wake of his hardness. He looks down unhappily at the result.

As he goes to leave, he pauses, hand on the doorknob. “You’ll stay for the show?”

You see the question for what it is, and smile. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll wait for you after, too.”

Lyney tucks his head away, but you fancy you can see his giddy smile anyways. “I’ll try not to make you wait too long,” he murmurs; one hand reaches down, adjusts the cuff of his shorts just so you get the briefest flash of red-pink. And then he’s gone, out the door and down the corridor to the stage.

You lean against the table, heave a sigh. Start picking up the spilled complimentaries from the basket. You have a feeling, later tonight, that you’re both going to need the sustenance.

#🫀.scribes #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #lyney x reader #lyney smut #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x dom!reader #dom!reader #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #lyney x gender neutral reader #lyney x gn reader #lyney x dom!reader #braynekinktober 2024

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2baddiesfanfics · 1 month ago

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Midnight Snack

Pairing: Arlecchino x Furina

Tags: Vampires, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Blood, Feeding

Summary:

When Arlecchino returns from a harbinger meeting later than expected, Furina is still grappling with her new reality as a vampire. She needs all the support she can get, but since she feeds exclusively from the Knave, how will she handle the extended period without her lover's blood?

Read on Ao3

The harbinger meeting took far longer than Arlecchino had expected, which meant she was away for longer than she desired. She had left Furina back in Fontaine to manage the House of the Hearth, but also to keep her secret hidden from her colleagues. If they realized what she had become, they would no doubt want to use her powers for their own bidding.

When she arrived, she headed straight toward their shared room, and was sure to knock before entering.

“Droplet…are you there?” She inquired as she scanned the pitch-dark room. “I’m sorry, I tried to leave as soon as possible.”

As she traversed further inside, she noticed a lump curled up under the comforter. A familiar, albeit weak, voice answered, “I-it’s okay. I understand.”

Furina peeled back the comforter to greet her properly, her blue eyes glowing with hunger. Her parched lips parted, and the Knave watched as the girl licked her fangs.

“You must be thirsty,” Arlecchino said as she began to roll up her sleeves. Both of them were new to this - after her transformation, the former archon had only allowed herself to drink from the woman now at her side. Since she had been away so long, the girl was aching with a longing to feed. The harbinger brought her arm up to her mouth.

“Drink.”

Without hesitation, she sunk her fangs into the Knave’s wrist. As the crimson elixir of life oozed to the surface, the girl lapped it up so fast she thought she might choke.

“Now, now…don’t get greedy. There’s plenty more where that came from. Hopefully, this will tide you over for a bit,” she teased as she ran her fingers through her white locks.

Panting, Furina released her wrist. “I’m sorry, how rude of me. How was the meeting?”

“Tedious as usual. But I was able to talk them down from having me bring you in. I may have…bent the truth about your condition, but they’ll be none the wiser.” She smirked as she removed her jacket and set it on the back of a nearby chair.

“I don’t mean to be such a burden to you. I just…didn’t know where to go or who to turn to. First the whole Focalors fiasco and now this? The people of Fontaine would run me out of the city.”

Arlecchino remembered that night as clear as it were yesterday. The way her heart rose into her throat as she witnessed Furina crawl to her doorstep bloodied and pale. The two had only been seeing each other in secret for a few months, but witnessing her in such a state made her reel with anger and a desire to find the person responsible.

“When I was attacked by that…that creature in the woods, you were the only one I could think of…”

“And you did the right thing coming home to me.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, but I certainly feel as if I’m nothing but a burden to you now. You’re stuck with me. You’re always putting my needs ahead of your own.” Furina began to cry as she tried to express her frustration. “I know the truth. If it weren’t for the way my bites cause arousal, you would leave.”

She felt a slender finger lift her chin, and those familiar deep red X’s peered into her soul. “Do you really think so little of me? It may be an…unexpected benefit. However, even if it caused me great pain, I would still allow it because I care for you. If this is what I need to endure to have you by my side for eternity, it’s a minuscule price to pay.”

Her tears ceased. Both women had known loneliness. Understood what it was like to wake up in the morning and just survive another day. To not have to be alone ever again was not something Furina had thought possible.

“Eternity by your side?” she questioned.

“You know I myself live with a curse. But now that you also have a condition you struggle with…we can do this together. That is…only if you wish it.”

“Of course I wish it!” She exclaimed with a fanged smile. Grabbing the other woman’s hands, she pulled her onto the bed with her.

Her mouth grazed the Knave’s and a shallow growl vibrated in Furina’s throat. One of her fangs gently nibbled at Arlecchino’s bottom lip and the harbinger’s hands wandered to start to rid them of their clothing.

Clutching the former archon’s chin, she pulled her into a deeper kiss as she slipped her tongue between her lips. Stretching her neck taught, the Knave’s elongated nails drew her attention to her carotid artery. “Like what you see? Go ahead. Take what you need,” she commanded, her voice husky with lust.

Without the need for further invitation, Furina sank her teeth into her mate. Arlecchino moaned in approval as she felt the warm suction against her neck. “What a good girl. Good girls get rewarded.”

Sliding her free hand between their bodies, she found the former archon’s soaked entrance with ease. The girl groaned as she felt a finger slip inside her. When she added a second, Furina gasped and released her hold on her neck.

Blood trickled down the corner of her mouth. The harbinger licked the red streak before crushing her mouth against hers once more. Her wrist moved rapidly, bringing Furina to climax with muffled moans.

With her newly quickened reflexes, the former archon flipped their positions. Her face smeared with vermillion remnants of her feeding, she looked as powerful as she now felt. “You’d think with that many bites you’d be begging for your turn.”

Arlecchino wasn’t going to admit it, but she ached to feel her inside of her. Grabbing her hand, she placed it between her thighs already wet with need.

“I see I don’t need to prolong this,” Furina chuckled darkly. She shifted down her body and situated herself comfortably between her legs. Licking between her slick lips, she applied firm pressure to her bud. She watched hungrily as Arlecchino’s chest heaved. With expert control, she took her clit and rolled it between her tongue and one of her fangs.

“Archons! Fuck!” She screamed in surprise at such a lascivious and unexpected move. Furina added two fingers into the mix, thrusting in combination with her licking. The harbinger’s back arched off the bed as she tried to hold onto the feeling.

“D-droplet…ahhhh…shit…ooooh…close,” she warned before her juices shot against her lover’s tongue.

Furina rolled off her and watched as the Knave’s body twitched from the intensity of her orgasm. When she finally regained the ability to think, she grabbed the former archon and drew her closer.

“Now tell me…where did you learn that little trick?” She asked.

“Oh, you know. Vampires have always been the subject of many interesting paranormal romance novels. I thought it might be fun to try,” she explained. “Was it?”

“Very much so. This new side of you has quite the mischievous streak,” she answered as she kissed the top of her head. “Well worth freezing my ass off for in Snezhnaya.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #fic #wlw #hoyoverse #mihoyo #genshin #genshin impact #arlefuri #arlecchino #furina #vampire #arlecchino x furina #the knave #furina x arlecchino #furinaxarlecchino #arlecchinoxfurina #harbinger

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starswornoaths · 3 years ago

Text

Prompt 1: Foster

The polycule finds themselves in the company of a stray kitten that Estinien fetched from a back alley from who-knows-where.

And they're going to rehome her. No, really, honest. They're not keeping her, or anything lol

Word count: 1,900

~*~

A rare rainy day off in Ishgard— on a rarer day off, no less— had left Serella happily cuddled up in bed, under the blankets. Joined by her betrothed, and their beloved Violet, what time wasn’t spent idly dozing, was a warm, floating haze of hands and lips brushing idly where they found skin. Though they were swathed in the overcast, pale light that spilled in through the curtains, its chill was far from them, the roaring hearth, gilding the gloom where it collided, its warmth reaching beyond its light. The perfect picture of coziness.

Which was why she was particularly miffed, when their dearest Estinien stumbled in through the door, soaked to the bone, and holding his bundled up jacket to his chest: it meant that she had to get up, to investigate.

As Estinien caught his breath from sprinting in the pouring rain, his paramours all collectively, if sluggishly, opted to disentangle themselves from the blankets enough to see what on earth had made him bluster in so.

Aymeric was the first to rise from their little nest of blankets, ambling over gamely. Serella wasn’t far behind, though stilled when she heard him melt over whatever it was that Estinien had bundled into his coat.

An animal, then.

Sure enough, she neared just in time for Aymeric to reach a hand out, and be met with a sooty paw reaching up to curl its little bean toes around his index finger. He cooed again, and his posture melted further toward the bundle—ah, it was a cat, then.

“Hello, little love,” Aymeric greeted, his voice turned sing-song, and pitched a few notes higher, as it always did when he greeted an animal.

Already, Serella knew this was trouble.

All the more, when Hyana gasped as she scrambled to free herself from bed fully, hissing and cursing as a blanket stuck stubbornly to the pointed ridges at the end of her tail. Freeing herself, she stumbled over eagerly, completely blowing past Serella as she did.

After giving the two of them a few more moments to coo, she and Estinien passed a look between them, and silently agreed that it was time to be the responsible ones. For a change.

“Alright, alright, what do we have here, then?” Serella called, gently nudging them away to give the little creature some breathing room.

“Creature” almost seemed an apt description for the cat nestled within Estinien’s coat: covered in rain water and mud, it was almost impossible to tell what the cat’s true fur color was. It trembled, even pressed against Estinien’s chest—must still be cold. Those large eyes squinted up at her, as the little kitten sniffed and sneezed at her proffered hand. The cat’s shivering made its purr sound tinny, like it rattled the poor thing’s lungs just to do it.

“A bath first, before we do anything else, I think.” She said aloud.

With a breath to steel herself, Serella accepted the bundle of cat and coat in her arms, when Estinien relented to her. Despite the shivering, and the wetness of its fur, the kitten felt warm against her chest, when it immediately snuggled up to her body warmth. Reminding herself that they already had two dogs and a cat—two cats, technically, if she counted Duchess back at Borel Manor—Serella rounded the corner out of their bedroom, and into the bathroom.

Her polycule trailed in on her heels. It was hard not to liken them to a gaggle of Scholasticate kids, all crowding around the door to watch. It warmed her, how even the most standoffish of her loves couldn’t resist the draw of a cute animal.

The bathtub would be too massive, for the little kit—the sink suited just fine. Hyana was kind enough to fetch their bottle of feline shampoo, and set it on the counter for her.

As she let the water run to get a bit warmer, Serella lifted the kitten, gently, to hold it—her, Serella realized, with a glance—at eye level.

“You won’t like me for this,” she warned the kitten. “But that’s alright, it’s only temporary.”

The kitten squirmed, and licked the tip of her nose. Ignoring the way her insides turned to softened butter, Serella dutifully set to work, carefully bathing the kitten.

Unsurprisingly, the water was, at first, most unwelcome, and the cat had no scruples with voicing her complaint and trying to clamor out of the sink. For such a small thing, her wailing meows of discontent were rather loud—good. That meant her lungs were healthy. Once the warmth of the water sunk into her skin, however, she relented, somewhat, though instead sat in the shallow, warm water, and vibrated from the intensity of her disgruntled, rumbling meows.

It was hard not to liken her to a rat, watching her quake with the effort of vocalizing her displeasure. With each careful massage of Serella’s fingers into the kitten’s fur to wash away the grime, however, her true coat began to shine through.

As it turned out, her fur was still mostly black—save for her white capped paws, and her underbelly, all the way up to her chin. All downy soft, thin fur, in a sleek coat. Once she’d gotten a chance to dry out, under the careful ministrations of Aymeric drying her down with the softest, fluffiest towel he could find, she was actually a rather beautiful cat.

When she still shivered, as she finished drying, Aymeric would brook no negotiation, and immediately bundled himself—and her—back in bed, with the blankets. It seemed to be exactly where she wanted to be, as she promptly loafed herself upon his chest, and shook with her purrs.

“We need a name for her,” he said, not taking his eyes off the little kit, as her eyes began to drift shut.

“Absolutely not.” Serella tutted. “It isn’t responsible for us to take in another cat—here, or Borel Manor—and no, she doesn’t look ready to be a road companion, before you even entertain suggesting it.”

“Act like you don’t want to keep her.” Estinien scoffed. “You didn’t even ask me how I’d found her—you do that, when you do something I don’t like. You ask questions.”

“She’s a stray, you found her, and brought her here. What else is there to know?” Serella huffed, and even to her, she sounded a touch defensive.

“We can’t just turn her out after a bath, either, though.” Hyana argued, in the gentlest tone Serella had ever heard from her, as she snuggled up to Aymeric’s side to offer her hand to the kit. “She’ll have to stay for a while.”

“Until we can responsibly rehome her, of course.” Aymeric hastily added on, unconvincingly.

Serella wrinkled her nose when Estinien made a noise of agreement, even as the both of them also crawled in bed.

Once they had hemmed him in on all sides, Aymeric piped up, “But we have to call her something, in the meantime.”

When Estinien reached out to pet her, both of her paws shot out, to wrap around his hand. Her claws pricked at his skin, as she tried to force his hand over to her head. He snorted.

“Krile, perhaps? The little snot seems keen on getting her claws in me.” He grumbled, with no real venom behind his words; he hadn’t even taken his hand back.

Alas, he had already been lost to this kitten’s wiles, it seemed. Probably was, the moment he found her.

“I’ll tell Krile.” Hyana replied in that same, cooing voice, not even deigning to look at Estinien, as the kitten wriggled across the broad expanse of Aymeric’s chest, to bump her forehead against Hyana’s.

It was fascinating, watching how all three of them—powerful, stalwart warriors, all—had turned to puddles under the might of this singular kitten’s cuteness. Danuja, Vardr, and Rhalgr were already getting jealous, she realized, when she felt their collective, agitated curiosity on the fringes of her focus.

“Menphina,” she suggested, before she could stop herself. When all present turned to look at her, she elaborated, with a wry twist of her lips, “She’s certainly charmed all of you enough to warrant it.”

“…Menphina.” Hyana tried again, speaking it to the kit instead. At the curious mrr the cat trilled in response, Hyana nodded. “She likes it. It’s settled, then.”

When the weather improves, I’ll put up signs, she resolved to herself, just as the kitten laid her paw atop Serella’s hand, over Aymeric’s heart.

To her credit, she did. But the problems that trickled in after that came threefold: there was little demand for a beautiful runt, all the more of an indeterminable breed of cat. What demand there was, was often in the interest of Menphina being a “practice pet,” for a child. Fearful that that would translate to unsupervised children treating her like a toy, until she was injured, Serella would be the first—and firmest—to rebuke such offers. Add to all of that, the kitten’s propensity for extended bursts of high energy, that demanded that she be played with, ruled her out for any of the elderly candidates that applied, looking for a calm housecat.

To say that she had no success finding a suitable home for Menphina, would be a gross understatement.

Every time, she would come home, and Menphina would have to crawl out of the collective fur of Vardr and Rhalgr, just to trill up at her in greeting. And every time, Serella would have to scoop her up, and tell her how sorry she was, that it wasn’t meant to be, for that applicant.

“There will be others,” Serella reassured her, every time.

A few moons down the line saw Menphina still very much fostered in their care—to the point, that she was tucked close, huddled in the bend of Serella’s knees, as she’d curled up on the couch with a book. She’d fallen into a sort of pleasant lull, where her focus was on her book, though she could still pick up on Aymeric and Hyana chatting amicably in the kitchen.

At the mention of the date, in the midst of their conversation, Serella’s ear perked; she couldn’t recall the exact date, that Estinien had hauled this scrawny little kit in from the cold, but as she looked down at Menphina again, now filled out on good food and loving attention, she realized, with dismay, that she had not been strong enough.

“You were never a foster cat, were you?” She grumbled accusingly at Menphina.

The kitten looked up at the sound of her voice, and gave a questioning mrr?

As though she didn’t know what she had done. Smiling wryly, Serella gave her affectionate scritches between her ears.

“No, I suppose you never were, at that.”

Taking this as an invitation, Menphina unfurled herself with a long stretch that morphed into a yawn, and scampered up Serella’s hip, and settled in on the curve of her side, as though it was just for her.

Groaning, Serella let her head hit the back of the couch, as she finally admitted her defeat loud enough for the household to hear: “We’re keeping the cat.”

Amidst the giddy celebrating, she swore she distinctly heard the clink of coin being exchanged—they’d gone and taken bets, on how long it would take for her to crack.

Gremlins. Hellions, all of them. Hers. How she loved them, as they were—Menphina included.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv #Aymeric de Borel #Estinien Wyrmblood #Hyana Geriel #Serella Arcbane #unstoppable forces and immovable objects #featuring: catte #'I'll be the responsible one and say we're not adopting her' Serella said. like a liar.

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little-lemon-lattes · 4 years ago

Text

The Set Up

🌜Zelda Spellman x fem! reader

—— Word count: 2.2k

—— Warnings: none, just a little bit fluffy 🥳

—— Summary: You are left home alone with Zelda one weekend and you’re full of nerves! She has been nothing but an ice queen since you met, and now seems like the perfect opportunity for her to tell you exactly what she thinks of you while everyone else is gone.

It was just the two of you in the house this weekend. Just Zelda, just you.

It shamed you to admit it, but when Hilda had told you that she was going to test the waters in staying the whole weekend with Dr C- followed closely by Ambrose and Sabrina’s revelations that they, too, would be spending the next few nights with their respective partners – it had been hard to contain the strange bubbly feeling that had ignited in your belly. Only you and Zelda in that enormous house, for two whole days and nights?! It would be an understatement to say that it was making you nervous.

Zelda Spellman was a formidable woman, to say the least. It had been close to three months now since Hilda had extended the Spellman hospitality to you, offering you a large and handsome room, along with all the usual luxuries everyone had grown so jealous of the Spellman cousins for. Hilda had never explained why she did it – you expected she had her reasons in there somewhere – but you were now, and in every essence, a part of the Spellman family. And it was no exaggeration to say that from almost the moment you had walked through their colossal front door (nothing but a rucksack in hand), all signs had pointed to Zelda’s utter disapproval of you.

You were desperate to gain even a simple ounce of her obviously hard-won trust. It was important to you that she see the magnitude of exactly how thankful you were for her hospitality at a point your life of Hades-bottom. You delivered blackcurrant-nightshade tea to her study, as she worked in her dressing gown to the late witching hour; astral travelling to the most obscure countries, to collect the newspapers for Zelda’s morning reading; and, on the odd occasion, hexing anybody you heard whispering unsavoury things about her in the hallways of the Academy.

And yet, for what? What had it all earned you?

Nothing but calculating scans and narrowed eyes.

Thus, you thought it seemed only natural to be nervous, alone in the mortuary with her. To be honest, it wouldn’t have totally shocked you if Zelda took the opportunity to finally tell you exactly what she thought of you, away from the ears of the other Spellmans. What the pair of you didn’t know, however, was that this was exactly what these ‘other Spellmans’ had in mind when vacating the house for that weekend.

At first, there had been an awful lot of plain staring coming from Zelda; and this alone had been enough to pique the interest of her sister Hilda. Hilda hadn’t been sure, at the time, if anyone else had noticed much out of the ordinary. But, having been by Zelda’s side for numerous centuries now, it almost immediately struck Hilda as strange the lack of comment supplied from her sister. She had always known Zelda to be a reasonably opinionated, and if she were caught looking for longer than usual at anything, it would be certain it was because she had something to say about it. Hilda supposed it was because her sister was unaware in those times that she even had an audience to provide commentary for. The younger Spellman sister had eventually cooked up a competition in her head of how many times a day she would look up from her little world at the stovetop and catch Zelda watching you. At first, it was all stoically and quizzically, as if analysing exactly what your every move meant; but later changing into something more girlish and slightly wistful, often with her cheek resting in the palm of her hand. Hilda would never dare mention it, of course. She suspected that Zelda wasn’t even aware that she was doing it.

Another such thing that Hilda suspected had emerged from her sister’s subconscious was the large percentage of conversation with Zelda that your name seemed to find its way into. Whether the younger witch was asking her if she wanted her pumpkin roasted, or her thoughts on the newest appointment of Transylvania’s High Priest, talk would always return to how illusive you were.

“ Do you mean to tell me, sister, that you don’t feel it every time she is in this damn house?”

“Erm... feel what, exactly, Zelds?” Hilda had peeped.

“I don’t know what it is, Hilda, you tell me!” she had exclaimed, “ some form of heaven-bent , wicked energy. Like electricity, one might say. Yes. I’m almost certain that y/n is slowly but surely cursing the entire mortuary, because – Hilda – it seems I can’t escape the nauseating feeling in my stomach, no matter what wing of the house we are in!”

Hilda had to draw on all the power of the mortal and immortal realms she could muster in order to keep a fit of laughter at bay. Her sister was definitely the smartest and most impressive witch she knew, but this little bout of oblivion where you were concerned totally provided some much-needed comedy to Hilda’s day. Her certainty at what was going on was only confirmed further, when Sabrina had come to her with interesting reports of a mystery master of hexes striking in the hallways of the academy.

“ - and naturally, I had to do a bit of digging,” Sabrina continued,

“ Naturally,” her aunt had agreed.

“ So I took it upon myself to do a bit of… ‘Q and A’ with the victims, let’s call them. And, once I’d persuaded them to loosen their tongues a little bit, a pattern begin to emerge: they all admitted to having a little word or two about Aunt Zelda. Interesting, huh? But just wait for it, Aunty, here’s the kicker. Guess when the hexing started?”

“Hmmm... I don’t know, my love, when?” Except, she was pretty sure she did know.

“ Three months ago! Right about the time that-“

“- Y/n started teaching at the Academy.” Ambrose finished for her, as he materialised in the kitchen next to Sabrina and their aunt.

“ Forgive my interruption, cousin, Auntie. Coincidentally, I was looking for Sabrina to discuss with her whether Satan had finally removed my frontal cortex, or if I wasn’t the only one who had noticed the abnormal, puppy-like devotion for Aunt Zelda that constantly radiates from y/n?”

“YESSSS!” The women shouted together.

“ Ah good. My cortex lives to see another day.” Ambrose remarked.

“Well, to be fair though,” Hilda started, “I do think it’s partly because the poor dear feels as if she has to move Hell and Earth just to melt away even a teensy bit of that awful ice that Zelda has gone and put up around herself.”

“Yeah, what is with that? I swear I haven’t seen her so closed off, like... EVER. And what did y/n ever do to her?” Sabrina remarked.

“Why, isn’t it obvious, cousin? She’s put a spell on dear Aunt Zee. And not the kind that can be cast, if you take my meaning.”

You had finally arrived home for the evening. Shrugging your midnight-blue coat off and replacing it on the coat rack, you called into the open abyss of the house: “It’s just me, Zelda!”

Hilda, Ambrose, and Sabrina had all left that morning, meaning it was just you, Zelda, and Uncomfortable Tension left in the house.

There was no answer to your call, and it felt pretty chilly in the house on that midwinter’s evening. Pulling the pins from your French twist, you flicked a lazy hand at the hearth. Orange flames sprung to life where seconds before had been merely dust. You decided that Zelda was probably busy in her study, and wanted to be left alone. You would take a plate of food to her later. So, you began climbing the stairs to your room on the third floor, directly above the Spellman sisters’, unwinding your scarf as you went. Letting it dangle open around your shoulders, you turned the corner of the second floor staircase toward your chambers. Your eyes slid past the sisters’ door out of habit. As you raised your foot to continue your ascent, you stopped. Zelda was sitting on the edge of a meticulously perfect-made bed that you could only assume was hers, staring glassy-eyed into space. The expression on her face made your heart hurt for a moment; it looked as if she were in slight pain. She was gently biting her lip, and the outer corners of her eyes were tilted down. She fiddled nervously with her fingers.

You backed up a few paces, coming to rest outside her door. Crossing your arms, you leant your head against the frame, waiting to see if she would acknowledge you. But, it seemed as if she had no idea that you were even there.

“Zelda...? Is everything alright?” you ask tentatively. Suddenly, her obvious anxiety began to make you anxious. Though you seemed to have broken her from her trance, because at your words, her eyes flickered to your place at the doorframe, and her expression morphed into something a little nauseous. It was evident that something big was on Zelda’s mind. You had crossed the room in seconds to her, and sank into the mattress next to her.

“What is it? What’s wrong? I know you don’t trust me, Zelda, I get that... but just know that you can tell me anything you feel you need.”

The Spellman let out a tiny puff of air, as if she had been holding her breath. There was silence for a minute as you watched her. It was clear that was carefully choosing her words.

“It’s just...” she tried to begin, “I just... I have had something playing across the many facets of my mind lately, y/n, and-“ she sighed, “I have become briefly overwhelmed by exactly how unattainable to me it is.”

You were shocked. Something unattainable to THE Zelda Spellman? Impossible. And you told her as much.

She smiled at you ruefully.

“Unfortunately, y/n, I think this time that you are wrong.”

You frowned.

“Why? Why would I be wrong? Why is this thing so out of your reach?”

Your mind, as keen as ever, was desperate for answers.

Zelda swallowed, and glanced at you. You replied with an inquisitive raise of your eyebrows. She inhaled, expelling everything in her breath out: “Because my prime came and went centuries ago. I’m nothing but an old crone!” She buried her face in her hands.

That was it; that was all it took for your heart to break into a million pieces.

All reservations out the window, you took her hand fiercely and turned your body to completely face her. Your knees were touching hers.

“That is the most utter nonsense, you hear me? You’re easily the most powerful, awe-inspiring, shining witch in any given room, plus the fact that you’re definitely the most stunningly beautiful woman I’ve ever seen! You can-“ Your words were beginning to catch up with your brain, and it seemed that everything you felt for her that you had desperately tried to quash was deciding to make an appearance too, “-you can... do anything you put your mind to.”

The sentence ended on nothing more than a whisper. Shit. Well, that wasn’t exactly the way you would have appreciated being exposed.

You had convinced yourself that Zelda was something of a role model to you and that you were ongoingly gracious for her hospitality- when in truth, she had probably been the least hospitable to you of the family. That explanation had been easy to tell yourself- she was just SO great that you wanted to be her! Not be with her, right? Wrong. The time for a taste of reality had come.

Zelda looked gobsmacked. She frowned a little, as if trying to work something out. After a brief pause, she asked: “Does that mean what I think it does?”

You swallowed.

“What exactly do you think it means?”

The other woman looked a bit meek for a moment. You could tell that her inherently Zelda-ish fear of being wrong was toying with her.

“That maybe... it’s not so out of my reach after all?”

The way her voice raised at the end of the sentence had the astounding effect of transforming her into a scared little girl in a millisecond. Could she BE any more vague, though? She wasn’t addressing your slip of the tongue at all!

Oh hold on.

Unless...?

You chose your next words very carefully.

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

It seemed that you had thrown her! She let go of your hand and looked away from you to her feet, all while biting her lip again. She dug her nails into her palm.

When Zelda looked up at you again, she seemed ten times braver than she had moments ago, when she had looked to the ground.

“Would I be overstepping my place if I were to do this,” the High Priestess slid her hand up your thigh, “or this,” she placed her hand on your cheek, “or this?”

She finished by leaning in so close that your foreheads were touching.

By Hecate, she took your breath away. You stilled for a few seconds, just to really see her this close, and to admire every single pore of her being. You could feel Zelda’s laboured breath on your skin, dripping with want.

Finally, you spoke.

“Not at all.”

And it was you who closed the space between the pair of you, smiling against her lips. ✨

#zelda spellman #zelda spellman x reader #caos #Sabrina #lgbt #fanfic #hilda spellman #sabrina spellman #ambrose spellman #chilling adventures of sabrina #miranda otto #caos imagine #wlw #caos fanfiction #your pov

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spottedenchants · 3 years ago

Text

(helping the self through another- recollected sorrows rest upon those who got out, who survived.)

(cw: vague references to Caleb’s backstory)

A forceful series of knocks reaches all the way to Caleb’s bedchamber and he is suddenly very awake, hazily pleasant dreams shattered.

This is strange, entirely abnormal.

Frightening, almost.

Without much thought, he rises and throws on a robe, passing through door and door to the final one.

He opens this third door, the one out to the rest of the tower, to find its only other current resident at his threshold, eye-to-eye.

The height is unsurprising given Essek’s favored locomotion.

But Caleb has never seen Essek like this.

A deeply haunted, half-present look in his red-rimmed eyes, his ears entirely away, followed by disheveled hair and rumpled clothing, an entire deconstruction of his usual well kept presentation. Arms crossed and clinging to his sides, clenched against the fabric there.

He’s shivering.

It’s concerning.

Concerning enough to call forth a faint echo of a cold, cold tower, a lingering memory of a warm, warm dorm room, and Caleb’s forearms itch at the involuntary recall, despite how weak he’s managed it to be.

But he keeps his hands away. Takes some breaths to stave off slight nausea.

This can’t be that. It’s not. This is different, Caleb knows. He knows.

But that look. And why is Essek shaking?

Caleb’s words escape as a hiss wrapped in worry.

“Essek, what is wr-?”

But dismay jolts his voice to a stop when Essek immediately glides even closer - very close - and raises a trembling hand to Caleb’s throat, wordless with shallow breaths, eyes narrowed, a slightly unfocused scowl pulling at his pretty lips and drawing his brows together.

Caleb dare not move in this moment, dare not swallow or breathe too deep, dare not react to this uncharacteristically bold motion because there is no hunger in Essek’s shining, panicked eyes, and atrophied habit carries no follow-up without it present.

Essek’s cold fingertips - is he actually cold or is this only further remembrance? - find that particularly vulnerable soft spot between jaw and neck and press gently, firmly, likely just enough to feel Caleb’s rapidly beating pulse.

Ah, that’s what this is.

Caleb dare not move, dare not scare Essek from this oddly executed assurance, this check he must be making with those intent eyes of now-dripping violet as they shift to bore into Caleb’s chest.

Right where Essek palpates cautious fingers against clothed scar tissue.

Right above the residence of Caleb’s hammering heart.

After an unbearably tense second or century, Essek’s face, his entire form, seems to crumple small as he lets out a shaky breath, hands tightening against Caleb’s robe, head bowed and tears now unseen.

Caleb dips his head, trying to catch Essek’s eyes.

“I’m alive.”

Essek looks away further, nods, and his breathing stutters into rough sniffles as he releases Caleb’s robe, voice watery.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Hands still raised and now directionless, Essek’s tensed fingers fidget with themselves, thumbnail sides pinched by fingertips, before swiping at his eyes, as if his teardrops are frivolous things to be plucked and crushed.

Caleb opens his arms, extending them to his sides and proffering a quiet warmth.

Essek trusts him to be here and this is different from so long ago.

This is not comfort for survival; it’s a conscious vulnerability on both their parts.

But Essek flinches at the motion, drifting back and away from Caleb’s embrace, away from this room they have spent time sharing, like they would catch and trap him, and he rights himself uncannily well despite the ways his face still leaks.

Disappointment, concern, and relief all burn together.

Essek does not need Caleb like that.

Even so, his muted, jarringly pleasant façade is askew; it doesn’t fit quite right anymore now that Essek has grown to encompass more than another vizard underneath. Caleb knows, can see hesitance slip through the cracks in the way Essek clenches his hands motionless.

Seeming to remember his magic, Essek clears his face and throat, mending the mask some.

“I’ll go. Thank you.”

Still, Essek stays of his own volition, untethered even to the ground.

This current bond between them is something very different from what Caleb had before, very different from what he and Essek had before; it’s something grown newer, blooming fresh of their own choosing, tended to on purpose.

This is alright.

So what can Caleb do but continue to pay forward a gesture of goodwill and good intent, born to soothe memory and fostered to mark safe opportunity, among other hopeful sentiments?

Slowly, slowly, as Essek watches with a level gaze, meeting his eyes all the while, Caleb takes a careful step out of the room.

Over the course of an eon, he raises a single hand to ghost fingertips over Essek’s cheek, to steady himself, to ensure Essek is willing to accept this smaller touch, and waits.

Though he does not flinch again through these snail-paced motions, does not back away from Caleb any farther, the mask slips as Essek seems to realize what Caleb is planning and he bows his head.

Squeezes his eyes shut and buries them under taut brows like he’s anticipating a swat.

This is nothing of the sort.

Caleb leans in and up, and presses a gentle kiss to Essek’s forehead before withdrawing both hand and face, volunteering no further touch.

He keeps the quiet, the closeness, but still asks, head dipped and voice soft, a murmur.

“Sit with me?”

No response, only the same grimace, the same clenched jaw. Tear trails reappear.

“I can show you how to count.”

Essek’s eyes open, violet deep as pre-dawn dusk and framed by dew-melt clung hoarfrost lashes, and they grow sharper, more focused.

“I know numbers fine.”

His eyebrows slant with what could even be read as defiance against presumed patronizing.

Good, good, welcome back.

Caleb crooks a gentle grin, feels the steep upturn of his brow line.

“But do you know my way?”

A tiny fleck of curiosity lightens Essek’s eyes, lifts his ears; it’s a shift imperceptible enough that Caleb would miss it had he not spent time deliberately learning the difference between its presence and absence.

So Caleb turns aside and pulls a cat-call cord, gesturing through the door to their well-familiar couch, before following his own guide. He takes the middle rather than his corner and pats Essek’s side of the seat, looking back to him, keeping his face open.

Essek follows and settles into his place, drifting down and pulling small, clearing his face again.

A moment more and then Gretchen, dutiful as ever, waltzes into the room with a chirp, making a point to rub against Essek’s idle hands as she jumps onto the couch on her way to Caleb.

“Hot cocoa, ice water, and some snacks, those little finger foods with fiddly bits that Jester brought last time, for my friend and I, ja?”

Gretchen purrs as Caleb scratches on either side of her jaw before she disengages, pesters Essek again to receive a few more disjointed pets, and pads away to fulfill the request.

As they wait, Caleb demonstrates how he counts for breath when difficult thoughts swarm and tension grabs his lungs tight.

Staying quiet, Essek breathes along, seeming to sink further into the couch with each exhale.

Cats come and go, filling the low table in front of the couch with drinks and nibbling tidbits.

Perhaps it would be best to keep such things handy and readily present, Caleb notes.

Just in case.

Without much deliberation, Essek claims a mug of cocoa, holding it between both hands, staring in as steam matches the jumbled swirls of his hair.

So he does want some warmth.

Having no specific appetite, Caleb only keeps watch on the fireplace, ready to follow along with whatever Essek decides next, even if that means Essek leaves entirely.

The hearth plays a crackling solo to the room.

Ice makes a single clink to glass.

“Verin taught me that, a long time ago.”

Caleb glances to Essek- he’s gripping his mug tight.

“Checking the pulse?”

“Mh... And I-”

Caleb waits, listens.

A sharp inhale.

“I apologize. For barging in and- doing that. I realize it was strange, unseemly, invasive. I couldn’t collect my thoughts well enough to say anything meaningful, but I should have kept boundaries in mind instead of falling to…”

Essek’s lips push flat as he releases his breath through his nose, an expression of consideration, Caleb decides.

“Buried… habit.”

Habit, hm.

Caleb absently runs a hand down his sleeved forearm before resting his hands together, held loose in his lap. Fingers to palm back, he kneads one thumb to the heel of the other, and looks back to the flames.

“Well, I’ll be prepared should it happen again.”

“Ah.”

Firelight catches in condensation, bejewelling the water pitcher with golden cabochons and veins of amber.

Caleb glances aside.

“Would you like to stay?”

Tired violet eyes turn to Caleb when he asks this, wide as the saucers on the low table.

Then Essek looks back to his untouched drink, nods reticent.

The ice in the pitcher catches Caleb’s ear when it shifts upon melting some from the fire’s warmth.

He tips his head to Essek.

“Would you like me to stay?”

Essek gives a wry huff to his cocoa.

“Would that be selfish?”

“I’d like to stay.”

A quick shift of violet to Caleb before Essek’s gaze returns to the mug.

“Then be my guest. Or- oh. I…. Ha.”

It could be a trick of the shifting firelight, could be Caleb’s sleepy eyes, but Essek’s expression seems to turn just a little tender, just a touch softer on the edges, as his voice lilts a murmur.

“I suppose I’m yours, hm?”

A gentle smile pulls at Caleb’s lips, and he watches as Essek traces the rim of his mug with a thumb, fingers and palms still held against its warming sides, the contents inside rippling slightly.

“Is there anything else you’d like? Anything to help?”

A glinting fang worries a lip. But no words.

“Show me?”

Essek looks up from his mug to Caleb, eyes flicking between Caleb’s, brows softly furrowed, but he neither says nor does anything further than the glance.

No matter what Essek could ask for, Caleb knows this is safe.

“I won’t run.”

A moment.

Caleb will give Essek all the time he needs to consider.

A moment more.

Then, careful and slow, not spilling a drop of his drink, Essek unfurls and abandons his corner in favor of tucking himself next to Caleb, going so far as to nestle his way under Caleb’s arm and press against his side, shoulder to hip, legs folded up and feet drawn under.

This close, Caleb can feel Essek’s tremors immediately lessen, can feel Essek’s chest expand and contract alongside his own.

Caleb can feel Essek’s fluttering heartbeat, rather in sync with his own.

They are both very alive, present together.

“This, if it’s alright?”

Caleb remains stationary, not wanting to spook Essek from this rare moment of outreach, looking into those too-careful, entreating eyes.

His heart feels fit to burst.

“Ja, this is alright.”

Essek blinks, nods, settles further into place and turns his eyes to the fire.

And so they sit, leaning side-by-side, breathing together, sweet steam warming the air around them, the fireplace casting its gentle warm light through crystalline ice water.

Essek’s eyes grow unfocused as he watches the flames.

Deep in thought, Caleb assumes.

Muscles held taut relax, slowly, slowly.

Eventually, Essek takes a sip of his drink.

Caleb, drowsy, comfortable, definitely does not stare when Essek reflexively licks the chocolate from his lips.

He definitely does not wonder how it would taste.

The water pitcher’s ice shifts again.

The hearth cracks in reply.

Caleb holds Essek close until he wants his space again.

Read I Lean In and Kiss Him [Right Here] on AO3

T, M/M, No Archive Warnings apply, Complete (5 Chapters, 10.9k)

#shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role #critical role fanfiction #i just really like this bit #chanse writing

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cablesscutie · 4 years ago

Text

Inspired by @hayleynfoster’s comic and some hilarious headcannons about the littlest steambaby with Hayley and @favlie

Read it on AO3

The day Avatar Aang comes to meet his second niece, Fire Lord Zuko refuses to let his youngest child out of sight. Katara rolls her eyes, and reminds her husband that neither of their children had ended up psychologically disturbed because of their flights. “Not,” she adds, pointing at Aang, “that I am allowing a repeat, but I think just holding her while firmly on the ground will be fine.”

“Mmmm,” Zuko hesitates, curling Kallik closer to his chest. Her big eyes blink up at the adults guileless from her blanket. “No.”

“You let Azula hold her!” Aang argues.

“She doesn’t do anything with the babies!” Zuko shoots back. It’s not strictly true, he knows, but his sister’s ritual with newborns is unsettling in a much different way. She simply stares deep into each child’s eyes upon being handed them, until some kind of understanding passes between her and the baby. Results have varied, but the most important part is that there was no threat to life and limb.

Katara’s raised eyebrow says that she also doesn’t believe Zuko’s words, but she doesn’t say anything. They are, after all, a united front - to the children, to politicians, to their friends. In the privacy of their chambers, however, he knows he will be hearing about this.

Katara and Zuko take the kids to spend Kallik’s first birthday at the South Pole. It’s a tradition they’ve observed with all three, and Zuko always looks forward to going to visit her family. The house is loud and chaotic, full to bursting with people, the exact opposite of his own lonely childhood. There is no posturing, and everyone loves and squabbles openly. On this particular visit, they have overlapped with Aang’s stay with Sokka and Suki, so Gran-Gran’s house is in even more of an uproar than usual by the time Zuko and Katara arrive.

Kya immediately dashes off to coo over her little cousins as they toddle around behind Pakku, pretending to be otter penguins. Satoshi runs to the kitchen to be showered in kisses and cookies from Gran-Gran. Hakoda finds them barely out of their parkas and already thoroughly abandoned.

“I could’ve sworn you had at least one other child,” he tells Katara, scratching his head as he pretends to search for his missing grandchildren. She laughs and hugs her father tight. Neither of them let go for long moments, and Zuko’s throat feels tight when he notices his father-in-law’s misty eyes. He looks down at Kallik, thinks of his other two children, and wonders for the thousandth time how Hakoda could ever forgive him for keeping Katara so far away. It’s why he hands his daughter over easily when her grandfather waggles his fingers expectantly and says, “Alright, give her here.”

Hakoda settles Kallik on his hip with practiced ease, and pulls Zuko into a brief hug with his free arm. “Good to see you, son.”

Zuko clears his throat. “You too,” he says, and Katara laughs softly at his awkward shuffling, amused by how he doesn’t know what to do with his hands without a baby in his arms. She answers his question by lacing their fingers together as she leads him deeper into the house to find her brother and their friends seated around the hearth fire watching the kids run around.

Hugs are exchanged all around, and Zuko settles into their familiar company. Hakoda joins them after taking Kallik to say hello to Gran-Gran and Pakku, and bounces the baby on his knee to make her laugh. Aang makes silly faces at her that have her letting out piercing giggles and reaching out to try and grab at the wooden beads of his necklace.

“Well clearly she’s bored of me,” Hakoda says, making to hand her off to her uncle. “Here you go -” Zuko leans over and intercepts.

“Oh no. No baby catapult,” he says, shaking his head.

Aang gives him a pout to rival Momo. “Come on, we’re indoors!” Katara clears her throat, and when Zuko glances over, her eyes are narrowed at him. With a sigh, he holds Kallik out to Aang.

“Fine. But I’m watching you.”

Extended family vacations to Ember Island always sound like a good idea to Katara. At first. When her husband is burnt out and aching, and the kids are climbing the walls, and she just wants to lie in the sun with a book, it seems like the cure for everything.

And then they arrive. Somehow, much like she forgets the excruciating pain of childbirth, she never recalls the onslaught of chaos and catastrophe that comes every vacation. Like the time Sokka got stung by a jelly-ray. Or the time Suki and Zuko got in a fight about disciplining each other’s kids. Or the time every single one of the kids managed to get sunburnt and couldn’t sleep. Every year, it’s always something, and somehow, it usually ends up being at least partially her problem to solve.

This year, though, is somehow turning out alright. They reach day three without major incident, and almost entirely without tears - a near miracle for a vacation involving five children under the age of ten.

“I’m almost done with my first book already,” she tells Zuko as they rock slowly in a hammock on the deck, whispering in hopes of keeping any listening spirits from knowing that she’s gotten her hopes up.

“Good, you deserve the break,” Zuko says. He looks on the verge of sleep despite the fact that the sun is still climbing in the sky. The dark circles beneath his eyes are already faded almost to nothing. She sighs happily and grabs her book, but before she can actually crack it open, she hears Toph cackling and her Mom Senses light up. Zuko calls after her in surprise as she leaves the hammock swaying wildly behind her, but she doesn’t look back on her way to the beach.

When she arrives, it is just in time to see Toph pick up Kallik, a wicked smile on her face. Sokka and Suki’s twins are further down the beach standing beside Aang, both of them jumping up and down with excitement, waiting for something.

“Go long, Twinkle Toes!” Katara’s eyes go wide, and faster than should be possible, she reaches them, yanking Kallik out of Toph’s hands. “Hey!”

“Absolutely not!” Katara says, scowling.

“I was gonna catch her!” Aang shouts. Katara shakes her head.

“This is not happening. No way.” Then, silently lamenting the loss of quiet time with her husband, Katara looks at the twins and asks, “Who wants to go get some ice cream?

At Zuko’s request, his birthday is not a big deal with his family. It’s a combination of the fact that the entire Fire Nation loses its mind about the day anyway, so he is all but forced to spend a day attending a festival in his honor, and the fact that he is used to his birthday being a marker of all the disappointments he has been in the past year. It is a long-standing compromise with his wife that she is allowed to throw him a small, family-only party, to be kept within the bounds of the garden. He enjoys the excuse to get everyone together without a barrage of meetings involved, and the rest of their family is so boisterous in comparison to him, he can almost forget that the day has anything to do with him at all.

For his thirtieth birthday, he makes the further concession of allowing Uncle to set up his new phonograph so there could be dancing. Zuko is manning the crank, watching Katara and Kya swing each other around while Aang sits next to him, flipping through the records looking for the right song.

“Do you have a request too?” Zuko hears him ask, and turns to see Kallik has toddled away from Uncle Iroh and approached the Avatar. She puts her hands on his knees and starts bouncing, flashing him a smile that shows all of her new teeth. “You want upsies?” Aang coos, and reaches to scoop her up by the armpits. Zuko clears his throat loudly, shooting Aang his best murder eyes, and the Avatar shrinks back into the collar of his robes a little. “What about dance party?” He lets Kallik grab onto his fingers and starts hopping around with her to the beat, hunched over and both of them giggling.

“Oh Uncle Aaaaang!” Kya sings, striding out into the garden where Appa has just landed. She has Kallik on her hip, and Satoshi follows along at her heels, excited to see Appa and Momo again. His pockets are already full of lychee nuts for his fuzzy friends.

“Hey guys!” Uncle Aang calls, his gangly arms waving excitedly. “Are you the welcoming committee now?” He lands in front of them on a gentle breeze, setting down his bag and grinning broadly.

“Mom and Dad are in a meeting,” Kya informs him. “But somebody wanted to go for a little flight.” She hitches the toddler higher and winks conspiratorially. “If you catch my drift.” Uncle Aang’s eyes go wide, and he looks between the kids with unease. Satoshi feels terror grip his throat. He knew his big sister was crazy, but would she really…?

“Oh I dunno, your Dad was pretty...adamant...that you all are grounded until further notice.” Satoshi lets out a sigh of relief.

“Dad’s in a meeting,” Kya reiterates, as though being in a meeting involves entering another dimension. She should know better, her brother thinks to himself. Mom and Dad always find out when they’re up to no good, and as the sibling who’s usually leading the charge into trouble, Kya should definitely have that figured out by now. Uncle Aang should absolutely know that by now, but with horor, Satoshi realizes that the Avatar is looking a little bit convinced. “And we’re not gonna tell on you,” she wheedles. Speak for yourself, Satoshi thinks, glancing around to see if there are any guards within earshot if he calls for their parents. Sadly, it seems nobody has realized that the Avatar requires careful supervision.

“Well…” Uncle Aang considers, then comes to his decision, smiling once again. “Alright, I guess one can’t hurt. Who’s going?”

Kya moves to offer Kallik to him, her tiny hands reaching out and making grabby motions. Satoshi’s world goes into slow-motion. There’s a roaring in his ears, and as if from outside his body, he hears his own voice say,

“I am.” Kya and Uncle Aang blink at him, stunned. Their uncle is the first to recover, and asks,

“Are you sure, kiddo? I mean, you weren’t the biggest fan when you were a baby…”

“I want to try again,” he makes himself say, despite his sweating palms. Uncle Aang grins and ruffles his hair.

“That’s the spirit! You get that from your dad.”

As his uncle’s hands grab him under the armpits, Satoshi hears Kya mutter, “It’s the self-sacrificing idiot gene,” and then he is gone. As he soars through the air, he wonders if maybe his body hasn’t even left the ground yet. He can’t feel anything. Maybe he just died of panic and this is just his soul taking off for the spirit world.

Then he reaches the height of his arc and starts plummeting back to Earth, and the sensation of all his internal organs rattling around asserts the fact that he is very much still alive and experiencing this. He closes his eyes before he gets anywhere close to the ground, so it comes as a surprise when he comes to a sudden stop, cradled briefly by robes smelling of hay and bison fur, before being deposited back on his feet.

“How’s the weather up there?” Uncle Aang asks him, patting him on the back. Satoshi doesn’t know what the weather was like. He doesn’t know anything except that solid ground beneath his feet may have replaced his mother’s hugs as his favorite feeling in the world. He meets Kya’s eyes, and sees from her horrified expression that he must look like as much of a husk of a child as he feels.

A quiet, affectless “Thank you,” is all that he can manage to say, and then he is wandering back into the palace, where he shoves his head into the nearest antique vase and screams.

“Psst.” A small sound behind him has Aang on alert. The Fire Nation Royal Palace hasn’t been a place of danger for years now, but with Toph and Sokka around, the probability of sneak attacks has risen a hundred fold. He doesn’t see anything though, and goes to turn back around, only to be caught by a surprisingly firm grip on his cape. About two feet below where he’d expected to find his assailant, Aang comes face to face with his youngest niece, Kallik. Her expression is the same determined furrow of the brow that Katara and Zuko have shared for so long it is impossible to tell which parent bestowed the trait on her. It has the eerie effect of summoning the terrifying force that is their combined will. Aang already knows that whatever she wants from him, he’s going to cave, and it will probably get him in trouble. “I hear you’re in the business of yeeting kids. I want in.”

Aang sighs. Zuko has been trying to prevent this day since the moment Aang met Kallik, and Kallik has been trying to evade her father’s overprotective tendencies since the moment of her existence. It is a battle Katara has elected not to fight, likely remembering her own impossible stubbornness and the futility of trying to stand against it. So it is with all of that knowledge that he says, “Okay.”

“Flameo!” Kallik cheers, punching at the air.

“Well ‘flameo’ was actually more of a greeting -”

“Let’s save the fun facts. I wanna fly.” With a creeping sense of dread, Aang follows the child pulling him along by the cape until they reach a courtyard. Kallik turns to face him, plants her feet, and rubs her palms together. “Alright,” she says, spreading her arms wide. “I’m ready.”

“Here we go...I guess,” Aang says, glancing over his shoulder as he reaches out to scoop her up by the armpits. The coast is clear, so he swings her around in circles a couple of times to get ready. As his niece starts to giggle, the garden blurs, and wind ruffles his robes, Aang feels the giddy anticipation of liftoff.

He hoists Kallik, up, up, up.

And then her momentum carries her out of his hands, and the wind that has built up around them propels her even higher. Her already small body shrinks until she looks more like the shadow of a bird in the night sky, clearing the palace roofs. A happy shriek pierces the air. Aang smiles, feeling her wonder as if it is his own. This is always the best part of someone’s first flight - witnessing them discover the wind anew - and while taking Air Acolytes to glide at the Northern Air Temple is fun, nothing compares to sharing this part of his culture with his nieces and nephews.

Kallik tumbles back into his arms, eyes wide with wonder, ecstatic grin plastered across her face. “Again!” she cries, the moment breath rushes back to her.

Aang laughs and holds her on his hip. As he always does, he asks, “How’s the weather up there?”

“The moon is huge! And I could see the whole city! And the ocean!” Kallik’s pudgy hands move in broad, sweeping gestures so similar to her mother’s bending as she speaks. He still remembers Katara’s delighted gasp the first time she flew, Toph’s bruising grip, Zuko’s shocked laugh. This moment, too, will be another piece of the Air Nomad legacy living on.

As Aang tosses Kallik yet again, Katara finds Zuko leaning against a pillar at the edge of the courtyard, watching. She approaches her husband, curious to find that he isn’t having a coronary at the sight of their daughter in freefall, and takes hold of his arm.

“You gonna yell at him?” she asks, feigning nonchalance. He doesn’t look away from them, but he is smiling, serene.

“Eh, she seems fine.”

#zutara #steambabies #zk fic #my writing

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andypantsx3 · 4 years ago

Text

in cinders | 2 | preparations

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 24,362 words / 9 chapters

summary: You’re just trying to fairy godmother your best friend into a happily ever after. If only the prince would stop hanging around and cooperate.

tags: cinderella AU, prince!Shouto, romance, misunderstandings, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

In the weeks that led up to the ball, you had your hands full.

Literally, some days, since your plans relied heavily on your long history of bribery via pastry.

Hagakure, Ashido, and Kaminari had not been easy to convince. You’d had to beg and plead and pilfer any sweet cake you could get your hands on, cashing in every favor and ounce of goodwill you’d stored up over the long years. Between your shifts, you’d spent almost every hour of the last weeks in their respective quarters, pleading with them sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. Kaminari had required the firmest touch, scared out of his mind at the thought of retribution from the notoriously foul-tempered Captain Bakugou for leaving his post.

But one week out from the ball, you had the makings of a plan and the raw materials needed for its implementation.

The one unexpected hurdle was Ochako herself.

“Go to the ball?” she gasped the evening when you revealed your plan. “Me?”

The two of you had been readying for bed in the small storage room that doubled as your shared sleeping quarters. She stood frozen over her bed where she’d been about to climb in.

You smiled coaxingly. “Just picture it, Ochako! The pink fluffy dress! Dancing with a handsome noble! I have it all arranged.”

She looked doubtful. “I don’t know about all this.”

You fixed her with a dead-eyed look. “Have I ever led you astray?”

She stared back. “Well, no, but--”

You waved her off. “Then just trust me.”

She stayed standing as you flopped onto your straw pallet. A stalk had escaped from its covering and poked you insistently in the back.

“Ochako, I want you to be happy,” you said, sighing.

She blinked. “Are you sure this has nothing to do with getting back at Kamiko for what she said the other week?”

You couldn’t help the guilty look that flashed across your face. “Only a little.”

Ochako huffed a small laugh, but quickly sobered. “Y/N, you’ll be whipped if they find you out. And me!”

You shot up in bed. “They won’t! And I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I have a plan.”

Ochako finally sank into the straw of her own mattress. “I don’t even know how to dance.”

You grinned. “You will tomorrow morning. I roped the palace dance instructor into teaching you a few basic steps. Did you know honey cakes are her husband’s secret weakness?”

Ochako fidgeted. “Y/N, I have work tomorrow morning.”

You stretched. “No, I have work tomorrow morning. Your half day of rest has mysteriously been extended.”

You heard the straw of her mattress rustle. “You...you shouldn’t have done this for me.”

You smiled to yourself. “Maybe not, but at this point I’ve filched so many pastries that we might as well see it through.”

A soft chuckle issued from her side of the room. “You must really love cleaning those fireplaces. The housekeeper will be so furious if she finds out - she’ll have you up to your eyeballs in the kitchen hearths for the rest of your days.”

You laughed. “Lucky for me I look rather fetching in black.”

She laughed again before a friendly silence descended on the room, and you heard no more argument from her. You dropped off to sleep, satisfied.

In the morning, you were less satisfied having to be out of bed in the cold, pre-dawn hours on what was usually your one morning off. But it was worth it for Ochako. Almost more than that, it was worth it entirely for the purpose of wiping the smug smile off Kamiko’s infuriatingly cherubic face. Ochako was going to become a fucking princess, as far as you were concerned, and if all went well, she could have you trained to be her ladies’ maid.

As you let yourself into the kitchens to light the fires and put on water for the morning's tea, you let yourself imagine it, smugly watching Kamiko clean the chambers of the girl she had once made fun of. If you planned on calling for Ochako’s linens to be changed way more often than was necessary, well, that was nobody’s business but your own.

The chambermaid in question eyed you suspiciously when she came into the kitchens hours later for her breakfast. “Isn’t it Ochako’s morning to be on shift? Where is the little wench?”

You shrugged, stoking the fire with more interest than usual. “She’s not feeling well. I’m to cover her morning off. Got her schedule memorized, do you?”

Kamiko wore an expression like she’d bit into a tart to find it full of ants. “Don’t test me, cinders. I’d hate for Rikido to have to look into where all his missing sweets have gone.”

You froze, then forced yourself to relax. There was no way for her to know you’d been running a small but successful pastry ring out of the kitchen for years. If she had, you’d have already been reported into your next lifetime.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” You fixed her with your most innocent look.

She sneered, “I’m sure you don’t.”

You rolled your eyes but ignored her and set about the rest of your work with enthusiasm. Right at this very minute Ochako was learning the steps that would waltz her straight onto the throne. Petty revenge could come later.

The rest of the day dragged, but you attacked your chores with unusual vigor. At night, you returned to your room to find Ochako bouncing excitedly around the room, sweeping into elegant curtsies.

“Y/N!” she exclaimed as you entered, looking tired but pleased. “You’re back!”

You sank thankfully onto your pallet, glad to be off your feet. “How’d it go?”

“Wonderful!” she smiled. “Dance mistress says my steps are rather basic at this point, but they would go a long way in getting me through any fete.”

You chuckled. “Little does she know which fete.”

Ochako smiled. “Do you really think I’ll look like I belong?”

You sat up and rustled around underneath your pallet, digging out something blindly pink and thrusting it in front of her.

“With this, you will,” you gestured with it meaningfully. Ochako took in the sight of the dress, eyes widening.

Though unfinished, you thought you’d done a rather good job. With Mina’s help, you’d been able to procure enough of the bright fabric and tailor it to current trends. The bodice was close-fit to the torso, but swept out in a dramatic waterfall of fabric at the hips, meant to emphasize the wearer’s hourglass shape. Mina’s tiny, perfect stitches decorated the collar and sleeves, while your own fumbling attempts had been hidden closer to the waist and skirt hem, further from the eye. Once the dress was set with the lace Hagakure had ferreted out of the laundry rooms, Ochako would be indistinguishable from any noblewoman in that room.

Ochako gasped. “It’s perfect!”

You smirked, then turned to your mattress, pulling out a matching mask, embroidered with small roses done in a light pink thread. It was much better than your stitching on her dress. This, you thought, was your masterwork. A perfect example that you would be well-suited to being Ochako’s ladies’ maid, once given the proper training.

“Y/N, I can’t believe this!” she said, taking the mask and dress in hand. She ran her fingers over it lovingly, the way you’d been setting a proprietary hand to the prince’s birthday books. You could tell she liked it.

“You may repay me in a tidal wave of fine foods once you’re a noblewoman,” you laughed. "You can teach me how to read and let me spend Sundays lounging."

She blushed. ��You don’t actually think I’d catch anyone’s eye.”

You certainly did. Ochako was shy, but there was no arguing her good looks. Even without her sweet-tempered charm, she could have reeled Prince Shouto in by her cute face and ample bosom alone.

“Of course you will,” you said. “If you don’t have at least three proposals by the end of the night, I will eat Kamiko’s apron.”

She chuckled. “Why Kamiko’s?”

“Well if you don't, I'll still need mine, won’t I?”

She laughed again, and you took the garments from her, stowing them safely away under your mattress again.

The two of you settled down to bed, feeling giddy. Only three more days, you thought, until your weeks of work paid off.

The three days passed quickly in a flurry of chores and midnight sewing. Your fingers were raw from the stitching and you spent every shift bleary-eyed from the nights spent hunched over Ochako’s dress, but this was the evening it would all become worth it.

Or it would be, if Ochako hadn’t suddenly come down with a case of cold feet.

“I don’t think I can do it,” she fretted that morning, spooning over her thick porridge. “I feel sick.”

You gaped at her. “Ochako, you will climb into that fluffy monstrosity or so help me I will feed you to Captain Bakugou.”

This didn’t even make her laugh and your heart thumped in your chest. Was she really going to back out? Did she really feel so self-consciously? You hadn’t accounted for this in your plan.

“You have to go,” you said, feeling a little brittle yourself. “Ochako, you’ve wanted to so badly.”

She scratched a pale fingertip against the rough wood of the servant’s dining table. “I don’t know if I can. I’m so nervous.”

You ducked down to look into her face. “You’re going to look so beautiful and you know the dances,” you said. “You’re going to be incredible. What more would make you less nervous?”

She was silent a moment, the scritch of her nail the only sound in the drafty dark of the pre-dawn kitchens.

“Would you go with me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“To the ball!” she said, turning to you. “You could come with me!”

You scowled. You had in no way intended to go to the ball yourself, looking forward to spending the evening most servants had off tucked up in your bed with the scraps from the dinner preparations. You’d been eyeing the buckwheat noodles the prince so loved and had fully intended to see what all the fuss had been about.

Besides that, you’d only accounted for Ochako going. You’d produced one dress and one mask, and even those had taken weeks of multiple people pinching fabrics and sewing late into the night. It wasn't like you could magic more garments out of the air.

“Ochako, I don’t have any clothes,” you said. “I can’t go.”

“Please!” she cried, latching on to one of your threadbare sleeves. “I don’t think I can do it without you.”

You were saved from responding by the first trickle of servants pouring into the kitchens for breakfast. You closed your mouth, thinking hard as you got up to fetch hot water for those stations above you, serving them tea and fetching them plates.

An idea had dawned on you by the time the crush of servants cleared out after their hasty breakfasts. The thought of pulling it off made you stiff with fear - as there were so many factors that could go wrong -- but it was worth the risk.

You thought about it long into the day, Ochako shooting you nervous looks. You would have to be careful, but you thought you could make it work.

As the day faded, the lanterns were lit. The ball would begin soon, and servants made their way to an early bed. You left Ochako to prepare in your bedroom, stealing into the dark and empty laundry rooms.

If Ochako wanted you to be there, then you would make it happen. You were going to fairy godmother this self-conscious girl into a happily ever after.

#bnha x reader #bnha #todoroki shouto #todoroki x reader #fanfic #todoroki shouto x reader #boku no hero academia

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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Text

Jaskier’s A-Z of Animals

Summary: “I have an idea!” Lambert announced loudly, his words slurring slightly. He’d clearly drunk too much white gull.

Jaskier flicked his ears and tilted his head. This could only end terribly.

- Or Lambert suggests a game of Guess the Animal.

Previous Story (but this can also be read alone)

_________

Jaskier purred happily as Geralt’s fingers threaded through his fur. The fire was roaring in the hearth and Jaskier delighted in the prickle of heat against his feline body. The witchers were all drunk as skunks but Jaskier hadn’t felt like joining in with their merriment. Their witcher booze did strange things to his head and he’d vowed to bring his own store of ale or wine along with him next time.

Lambert was pontificating loudly, swishing his hands about and rambling on about some stupid humans he’d met on the path. Apparently they’d tried to swindle him out of his coin after a contract. Jaskier yawned and flicked his tail, hissing gently. He’d seen enough of that behaviour over the last few months with Geralt. Luckily for Geralt, Jaskier the mutant dog/wolf companion had been incredibly efficient at persuading the more nefarious humans to relinquish their coin. Geralt scratched him behind the ears. Jaskier meowed and rolled onto his back so that Geralt could scratch his belly.

The witcher chuckled. “Always so needy, you bastard.” He murmured fondly but his fingers still moved to Jaskier’s soft fur on his underbelly.

Jaskier hissed and grabbed Geralt’s fingers under his claws. He didn’t draw blood but Geralt should know better than to call him needy. That just wasn’t fair.

“Jask.” Geralt warned and pulled his fingers away.

Well now, that wouldn’t do. He yowled loudly and tilted his head, widening his eyes as he peered up at his witcher.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Stop scratching me then.”

Jaskier mewed and rolled back over so he could climb up onto Geralt’s shoulder. He nipped at Geralt’s ear gently.

“I have an idea!” Lambert announced loudly, his words slurring slightly. He’d clearly drunk too much white gull.

Jaskier flicked his ears and tilted his head. This could only end terribly.

“Spit it out, Lambert.” Geralt grumbled.

“Fuck off, patience, White Wolf!” Lambert glared at him and tripped over the rug. He almost fell flat on his face but Jaskier was quicker. He leapt to the ground, shifting mid leap into a wolf. Lambert fell against him and laughed. “I found a Jaskier!”

Eskel snorted. “You didn’t find him. Geralt found him and then he shagged him.”

Geralt groaned. “You guys are drunk.”

“Yeah, well, You’re not drunk enough!” Lambert mumbled into Jaskier’s fur.

He howled and wagged his tail.

“See, Jaskier agrees with me!” Lambert grinned. “Who’s a good boy? Are you a good boy?”

Jaskier barked, turning so he could nuzzle against Lambert. He wrinkled his nose as the scent of white gull hit him. Gods it stank, especially in this form. He really didn’t know how the witchers could bear it.

“He’s not actually a dog, Lambert.” Geralt sighed wearily.

Jaskier turned to Geralt and growled. He was a good boy! Geralt was just a grumpy witcher.

“Fine. Whatever.” Geralt rolled his eyes but came over to join them on the floor.

Jaskier wagged his tail and then sat in Geralt’s lap. Geralt huffed but rested his chin on Jaskier’s back. Lambert continued to scratch him behind the ears and he was in heaven. It really was a dog’s life at Kaer Morhen.

“I want a go.” Eskel whined. “Geralt always gets a go.”

“Get your own.” Geralt grumbled and buried his face in Jaskier’s thick fur.

Geralt was apparently a sleepy drunk this evening. Jaskier liked that, Geralt was always more cuddly when he was tired, but he was also being a grumpy bastard and needed to learn to share. Jaskier rolled his eyes and leapt from Geralt lap. He jumped at Eskel, putting his paws on the man’s shoulders, and licked him in the face.

“Puppy!” Eskel laughed and scrunched his nose up as Jaskier continued to lick his face.

“What was your idea?” Geralt asked Lambert.

“My idea! Guess the animal!” He yelled.

Jaskier sat back down and barked. He assumed he would play a part in this game. He growled quietly, a low rumble in his chest. The witchers knew that he didn’t enjoy being treated like an experiment. He didn’t want this game to turn into a test of his abilities like it had beenat Lettenhove. He shifted again into a mouse and scurried back to Geralt. The room blurred as he shifted and he used his whiskers to guide him as he buried into Geralt’s shift.

Geralt snarled at the redhead. “Lambert!”

“What?”

“He’s family, not a toy.” Geralt’s voice rumbled in his chest and Jaskier could feel the vibrations. He squeaked and nuzzled Geralt’s chest.

“I know!” Lambert whined. “But I thought…”

“You don’t think!” Geralt snapped. “That’s your problem.”

Jaskier squeaked again. He wanted to know Lambert’s reasons. He wanted to trust them. They were Geralt’s family and they’d be nothing but accepting of his gifts.

“I thought!” Lambert continued loudly. “That he knew he could trust us. I thought that it could be fun for him too, he could show off a bit and he knows none of us care what he can and can’t do.”

Jaskier considered that carefully and shifted back into a cat. He poked his head out the top of Geralt’s shirt.

“Jaskier!” Geralt grumbled.

He chirped happily. The temptation to shift back to human was almost too much. Geralt saw him naked all the time. He was allowed to enjoy the thought of ripping his boyfriend’s shirt to shreds, but instead he ducked back inside the shirt and crawled out the bottom.

When he was seated back in Geralt’s lap he shifted to human.

The others yelled and pretended to cover their eyes.

“I’m in.” He announced, not bothering to cover himself and batting Geralt’s hands away. “But I reserve the right to stop at any time. The moment I feel like it’s more than a fun game then I’m out. Got it?”

Lambert grinned and extended his hand. “Deal.”

They shook on it.

“Game stops once I turn into a wolf. No questions asked.”

There was a mumble of agreement.

Jaskier thought about his knowledge of animals. It wasn’t complete despite what the witchers may think. Some animals came easier to him, the wolf and the cat for example. He found mammals easier in general. He supposed the genetic make up was closer to his human form. He was also limited by what animals he knew. He’d spent a lot of time in his youth studying books on animals. They were the only books his parents had allowed him to have in his dimeritium prison of a bedroom. For years the books had been his only access to his abilities outside of the controlled ‘sessions’.

He would start easy enough. He gave Geralt as quick kiss on the cheek and winked before letting the magic loose once more. His skin rippled back into ginger fur and his bones crunched as he shifted in Geralt’s lap.

“FOX!!” Lambert yelled. “Aww look at you. So cute.”

Jaskier let out a screeching bark and trotted over to the redhead with his bushy tail trailing after him. He nuzzled against Lambert’s open palm and shifted again.

He slithered to the floor with a hiss. Reptiles were probably his least favourite animal so he was eager to get this out of the way. The room lit up in infra red and he flicked his tongue tasting the air as he familiarised himself with the room in this form. The witchers ran cooler than humans and it was difficult to make them out with the fire drawing his eye from the corner of the room.

“Snake!” Lambert shouted again and Jaskier turned to hiss at him. He slithered up the witcher’s arm and curled around his shoulders, flicking his tongue in Lambert’s ear. “Get off.” He grumbled. “Next one!”

Jaskier shook his head and hissed.

“We have to be more specific?” He heard Eskel ask.

He nodded. He’d chosen this particular snake for a reason. The scales were distinct, yellow and bristly. He slithered back to the floor and curled up into a ball.

“Umm… Viper?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier nodded again and hissed.

“Prickly viper!” Lambert tried.

“Spiky viper?” Eskel guessed.

Both good guesses but not quite right. He hissed and shifted to human, lounging extravagantly on the rug. “Spiny bush viper, found in desert regions.” He accidentally hissed on the ’s’ sounds and grinned sheepishly. “I saw a picture in a book when I was younger. ”

Before they could question him further he shifted again, blue and orange feathers rippled out this time instead of fur. He flitted between the witchers landing on each of their heads, and he suddenly had an overwhelming craving for fish, he was starving! He He wondered if there was any in the kitchens. He was sure Vesemir wouldn’t mind if he went for a snack.

Geralt must have recognised the animal instincts taking over and he caught Jaskier gently in his hands. Jaskier fluttered his wings angrily in Geralt’s hands and chirped loudly, trying to find an escape from his prison.

“Kingfisher.” Geralt said softly in a whisper. “Next one, Jask.”

Jaskier chirped again but let Geralt’s rough soothing voice ground him. He shifted in Geralt’s hands, his wings growing and the feathers disappearing until was a fluffy bundle in Geralt’s palm.

Geralt slowly opened his hands and Jaskier flinched away from the light. This choice had been logical in the darkness of Geralt’s hands but the bright light of the room was almost too much. He fluttered up to the ceiling, dipping a few times as his wings felt heavier than expected. It was time to rest. He felt incredibly tired all of a sudden. He curled his wings around him as he found a nook to rest in.

“Did anyone see that?” Lambert asked. “The bugger moved too fast.”

“You’re just getting slow in your old age.” Geralt laughed.

“I’m younger than you, old man!” Lambert grumbled and Jaskier heard the two witchers start to brawl.

“Jaskier!” Eskel called. “Come down and control your boyfriend.”

Boyfriend.

Geralt.

Jaskier closed his eyes and jumped from his hiding place. Shifting again mid-air into a kestrel, but for the first time in a while the shift didn’t come easy. He almost dropped to the ground before he managed to find the energy to flap his wings.

He’d done too many shifts too quickly. Cat. Wolf. Mouse. Cat. Human. Fox. Snake. Human. Kingfisher. Vampire Bat. Kestrel.

Fuck.

He’d hadn’t even noticed it had been so many.

Even back at Lettenhove he’d struggled with ten at a time. The most he’d pushed it before had been fifteen and that had almost killed him. It had been years since he’d tried. He could stay as any form for as long as he liked but too many consecutive shifts were exhausting. He’d forgotten about that. He usually settled after two or three, six at a push. There wasn’t much need to keep flitting about in different forms.

He tumbled to the ground, crash landing on the rug. The noise broke up the fight between the two grumpier witcher and Geralt scooped him up in his arms. “Jaskier, what’s wrong?” He murmured and he stroked a finger along Jaskier’s fur.

“Too much white gull!” Lambert slurred. “Drunk birds can’t fly.”

Geralt snarled at Lambert but didn’t answer him. “Can you shift to human?” He asked quietly.

Jaskier considered it. His wings felt limp but nothing was broken. He was just tired, he needed a nap and food… gods he was so hungry.

“Jask, don’t sleep. Not yet. I need to know you’re ok.” Geralt was obviously worried and Jaskier felt a little guilty for forgetting his own limits like that. He should have known better.

He’d just been swept up in the witchers’ joy and laughter, knowing the excitement they felt had nothing to do with wanting to use and abuse his abilities. The tasks had been so similar to those he’d performed at Lettenhove but the warmth and affection of the witchers had been the opposite of the calm calculated coolness of his parents.

Geralt needed to know he was ok. He needed words.

That meant he had to shift.

He let his magic go one last time and collapsed against Geralt’s chest. “Fuck!” He groaned. “Game over.”

And passed out.

________

When he awoke he was covered in furs and wearing one of Geralt’s black shirts by the feel of it. Geralt’s shirts were rougher fabric than his own. His whole body ached and he felt liked he’d run through one of the witcher obstacle courses, twice. Geralt’s fingers were in his hair and he could hear him bickering with Lambert.

“Well how was I supposed to know?” Lambert grumbled. “It’s not like I purposely set out to hurt him.”

“Again.” Eskel chimed, clearly amused by the entire argument.

If Jaskier’s head hadn’t been quite so sore he probably would have laughed. He’d underestimated the blond witcher when he’d first arrived at Kaer Morhen. He’d been taken in by Eskel’s kind and gentle personality. He’d hadn’t noticed the glimmer of humour underneath. Eskel seemed to thrive in chaos. He enjoyed gently pushing and teasing his fellow witchers until they were almost at each other’s throats and Vesemir had to calm everyone down. The others hadn’t even seemed to realise that it was Eskel manipulating the entire conversation. Jaskier had a huge amount of respect for Eskel as a result.

“Again.” Geralt growled.

Jaskier knew his witcher was about two seconds away from brawling with Lambert again and he took pity on the redhead. He groaned dramatically and snuggled further into Geralt’s lap.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s hands stopped in his hair.

“Morning…” He mumbled.

“What happened, pup?” Jaskier blinked a few times and then opened his eyes. Vesemir had joined them… oh and they were in his bedroom.

“Shifted too many times.” He muttered. “Forgot to take a break.”

“This has never happened before.” Geralt hummed thoughtfully.

Jaskier tried to sit up but his head span so he flopped back onto Geralt’s lap on the bed. Geralt was sitting up against the headboard and Jaskier had essentially been using him as a pillow, not an unusual occurrence. The others were crowded around the bed. He felt a pang of guilt. He must have really worried them for them to all be here.

“Not for years. When was the last time you’ve seen me shift more than…” He pause to think “six times?”

Geralt just hummed a response.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He grumbled. “Now can everyone please fuck off, I’m tired.”

The witchers all grumbled and began to filter out of them room. Lambert mumbling what could have been an apology as he left.

Jaskier’s stomach rumbled noisily. “Oi! Wait! On second thoughts! Lambert, darling, dearest witcher. Have we got any fish?”

Lambert groaned and stalked out the room. “I’m only doing this because I almost killed you, wolf.”

“Again!” Eskel pointed out with a laugh.

“Fuck off!”

Jaskier grinned and cuddled up against his boyfriend. Family, you couldn’t live without them.

_______

Next Story!

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #shapeshifter!jaskier #shifter!jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #witcher eskel #witcher lambert #kaer morhen #wolfie's witcher writing #jaskier pankratz #jaskiers a-z of animals

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paintedwarpony · 4 years ago

Note

I’d love to know your thoughts on Luthic worship!

ABSOLUTELY. I would be glad to share! This is something that I started to explore as a player myself (but sadly the DM I had at the time seemed to actively discourage creativity) but then picked back up and continued to explore and expand on as a DM myself when one of my own players wanted to work up more orc-ish heritage culture for his own half-orc.

So typically the god that most orcs and half-orcs are associated with is Gruumsh the One Eye, the Ruiner, who in most instances aint a good dude. Specifically in my campaign, running in Matt Mercer's world Wildemount, Gruumsh is a Betrayer God and known to be a savage and brutal warmongerer and pillager, the orc and half-orc army under his command is cursed with equal savagery and brutality.

So two of the many brilliant things that Matt Mercer's world allows for are:

1. Races/Species historically considered monstrous or evil are given the opportunity canonically to be free of that villainous heritage

2. While there is a Prime Pantheon he built in and has made PLENTY of room for Quasi and Lesser Deities.

Alot of orcs and half-orcs in Wildemount turn to Kord the Storm Lord as their chosen deity, using his expectations of challenge and strength and sportsmanship as an outlet for the energy and rage thats left behind when breaking from the cursed influence of Gruumsh but I wanted more, "less aggressive" options.

So while exploring a bit about Gruumsh in older editions of D&D and orcs in the Monster Manual I came across little bits and blurbs about his "wife" Luthic. Of course in the info from the Forgotten Realms and older references she didn't have all the best traits but there was surprisingly ALOT of potential to really use Luthic as a benevolent goddess compared to the Ruiner.

Luthic is the orc goddess of home, hearth, family, fertility, wisdom, medicine and caves (and a few other less ideal things but we cherry pick because we can). Her totem is the orc rune for "home" and her animal is the cave bear/bear. She's referred to as "Cave Mother" which is the common deity name I and my player chose to refer to her by (akin to the Wildmother or the Moonweaver). She most associated with the Life and Nature domains. And while Luthic isn't particularly depicted as being soft or kind, her focus is always shifted to being protective of home and hearth, of family and to the health, prosperity and propagation of the family to carry on strong bloodlines.

Those were the biggest themes I decided to run with when it came to those that follow Luthic is their loyalty and protectiveness of their home and family clan, that orcish clans and families that follow Luthic are far more likely to produce Clerics and Paladins than more war-like classes, almost all Luthic followers have knowledge or home training in medicine and fall back of remedies readily.

Arguably Luthic is the reason half-orcs exist at all. One of the “commands” of Luthic is to go, propagate and bring strong young into the world regardless of heritage. A true goddess of fertility, Luthic doesn’t care about the parentage of children as long as they are strong and healthy. Feeding off that I made it a trait of Luthic Orcs to be far more tolerant and accepting of other Races and Species and especially accepting of individuals that are mixed races (wither orc is one of them or not). They are also far more relaxed and willing to seek partners and mates of any gender in other races and species. This makes for A LOT of diversity and mixing of culture as well as racial traits and physical attributes in Luthic Orc clans and families. In my personal campaign this is part of the reason why Luthic Orc clans thrive so well in Xhorhas and under Dynasty rule, where there is a similar mindset concerning mixed race family units and children. (The Kryn and Dynasty canonically embrace and view mixed race pairings and children as blessings and displays of genuine love). So a lot of Luthic Orc clans are made up of half-orcs of a variety of heritages and origins. The strength and bonds built within Luthic Orc clans start very early but they don’t prevent members from scattering to find their own families and places in the world but there is always a desire to eventually return, either for a visit or to knit two family groups into one. All in all this aspect of followers of Luthic make them exceptionally protective of children, their own and any they cross.

While many a villager or adventurer find themselves pleasantly surprised (or outright lucky) to find that some of the best midwives, surgeons, and healers have the surprising origins of being connected to Luthic Orcs or a Luthic Orc clan by some means, worshippers of the Cave Mother are not soft pushovers. A part of Luthic’s mythos and origins was that she was a general and great warrior of Gruumsh’s armies. While they are not the ravagers of the Ruiner’s followers nor the more aggressive tribes that follow the Storm Lord, Luthic devout orcs and half-orcs will without hesitation lay down their lives to defend their families, clans and homes. Often this protective instinct is so strong it extends to the community and/or country an individual orc or half-orc may be from and Luthic Orcs are often exceptionally fierce and revered soldiers and guardians.

Within the campaign a few of the symbols and signs of worship of Luthic that had come up are holy symbols and totems in the form of bear claws or teeth, either left whole or carved with runes or turned into beads and charms used in any form of jewelry or ornamentation. The use of a bear pelt to accentuate or ornament clothing or armor, use of orcish runes (particularly ones meaning “cave”, “bear”, “home” and “family/clan”) are often embroidered, engraved or embossed on clothing, weaponry or armor as subtle ways to display loyalty to the Cave Mother. Simple shrines are made and often adorned with home and hand made carvings or crafts made of bone, clay, wood, stone, anything natural in the shape of a bear or a female/feminine figure representing Luthic herself. Her most holy day is the Winter Solstice and followers of Luthic gather up their families and closest friends and clan members for a long day and night of feasting around comfortable, roaring fires where familial and communal bonds are strengthened and prayers offered up for a healthy and hearty year to come and that any babes born are whole and hale (as in the more “primal” communities of orcs the winter is often considered the “mating season” as war bands and ravagers hole up in caves to ride out the worst of the winter weather).

Keeping actual bears is not common practice as bears are notoriously terrible pets and difficult to fully train and tame, though some Luthic worshippers that find themselves wandering the world as an adventurer do occasionally challenge themselves with raising a bear cub. Though any bear dens found in non-nomadic Luthic Orc territory are considered protected and to be left alone unless the animal proves to be a danger to the clan or community in some way.

NOW that all being said I am only just starting my research into Maori culture and traditions and how I can weave it into Orcish and half-orc culture. The Maori have an extremely rich and deep culture and it has so many unique traditions and aspects. A major part of the Maori culture I intend to borrow from is the use of traditional arts. They include whakairo (carving), raranga (weaving), kapa haka (group performance), whaikōrero (oratory), and tā moko (tattoo). The patterns and characters represented record the beliefs and genealogies (whakapapa) of Māori. Tattoo especially will play in a lot into Luthic worshippers especially for clans in certain regions of (my homebrewed parts and cultures) of Wildemount that will display more diverse and influenced cultural traditions. BUT because I haven’t done all the research I want on that subject yet I will at this point refrain from commenting much further on the use of Maori cultural influence because its really important to me to get it right.

I went off on a bit of a ramble but hopefully this was informative! I’ve had a lot of fun developing this stuff for my campaign, characters and players and am glad to share it!

#d&d shenanigans #d&d #dm life #matthew mercer #how to dm #world building #i love orcs #i love half orcs #orc culture #deep dive #luthic #cave mother #explorer's guide to wildemount #homebrew #maori culture

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dirty-holy-things · 4 years ago

Text

The Space Between (your heart & mine)

Chapter 20 has been posted to Ao3, and below to Tumblr.

Catch up on chapters 1-19 on Ao3.

Notes: This fic is exclusively 18+ and explicit. This chapter includes references to, and descriptions of, abuse from a parent. It is no more extreme or explicit than any other chapters, but please exercise caution.

Words: 5.2k update, 98.1k total.

If you would like to be added to my taglist for updates on this project and / or others, please fill out this form!

You pushed yourself up from the bunk, feeling the woolen blanket scratching against you as your body shifted. Your legs wobbled unsteadily at your weight, having grown accustomed to the comfort of the bed; but you straightened your spine as you crossed the cabin of the ship to the man you loved, the man who was still avoiding your gaze. The floor was freezing cold against your bare feet, but the chill only made you more alert and aware of your body and the space around you. Each step felt progressively more confident than the last, until you were standing mere inches away from him. He continued to gaze above and away from you, not affording you the illusion of eye contact through the blackness of his visor, but you were undeterred. You loved him, and you had hurt him, and you wanted to make things right.

You extended your arms slowly, just as you had many nights ago, on your first night in the ship. You thought back to how you had once moved with such trepidation, such nervousness, wondering if he would allow you to show him kindness. He had chosen to let you hold him then, and you hoped that he would make that choice again; you hoped he would make that choice every day.

Your hands landed on his waist, and he didn’t retreat or push you away. You drew closer to him, your breaths staying focused and steady; and he allowed you to wrap your arms around him, moving underneath the beskar, as you needed to feel closer to him. You pulled his body into yours with a bit of force, and you could feel the exhale of his chest as he pressed into you. He didn’t pull away, just as he hadn’t pulled away that first night, and you were just as grateful now as you had been then.

"I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, 'I exist.' In thousands of agonies - I exist. I'm tormented on the rack - but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar - I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

You blinked your eyes, and as they opened to the sights around you, you came to the realization that you were sitting on a beach; coarse sand shifting against your body, a whipping breeze moving through your hair, and navy blue waves crashing against the shores, setting off a cascade of ivory foam that exploded around you like fireworks. Yes, you were unmistakably by an ocean. You weren’t sure how you had gotten here — wherever here was — so you looked around for any clues that you could find.

You were in the same clothes you had been in on Nevarro. They were dirty — was that sand, or dust? What were those dark stains?

Dragging your palms through the coarse grey sands beneath you, you discovered there was nothing within your immediate grasp that would offer any clues; but you could feel stinging pinpricks across your body as the salty air blew against you. Looking around, your head swiveling, there was a sharp ache in your neck — but you pushed that pain away, needing focus on finding something that would give you some insight about where you were and what was happening.

Looking onwards, you saw that there were fearsome navy storm clouds rapidly approaching the shoreline you were seated at, and your eyes scanned the horizon nervously; you anxiously listened as the waves roared, almost like you had heard Din roar many times before.

Din.

Where was Din?

Your curiosity and worry was momentarily diminished as you felt something unexpected and wet fall against your warm cheek. Looking up, you understood that you were not crying, that the wetness on your face was not of your own doing. The roiling, dark clouds above you had now unleashed their freezing torrent, and the raindrops fell onto you with a steadily growing frequency that threatened to soak you through to the core within minutes.

You pushed yourself up from the sandy beach, brushing your stinging palm onto your pants to try and clean them off, before turning to try and find something in this unfamiliar landscape around you that may offer shelter. You had weathered many a storm, and knew of the aching cold that it would bring to those who were left exposed.

The landscape turned out to be not entirely unfamiliar — there were certainly many things out of place, but simultaneously recognizable in an irrefutable way. In the distance, through the fog of the rain, you could see what appeared to be your childhood home. The stone house was nothing spectacular or impressive, and it was quite small, but you would’ve recognized the pattern of those dark, moss-covered stones anywhere. You had spent many hours being forced to stare at the stone wall, after making the cat levitate, or talking to the pretty stranger woman in the marketplace who spoke a language that nobody else could understand. Somehow, you had come back to this place, to a home that was never really home.

As you shivered, the freezing rain running in rivulets down your body, you understood that you were being forced to make a choice. Sit here in the torrential downpour of rain, endure nature’s impersonal barrage; or seek shelter in the one place that had never truly been a shelter as it should have been.

You felt your heartbeat pick up speed with every fat raindrop that landed against you, their impact becoming steadily more and more forceful. Your thin jacket wasn’t holding up against the power of the storm, and with a shaking breath, you took a step towards the stone house. After all of these years, surely it was empty. Surely the inhabitants had changed, despite the resilience and timelessness of stone. This wasn’t really even your home planet — it was some amalgamation of memories and dreams from Eadu and Chandrila; it simply had to be.

The path to the house was a familiar one, although you knew that the home had never been close to an ocean — this absolutely must be some sort of dream, to bring together this combination of gorgeously torturous imagery — and as you drew closer towards the door with every step, you said a quiet prayer to whatever gods or Force that may accompany you, that the house from your memories would be empty. Your hand connected with the weathered and damp grey wood of the door, and you pushed your whole body weight against it, recalling how the door always stuck against the frame whenever it rained — which was often.

The door gave way as a particularly strong gust of wind blew against you, and you tumbled into an achingly familiar scene. The hearth across the room held a dying fire and red-black coals; the cots positioned around it were covered in the same green and grey blankets you had once wrapped yourself in; and the chest full of family valuables and heirlooms was tucked away in the corner, protecting the assorted quilts, books, and ceramic items that had been collected and protected throughout the years.

A sense of unease and comfort settled upon you simultaneously, almost as if the weight of a still-damp blanket had beed draped across your shoulders. Heavy, possibly well intentioned, and yet still unwanted.

It seemed to be blessedly empty, this memory of the house you had once known, and you were exceptionally grateful for that. The thought of a reunion with anyone from your past life, whether you were dreaming or awake, made your stomach clench in fear. Stepping through the entryway of the small house, you saw your father’s coat hanging by the door; it was weatherproof, as he worked endless hours on this rainy, desolate planet, and you were certain that if you were to pick it up it would still smell like him. Strong soap, a hint of tobacco, and an earthiness that could never be scrubbed out of the fibers, or the soul.

This isn’t real, you reminded yourself. This scene wasn’t really real, but the sensations felt as though they were, so you forced yourself to reach out for the jacket that would offer you warmth and protection from the storm. You felt tears prick your eyes as you shrugged the oversized coat onto your small frame; it was exactly as you had remembered it; and somehow it almost felt as though it were still warm. Retreating further into its protection and coverage, you stepped back out into the storm that was bettering the coast; your previous worlds of Eadu and Chandrila merging into one.

As you surveyed this unnatural scene, continually trying to rationalize and remind yourself it was a dream, you saw a familiar glint of silver — a glint of beskar. A scream tore itself from your throat as you bounced on your tiptoes, trying desperately to catch Din’s attention through the swirling debris that the powerful winds had whipped up. You could just barely see the thin line of the visor turn in your direction before your attention then turned to the small green toddler that was clambering across the sand dunes, the duo making their way towards you through the ceaseless rain.

You felt your heart leap at the sight of these two, the odd duo that you had come to love more than anything in this galaxy. You tried to run towards them, but as your muscles strained you felt as if there were an impossibly heavy weight cemented to you, holding you back from reconnecting with your true family. You fought harder and harder against the weights that held you down — and as your body fought back against this unseen power, you watched as Din and Grogu somehow begin to move even further away from you.

Arms reaching out desperately, you cried and clambered your way towards them, but for every step you took, you were dragged back threefold. Your muscles screamed in agony and exhaustion, your throat was raw from screaming their names — and yet they were still receding into the horizon, bodies eventually disappearing entirely behind the grey dunes and their grasses. This was a dream, but watching your family disappear could only be described as a nightmare.

And then out of nowhere, as you cried out for your companions, a wrinkled hand came swinging towards you at full force, landing across your face with a startlingly familiar impact that stung and smarted in a way that you hadn’t experienced in years. And yet, despite the respite from violence that Din had given you, you would’ve recognized those hateful hands anywhere.

You looked up into the aging face of your mother, hateful and wild, terror in her eyes — it held the same look that you had seen on the day you had run away; and your heart seized up in a paralyzing mix of fear and sadness, the same way it had the last time that you had seen her. All these years later, and you would still run from your mother. For all the growth, all the talents, all the forgiveness, all the skills you had developed — the instinct that had been beaten into you won out, and you felt adrenaline course through your bloodstream like gasoline to a fire, telling you to run like hell as you had once before.

As the fear and grief churned within you, the storm around you began to worsen as well. The crests of the waves grew taller, crashing with increasing ferocity; the stinging rain was now mixed with hail that threatened to break skin; and the winds that whipped around you threatened to knock you clear off of your feet.

“Well would you look at that,” your mother hissed, stepping away from you. “Ever the disaster, even now. All you bring is destruction!”

You shook your head, knowing this was a dream, knowing that what she said wasn’t true. This wasn’t real, this wasn’t right. You were only dreaming — you were really at home in the ship, wrapped securely in Din’s arms. This too will pass, you reminded yourself.

Though you knew it was only a dream, you wondered why did the sands and her words still sting, as the wind blew them into you? How could it still burn, knowing that no true pain was inflicted upon you?

Your mother looked towards the same horizon that Din and Grogu had disappeared behind, and you followed her gaze. “And of course, you’ve run off with whatever man gives you the slightest bit of attention — you clearly haven’t learned your lesson, stupid girl — wonder how long it’ll be before he has to start beating you like Orron did. Like I did.”

Her impossibly cruel and hateful words hit you with a breathtaking force, and you felt a concerningly familiar hatred and anger boiling within you, just as it had when you killed Bragant. Yes, you had killed Bragant — that truth could not be denied. You panicked at this sudden surge in emotions — you needed to control this, you needed to be in control, you didn’t want to lose yourself to that terrifying, encompassing darkness ever again —

And the very world around you began to violently shake as you fought back against the darkness, as you fought back against that thick, black, boiling hatred — you threw every ounce of yourself into pushing it away, wrenching your eyes shut in concentration, shutting out the painful image of your mother and her stinging, cruel hands. This evil, choking darkness felt as heavy and overwhelming as it had on Nevarro, but this time you fought it just as hard as you had fought for Din’s life on Bardotta. You were not going to let it win, you were not going to let it overtake you and drown out the humanity and love that you had so carefully cultivated. You could feel yourself screaming though the unyielding pressure and weight of the darkness, but as you clung to the smallest thread of light, you felt the vitriol and violence slowly begin to recede.

And then you saw Din and Grogu, reappearing on the storming horizon, fighting to cross over the shifting grey dunes to you.

They had fought to come back to you, despite the hurricane that you had created here.

Somewhere deep down inside, you had truly come to believe in their love and their dedication to you; and you had let go of the ideas of your mother, that you were nothing more than a source of pain and destruction. These two were living proof that you were capable of good things, that you were worthy of being loved, that you were capable of creating love and light, and growing something worth fighting for.

The thunder and crashing waves began to quiet, as the hint of a smile quirked your lips upwards. Your mother continued to stare in horror and disgust; you saw her mouth moving with hateful words, but you could no longer hear her voice. The torrential rain slowed around you, until it was barely a mist that settled across the landscape before you, and you felt the weight that had held you frozen in place slowly begin to lift. You stepped forward tentatively, your gaze moving past your still-screaming mother, to rest on the two that were now climbing down the last grey, rain-spattered dune.

You continued to step forward with rapidly growing confidence, until you were running at a breakneck pace, leaving your old cobblestone home behind — your heart was moving at lightspeed as you approached Din and Grogu, and as you came closer, you practically launched yourself into Din’s arms, colliding with the ice cold beskar with no regard for the bruises it would inadvertently press into your skin. As you wrapped your body around his, tears streaming down your face, the two of you somehow slipped — bodies tumbling, you landed on top of him in the sand, a laugh coming up from your chest to join the tears that had been brought to the surface.

You pressed your face into the cool beskar breastplate, your chest heaving with emotion; something was pressing into your arm, and you looked up to see that Grogu had climbed up onto the tangled pile of limbs, coming to rest between you, and he was making happy gurgling sounds that warmed your heart. This was your true family, these were the ones that you loved unconditionally, the ones that loved you back just the same.

The sound of the waves eventually disappeared, a silence settling around you; the winds slowly ceased to blow, and the sand that the three of you laid on disappeared beneath you, as the scene around you was wiped away and replaced with the scene of your true home — the Razor Crest.

***

You felt two strong and familiar hands on your shoulders, their grip insistent as they shook you from your sleep, as they shook off the dream that you had found yourself in just moments ago. Your eyes opened slowly, working to focus on the thin black visor that was in front of you — but something prevented you from focusing fully, and as you continued to blink you felt tears escaping from your eyes, rolling hotly down your cheeks. Your eyes flitted back and forth across the visor, as if you could see anything behind it, and you touched a shaking hand to your warm and swollen face that was covered with the dampness of tears. You must’ve been crying.

Din pulled you in close to him, sitting you up in the small bunk as your frame rested against his chest; he ran his hands through your hair, breathing deeply as he held onto you. “Are you alright? You were — you were crying, in your sleep. I couldn’t get you to wake up from it.” He sounded breathless, worried, nervous.

You nodded, your cheek brushing against the side of his freezing helmet as you worked to quiet the whimpering that was coming forth from you, and steady your shaking breaths. “It was just a dream,” you whispered, distantly recalling the storm that you had fought back against.

Din remained quiet as he continued to hold onto you; after all of the turmoil and upheaval of the past ... however many days, the two of you clung to each other even tighter, having experienced a taste of the devastation and terror that would accompany any separation.

Your breaths and heart rate slowed and became more steady; the ship was just as it had been before you and Din had fallen asleep against one another. You were safe, you were home. You pulled away from him slightly, wanting to reassure him that everything was alright. Your hand rose from your side to rest against the sharply angled beskar helmet. “I’m okay, Din, I promise. It was just a...”

Your voice faded off as you saw the utility jacket that dwarfed you. Your eyes widened in incredulity as you slowly extended your arms in front of you, seeing the sturdy weatherproof material move as your body moved within it.

“Just a dream,” you whispered, not wanting to scare Din, or have to try and explain something that you had no explanation for. You would address this new mystery at another time. You pushed this newfound mystery and worry to the side, focusing on the man in front of you who had remained by your side through all of the chaos.

Chaos, that could not remain unspoken. “Din,” you started, shifting to face him better. “I know what happened... with Bragant.”

His sigh crackled through the modulator as he moved to bring you back into his chest, but you resisted. The truth of this couldn’t be denied any longer, and you would have to confront this reality and assess how it would affect your future.

“Bragant was a bounty. He was a criminal. You won’t be in any... trouble, for what happened. Karga offered to... pay. If you want.”

You inhaled deeply, trying to wrap your mind around this information, trying to wrap your mind around everything that felt both insurmountable and invisible at the same time. “I hadn’t — hadn’t even thought about any legal consequences.”

“The Marshall assured me that you wouldn’t face any.”

You nodded, feeling grateful that this piece had been resolved before you even had time to worry about it. “It’s not only that, Din — when I was there, in that alley — he said things to me, awful things,” you paused, as you noticed your voice was shaking, and you fought back against the tears that rushed to your eyes and the heat that was rising in your throat. “When he said those things, I got... I got so angry. Angrier than I had ever been, angrier than I ever knew I could get. And I... I lost control.”

“You defended yourself against a violent criminal.” Din’s voice droned through the modulator. He was stating a fact, but this fact didn’t cover the whole truth of the matter. There was more to it than he wanted to acknowledge, but you had to.

“Din,” you spoke up, your voice holding an insistent edge that quieted the protests of the historically stubborn man. “Din, I killed someone. When I didn’t mean to. I lost control, back there, in that alley — I understand that killing may not seem significant to you, but it does to me, that was a lifethat I took —“

Din pulled away from you abruptly, a bit harshly. “You think that killing others doesn’t affect me? Is that what you really think of me?” His voice was louder than you had ever heard it before, and it cracked with strain and frustration; you could hear the hurt through the modulator. “Do you think that I enjoy it, like some sadistic bastard? Do you think that I don’t carry the weight of every single life I’ve ended?”

You cowed at his brazen display of pain and frustration, and an instinctual part of yourself pulled away from him, your legs and arms retracting inwards to protect yourself. You felt a hot wave of tears crashing into you, and you buried your head in the crook of your elbow, not wanting to upset him, not wanting to make this worse than it had to be.

“No, Din, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” You whispered, your voice breaking; you weren’t sure if he even heard you as your face was hidden from view, buried within your arms. You screwed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for whatever fury may follow.

It stayed silent for several moments, the tension and emotion rolling thickly off of the both of you; the air felt heavier, and each breath required more effort to draw the weighted air into your lungs. As you slowly came to the realization that nothing horrible was going to happen, came to the realization that Din was nothing like the ones who had come before, you lifted your head up from your arms to confront this emotional scene... but without violence. You had never experienced conflict without violence before; you didn’t know how to handle it, but you knew that you loved Din and trusted him.

He was now standing in the cabin rather than seated directly next to you; his body was facing yours, and yet his head was turned away. This was an intentional choice on his part; his body language spoke volumes, and he knew that every inch of positioning was intentional. And despite all of the beskar, despite all of the weapons, and despite all of the mental walls that he threw up against you — you could still feel how your careless words had cut him deeply. You had hurt Din, and you had to confront that. You had to acknowledge that, and work towards repairing this.

As you rested your head against the unyielding, cold steel of his breastplate, you pressed your hands even deeper into him, trying to convey all of your love and sorrow through touch alone; you hated that you hurt him, that you ever caused him a single moment of doubt. “Din, I’m so sorry,” you sighed. “I was — I wasn’t thinking, when I said what I said before. It was crass, and careless, and completely untrue. You’re a good man, Din Djarin. The best man I’ve ever known, and I’ve never even for a moment thought you were anything less than that.”

“Your measure for good men is concerning.”

You couldn’t tell through the warping of the modulator if he was being sarcastic, and making a joke; or if he was still smarting from your earlier words.

You pursed your lips, nodding against him. “You’re right. My gauge for a moral compass is a bit broken, a bit biased. But you have been the brightest spot in my life, the brightest star in my sky, and I want you to know that I think you are a better man than you give yourself credit for.”

You could sense a change in the beat of his heart, could hear it echoing against the beskar you were resting against. His posture shifted as his arms came to wrap themselves around you, drawing you into the familiar lines and curves of his body. You sighed in relief, melting into him, trusting that he had accepted your apology and forgiven you.

“I love you,” he whispered, so quietly that the modulator only barely altered the true sound of his voice. “I know that... what happened, was hard for you. You’re sweet, and kind, and that’s... one of the many things I love about you.” He was quiet for a moment as he pulled you in tighter, nearly lifting your now-freezing feet off of the ground. “I want to do whatever I can to help you.”

You nodded against him, a few tears escaping as you knew that you had his understanding and his support; and that was all you needed to trust that you would be able to navigate this uncharted territory together. You weren’t alone in this; you had Din and Grogu, and the three of you would find your way through this new challenge, as you had found your way through many before. You pulled away from his strong grasp, trying to gaze into the black and blank visor, needing at least some illusion of contact and connection. “I just... Din, I don’t know where to go from here. I’ve read books from at least 10 different planets, from 100 different cultures, and I haven’t got a single clue about how to manage this or what I can do to be better.”

Din stayed silent, as he often did, but you could feel the way that his fingers pressed more deeply into your body, imparting a sort of comfort that only he could give. You could feel his concentration as he contemplated what to say next; he had never been rash or rushed with his words, and it was one of the many things that you loved and appreciated about him.

“When I was traveling with Grogu, we crossed paths with a… Jedi. Ahsoka Tano.” Din paused, understanding the weight of the information that he was sharing with you. “She... said she couldn’t train Grogu, because he was too attached to me.”

Your lips quirked up in a smile, a small laugh coming from your chest. “She wouldn’t want anything to do with me, then.”

You heard Din chuckle quietly, and you felt a wave of relief wash over you as you knew he was not holding any grudges. “No, she wouldn’t train you either. But she told me that there is a planet, that has a... rock, that is important to the Force. Or to the Jedi. She said that by sitting on it, Grogu may be able to connect with other Jedi in the galaxy.”

An eyebrow raised up in suspicion at the story he shared. “Sitting on a rock will help us find another Jedi?”

Din shrugged, and you could imagine a clueless and befuddled look existed behind the beskar. “I don’t know. All of that magic — sorry, Force — stuff seems impossible to me. And yet I’ve seen it.” He gently tucked away the strands of hair that had fallen into your face, his hand coming to rest at your chin, lifting your gaze back to his anonymous one. “It seems too simple, just going to this rock — but it may be the best option we have.”

You nodded, resting your head in his large hand, enjoying the warmth of the contact. “I want to talk to Grogu first, though. I want to make sure this is something he wants too.”

Din nodded in understanding. “I’ll give you some space to clean up, and then we can meet Karga and the Marshall in town. They’ve been looking after the kid. We can talk about the bounty pay, and then set a course for Tython.”

You reached up to squeeze his gloved hand gently before turning to retreat to the fresher, to try and wash away some of the stress and the pain of the past several days. Your head felt as though it was swimming, or spinning, or both, with all of the upheaval that you had experienced; and as you shrugged yourself out of the weathered, industrial jacket that had somehow made its way onto your frame, you felt even more disoriented. You gripped the edge of the steel sink tightly, taking deep and slow breaths until you felt steady enough on your feet to turn on the water of the shower. You shrugged out of the rest of your clothes, your muscles still aching with exhaustion.

The blistering hot water rolled down your skin, and you worked to clear your mind and return to the meditative state that Ixxith had once taught you. Your body went through the motions of cleaning, your mind going peacefully blank and quiet. You couldn’t solve any of your problems or overcome the complexities while in the shower; so you saved that stress for another, more appropriate time.

When you had finally scrubbed away the last of the grit and grime that clung to you, feeling like a new and whole person, you dressed yourself and met Din outside of the ship that you had been encapsulated and recovering in for days. The sunlight felt harsh on your skin, but you welcomed the sensation that you had gone so long without. Stretching your limbs out into the open air, you smiled confidently over at Din, hoping that the confidence and bravado that you projected would eventually sink in and become more real.

He placed his gloved hand onto the small of your back, and you could feel the pads of his fingers pressing into the vertebrae of your spine, holding you up and encouraging you forward, just as he had so many times before. It was a quiet kind of support, but the weighted silence and intentional touches spoke more than any texts or volumes could, and his love and confidence made you stronger and more empowered than any Force training could.

Whatever happened next, on Nevarro, on Tython, on any other far-fetched planet in this galaxy, you knew without a doubt that you would face it together. You would face it with the kind of love that could only have grown in the quiet places of the ship, in the cold of hyperspace, between those who had been denied love and yet held an extraordinary capacity for it.

Taglist: @knivesareout @tanzthompson @stageleftlauren @greatcircle79 @bdavishiddlesbatch

#din djarin x reader #din dijarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic

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isis-astarte-diana · 4 years ago

Text

Simple Pleasures (Strange Mercies)

Summary: “Missy rarely smokes, and when she does, she savours it.”

Warnings: NSFW. MIHOW. Dodgy dynamics. Humiliation (obviously). Smoking fetish. Some spit. The occasional allusion to being burned, but it doesn’t happen.

Word Count: 1979

NB: Missy uses your hand as an ashtray. That’s it. That’s the fic. Remember, smoking isn’t cool! I intend to write more Missy smoking kink and this is a test to see if anyone wants it.

Missy rolls the match across her knuckles with effortless fluidity.

Your eyes are drawn to the motion, but she seems utterly bored by it; with her hand hanging over the arm of her chair, it’s almost level with your face where you kneel at her feet, and you suspect the performance is entirely for your benefit. It’s an invitation to ponder her intentions. You have no choice but to accept.

The Persian rug is coarse under your knees. You can feel, already, the livid imprint of the weave sinking into your skin, leaving bumps and indents that will take hours to fade. She’ll run her fingers over them later, delighting in the marks; delighting, too, in the way you shiver under her ticklish touch.

Missy has a deep appreciation for the simplest of pleasures.

Her lips leave a pale print on the rim of her brandy glass and she sighs, indulgently, as she sets it down. Your whole body comes alive with the sound. You lean into it, breathe it in, cling to her satisfaction as if it were your own. She drops her eyes to you at last. In her face you see the faintest stirrings of a smile.

“Open.”

It’s a familiar enough command. It works like muscle memory, the parting of your lips, the slow stretch of your jaw, offering up your mouth to her for whatever she might want to use it for - or, perhaps, she doesn’t want to use it for anything at all. She might simply want you to stay like this, agape, soft and pink and waiting, watching her, your mouth drying in the warmth of the library hearth. On your knees. Open.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

No such torture; no such luck. She reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket and retrieves a handkerchief. When she leans forwards you expect her to ball it up, thrust it into your mouth, pin your tongue beneath it and leave you to choke gratefully on the cotton, but she only guides it past your upper lip and uses it to dry the backs of your front teeth.

It’s startlingly invasive, the drag of fabric, the pressure of her fingers through the cloth against your gums. There’s nothing cruel about the procedure, but nothing gentle, either. It’s purely a matter of practicality.

You have to make a conscious effort not to moan.

Whatever soft sound of confusion, of protest or encouragement, you cannot quash is ignored. She taps the back of your tooth with a bare fingertip to test her work. Her fingers are cool, and you feel this touch everywhere, through tooth and skull and spine. Your hands clench into fists at your sides. Your cunt throbs almost painfully. With a pleased little hum, she withdraws. The match changes hands.

You understand, now.

The very tip of the match head is coarse and gritty against your gums when Missy positions it behind your teeth. You think of sulphur, of phosphor, of ground glass and poisons, and the thought threatens to strangle you, but everything you know, she knows better, and there is so much comfort in that.

She smiles, twists the match a little bit, scratches your dry gum with it. “Keep still.”

As if you needed to be told.

It is strange, and painless, and over before you have quite had a chance to register it. The match catches on the bottom edge of your teeth as she drags it free. It has just passed your lips when the head bursts into flame, no chance of burning you, but certainly close enough that you flinch away from the rush of heat and sound. At the motion your tongue finds the residue clinging to the back of your tooth. The taste is bitterly offensive.

Missy chuckles. She retrieves a cigarillo from the silver tin on the reading table and makes a show of baring her teeth, of gripping it between them, of closing her lips around it and cupping her hand over the match to shield the flame from a nonexistent breeze while she lights it. Her cheeks fill and hollow in swift puffs. You find yourself breathing in time with her. The match is extinguished with a swift flick of her wrist.

She regards you like this for a moment, eyes bright past the thin trail of smoke that curls around her face. Between the rich earth scent of tobacco and the woodsmoke from the fire and, above all, the sweet opium of her perfume your head is swimming. When she takes the cigarillo from her mouth to speak, her words come as a pale cloud.

“Hold out your hand.”

Left hand, palm up, shoulder height. She doesn’t have to say this part.

The lit tip of the cigarillo washes your palm with warmth from its nearness. She keeps it there, letting you feel it, letting you measure the threat. She watches you for movement all the while. Flinching would be unwise, dropping your hand yet moreso. You tremble with the effort, but you manage to keep still, mouth open, hand out, underwear uncomfortably slick.

It’s unlikely that she’ll decide to burn you. Not impossible, but unlikely. You’re more concerned that she might choose to tap the ash into your mouth rather than your hand.

Again, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Your arm twitches with surprise at the weight of soft, warm ash when it falls into your palm. The touch forces a quiet gasp from you. She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

Missy rarely smokes, and when she does, she savours it. She takes her time, sipping her brandy, indulging in each breath. Most of the time she doesn’t even look at you while she taps the ash into your hand, and this is difficult enough, but when she does the sickening heat that curdles in your belly grows until you can hardly breathe past it. Your arm starts to ache from its position. You can feel the plea in your eyes turning more desperate by the second.

Her boot brushes your inner thigh.

It makes you jump, and this moves your hand, and the small puddle of ash there threatens to spill onto the rug. A mistake like this would not be swiftly forgiven. You would think yourself lucky if she stopped at making you lick it up. You right yourself quickly, heart racing, legs parting further to invite another touch.

None comes.

Instead she leans forwards, tilting her head, bringing herself almost close enough to kiss you. When her lips part, she lets her mouthful of smoke billow into your face. You have to blink rapidly to keep it from stinging your eyes but the taste is familiar and welcomed.

“Are you wet?”

Your face heats at the question.

She needn’t ask; not really. Even if the desire wasn’t written plain across your face - and it is - the scent of your arousal is thick now, the fabric of your underwear damp and sticky against your flesh. What she wants is to draw your attention to it, to make you admit it, to make sure that you know that she knows how much it excites you to be put on your knees and used without affection.

Your voice is rough from the lungful of smoke. “Yes, Mistress.”

She taps another clump of ash into your hand. “Yes, what?”

“Yes,” you barely whisper. “I’m wet, Mistress.”

“Really?” Missy quirks her brow, feigning surprise. “Show me.”

This is the worst of it. It comes as no small relief to slip your right hand under your skirt and beneath the band of your underwear, but the order is not yet to pleasure yourself. You can feel the slickness on the fabric smearing over the back of your hand even as your index finger slips into your flooded cunt. You arch into your own touch, extended hand quivering. The ash there rolls perilously close to the edge of your palm. She holds your gaze, crocodile-patient, making sure you don’t enjoy this exploration any more than you need to.

You leave yourself open and wanting when you withdraw, the perfunctory penetration having soothed nothing. Removing your hand from your knickers is torture.

Presenting it to Missy is worse.

She wraps her free hand around your wrist, cool and light, and inspects the evidence of your arousal. Your index finger is slick down to the palm. You can feel it beginning to dry in the warmth of the room, fluid thin and cracking on your skin. When she brings your hand a little closer to her face and inhales deeply, her lashes fluttering closed, you can do nothing to bite back the squeak of embarrassment.

She cracks one eye open to look at you. Her voice is low. “So you are.” Her fingers loosen from your wrist and she brings the remains of the cigarillo back to her mouth. Just before it slots between her teeth she adds, almost as an afterthought, “go on then.”

This is what you’ve been waiting for.

Your fingers are swift and clumsy when they squirm back beneath your waistband, skirt caught between forearm and belly, exposing the bulge of your knuckles in your underwear as you find your clitoris with two fingertips. There’s very little friction. You’re dripping, the fabric doing nothing to muffle the obscene sound of your fingers slipping through your own wet heat, but you manage to catch yourself at just the right angle. You jerk into the contact, breath stuttering, fighting to keep your other hand steady while you take up a rhythm of strokes.

Missy finishes her brandy. The cigarillo has burned down to almost nothing, and you know that she won’t indulge you once it’s gone. It falls to you to be quick about this, to drag yourself over the edge while you have the chance, all the while watching as your time goes up in smoke. Fortunately, that pressure only brings you closer.

“Eyes on me,” she reminds you, when you bow your head. It takes all of your strength to lift your chin from your chest and look at her. She taps more ash into your palm, watching with quiet disinterest as you work pleasure into yourself, desperately chasing your orgasm.

It’s almost shamefully quick.

You can feel it tightening in your thighs before long, tension building, your hand quickening to match. The ache in your outstretched arm is spreading into your shoulders and neck, your knees burning with the rocking motions of your hips, the foul taste of the match head still lingering in your mouth. Sweat rises on your brow.

She takes hold of your left wrist. You know what’s coming, and that knowledge has you gasping, thighs squeezing around your hand. Her dark head bows. Your hand quivers in her grip when the wash of prickling sensation begins to creep into your belly, and she mercifully holds it still. Without her assistance you’re sure you would spill ash on her skirt. The consequences of this do not bear thinking about.

You come as Missy spits into your hand.

It all marries together; the soreness in your knees, the fatigue of your limbs, the thick warmth of her saliva in your palm. Under the weight of your debasement the orgasm is cold. It takes you swift and silent, nothing to mark it but your harsh breaths, the rush of liquid heat that floods over your fingers. When you fall still, something like a sob catches in your throat. Your hand stays buried in your waistband as she lifts her head and offers you a fond smile.

“Good girl.”

You don’t even feel her stubbing out the cigarillo in your palm. The slick mess of ash and spittle leaves your skin too wet to burn.

The strangest things can be a mercy, when you do them right.

#nsfwork #missy x reader #gomez!master x reader #mine #im drunk idk why im posting this now

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toads-treasures · 4 years ago

Text

Like Silverstardust

“You,” his voice died and he cleared his throat, turning back to face her entirely, “you needn’t stay out there.” El smiled, “Are you extending an invitation?” “I,” he shifted from foot to foot, and though she couldn’t see it, she was certain Tyril was blushing, “that is, I don’t mean to,” he cleared his throat again, “I’m sure any of the others would be willing to share their quarters with you, if you ask.” “Oh,” “That’s not to say you’re unwelcome,” he added hurriedly. Grinning, she got to her feet, carefully tucking her blanket around the still sleeping Threep before crossing the room to stand before him. He looked down at her, the firelight flickering across his face, reflecting in his dark eyes. From this close he looked almost younger, the sharp line of his jaw was relaxed, his eyes soft. She wanted to trace the long line of his neck, to drag her fingers across his now visible collarbone. She nodded to the still open door behind them, “Can I come in?”

El jumped as the windows behind her rattled again, another gust of wind twisting the ancient trees outside. They creaked and groaned, the eerie noise reverberating in the vaulted emptiness of the elven hunting lodge. She sat up, blanket falling from her shoulders as she looked towards the door, which shuddered beneath the gale. Gaps between the door and its frame whistled in the wind, and a rush of cold air sent the leaves they’d tracked in on their arrival skittering towards her across the dusty, cobbled floor.

Despite her exhaustion from tramping about the Deadwood all day, she couldn’t sleep. Her eyes, though heavy, refused to close entirely, watching the door suspiciously for any sign of movement. The rest of the party had retired to their respective rooms, and she felt their absence just as sharply as the blister forming on her heel. Initially, sleeping next to the fire with Threep had sounded pleasant, but now she was having second thoughts.

For one, the fire Nia had conjured had gone out an hour ago, and the wind outside had started to howl shortly after. Yet miraculously, Threep snored beside her, curled up tightly on her bedroll. She glowered at him before flopping down beside him, yanking her blanket back up.

“For gods’ sake,” she grumbled, rolling angrily onto her side and clapping a hand over her ear, “it’s just a bit of wind.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, curling in on herself and drawing her blanket up to her chin, waiting for sleep to come. She cracked open one eye, looking out at the bleak and empty hall. The darkness glared back.

She’d never slept completely alone before. She and Kade had shared a room her entire life, and for the past few weeks she’d always been within arms reach of her companions. In fact she’d often woken up with Mal curled up on one side, and Nia on the other, all of them unconsciously seeking each other’s warmth in the night. Imtura had fallen right in with them, all four of them a tangled mass of limbs in the morning, though Tyril still kept himself apart. For now at least. Strange how they’d all worked their way into her life so quickly. Each one of them had burrowed into her heart almost without her knowledge. she’d known them for less time than she’d known the entire town of Riverbend and yet now, laying only feet away from her friends, she missed them more than her entire town. The thought made her smile, despite the fatigue that was building towards a pounding headache at the base of her skull. What a strange, merry bunch they were.

Another blast of wind rattled the windows, and the door shuddered. El sat bolt upright, scrabbling for the gauntlet resting near her head. Her heart pounded as her eyes strained through the gloom, muscles tensed and ready to spring.

When no monsters materialized in the dark, she shook her head and tossed away the gauntlet of pain rather harder than she meant to. It clattered against the floor, the resultant clang echoing through the entrance hall just as loud as the wind roaring outside. She swore and whipped around as a square of light fell onto the uneven floorboards as a door down the hall swung open.

“I’m sorry!” She groaned, burying her face in her hands. She could feel her own cheeks growing warm with embarrassment, “I’m so sorry! Go back to—“

“El? What’s wrong?”

She looked up in surprise, and her eyes widened even further to see a rather disheveled Tyril standing in front of her, blade drawn and eyes wide. He was devoid of his usual armor, and his dark red tunic hung open and loose at the neck, yet he still looked ready to pounce, eyes flashing about the dark.

“N-nothing,” she stammered, dragging her eyes away from the neck of his shirt and the few inches of now visible, toned chest on display, “I’m sorry to wake you, Tyril, it’s nothing, I just dropped,” she motioned towards the now ridiculous looking spiked gauntlet laying innocently on the soot streaked floor. She ducked her head, hoping the dark would hide the blush on her cheeks. “I uh,” she cleared her throat, “I thought I heard something.”

Outside, the wind howled, and the chimney above her shrieked. She tensed again, fingers clenching into her blanket. There was a soft murmur, a lilting language completely foreign to her, and a low flame flickered to life in the hearth. She looked up at Tyril, the firelight casting his already elegant features into even sharper relief. She looked back at the fire now crackling merrily in the hearth, then back to him with raised eyebrows.

“Didn’t you just tell Nia not to waste her light?”

“The cost of magic is much less dear for an Elf,” he said stiffly, and she smiled, drawing her hands up to her shoulders as the flames warmed her back.

“Well, thanks all the same,”

His razor sharp gaze softened, and said, voice low, “The old magic still holds on this place. It will be safe, I promise.”

“Right,” she let out a deep breath and let her hand rest on Threep’s still sleeping form, shaking her head as he let out a gentle snore, “even so, wish I could sleep as easy as him.”

Tyril eyed the slumbering nesper with a raised eyebrow, “He does have a certain knack for it.”

She stifled her laugh behind her hand, looking up at him with a smile, “Thanks for checking on me, and for the fire. I’ll let you get back to sleep now.”

“Right,” Tyril nodded and turned back towards the hall leading to his still open door. He paused in the doorway, drumming his fist on the door jam before he looked back at her. It was difficult to make out his face, even with the flickering light dancing on the walls, but something about his stance seemed suddenly... uncertain.

“You,” his voice died and he cleared his throat, turning back to face her entirely, “you needn’t stay out there.”

El smiled, “Are you extending an invitation?”

“I,” he shifted from foot to foot, and though she couldn’t see it, she was certain he was blushing, “that is, I don’t mean to,” he cleared his throat again, “I’m sure any of the others would be willing to share their quarters with you, if you ask.”

“Oh,”

“That’s not to say you’re unwelcome,” he added hurriedly.

Grinning, she got to her feet, carefully tucking her blanket around the still sleeping Threep before crossing the room to stand before him. He looked down at her, the firelight flickering across his face, reflecting in his dark eyes. From this close he looked almost younger, the sharp line of his jaw was relaxed, his eyes soft. She wanted to trace the long line of his neck, to drag her fingers across his now visible collarbone. She nodded to the still open door behind them, “Can I come in?”

Something like relief flashed across his face before he stepped back, holding the door open for the two of them, “Of course.”

“Nice place you’ve got here,” she said, sweeping her gaze across the dingy room. Though she’d meant it in jest, and despite the dust heavy in the air, the grandeur of the place was evident. The four poster bed was larger than the dinghy she and Mal had taken to the hidden cove, and was hung with now rich (and dust) brocade. The exposed beams in the walls and ceilings were ornately carved with trees and other greenery and all of the furniture still stood strong, made of rich, dark wood. The wind howling outside was a distant memory in here. In fact, the entire Deadwood and the world beyond it felt like a memory. Or maybe she was standing in a memory now. She walked over to a wash table on the other side of the room, footsteps muffled by a heavy rug beneath her feet, and wiped the dust off the tarnished mirror hung above it.

“You know,” she said, looking down at the thick film of dust clinging to her fingers, “I forget sometimes how old Morella really is. It’s so strange to think I’m standing in a building from an entirely different age,” she looked up at the ceiling, where a cracked fresco depicted a lush forest with leaping stags, gambling fawns, and a band of elves running alongside them, “it feels even more distant than that. I feel like I’m in an entirely different world.”

“From what I understand, it was a different world,” said Tyril, looking up as well, “magic permeated the very air, and we thrived in it,” he reached up, as if to brush his hand across the ceiling, and murmured something beneath his breath. A faint silvery glow outlined the fresco above them, and El gasped as the deer shuddered, shaking themselves as if they’d just emerged from a river, and leapt free of the ceiling.

They cantered silently across the air, leaving a trail of silver stardust behind them, and Tyril smiled as El reached out and touched one of the fawns galloping past her. It reared back, an explosion of golden sparks flying from its hooves.

“The old magic wove itself into everything we did,” he said, watching as the deer cantered past him and ran to circle El. She spun on the spot to keep her eyes on them, laughing as the largest stag walked across her outstreatched palm. It brushed against her hand as delicately as a butterfly, warming her skin wherever it touched.

“You mean everything the elves did,” she said with a grin, looking up from the glowing deer to him, “Threep never grows tired of telling me that we humans were basically jumping around bonfires and waving pointy sticks during the Great War.”

“Yes well,” Tyril looked down at his hand, curling his fingers over his palm. the stag on her hand faded, then disappeared in another wink of light, “at least your people aren’t responsible for the destruction of their entire civilization. Their mistakes are the reason we have to go on this impossible venture in the first place.”

“But if it weren’t for this crazy venture,” she said, sitting down on the bed in front of him and nudging him with her knee, “you never would have met us, and what a tragedy that would have been.”

He glanced down at her, one eyebrow raised in clear disbelief. His eyelashes were so long they cast a spidery shadow across his cheek.

“I think you’re the only member of our party who thinks that. The others barely tolerate me.”

El frowned, “That’s not true at all,”

Tyril raised an eyebrow and she patted the spot next to her on the bed. He eyed the space almost nervously before sitting down a careful distance from her. He was so tense the mattress didn’t even give beneath his weight.

“The others like to tease,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean they don’t respect you. We all know you’re an incredible asset to the team, and besides that,” she reached out and touched his hand, which rested on the bed between them, “you’re a good friend, Tyril.”

He looked up from where her hand covered his, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before he glanced away, his face flushing. Yet his hand remained beneath hers, solid and warm.

“It’s,” he swallowed hard, his jaw working silently as he stared at the fire flickering low in the grate, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone I could call a friend.”

“Well, now you’ve got four,” she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “five if you count Threep, which I’m sure he would insist that you do. So how’s that for progress?”

Tyril looked back at her and smiled, two faint dimples flashing in his cheeks. El grinned back, giving his hand another squeeze.

“You really are a marvel, Elaine of Riverbend,” He said, his low voice barely audible over the crackling of the fireplace.

She raised an eyebrow, “You’re the one who just made the decor prance around the room.”

“I’m serious,”

Her breath caught in her throat as he slowly turned his hand over, still beneath her own, and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. He didn’t look up from their now intertwined fingers, but she could see a delicate violet flush rising in his cheeks.

“I’ve been on my own for so long,” he murmured, his thumb ghosting over her wrist, “and even before I started this quest, back in Undermount, it was nearly impossible to find someone who I could trust,” he paused, his hand stilling on hers. He looked up at her, the barely flickering flames dancing in his eyes, shadows curving along his cheekbones and under his lips. Her heart pattered unevenly in her chest, but she held his gaze, and his hand tightened on hers.

“I’m very glad to have met you, El,” he said softly.

“I’m glad I met you too,”

The fire was nearly out, just a dim red glow in the grate, and she couldn’t recall how she and Tyril had become so close, shoulders brushing, hands still clasped together. She could barely see him, just a dark shape on an even darker background, and she reached up with her free hand, sucking in a sharp breath as her fingertips brushed his chin.

“Tyril?” she breathed, his name a question on her lips.

“Elaine,” he responded. She’d never heard her full name spoken like that before. Not in reprimand, or annoyance, but something akin to reverence.Her fingers brushed along his lower lip, across his high cheekbone and he leaned into her touch.

Their lips brushed so softly at first, it could have been an accident. The same feeling as his magic made visible, brushing across her hand, and she shivered as his other hand moved to her neck, cradling her head. He pulled her closer, swallowing up her gasp of surprise as his hand slid down from her neck and pressed against her back, drawing her in. Behind her closed eyes, she could still see the silver glow from his magic and she shivered as his fingers traced up her spine, a shower of stars dancing across her skin.

She pulled back, hands gripped into the fine silk of his tunic, breath coming in short gasps,

“I-I’m sorry,” she said, “I-I didn’t mean,”

“Elaine,”

His voice was soft, almost pleading, brushing against her cheek just as softly as his hands ghosting across her arm.

“Yes?”

“May I kiss you again?”

“Gods yes,”

The words were barely past her lips when Tyril slid his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. His lips moved fervently against hers, his tongue brushing her lower lip and she let out a soft sigh as his thumb caressed her cheek. She hitched her leg over his and he pulled her onto his lap, hands gripping her hips tight. She arched her back, closing any semblance of a gap they had between them as she clutched his shoulders, afraid that if she loosened her grip, this would all disappear, that he would dissolve into a shower of silver stardust beneath her hands. He kissed his way across her jaw, and she tipped her head back with a groan as his lips traced her neck. Everywhere he touched burned, heat searing through her veins.

All at once, his touch softened, becoming feather light. Their kisses slowed, each movement more deliberate and controlled, not the storm that it had been before, until they gradually stopped all together. For a moment they were still, foreheads still touching, hearts thudding in tandem as they both caught their breath.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admitted, his voice just above a whisper, “ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

“You mean the first time when I yelled at you for bumping into me?” She asked with a devious grin, still breathless, “Or the second time when you decapitated a man right in front of me.”

His already flushed cheeks darkened, “I admit it wasn’t the best of first impressions,” he said, his hands skimming her sides. She bit her lip as his hands settled on her hips, his thumb tracing a pattern on her skin.

“It’s alright,” she said with a smile, “I think you’ve more than made up for it.”

“That’s very reassuring to hear,” he reached up and brushed her hair back behind her ear, letting his hand linger there as his eyes swept over her face, “thank you, El.”

“For what, kissing you? I think I should be thanking you.”

He smiled again and she barely repressed the urge to kiss him again. She settled for brushing her fingers over one of his dimples, smiling when his eyes fluttered shut. He placed his hand over hers, trapping it against his cheek, slowly drawing it forward to press his lips against her wrist.

“You shine as bright as any star,” he murmured, looking up at her, “it’s what I first noticed about you, back in Parnassus. I’m sorry if I haven’t done a better job of showing you that until now.”

“Oh,” she bit her lip as her voice came out almost in a squeak, and instantly she felt heat rise in her neck and cheeks.

“If that was too forward, I apologize, I only meant—“

“No!” She said quickly, placing a hand against his chest, “No it wasn’t, I just,” even the tips of her ears felt hot, “no one has ever said anything like that to me before,” she looked around the room, then back at him, “I’m just having trouble believing this isn’t all a dream, like any moment I’m going to wake up back in my old rooms in Riverbend.”

“Well, if this is a dream,” he said with a soft smile, “I can’t recall the last time I had such a beautiful one, but perhaps we’d better retire now. I’m fairly certain you’ll wake up here.”

“Well that’s a relief,” she said with a smile, clambering off him and flopping back onto the mattress. Tyril shook his head, a smile twisting his lips as he laid next to her, dragging the blanket up over them both. She rested her cheek against his chest, and he curled his arm around her, pulling her closer. She settled against him, his warmth washing over her and she sighed, tucking her chin close to her chest.

“Do you think Threep has noticed your absence yet?” He asked, looking down at her. Her eyes were already shut, her breathing even and deep. Tyril smiled, laying his head back against the pillow, “Sleep well,” he murmured, curling his arm tight around her.

He couldn’t remember the last time sleep had come so easily.

#tyril starfury #tyril choices #tyril the mage #tyril #playchoices #pixelberry choices #blades of light and shadow tyril #blades of light and shadow #bolas #tyril bolas #bolas tyril #tyril x mc #tyril x femalemc #oc: Elaine

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whiskynottea · 4 years ago

Photo

An Interruption in the 1st Law of Thermodynamics Ficlet -- All the Time in the World

A/N: @wickedgoodbooks came to my inbox yelling ‘GOOFBALLSIES’, so here they are! Another thermodynamics ficlet. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

AO3

(You can find the main story here and on AO3)

~~~~~~

“How is she?”

My voice came a bit too loud, my breath too short. Before I had time to walk into the room, Jamie rushed to me and crushed me against his chest in a smothering hug. We had hung up less than ten minutes ago but I wanted to make sure that nothing had changed while I was trying to find my way to the waiting room.

“So? Do we have any news?” I asked again with the little breath I had left, wiggling in his arms so I could see him. His auburn locks were falling haphazardly on his forehead and the lack of sleep was evident in his eyes.

He’d come back from Michigan a week ago, determined not to miss Jenny’s delivery, and I joined them during the weekend. We spent the majority of our time with Jenny and Ian, following Dr Haffer’s orders and taking long walks in the city, but kept the nights to ourselves, locked into the small guest room of Jenny and Ian’s apartment. Time seemed to expand in the little room, like every time we eliminated the space between us. We lived in every second, every minute, drinking in each other -- the murmur of our voices not coming through speakers, the caress of breath on bare skin, the feel of our bodies coming together. The feeling of being home.

When Sunday night came and Jenny wasn’t in labour yet, Jamie walked me to the train station because I couldn’t skip Monday’s practical. I saw him raising his hand through the window, mouthing ‘I love you’ and once again, I left a part of my heart with him. The biggest part, if I was to judge by the way my chest was caving in and my irregular breathing. It was always like this when one of us had to go and I supposed if I wasn’t used to it yet, I never would.

However, here I was again, only two days later, after receiving a call from a Jamie in the middle of the night. Hovering between excitement and panic he informed me way too loudly that they were on their way to the hospital. I had taken the first train to Edinburgh.

Jamie was a lot calmer now and he was tracing lines on my shoulder blades to calm me as well.

“Nah,” he smiled and planted a kiss on my forehead. His gaze moved to my lips and a moment later his mouth was on mine. When we broke apart he was smiling. “We’re still waiting, but any time now…”

I couldn’t stop the grin from my face. “You’ll be an uncle,” I finished his sentence.

“Aye,” he beamed. “Jen will have wee lad. Can ye imagine, Sassenach?”

I thought of the thousand speculations we had made with Jenny over the phone during the last seven months. It was ridiculous, really, how the image of the baby changed according to our whim. First, it had Jenny’s blue eyes and Ian’s brown hair, then Ian’s warm eyes and Jenny’s elegant nose, after that Jenny’s black hair and Ian’s cheekbones. Jenny always ended up saying that she only wanted their baby to be healthy. Healthy and happy. I couldn’t wait to see the amazing mum she’d become.

“A little boy,” I murmured, biting the smile on my lips. “It feels like a miracle.”

Jamie grimaced. “Ian told Jenny so, about two hours ago. It didn’t go well.”

I laughed before cringing at the thought of my friend’s ordeal. “That bad?”

“‘What a miraculous pain indeed’, were her exact words.” I chuckled because that did sound like Jenny. “She was almost there once, but nothing. She got a bit disappointed after that. But the doctor said ‘tis normal for a first-time mum to labour for fourteen to twenty hours. We’re still at fifteen.”

“She going to make it and once she holds him in her arms she’ll forget everything else.”

“You think so? She’ll forget all about the pain?” Jamie doubted as he took my hand and lead me to the chairs.

“No,” I said, sitting down. “Science doesn’t back up the claims that women forget the pain of childbirth. It’s a myth. What I meant was that she won’t care anymore.”

“I dinna think she cares for the pain that much now, either. She just wants the baby to be okay.”

“That’s our Jenny.”

It was at that moment when Jenny’s scream pierced the air. Jamie shot out of his chair and started pacing back and forth.

“Babe,” he said in a low voice after a minute or two, coming to a stand in front of me. “I was thinking…” he trailed off. “Now that I know…” He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. “Ye ken…”

“What?” I stood up, alarmed. “Jamie, what is it?”

“I ken we’ve never talked about that and I’m getting ahead of myself. I dinna think that’s the place where we should talk about it for the first time either… ‘Tis hardly romantic. But… Seeing Jenny… I dinna want ye to go through this pain, mo chridhe.”

“What do you mean?” I took a step back, frowning.

“Jenny is a tough one and yet ye heard how she just screamed... I dinna think I’ve ever heard her screaming, apart from when she attacked Ian and me like a wee banshee at Lallybroch when we were children.”

“Screaming is good,” I tried to reassure him. “It releases tension.”

“Aye, maybe. But ye, going through this? I dinna think I can bear your pain, Sassenach. It will tear right through me.”

“What are you saying, James Fraser?” I said, my tone ominous and my hands on my hips. “You mean to say that your sister is tougher than I am? That I couldn’t handle giving birth? What is that supposed to mean?”

Jamie’s eyes got wide, then wider, black eating up the blue. “No, I didna mean… I hardly thought of comparing…”

“Well?”

“All I meant to say is that I don’t know what I would do if it were you screaming in there. I wish I could protect ye from this pain but I won’t. I can do nothing about it. So I was thinking…”

“Jamie,” I interrupted him. “You could be in there, with me. Like Ian is with Jenny. You could hold my hand. You could brush my hair off my forehead or wipe off my sweat or whatever else husbands do when their wives are in labour. You could be by my side. You could be there.” I cupped his face, forcing him to look down at me. “I don’t care about the pain as long as I can crush your hand with every contraction.” I paused, thinking, then added, “And as long as you won’t say that you know what I’m going through.”

He laughed. “Aye, I can do that.”

His smile was sweet as I pressed my lips on his. Our kiss was tender, a promise for a future resembling a vague painting -- the colours intermingling, the figures taking every form we could imagine.

“So I take it that you want children?”

“Aye,” he said and the light blush on his cheeks turned him to an insecure teenager, uncertain if he’d said the right thing to his first love. “You?”

“Yes,” I smiled and kissed him again. “Just not yet, okay? We have our degrees to get and, you know… Live on the same continent.”

He laughed and shook his head. “We have all the time in the world. I just want you to know that that you don’t need to go through this if ye don’t want to. If we want children we can adopt…”

I ran my fingers against the stubble on his cheek, the smooth cheekbone, marvelling into the man he was becoming. “We could have children and also adopt one. To give them a home and the love they deserve.”

Jamie beamed and leaned into me to kiss me again when an awkward cough broke us apart. I turned reluctantly around to see Brian carrying three cups of coffee.

“Welcome back lass,” he said with a nod as he handed me a cup.

“How are you?” I asked as I took two coffees from him, giving one to Jamie.

“Impatient.” His eyes twinkled with mirth. “Any news from our girl?”

“Apart from a scream, no. Nothing yet.” Jamie’s countenance changed again, his concern coming forward as his eyebrows almost touched above his nose. He was adorable.

“Dinna fash, lad. ‘Tis normal. Yer Ma was in labour for eighteen hours before Jenny came to the world.”

The mention of Jamie’s mother remained suspended in the air, vibrating with anguish and loss.

She should be here, I thought. The tall woman who read The Cricket on the Hearth to her children and smelled like almonds.

I saw the pain on Jamie’s face before he retreated further into himself, as he usually did when guilt attacked his common sense over the loss of his mother and brother. I grabbed his hand and squeezed tight, in a desperate move to bring him back to the present. I wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone. He should stop punishing himself for what wasn’t his fault. He gifted me with a sad smile that wasn’t enough but was better than nothing.

I kept his hand in mine, trying not to sigh. Once, at Lallybroch, I had vowed to Ellen to take care of her red-headed lad. I breathed in deeply and renewed my promise, extending it to encompass all the Fraser family. To love them more, for her.

“Jamie, lad,” Brian said in a soothing voice as he moved closer to his son. “We’re here together and your Ma and Rob are with us because we carry them in our hearts every day, aye?”

It was a sweet thing to say, but when I looked into Brian Fraser’s eyes I realised that he believed it. Each word. He’d never lived a day without Ellen because he carried her with him. Because he saw her in their children. He was living proof of love, of devotion.

We sat in silence, the two Frasers lost in memories of a past forever gone and I, trying to introduce a new subject to discuss and failing miserably.

“He’s here! He’s here!” Ian burst into the room, laughing, and crying, and hugging us all before we had time to react to his announcement. “Ten fingers and ten toes, with a tuft of black hair and a wee numb for a nose.” Tears were streaming down his cheeks but he didn’t seem to notice. “He’s the bonniest lad ye’ve ever seen. A bit on the red side and covered with --” he stopped, shaking his head. “And Jenny,” he said, turning to Jamie. “Man, if I dinna find myself the bravest lass. She’s so fearless it sometimes scares me.”

“Can we see them?” Brian asked, eyes darting from Ian to the door, as though he would run down the corridor to his daughter and grandson the moment he got confirmation that he was allowed to.

“Aye, in a bit. They haven’t finished yet.”

We were all standing, grinning like fools as we bounced on our feet, having nowhere to go but being too hyped to sit down again.

Ian’s announcement had broken the heavy silence that hung above our heads a minute ago, planting its cracks with a bright, pulsating feeling of anticipation. Life always surprised me in those moments; the moments that show us that nothing ever ends, that we are as complicated as we are simple. No matter what we are facing, we keep finding reasons to go on, to see the beauty, to honour our chance in this world.

“I’m going back to her,” Ian said and a moment later he disappeared, leaving us alone in that waiting limbo.

“He has Jenny’s hair,” Brian said, still gazing at the door.

“Yer hair, Da,” Jamie added before he hugged the older man, whose black head was now featuring a few grey hairs as well.

I looked at them, observing how same they were, how different. Wondering if Jenny’s little man will have the Fraser charm as well.

“Congratulations,” I said to both of them when they turned to look at me. Brian thanked me as Jamie walked to me, wove an arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer.

“Congratulations to ye too, Sassenach,” he whispered in my ear. “Ye’ll be his auntie, ye ken. His fairy auntie Claire.”

I laughed at that and kissed him on his cheekbone. “Auntie Claire,” I murmured, claiming a role in the little baby’s life as well. I looked forward to corrupting the little lad with treats and gifts and love.

When we finally got to see Jenny and the baby, we were like children opening gifts on a Christmas day. Jenny looked exhausted, but when her eyes met ours the sweetest smile curled up her lips. She was glowing. It was like I could feel her wonder at her little human, her happiness.

“Come see him,” she bid us and her gaze trailed back on the little bundle she was holding.

Brian moved first, unable to take his eyes away from his daughter and grandson. Jamie took my hand and I felt my feet following him towards the bed.

“He’s like a miracle, Da,” Jenny repeated Ian’s words that had vexed her with teary eyes, looking up to her father.

“Aye, my wee lass. Like the miracle ye were, for me and yer Ma. And now ye’re giving me yet another gift.” The voice wavered but his gaze didn’t move an inch away from his daughter’s face. I squeezed Jamie’s hand and he squeezed mine back.

Sometimes, I loved these silent conversations more than our audible ones; this secret code kept only for the two of us.

Jenny pulled her father down to kiss him. “Thank you, Da.”

“She would be very proud of you, Janet Flora Arabella.”

Jamie and Ian barked out similar laughs that almost covered Jenny’s exclamation, “Da!”

“And now that we come to names…” Ian started but stopped, waiting for Jenny to continue for him.

She nodded. “His name is James Robert Brian,” Jenny said with a grin. “Continuing this ridiculous family tradition and all.”

Jamie swallowed so hard I could hear it.

“Jen…” he whispered, looking at his sister through wide eyes.

“Brother, ye ken that ye mean a lot to me. As you do, Da. And wee Rob… I dinna want him to be forgotten.”

Jamie rushed to her, speechless, and bent over her, planting a tender kiss on his sister’s forehead.

“Thank ye, Jen,” he said, his accent heavier than it usually was. “I… Thank ye,” he repeated lamely, all other words having left him. “Can I hold him?”

Jenny extended the little bundle to his waiting arms. The baby’s head was smaller than his hand and a tiny hand was raised as though to touch him, to feel this new world.

“Hello wee one,” Jamie cooed. “Welcome to the world. Welcome to the family. I promise I’ll always be there to take care of you, even when ye’re a wee rascal and ye make yer Ma and Da mad.”

I chuckled and moved closer, peaking at the baby. He was still reddish, with swollen brown eyes and a tiny nose, just like Ian had said. Without thinking, I reached a forefinger and felt his tiny little fingers against mine. My heart banged in my chest, so full of emotion I thought it would burst.

“And this is auntie Claire,” Jamie introduced me a moment later. “And we love her, just so ye ken.”

“Valuable information,” I mocked, somewhat shy.

“‘Tis.” It was not Jamie, but Jenny that spoke from the bed, looking at as with a sweet smile.

“How do you feel?” I asked, leaving Jamie to have a moment alone with his nephew.

“God, I’m tired. But I canna close my eyes because I want to look at him and I canna do that while being asleep, ken? I dinna think I will draw anything else apart from him in the near future.”

“Nobody is going to take him from ye and ye’ll need yer strength lass,” her father advised. “Life is never going to be the same now.”

“Sleepless nights? Crying?” Ian asked, eyeing the little one who was, for now, calm and quiet.

“Aye,” Brian chuckled. “Lots of laughter too, son. Can I hold my grandson now?”

He’d barely got the baby from Jamie when a nurse dashed into the room, informing us that it was time for the mother to nurse her baby.

“Oh, aye.” Brian reluctantly handed little James back to his mother, clearly lamenting that he hadn't asked for him before. Jenny took him with tender moves, poked at his nose and started murmuring, asking him if he was hungry.

“We’ll see you later Jenny. You too, Ian!”

They both nodded, barely sparing us a glance before their gaze fell on their son who was blinking at his Ma.

“They’re so sweet together, aren’t they?” I asked once we left the room.

“A real family,” Brian replied, wistful and happy together.

“Are ye happy, Da?”

“Aye, son.” Brian’s voice was mellow and smooth, spreading around us like butter on bread. “You’ll never know how much happiness Jenny and ye have brought into my life until ye have yer own children. Then, ye’ll understand.” He reached out and ruffled Jamie’s hair as though he was a little boy and not a man more than six feet tall.

We left the hospital feeling that the world was a little bit better than an hour ago. In the car, on our way home Jamie leaned into me and whispered in my ear, “So… Two of our own and an adopted one? Let’s say… Two girls and a boy?”

I turned to look at him incredulously but the way he was looking at me made my heart stop and my mind go blank.

“Maybe,” was all I managed to whisper in response before I broke into a wide grin.

“We could name the boy Dalhousie.”

“You must be out of your bloody mind.”

“Fergus?” Jamie gave me one of his lopsided smiles and I rolled my eyes.

“Jesus!” I shook my head in disbelief before I turned forward, only to see Brian through the mirror, smirking.

“I dinna think Jesus is a good name for the lad, Sassenach. Too much weight on his shoulders.”

Brian was now holding back a laugh. These Frasers.

I elbowed Jamie and huffed indignantly. He took my hand in his and squeezed until I turned to look at him again. He kissed my temple then, whispering, “We’ll think about it. We have time.”

I smiled, thinking what Jamie had said in the waiting room. We wouldn’t start a family any time soon, but we had all the time in the world.

Two girls and a boy didn’t sound like a bad combination either.

#thermodynamics #the first law of thermodynamics #jamie x claire #jenny x ian #high school AU #college AU #outlander fanfic #thermo ficlet #all the time in the world #outlander fanfiction

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humans4vampires · 4 years ago

Text

1977 Homecoming

@teamlesbianbella Happy Holidays, my dear! Not-So-Secret-Anymore Santa here, delivering your gift! I do hope it’s everything you were wishing for! I loved writing this for you and I hope it makes you all toasty-warm with Rosalie goodness. Honestly, I would do so much more writing for this... Let me know what you think :)

Can’t wait to do another @twilight-secret-gift-exchange.

1977 Homecoming

If my heart could be pounding, it would be. If my body could lift my feet with any more anxious haste, it would. The cold wind broke against my skin, the snowflakes only lingering in the fibers of my clothes. It was well below freezing; I was sure this blizzard would be record breaking. I hadn’t seen this much snow in New York State since I was a child. As we ran, I tried to remember the Christmases I’d spent with my human family. The faces of my mother, father, and brothers were fading from my memory. The pain I always felt when I thought of them flooded through me. It wasn’t a raging agony anymore; it was rather dull and nagging. My life, after all, was not entirely riddled with sadness. Though my human family would never be replaced in my heart, my new family loved me and I, them. New? Well, in the context of eternity, it was in the realm of ‘new.’

We had stopped once on this journey from British Columbia to New York as we crossed paths with a friend in Saskatchewan. It wasn’t my first introduction to Garrett, but Jasper was freshly engrossed with Garrett’s patriotism. And Garrett was more than eager to swap war stories. This was also Garrett’s first time meeting Alice, so our initial stumbling upended to an extended stall. I was bored within the first hour. Battle had never interested me and though I loved my Alice, the curio displays of her gifts to each old friend we encountered had become monotonous. It was no better than enduring the years of Carlisle and Esme fawning over Edward when we were still a small family. While they all talked animatedly around the fireplace of a vacant cabin, I read the paper I had grabbed as we walked through the town. The date was January 23rd, 1977.

Christmas of ’76 had been mostly uneventful. We had spent the holiday with our ‘cousins,’ Tanya, Kate, Irina, and Carmen and Eleazar. Though, of course, we had to leave sooner than I would have liked because of Tanya’s constant advances toward Edward. I laughed to myself then, at the thought of anyone finding Edward to be a good romantic match. How funny, I thought, that Carlisle had once hoped that I would be that perfect pairing for Edward.

Of course Edward was beautiful; we all were. But he was handsome, still. I was sure he had been in his human life, too. He was also a gentleman, refined, and certainly someone who would have made a quality match for me when I was just a human girl. But Edward was much more than those simple things, too. Edward was witty and kind. He was talented and well-educated out of interest, not because he felt obligated to fill his time. There was also a part of him that understood me, and I didn’t chalk it up to the mind-reading. No, Edward valued mortality and the virtues of humanity in the same manner I did, I was sure.

Carlisle couldn’t have known me well enough in my human life to truly know that Edward and I would have so much in common, but it did seem to pan out perfectly. By all accounts, Edward was exactly my counterpart; of all my family and all those we came across in this new life, Edward and I were still the most alike. But if likeness equaled a perfect match, then Edward and I had broken the mold.

We were still running, through the tall red oaks and ash trees coated in ice and snow. I had let myself fall a bit behind, letting my thoughts wander. But I was back in the present now, and searching for my imperfect match. She was ahead of me, bounding through the snow with a childlike enthusiasm, moving like a tornado through the forest. Her long, chaotic brown curls were thick with ice. Her long, imposing body charged through the blizzard, her muscles dancing beneath her pearlescent skin. She was unaware of me, totally enthralled by the thrill of the wind, the blistering cold, and the sleet of ice. No one enjoyed being what we were more than my Eleanor.

I juxtaposed the day I carried her home to Carlisle in my arms, battered and broken, to watching her leap through the snow as she did now, a titan, a fearless woman, and smiled proudly. God, how I feared that she would resent me for how I had damned her. Until I had found her lying helplessly on the forest floor, I had never truly known Carlisle. How I had hated his selfishness, his cowardice in facing death, until I was the selfish one begging for the life of a stranger.

Eleanor thought I had saved her, but truthfully, she saved me. She saw me as an angel when I was nothing more than a monster. The guilt of my selfishness waned with time as I saw how much joy this new life brought her. Eleanor embraced everything with barefaced ardor. She was rough and intense and unrefined. She was easily distracted and entertained by each passing moment. She was unfocused and happy. Eleanor had a burning fervor to make the most of every amusement. She found no guilty pleasures, for every pleasure was unburdened; she was completely free.

I had never found myself attracted to women, though I was sure there would be no other woman, or man, on earth that could capture me the way she had. I had thought myself to be a romantic, but I had never truly known love, it seemed. Eleanor consumed me, slowly and surprisingly. A few years had passed before I had realized the devotion I felt for her was something more. I was relieved when I discovered she felt the same for me. How, in my damnation, was I allowed a miracle?

She suddenly turned toward me and stopped, blocking my path with her body. We collided swiftly and she wrapped her arms around me as she pulled me down into a thick snowbank. Eleanor’s laugh echoed through the trees and drowned in the howling wind.

“What are you doing?” I said into her hair.

“You’re going so slow,” she said. “We might as well take a break.”

“A break,” I huffed. “We’re almost there.”

I was locked in her iron grip, trapped in the snow pile against her as she chuckled. I moved to see her face and her expression became more serious. Eleanor brought a hand up to my forehead, brushing the hair there back behind my ear with her fingertips.

“What are you thinking about?” She was staring intently into my eyes, the question burning there.

I shrugged, “My love for you.”

She smiled sweetly, closing the distance between our lips as she cupped my face in her strong hands. Oh, her hands. They began to wander my body as we kissed more deeply. My hands were locked in her hair as she turned us over, pinning my back in the snow. The feeling of her body pressed against mine sent me into a frenzy. She was removing my clothes before I could catch myself falling into the fray.

“No,” I whined, pulling my lips from hers.

She kissed more fervently down my neck. I fought her hands to secure my shirt.

“Eleanor, we’re almost there,” I said. “Please.”

She groaned, lifting herself off me quickly. She stood in the snow a few feet away as I redressed myself.

“You’re awfully keyed up about this whole farm thing,” Eleanor crossed her arms as she argued. “I don’t see you as a farm girl.”

“I’m not,” I said proudly. “But this is different. You’ll see.”

She was unconvinced, but held a hand out for me to lead the way. I started ahead and she started clapping.

“God, I love to watch you walk away!” she said loudly.

I took off in a sprint and she followed.

I wanted to go home. When I was new and young and our family had to leave Rochester, Carlisle, Esme, Edward and I moved to a little stone house on the outskirts of the small town of Maine, New York. The house had been standing for at least a hundred years at that time, and while we stayed there, Esme spent her time restoring it. By the time we left to go further south for Carlisle, Edward and I to study medicine, the house had become a home. We left a family. For that reason and so many others, the house in Maine was my home. And I’d never shared it with my Eleanor.

I began to slow again as we approached. I wanted to walk at a human pace; enjoy every perfect detail. The house was atop a gentle hill situated in a large clearing. It was surrounded by towering white spruces and red oaks all blanketed with heavy frost. The long house was entirely stone, aside from a few additions from Esme where the Tudor style matched perfectly, as if they had always belonged. The paned windows were thick with ice like everything else, the snow piled high above the few small front steps to the door. Eleanor and I trudged forward, the snow above my waist. As we got closer to the door, I reached for her hand.

“Welcome home,” she said coolly.

I smiled and moved to open the door. Snow ran into the small foyer, dumping onto the stone floor as we quickly hopped in. I kept her hand in mine as I walked her through the rooms, telling the stories that came to mind. When we were back in the front room, she moved to the fireplace to start to build a fire. The others weren’t far behind. They would be joining us soon. When the beech wood was crackling with the roar of the flames, I joined Eleanor at the hearth. The snow and ice began to melt, thawing us both.

“A bath?” Eleanor suggested.

I nodded and hummed, “Mhmm.”

We were both drenched from the blizzard; our clothes had no hope of drying against our frigid skin. Though I couldn’t be uncomfortable, a warm bath sounded nice. Eleanor was gone then and I could hear the sound of the water running far down the long hallway.

My bedroom had the best view; Esme had insisted on it. Eleanor was standing at the far end of the room, bent over the large claw foot tub that sat in front of a set of wide French doors. She had the doors wide open, filling the room with the horizon, the afternoon light, and the faintest sprinkling of snowflakes. They danced through the air like pixies in the wind.

Eleanor turned to me after she had stopped the faucet.

I removed my clothes slowly, revealing myself to her. She did the same for me, removing her clothes as we admired one another. We didn’t speak. My golden hair was dripping, creating pools around my feet. She extended a hand to me and I crossed the room toward her with inhuman speed. I closed the distance between us, stone to stone as we collided. As we kissed, I felt a rush of peace. A gentle hum trilled my body.

We made it to the tub eventually where we sat, legs tangled together, facing each other as we looked out the doors and watched the snowfall. The neighbor that took care of the property kept horses at the stables here. We watched them as they tunneled through the snow that crested their chests, their brown coats casting a stark contrast to the heavy blanket of white.

“I love you,” Eleanor said softly.

I turned to her. “I love you.”

We stayed there until the water had lost its warmth. Eleanor and I dressed and met the others in the living room when they arrived. Once everyone had changed out of their wet clothes, we picked up our regular activities. Eleanor and Jasper left on a hunting trip to the Adirondacks. Edward went to tune the long-forgotten grand piano, then spent the evening composing something new. Esme and Alice made plans to visit the New York City for a shopping trip, chatting by the fireplace. Carlisle and I sat in matching armchairs, discussing my schooling and the new medical techniques Edward and I had been learning. We would be returning to school in a week when the new semester began again. We spoke for hours about medicine. Alice would chime in every now and then to explain what the future of medicine would look like in the next few decades; there were going to be incredible advancements. Edward would pick the images from Alice’s mind and explain the procedures and technology to us. Carlisle and Esme were beaming with pride as Alice and Edward dazzled them with their synchronized talents.

I wasn’t ‘gifted’ the way my siblings were, but I was never one to feel second-best. Though, at times, I wondered if I should. Was vanity clouding my judgment?

I was sure Edward had heard me. He made a polite excuse to leave the house. The others went to join him, leaving me at the fireplace to wait for Eleanor to return. I wasn’t interested in going out in the blizzard again. And I was grateful to Edward for giving me a reprieve – but I heard footfall coming back toward the house.

Carlisle was back quickly, dusting the snow from his hair in the doorway. I sighed and he smiled apologetically. I turned back to the fire.

“You didn’t have to come back to comfort me.”

His voice was soft. “I didn’t,” he agreed. “But I need to apologize.”

He was next to me at the hearth then, a hand on my knee.

I turned to face him. “It’s not fair for him to tell you every fleeting thought that passes through my head.”

“You know he wouldn’t betray your privacy, Rosalie.”

“I’m not jealous,” I said.

“You’re so much more than beautiful, Rose,” Carlisle spoke gently. “I’m so very proud of you, daughter. Of your strength and grace. Of your resilience.”

I nodded.

“Come now,” Carlisle continued. “Don’t allow another fleeting thought.”

We chuckled lightly.

“Can I convince you to join us?” He stood, holding a hand out to me.

I would never refuse him. I took his hand, and we ran through the snow following the trail of our family.

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