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sansaorgana · 1 day ago

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— HUMBLED (I)

PAIRING — Sauron x fem!Vala!Reader // Morgoth x fem!Vala!Reader

SUMMARY — Grown tired of living in your sister's shadow, you offered yourself to the one whom she had rejected once – Melkor. You regretted it quickly as he turned out to be a cruel lover and you became the very first subject of his twisted tortures meant to reshape one's spirit. In his eyes you were nothing by Varda's shadow but in the eyes of Mairon the Maia you have always been the only and the most holy goddess. When his master is gone, he can finally get close to you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I had two ideas for Sauron with Morgoth's ex and honestly? I will probably write one more because I like the other idea a lot, too. This fic is quite dark because of the nature of Reader's relationship with Morgoth. Not gonna lie, it was a challenge to write a Reader who is a literal Goddess but Sauron himself inspired me to explore this dynamic when he seemed to be so proud of the fact that it was a God himself torturing him... 👀 The Reader in this fic is a Vala (and Varda's sister but she remains undescribed as well), so she changes her appearance like Sauron does but I am not describing any of her forms in any details. In the next part there will be some goo/blob!Sauron + Halbrand and in this part our favourite ginger loser makes his comeback! 🦊 Apparently, I can't write him as a dom... 😂 Well, surely not with someone who is so much above him. Huge thanks to @dinsbeskar once more because we were brainstorming about this idea together. ⭐ Special thanks to @olchr-1 as well! 💚 PS – I haven't described how Morgoth looks like either but I imagine him as a tall, black haired hottie like on the fanarts. 💀😂 There is also a slight mention of the Reader being originally promised to Aulë, which was inspired by the story of Hephaestus and Aphrodite.

WARNINGS — Reader is evil (reshaped by Morgoth but not completely evil), domestic abuse (with Morgoth), mentions of Sauron and Reader being tortured by Morgoth, SMUT, sub!Sauron

WORD COUNT — 4,330

🔞 THIS FIC IS 18+ 🔞

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

HUMBLED (I)

The very first thing you remembered was beholding your sister Varda being crowned one of the mightiest of the Valier and Queen of the Valar, Queen of the Stars, a beauty beyond the description of Men and Elves. So pure to reject Melkor and marry his brother Manwë instead – King of the Valar.

You followed your sister nearly everywhere, hoping to bask in her light but it never seemed to be enough to make you feel warm. You were greedy – at first, you were jealous of her husband and insisted on her spending more time with you than with him, striving for all of her affection. Once you realised that it was a lost cause, you began to detest Manwë.

You watched Varda situate the stars in the heavens above Arda as if they were jewels and you were the one setting them alight with the fire burning within you for they could lighten up the firmament. You were responsible for the treacherous element that the fire was – useful in many ways but also dangerous if not used correctly or with malicious intent.

Aulë The Smith began to court you as he watched you set the stars on fire. He was dreaming of how perfectly you two would go together if you were to fuel the fire inside his forge – the source of all his creation would come from you.

Everyone, including your sister, was encouraging you to become his wife for his heart was of a noble kind. Your own heart remained unsure but you wished to marry as well instead of only watching Varda and Manwë sharing a bond you could only dream of. Aulë, however, was not who you were dreaming about.

It was Melkor that you were drawn to; Manwë’s powerful brother, the very same whom your sister had rejected once and he had grown to resent her. You were observing him often because he fascinated you and you probably were the only one amongst the Valar who understood him. You were outcasts, both of you, but you were better at hiding it.

He was sometimes observing you as well, from the corner of his eye. You could feel his gaze on you and you knew that he had to feel the same way you did – he could see the malice inside of your heart for his was the same.

Whenever you would spend time with Varda dancing in the flower fields, you could feel Melkor creeping in the shadows and watching. Of course, he was there for your sister but still, some of his gazes were reserved for you only.

Therefore, on the eve of your wedding to Aulë, you forsake the light and seeked the shadow as you sneaked out of the palace you lived in and you found yourself knocking upon Melkor’s doors. There was no fear inside of you, only pure determination.

And you knew you could never replace your sister; your power was a mere shadow of hers. Yet, you offered yourself to Melkor on that night and he took you in, claimed you as his own and made you his bride. Before dawn, together, you fled from Arda for some time, leaving behind sorrow and dismay.

Your sister was most grieved by your betrayal. Alongside her, Aulë descended into a state of melancholy until Manwë mentioned to him the possibility of courting Yavanna instead and The Fruit-Giver became his wife – that union became one of harmony and love unlike the one you would have with The Smith.

You always fascinated Mairon the most – (Y/N), Mother of Flames, Aulë’s lost love. As his disciple, Mairon observed you humbly before and he knew his master’s heart enough to know that Aulë would always feel bitter towards you. Yavanna was his love match but she could not fuel the fire inside his forge and become the source of his creation.

What a source of inspiration you were for Mairon, though. The same way others worshipped Varda, Mairon worshipped you. Everytime he stared at the fire inside the forge, your image was all he could think of as the thought of you lingered in his mind constantly. You were long gone from Arda after eloping with Melkor but he hoped it was not yet over, that he would see you again. In the early days, when his spirit was still pure, he often fantasised about you being taken back by the Valar and forgiven by them, so he could build altars for you amongst the kins that would yet awake to inhabit Arda.

Some of his bolder daydreams were about another form of punishment for you – he would have you humbled in the name of redemption, bound to a lowly Maia. He meant himself, of course. He imagined the Mother of Flames becoming the source of his creation, fueling the fire within his forge and watching over his craft as his very own wife. He wondered how jealous Aulë would be then and how humiliated you would be, yet he was certain he could make you happy and fix the malice of your spirit with his undying love and endless devotion.

And perhaps that blasphemous dreams of Mairon the Maia, bold in their insolence, would be a kinder fate for both of you and the whole Arda. Because, in the meantime, you were starting to realise with bitter clarity why you should have stayed away from Melkor, the Dark Lord, in the first place.

In his greatness, he dwelt in solitude and his mind remained ungraspable for you. He would rarely let you inside to allow you to see the world the way he perceived it. Though he desired you, it was not as an equal, neither as companion nor as lover. And even in his desire, there was contempt, too, because as Varda’s sister you were a reminder of her rejection, which still lingered within your husband as a wound unhealed. And your beauty, your power, your holiness… They were nothing but pale echoes of your sister’s qualities; faint reflections of her no matter how hard you tried. And each one of your failures to meet Melkor’s towering expectations was met with your husband’s wrath.

None among his servants who would later know him as a cruel master ever dared to complain about his punishments in your presence because you were his first subject of torment, his earliest experiment in reshaping the will of another and they knew that you survived things they could barely think of. You were a Vala and you could endure the worst treatment, therefore in your suffering he reshaped you in ways that would shatter even the mighty Maiar. Melkor forged you anew and twisted your already spoiled essence to his dark design.

Alone in his presence you felt belittled and humbled. But by his side before others, you were exalted and invincible – cloaked in the might of his dominion – and that illusion of power became intoxicating. For allowing you to get sedated with such greatness was enough to worship him like he was Eru himself and out of all your offerings, he loved that devotion the most about you.

To be his wife was not easy – it was a torment and perhaps you were burdened with the most difficult fate out of all the Valar. Yet, it was what you had chosen willingly for yourself and you carried this responsibility with pride, trying not to think too much of the life you could have lived instead. You were made for much bigger things than spending your whole lifetime resting in the sunlight and being followed by the forest animals like some of the Valar ladies were. No, you were aiming for greatness and the price for it was pain.

When Mairon came to your husband’s service, you sensed immediately the amount of his worship and devotion towards you. You sometimes wondered if the Maia joined Melkor for him and his power or were you the real reason for his spirit’s betrayal. His devotion amused you but you offered him no kindness as his yearning for your favour was met with cold indifference. Even though he was desperate for more of it, he should know better and be grateful for your rejection. Because if Melkor would realise the true nature of Mairon’s feelings, he would not go easy on him and his wrath would be merciless.

Sometimes you wondered how it was possible that Melkor could not sense Mairon’s admiration for you. Perhaps he thought of it as something innocent – something expected from his servants to feel towards his Queen. Perhaps he thought of it as silly and pathetic, unworthy of his attention, because he knew you would never humiliate yourself to betray him for a servant.

Or perhaps your husband cared about you even less than you suspected.

After Melkor’s defeat, you were hiding inside your fortress in the North from the wrath of the Valar. Your husband’s absence was welcomed by you with relief but also a huge emptiness within your soul. You had been his companion for ages and to be left alone now felt oddly wrong. Many of the creatures of darkness expected you to take the leadership but you stepped away instead, wishing for a calmer and more peaceful time at least.

The power you had once craved now was something you dreaded. Your husband’s ways had drained you nearly completely, you were a shell of your old self. You wanted nothing but to crawl inside a hole and spend another eternity there, resting as a person unknown to the outside world.

Mairon was the one who took all the responsibilities upon his shoulders and while committing to his duties, he would always emphasise he was fulfilling them in your name. Forever a servant he would remain.

Now, without Melkor’s eyes observing him constantly, he gained more courage to bask in the remains of your corrupted light. You sensed his gaze on you wherever you would go.

Your wish, however, was to go much further away and Mairon knew about it, which was worrying him. He was trying his best – nearly desperately – to reunite your husband’s armies and dark creatures of the shadows, to become their leader and build a realm for you to rule over. To become worthy of you.

“My Lady,” he kneeled as he approached you and he kept his eyes low although you knew he dared to look up here and there, too tempted not to lay his gaze on you. “Please, grant me an audience,” he pleaded.

“You wish for an audience, Mairon? But is it not you preparing to get crowned very soon, my cunning spirit? Soon it shall be me asking for your audience,” you teased him and he looked up, his eyes filled with panic. Melkor would punish him for such schemes but you were not him and his influence was upon you no more.

“I might crown myself the new Dark Lord, my Lady, but I would never consider myself to be above my Goddess,” he confessed and you smiled sadly as you approached him to grab him by his chin.

He swallowed thickly out of fear but his eyes remained soft, filled with nothing but pure admiration. In Melkor’s eyes you had been Varda’s unworthy shadow. Perhaps no one had ever perceived you with such devotion as Mairon.

“I shall build you altars in my realm; in every village, every town, every city. And in the capital of my kingdom where I will reside, I shall build a temple where you can find your peace,” he breathed out. “Just, please, do not abandon me.”

Your soft smile turned into a smirk when you let go of his chin and moved your hand to his ginger hair to caress it softly like he was your pet.

“I must, Mairon. When you build your temple for me, though, then I might come back to reside there. But until then, we must part,” you insisted and walked away at the sight of his eyes getting wet.

“Will they ever follow me without you by my side?” He asked, unsurely.

“They will not. Not all of them. Can you not see that it is a cursed path, destined to become a failure, to follow Melkor’s steps?” You turned around to look at his face once more. “Run away with me, Mairon. Forsake this realm, forsake your schemes,” you proposed and he gasped, visibly contemplating his answer. But the sparkles faded away from his eyes very quickly.

“No,” he shook his head. “I must stay and heal Middle-earth. I cannot abandon its people because of my own selfish desire,” he resisted you as you chuckled at that.

“You are no god, then, Mairon. Gods do whatever they wish. Spirits like you were created to serve,” you teased, cruelly as you sat on your armchair and he moved uncomfortably, looking away, but he remained kneeling and humbled.

“Allow me to serve you then, Mother of Flames,” he dared to whisper, nearly inaudibly, his breath shaky and lips trembling.

You tilted your head, thinking about his words. You would leave this realm soon, perhaps forever. He surely deserved a little treat before your departure for all the worship and devotion he had been gifting you with. And you deserved to give in to desires of your flesh as well after all the treatment your husband had given you.

“Come to me,” you ordered, harshly. You watched him trying to stand up slowly but you quickly stopped him. “On your hands and knees,” you explained.

Mairon glanced up at you as if he could not believe the amount of humiliation you would put him through now. It was true that back in the day you had often contrasted with Melkor’s cruelty but now Melkor was no more and you had been taught the craft by the very master of it.

Perhaps his influence was still upon you and it would remain there forever.

You waited with an eyebrow raised and Marion gave up eventually, crawling on the floor towards you. He might have been humiliated and embarrassed but his eagerness was obvious in the way his eyes sparkled at the sight of your legs getting closer and closer to him. And when he was nearly in front of them, you opened them slightly as he gasped and looked up at you with admiration. He could not believe the access you had just given him while you smirked at his obedience.

“Serve me, Mairon,” you requested, wickedly. “Let my taste remain on your lips and might you never forget it while you build your kingdom in my name. I will come back to you then, my sweet, unless the Valar find and imprison me before,” you leaned in to caress his cheek with your finger gently.

“I shall fight them then. No matter how much it takes, I will release you and bind you to me instead,” he whispered.

“Bold of you, mighty Maia, to speak of such matters,” you let out a laugh. “Even as the greatest of your kind, you would still only be gifted with a mere shadow of my powers. We will never be equal, Mairon,” you reminded him and his eyes welled with even more tears at such a harsh reminder.

He cursed Eru himself for creating him as such a low spirit because this way he could never be worthy of you and to be able to walk by your side as your equal was all he had ever wanted.

“Let it be then… Anything to be close to you, my Lady,” he cooed. “Please, allow me to touch you,” he begged as he moved even closer to your legs.

“Proceed,” you nodded and watched him closely, observing his every movement, every gaze, which probably intimidated him even further but you could sense his desire to please you becoming too grand to care about anything else.

His hands wrapped around your ankles and moved up slowly, brushing your skin as the skirts of your dress pulled up, revealing your calves for him to admire. He had never seen them.

Well, perhaps he had. He had often sneaked up on you here and there and you had known about it but welcomed it with nothing but a chuckle as you had been pretending to be oblivious.

However, he had never been so close to them. To you. He crawled up even closer as he planted soft and devoted kisses to your exposed skin. You had never known kisses like these because Melkor had been mostly devouring you, tormenting you, using you.

Mairon sighed and you felt a shiver go down your spine at the feeling of his fingertips brushing the back of your knees. You slid lower on the armchair as your skirts pulled nearly all the way up, exposing your thighs to him. Your obedient servant gasped and looked up at you once more as if he was asking if that part of you was allowed for him, too.

“Have I told you to stop?” You challenged him and he nodded before burying his head between your soft thighs to kiss and lick them softly, breathing the sweet scent of your skin as if you were the holiness personified.

Wicked thought it was for you were the most corrupted and fallen out of the female Valar and yet you doubted any of them were worshipped with such eagerness as you were now.

“If we never left Valinor and I never followed Melkor,” you breathed out, caressing Mairon’s ginger hair and playing with the delicate strands of his hair between your fingers, “you would be my disciple and we would spend forever in the fields under the sun with you worshipping me, my sweet spirit,” you shared your fantasy with him and he whined at that as he moved his face further and deeper, his nose nudging your glistening cunt as he requested for your legs to open even wider.

“So impatient,” you pointed out and grabbed him by his throat to pull him away. You felt him swallow underneath your hand and then you forced him to look up by grabbing his chin. It was slightly wet already from your leaking cunt and you leaned in to give him a possessive, open-mouth kiss; to taste yourself on him as his eyes widened but he gave in immediately.

While granting him with a kiss he would never forget, you opened your legs further and further, giving him full access to the sweet nectar between your thighs and he whined into your mouth like a brat when he realised what you were doing. He laid his trembling hands on your thighs and moved the folds of your dress even further to the back, making sure your cunt was all exposed for him.

The cold air of the room caused your clit to twitch and swell before his thumb found it and brushed it. Now it was your time to moan into his mouth. You broke the kiss and pressed your forehead to his as you closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths in. Pleasure without pain was an experience brand new for your flesh and you had to steady yourself as he watched in awe.

“A-allow me…” Mairon pleaded and your eyes opened once more as you looked deep into his with a nod.

You laid back in the armchair and watched him with curiosity but also a hint of contempt to see a spirit so mighty humbled like this – perhaps you could understand Melkor more than you had ever expected to be able to but it was truly fascinating and pleasurable to humiliate other spirits.

To be able to kiss and lick your cunt, to devour it – it was surely a life-changing experience for your sweet Mairon. His usually calm demeanour changed in an instant, reminding you of a hungry hound as he whined and whimpered, lapping on your juices as if it was the sweetest nectar granting him immortality. He was intoxicated as his hands squeezed your thighs to keep them open and allow him to feast eagerly.

Your body of a goddess allowed you to go on without breaks; a peak after peak as you shivered and trembled, caressing his head and meeting his hazy, devoted gaze once in a while to let him know he was doing good. Your praise meant everything to him for all he had always known was your husband’s reprimands.

Your flesh could go on and on but your mind of a goddess was a demanding one and soon you grew simply bored of his ministrations, therefore you pushed his head away and crossed your legs, taking away the access from him.

Mairon’s face was flushed, his eyes foggy and skin glistening from sweat and your juices dripping down his chin. He was kneeling and looking up at you mindlessly as if he would follow your every order now, no matter how self-destructive it would be.

“You’ve served me good, Mairon,” you grabbed his chin and smiled at him. “Good servant,” you emphasised.

“P-please,” he whimpered and you furrowed your brow before realising what he begged you for.

His own release.

“Was not your kin created to serve mine? I do not think our creator blessed you with such desires, Mairon. Do not be a dirty liar,” you teased him.

“Please, my Lady,” he whined, desperately.

You sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Alright, then, let me see for myself,” you smirked and pushed him down onto the floor before getting out of your armchair and straddling him like a predator would trap her prey before sinking her teeth into him.

He looked so pretty like this – both excited and turned on but also absolutely terrified of you. You could do everything to him and he had no other way but to accept it. And he knew – he knew very well – that you could be as cruel as Melkor if you only wanted to be.

Melkor’s brutality had been driven by his own whim. Yours would be driven by your revenge for all the centuries of being treated like his dog. Beaten dogs tended to bite deadly and Mairon knew.

“Do not fear me, sweet Mairon. I only want to see for myself if it is true that you have fallen and corrupted yourself so much with your devotion towards me that you have been gifted with desires of the flesh,” you smirked. “Or cursed with them,” you pointed out as your hands worked on his robes and the trousers underneath them swiftly and quickly.

You gasped and laughed when you saw how hard he was already after all those hours he had spent between your legs. He blushed even further and his cheeks were crimson red now like his clothes.

“This must hurt,” you pointed out with a sinister chuckle. “Is it the first time for you?” You asked, brushing his thighs with your fingernails, making him shiver under your touch but refusing to actually pay any attention to his hard and reddened cock with its tip swollen and twitching, leaking precum.

“No,” he confessed, nearly inaudibly.

“Interesting,” you hummed to yourself and leaned in, your face so close to his that your noses brushed. “And what were you doing usually when it happened?”

“Nothing,” Mairon confessed, his face wincing out of shame. “Nothing, my Lady. I would never… I would never dare to…” He gasped after every word, so sweetly desperate and frustrated but not brave enough to ask you to do anything in particular. He would never order you around.

“Oh, my sweet, poor Mairon… You should have come to me each time and I would have helped you,” you grinned at him although you both knew it was not true. None of you would have ever dared to commit such an act behind Melkor’s back. “Do you want me to ease you now?” You asked.

“P-please…”

You reached towards his twitching cock and grabbed his wet length as you watched with cold fascination while he struggled and writhed underneath you. A few pumps of your hand was enough to make him spill himself with a whine, bucking his hips into your hand as you kept jerking him off to make more and more of his seed spurt out.

His body of a Maia did not need breaks but there was always a limit to how much seed any male flesh could produce. And when you felt he could absolutely do no more, you stopped and watched him catch his breath as you giggled, laying on top of him and intertwining your legs. One of your hands kept caressing his sore and softening cock gently as your other hand pulled his head closer to your chest, burying his face between your breasts and caressing his ginger hair strands.

“Please, do not go… I will be so lost without you,” Mairon looked up to meet your gaze and you smiled sadly at that.

“Do not start again,” you scolded him.

“Can you at least stay for the coronation?” He pleaded but you shook your head.

“No. I must leave tonight, as soon as possible,” you leaned in to kiss his forehead and a short while of silence occurred.

It surprised you greatly but some part of you began craving to take care of him now. As if the sinful act you had just performed with him, which stained you in a way – because what else would you call lowering yourself to pleasing a Maia? – as if it had forged an attachment between you two and bound you to him indeed like he had blasphemously suggested before.

You definitely had to leave and hide from the Valar, seek your own peace of mind. But you knew already that you would be back for your sweet Mairon sooner than both of you expected.

MASTERLIST

#sauron x reader #annatar x reader #halbrand x reader #lilysfiction

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pseudowho · 2 days ago

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RIP, Nanami’s favorite mug 😭

Seriously, Haitch, I don’t know how you do it time and time again, but that was another piece of brilliant writing! You have a gift for making everyday moments seem so special.

I can’t help but agree with what an anon said the other day — I’ve come to see your writing as a peek into your life with Mr. Haitch and wonder just how much filled it is with love that it spills into how you write.

Please don’t stop writing. Ever. It’s my happy place 🥹

Sending you buckets of love! xx

Honestly, while I write these fics very much with Nanami Kento in mind, marriage experience bleeds into my fics, and lends itself to the soft, natural, organic love that has matured into something intensely intimate. I like to think, anyway.

Writing it comes naturally to me because I live it, and I recognise how fortunate I am for that. The love does spill over. I imagine the reader loving Nanami and Nanami loving the reader, like this.

I'm so glad you loved it. Papamin has a really distinct part of my soul. With @mrhaitch's job now being educating troubled young teenagers, and almost all boys, it adds another element to this too.

☝️ 'the talk' catching Yuuji off guard like

If you'd like to read about Nanami Kento giving Yuuji 'the talk', please find it here! My latest Papamin fic, the first in a while!

Love,

-- Haitch xxx

#pseudowho #pseudowho answers you #jjk #haitch #kento nanami #nanami kento #jjk nanami #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #nanami fluff #itadori yuuji #yuuji #Papamin by Haitch #Papamin by pseudowho

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emsbowx · 2 days ago

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“ just hold my hand. ”

pairing : tasm!peterparker x f!reader

summary : f!reader suddenly is rescued by tasm!peterparker while getting mugged, the rescue leads to other small feelings to start to grow

warnings : pet names, cursing, bad writing, horribly proofread, plot probably makes no sense at all, bad grammar ermmm

wc : 716

A/N : ermmm first fic so if it sucks that’s why guys😔 probably not gonna make this one a series and this will most likely by my first and last fic lol💜

you had no idea how you ended up on top of a building. one minute you were being mugged, and another you were in spider-man’s arms in mid air. “holy fuck! let me down!!” you squeal, shutting your eyes tightly and trying not to burst out into tears of pure terror. “calm down, doll. just trying to get you to a safe place.” spider-man spoke, you find yourself feeling comforted by his warm, honey-like voice, it sounding all too familiar to you.

you watch as the boy in the red and blue suit swings you both, stopping on top of an apartment building rooftop. he releases you from his securing grip, and you stumble forward slightly due to the almost whiplash-like change of practically flying and being reminded of gravity.

“easy there, doll.” he advised, his tone laced with a slight hint of teasing. setting a hand on the small of your back to ensure your safety.

“i think i just saw the light.” you mumble, hand moving over your heart to try and regulate your heartbeat. you walk towards the middle of the rooftop, avoiding the ledge at all costs. you never acknowledged just how bad you’re fear of heights was until now. “great timing y/n” you think to yourself, turning around to see spider-man, who’s practically jumping off the roof, “aren’t you scared to fall?” you ask, not realizing how dumb that question sounds until after you said it. of course he isn’t scared to fall, he’s spider-man.

the boy laughs, you take a mental note to somehow find a way to hear that sweet sound again. “no doll, i’m not scared to fall. in fact, i fall on purpose, that’s kind of my job.” he remarks, making his was over to where you stand, arms crossed.

“soo, you gonna tell me where you live so i can take you back?” spider-man inquires, not so much asking, more so to remind you.

“oh yeah, uhm, i live on 51st street,” you almost blurt out, the reality and realization of you almost being attacked just minutes ago staring to set in.

“you doin’ alright sweetheart?” he asks, noticing your sudden detach from the conversation. as he waits for you to answer, he makes a mental map of the route to your home.

“yeah, yeah, i’m fine. just a little in shock i guess..” you reply, running your hands through your hair, wishing you were in bed, and that this was all really really weird dream.

“okay, just checking doll.” he comments, the pet name feeling natural to him.

a few minutes pass and you’ve been stalling getting down from the rooftop, knowing you have to go through what you did roughly ten minutes ago.

“alright, let’s get you home.” spider-man spoke, reaching a hand out for you, “i know you’re stalling. just hold my hand, it won’t be that bad sweetheart. you ready?”

you take his hand in yours holding onto him tightly as you brace yourself for the drop. “yeah, as i’ll ever be i guess..”

spider-man hears your words of consent and swiftly shoots out a web to cling to the side of a nearby skyscraper, you tighten your grip on the boy and biting your lip to suppress a scream as you both glide through the night.

you two soon reach your house, you catch your breath as he walks you to the gate. “hey spider-man, i never got to say thank you,” i realize, turning my head slightly to the side to look at him.

“your welcome doll, just try not to walk alone at night, some people are creeps.” he cautions, looking you over carefully to see if you are injured.

“i’ll try not to..” you say, a soft smile appearing on your lips. “bye spider-man, see you around.” you state, turning to open the door to your house.

“yeah, you can count on that sweetheart.” he quips, a smirk on his face under the mask, he waits for you to close and lock the door behind you before he sets off to finish his nightly patrol. “she’s somethin’..” spider-man thinks to himself, knowing he’s most definitely going to check in on you throughout the week. to make sure you’re safe, and to be able to talk to you more.

#aesthetic #spilled ink #fantasy #spiderman #the amazing spider man #andrew garfield #tasm peter parker #emmasloves #emsbowx #peter parker #peter parker x reader #tasm x reader

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n0vazsq · 9 hours ago

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Winner | Lamine Yamal x Reader

pairing . . . lamine yamal x gf!reader

summary . . . After watching your boyfriend play a match, he invites you over to the field so he can teach you how to play

request . . . yes!! based on this request!

word count . . . 1.5k+

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . idk why it took me sm time to write this like it could've legit taken me like 40 mins but idk </3 I HOPE YOU LIKE ITTTT! i forgot i was writing a fic halfway through the football tutorial so lets ignore that <3 I YAPPED MY ASS OFF IN THIS LIKE OMG

taglist . . . @barcapix (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

. . . The football field was still buzzing with energy as the match wrapped up. The sound of boots pounding against the turf, the cheers from the crowd, and the sharp whistle from the referee all began to fade as players gathered around, stretching and cooling off.

You had been watching from the sidelines, eyes glued to Lamine as he darted around the field with the kind of ease that made his talent look effortless.

The excitement from the game was still fresh, but your mind wandered back to the way he had been glancing your way every time he had a chance. You’d been there to support him, of course, but you couldn’t help the little excitement that ran through you each time your eyes met his.

As the final whistle blew and players started to make their way to the sidelines, Lamine broke away from the group, his expression lighting up when he spotted you. A quick wave, a playful grin, and then he jogged over to where you were standing.

"You're watching or you're playing?" Lamine asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Watching," you replied, offering a smile. "You guys were amazing out there."

"Not as amazing as you," he replied with a wink, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face. His gaze softened as he looked at you, his hands resting gently on your waist.

You smiled, your heart swelling at the sincerity in his voice. "You’re my favorite player, Lamine. Always." you said, your fingers lightly tracing his jawline.

The air between you two shifted, the teasing and laughter fading into something more affectionate. Without thinking, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, the kiss slow and easy, like you both had all the time in the world.

He responded instantly, his hands moving to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened, and for a brief moment, everything else disappeared, just the two of you, the feel of his lips against yours, and the quiet hum of the evening.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested against each other, and you stayed like that for a while, just enjoying the quiet closeness. "I love you," Lamine whispered, his voice low, sincere.

"I love you, too," you replied, your voice soft. You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, his heartbeat steady and reassuring, and in that moment, everything felt right.

"You know," he said with a mischievous smile, "you should try it yourself."

You raised an eyebrow, unsure whether he was serious or joking. "Try what?"

"Football," he said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "I’ll teach you. We can make it a proper football weekend."

A laugh rose up from your chest. "I’ve never played before, Lamine. I’d probably mess it up."

He leaned in, the grin on his face widening. "You won’t mess it up. I’ll teach you. You’re smart, you’ll catch on quickly. Plus, it's just for fun."

You hesitated, but the enthusiasm in his eyes was impossible to resist. "Alright, fine. But only because you asked nicely."

Lamine led you to a quieter part of the field, away from the hustle and chaos of the game’s aftermath. The soft sound of the ball bouncing on the grass as the remaining players finished packing up and heading off was the only noise. It felt peaceful, almost surreal, like this was a private moment between the two of you.

"So, first things first," Lamine began, positioning the ball on the ground in front of him. "The basics. You kick the ball, try to keep it under control, and-"

You interrupted with a mock roll of your eyes. "I know how to kick a ball, Lamine."

He laughed and nudged you lightly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. "Just making sure. But do you know how to pass, control it, and dribble without tripping over your own feet?"

"Fair point," you said, stepping up to the ball and kicking it lightly, feeling it roll a few feet ahead. "Like this?"

"Not bad," he said, his tone approving. He came closer, showing you how to position your foot, his own demonstrating the proper technique as the ball gently tapped the grass and spun away. "Like this. You want to keep the ball close to you, not too far ahead. And don't worry about looking perfect, it’s just practice."

You tried again, this time focusing on keeping the ball close to your foot as you tapped it forward. Lamine stood close by, offering tips and making sure you didn’t get discouraged when you missed or sent the ball off in the wrong direction.

"See? You’re getting it," he said after your fifth attempt. "You just need a little more practice."

"Easy for you to say," you muttered, smiling despite yourself. "You’ve been playing for years."

"Doesn’t mean you can’t learn," he said confidently. "Everyone starts somewhere. And you’re a quick learner. I’m impressed."

You couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride at his words, even if they were just about kicking a football around. It was nice to be noticed, especially by him. You had always admired his dedication and skill on the field, but seeing him take the time to teach you felt… different. It made your heart flutter in a way you didn’t quite understand.

"Okay, now for the dribbling," Lamine said, stepping back to give you more room. "It’s all about control, and… well, not letting the ball get too far away from you."

You focused hard as he demonstrated, showing you how to move the ball with precision. After a few tries, you started to get the hang of it. You felt more confident, and that confidence seemed to spark something in Lamine.

"Hey, not bad at all," he said, grinning. "You're a natural."

"Maybe I’m just good at listening," you teased, wiping the sweat from your brow.

He laughed, stepping a little closer to you. "You’re good at more than listening."

You tried to ignore the warmth that spread through you at his words. Lamine had always had this effortless way of making you feel special without even trying.

"Alright," he said, pushing the ball toward you with his foot. "Let's see if you can get it past me."

You gave him a skeptical look. "What, now we’re playing against each other?"

"Why not?" He shrugged, clearly enjoying the playful challenge. "Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you."

"Well, aren’t you confident?" you said, laughing as you readied yourself to try and dribble past him. The challenge had you on edge in the best way, and you focused on the ball, taking a deep breath as you tried to maneuver it around him.

The two of you danced around the field, him weaving around effortlessly, showing off his moves while you stumbled after him, trying to keep up. But each time you managed to get close, he'd use his quick footwork to steal the ball away with a teasing laugh.

"You’re getting better!" he said, as you finally managed to get a little too close for comfort, kicking the ball out of his reach.

"Don’t get cocky now," you shot back, smiling.

He walked over, clapping you on the back lightly. "You’ve definitely got potential. Who knows? Maybe we’ll make a footballer out of you yet."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. You weren’t sure if he was joking or not, but the idea of spending more time like this with him, laughing and learning together, felt… nice. More than nice.

"Thanks, Lamine. For everything," you said, glancing up at him.

He flashed a grin, his usual cockiness replaced by something softer. "Anytime."

"Hey, get the ball, it's rolling away." you laughed, pointing behind him.

Running to get the ball, Lamine walked back to you, a troublesome grin playing on his lips. "Well," he said, pulling you into a side hug, "I think it’s time for my reward for teaching you football."

You raised an eyebrow, playing along. "And what would that reward be?"

"Well, first," he said, his voice dropping lower as he gently kissed your temple, "I get to kiss you again."

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing small patterns on his chest as you looked up at him. "Seems like a pretty good reward to me."

His grin widened, and without warning, he cupped your face, gently guiding you in for another kiss. This one was more urgent than before, his hands finding your waist like usual. You melted into him, your hands slipping around his neck as you deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of him.

When you finally pulled back, your heart was racing, and a playful sparkle flickered in your eyes. "Is that all I get for my efforts?"

Lamine laughed, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "For now," he teased. "But I think I’ll find more ways to show you just how much I appreciate you later."

You smiled up at him, holding his hand in yours. "I look forward to it," you said, leaning into him again, content in the warmth of his embrace.

Lamine might've won the football match, and maybe your heart too. But until now, you've won in life.

And maybe won his heart too.

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nickscodthoughtsblog · 16 hours ago

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Shot in the Dark (König/Nikto)

hey gang. I had a thought infest my brain and now im sharing it with you guys. something a little different to x Reader fics i've been writing, but hear me out on this one. König/Nikto. first time actually writing for Nikto but i took the time to understand his character. and yes i will write more of this so i hope you like it :)

There was a pretty wide assortment of people König worked with in KorTac. Hutch, Fender, Roze… On the field, he saw how each one of them fit their roles and excelled in them. Off the field, he saw them as friends. Some took longer to bond with, like getting Calisto to warm up to him, while others just gravitated towards him. He’ll always remember how quickly he bonded with Horangi. And, even if some of the others found it strange, he couldn’t help his habit of wanting to know the people he was trusting his six with better than just their skill sets.

There was, however, one person he never got the chance to exchange even one word with, and didn’t even know the name of. Not someone new, though. He would notice from time to time, how the man sat alone, away from everyone, his mask always worn and his eyes distant. The only person he’s seen talk to him was Krueger, and it never seemed like it was a long chat. The last time he asked his fellow Austrian about him, all he got was “Don’t worry about him” and a dismissive wave. Not his name, not his relation to Krueger, not even a hint of his nature.

And he tried to leave it alone. On his pride, he tried. With Krueger out on deployment, he only noticed more and more how the man sat alone, in the same places at the same time, like he was waiting for the one person he had a chance to talk to. Miserable, König thought, to wait so long alone. He couldn’t help his feet carrying him over to the man in the mess hall, away from the group he normally ate with.

Maybe his sister was right, when she kept saying he was too empathetic for his own good.

As he came to stand at the table, the man looked up to him. “Krue-” He stopped upon seeing that the sniper hood König wore was significantly different from what the other austrian wore. “Wrong person.” He went back to staring at the room blankly.

“Are you okay?” König asked softly.

“Да” was the blunt reply. It bugged König, so he sat down opposite him. “...what are you doing?”

“You seemed lonely, Soldat. Without Krueger around, at least.”

A short silence, the man’s stare locked on his. He almost thought he was being ignored. “...we’re fine.” His tone sure, as though there wasn’t a chance he couldn’t be okay.

We? König rationalized it as referring to him and Krueger. “Either way, I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s-”

“König.” he cut him off. “Krueger pointed you out to us.”

…maybe he wasn’t referring to both of them. “Uh, ja. Ja, that’s me.” He nodded. “He never told me your name.” He was only met with a slight nod. Okay, maybe being direct would help. “What’s your name?”

He seemed to hesitate, his gaze shifting away from König’s face for the first time since he sat down. “Krueger thinks he’s okay…” The soft, barely audible mutter made König’s eyebrow raise, just like the questions in his head. He didn’t voice them. “Nikto.”

“Nikto…” he tested the name on his tongue. “Good to meet you.” Those dull blue eyes were focused on him again. He didn’t return the sentiment at all. If he was shy, König could easily relate. But he had such laser focus on staring at him, not a care if it would be disturbing or off-putting. The Austrian had no idea where to even begin with talking to him. Just one, possibly sensitive topic. “...why do-”

His phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting him off. He took it out, finding a text from Horangi. A challenge to see who could do more pull-ups. And Horangi being Horangi, there was a 10€ bet thrown down. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ah, Tiger…” He returned his focus to Nikto. “Sorry. Horangi was just wanting to-”

“Go on.” The Russian's voice didn’t hold any contempt. Just acceptance that he had other friends.

König stood up, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Okay. Maybe we can…talk later?” he offered, not getting much of a response. “See you later, Nikto.” He walked away.

As he left, he heard his voice, a response that gave him a bit of hope for cheering him up.

“Да. Later, König.”

#also i will end up making a masterlist just give me a bit #organizing myself is kinda hard #owls blurb #könig cod #könig call of duty #könig #konig #cod #call of duty #cod nikto #call of duty nikto #nikto #mwii nikto

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ildiavoloro55o · 1 year ago

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Here’s a short sneak peek of a sad Carlos fic I started writing after Las Vegas.

It’s called “There it is again (that funny feeling)” the name might change.

It’s a multi chapter fic coming soon to a website (ao3) near you. It’s Carlando and it’s angsty.

Let me know how you guys feel about this and I’ll try to finish the first chapter (it’s almost done) and post it asap. ☺️

He’s standing in the pouring rain.

That’s how Oscar finds him. It had been a few hours since the race, and everything had come to an end. McLaren's race debrief had just ended thirty minutes ago, and everyone was preparing to return to the hotel; some of the crew had already begun disassembling the hospitality and packing it to send it to the next track. Oscar tries to ignore him and go his own way, but something tells him not to, so he walks over to him and shelters him from the rain with his umbrella.

When the rain stops suddenly, Carlos looks up, first at the umbrella, then at Oscar, surprised.

"You know you get sick standing in the rain. We still have one more race to go.” Oscar says, awkwardly smiling.

“Hello, Oscar. Sorry about the race and the crash.”

"It wasn't your fault. We both were on the unlucky side of that Haas car.”

"Hmm," Carlos says with a nod.

"So, what are you doing out here in the rain?"

"How is everything at McLaren? Are they treating you well?" Carlos avoids answering Oscar's question by asking him one of his own.

Something feels off, but Oscar can’t figure out what yet he still answers, “Yeah. They’re good. They are very nice people. I am lucky to drive for them.”

"Good, good. You’re a good kid, Oscar. And a good driver. Don’t let anyone get you down, okay?”

"Thank you," Oscar says, but something is gnawing at the back of his mind. He has a strange feeling that something is going to happen. “Are you okay, Carlos? Were you waiting for Lando?” Oscar gestures vaguely towards the motorhomes, saying, "I think he is still at the motorhome. Do you want me to go get him?”

“No. No. I’ll see him later at the hotel. Is he being a good teammate to you?”

“He is. But I believe you two were the better teammates. You two worked well.”

“Yeah. We did.” Carlos smiles wistfully, lost in some memory.

The rain has finally stopped. Carlos looks at Oscar and steps out from under the umbrella so that Oscar can close it.

“Thanks for the umbrella, Oscar. It has been a pleasure racing alongside you. You are doing fantastic. You will be amazing again next season as well."

“Thank you, and it has been fun racing you too. We’ve still got plenty more races to do.”

Carlos just smiles at him. He looks sombre, as if he found the answer to the thing he was looking for.

“Goodbye, Oscar. Take care of yourself and Lando. He’ll need someone there.”

"You, too. I’ll see you in Abu Dhabi.”

Carlos turns and walks away. Oscar watches him go, and Carlos becomes smaller and smaller as he walks further away. But something Carlos said sticks with him. Lando will need someone there.

Why would Lando need someone there? There where? Or is it there when? Maybe it's nothing. Maybe he meant to have someone in McLaren. He has an odd feeling about this.

Or perhaps Oscar is overthinking something simple.

It is not until he boards the plane to Abu Dhabi for the season's final race a week later that the strange feeling becomes clear.

That’s a thing with gut feelings; they will always be answered, whether you want them to or not. It comes unannounced, stays, and stalks you, and then it is answered, and you are left with the answer, unsure of what to do with it. Oh, how Oscar wishes this particular gut feeling wasn’t answered. Especially with this answer.

#it’s my first time writing a fic that is of this nature #it gets pretty angsty #carlos sainz jr #lando norris #carlos sainz #oscar piastri #carlando #carlando fic #my wip #f1 rpf #m tries writing #my wips

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writeouswriter · 2 years ago

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My followers: And is this “writing” you’ve been “working on” in the room with us right now?

#writing #writeblr #writer things #writing humour #textpost #writing humor #relatable #funny #I genuinely am writing for the first time in a long while #but it’s uh it’s for an angst fanfic for a fandom one wouldn’t expect fic for necessarily #and I’m embarrassed but I’m not because it’s good but you’re never seeing it it’s between me and my ao3 when I finally do finish it #it’s at 6000 words but fr that’s the most I’ve written on a single thing in a long time and it’s still going!#last time I wrote/finished anything in forever was also for this fandom back in November <3 nature is healing #it’s slow going but I’m hoping to finish it before June 😭

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stergeon · 5 months ago

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can someone please write this doropetra fashion designer/journalist modern au for me. i spent too long thinking about the devil wears prada today and now i have all the beats mapped out for this story i Do Not have enough time in the world to write.

please help. please. i'll give you everything. all of it. it's all right here. take it. mention me if you swap the names to sell the movie or streaming rights. i just want it to exist.

pitch: dorothea is a hot-nasty fashion mogul and petra is a journalist-turned-reluctant model who captures dorothea's attention (and her heart).

btw this is a Really long post so look out. also i know nothing about the fashion industry and Will Not Learn so don't tell me anything.

setting: various major cities in the USA. NYC, LA, Enbarr (you know, Enbarr, that major city somewhere between florida and texas. we've all been there).

cast

most everybody is in their mid-to-late 20s at the start.

petra: the last journalist with integrity in a world that's actively trying to eliminate journalism as a field. worked her ass off writing listicles and bullshit SEO articles for years until she caught a break and got in with a "Real Publication." she now works her ass off there. unfortunately there's rumors of her team getting laid off due to AI crap so she's stressed af trying to line up her next gig, just in case.

dorothea: hotshot young fashion mogul with a cult of personality around her. was a complete unknown barely out of college when she designed manuela casagranda's absolutely breathtaking met gala dress and her company blew up overnight. now does high-profile lines that are popular with movie star types and bougie social media influencers. notorious for being very, very friendly with her preferred models.

edelgard: petra's finance major/arts minor friend from college and her former roommate. nepo baby with Lots of connections. got petra her first big job writing PR crap for a division of the hresvelg business empire. caused a scandal by getting romantically involved with her TA (byleth) in grad school but they're still together. complains about her PA (hubert) and her lout of a stepbrother (dimitri), both of whom she's constantly texting or otherwise having to corral.

shamir: petra's boss/editor. admires petra's guts and her writing chops, as well as her ambition. somewhat of a mentor to petra, but is absolutely no-nonsense when it comes to work. she's been in this business a long time. there's no fucking around. leonie is another journo on the team. ignatz and linhardt also work with them doing layouts, formatting, and photo/video editing.

manuela: a famous singer from dorothea's hometown who basically adopted dorothea as a protégé after dorothea sent her sketches of designs she'd made. essentially responsible for dorothea's career. they have a bit of a contentious relationship these days as manuela's a bit jealous of dorothea's rising star and because dorothea's been ungrateful in recent years despite how much manuela's stuck her neck out for her. still, she's always there to give dorothea terrible advice when she needs it. her evolving relationship with dorothea is kind of a b-plot.

bernadetta: a reclusive, but well-connected social justice blogger and internet activist. one of petra's good buddies who regularly sends her scoops.

ingrid, ferdinand, sylvain, catherine, felix: models who commonly work with dorothea.

Jeritza: a nobody fashion photographer who thinks he's somebody. he's absolutely awful.

claude and hilda: paparazzi who work for tmz, buzzfeed, whoever will take em. petra thinks they are the scum of the earth. they are.

act 1

we open with petra on yet another bullshit assignment for her crappy job writing articles about things that don't matter. this one is a profile piece about a local fashion photographer, the mononymous Jeritza, who might be somebody someday and seems to think he already is. leonie was supposed to do the article but she flubbed it by offending Jeritza, who now won't give her the time of day, so shamir asks petra to please step in last-minute. petra's mad, but she gets her hustle on and goes anyway. it's not like she can be too picky with gigs in this economy.

by the time she gets to the shoot, she's late, and Jeritza is throwing a tantrum. the model isn't working out. Jeritza cannot work in these conditions. Jeritza fires the model and is about to freak the fuck out when petra walks in the door. oh, Jeritza says. i can work with you. petra did NOT sign up to be a model, has never wanted to be a model, has no interest in this whatsoever. but let's be real: it is a great angle for the piece. this could get clicks. shares, even. so she does it.

the shoot is a massive success, which is to say Jeritza is delighted with the results, but as it's just for a local streetwear company, the impact on culture is negligible. petra writes her article, which gets some attention due to the very funny portrait it paints of the histrionic artiste that is Jeritza. it's not much buzz, but it's just enough buzz to get shared around in fashion circles—enough for it to wind up in dorothea's inbox, courtesy of manuela. "Thought of you!! XD XD This is so funny!!" manuela writes. dorothea replies "lol" and is about to move on with her day when she decides to give the article a courtesy skim and scrolls down far enough to see the pictures.

oh. who is that model?

a few days later, petra's out at a bar getting drinks with edelgard and bitching about life when she gets a call from an unknown number. she figures it's probably spam, but they leave a voicemail. the transcription mentions it's from a dorothea arnault, whoever that is. edelgard almost shits a brick. DOROTHEA ARNAULT? you need to call her back. right now. petra's like okay jeez, i will. what's the big deal. edelgard facepalms. she forgot that petra doesn't follow fashion even a little bit ("isn't the gucci, like, the area between your butthole and your—?" "no petra it is not"). embarrassing for her, but there's no saving some people.

edelgard briefs her on the arnault situation. dorothea's studio is huge right now. edelgard's family business has been sponsoring some of her recent fashion shows and everybody who's anybody is trying to get an arnault outfit for their next event. while dorothea's very popular on social media, she's very tight-lipped about her private life. a profile on her could be a huge break for petra.

okay, petra thinks, what the fuck, okay. i'll call her back.

dorothea picks up on the fifth ring. uh-oh: she sounds hot.

hel-looo, miss macneary, she says, it's nice of you to pick up the phone. i saw that little article you wrote recently. you're sooooo funny. [her voice is sweet and smooth like butter. she sounds like she's twirling her hair as she talks. she doesn't say how she got petra's number. petra doesn't think to ask.] and those photos of you... my, my. you're quite the looker, aren't you? and you don't even model professionally? that's a terrible shame. you'd do well, you know. i'm in berlin right now but i'll be in enbarr's fashion district on tuesday afternoon. why don't you come by the studio? we're doing a shoot for some designs i'm releasing soon... a secret summer collection. oops, i shouldn't have told you about that, should i? well, i'm sure i can trust you to keep my secret. and maybe i could even trust you to write something nice about me? i think they'd suit you, you know, these new pieces i've got. if you have any interest in trying your hand at modeling again, i'd love to see you in them. 11 o'clock. ciao!

petra gets a handful of words in edgewise. most of them are yes. she keeps her phone held to her ear for too long after dorothea hangs up. she wishes she'd been sober for this conversation. she's not really sure what she just agreed to. she doesn't want to forget the sound of that voice.

she shoots a text to shamir. edelgard buys her a shot the instant she steps back into the bar.

tuesday comes and petra's nervous. she packed and repacked for this. checked twenty-five times that she brought her tape recorder and her good camera. arnault is gonna think that camera's a joke, but it is what it is. she's trying to play it cool, hyping herself up the whole time she's on the train. it's gonna be fine. just keep the tape rolling. write the profile. she doesn't have to model, she can just do what she does best. listen. pay attention. write honestly. move on.

sure.

if petra thought dorothea sounded hot, she's wholly unprepared for how hot she is in person. she's spellbinding. drop-dead gorgeous. positively unreal. and on top of that, she's so charming. she's graceful. smart. funny. flirty. and she keeps touching her—little touches on her hand, her arm. chaste things. friendly things. things that could be accidents.

she's exactly petra's type.

but petra is a journalist with integrity, dammit. she's going to be professional. and to her credit, she is professional. arnault makes it hard, but she manages. she blends in, listens, stays focused, stays out of the way. the model's cute—ingrid something-or-other. she can't remember but she got it on the tape recorder. told petra her instagram handle like six times, too, so she won't have any trouble finding her. the shoot is almost wrapped when dorothea asks if petra would be interested in modeling for her. she's not at all offended when petra politely declines. she poses when petra asks to take her photo for the profile. thanks her for coming out and talking to her. says goodbye with a polite handshake and that dazzling smile. she thinks about that smile and that touch throughout the whole train ride home.

skip ahead to friday. petra is working on the story and transcribing the audio recording when she gets a text from dorothea. so lovely meeting you on tuesday [heart emoji] [kiss emoji] [heart emoji] i know it's last minute, but the final pieces of the summer collection are coming in tomorrow and i think you'll like them for your profile. i'll fly you up tomorrow morning to meet me at my studio in manhattan, unless you're busy, of course~

petra is not busy tomorrow. shamir is considering opening a new style division of their publication.

the flight is the train ride but worse. keep the tape rolling, macneary. listen. pay attention. write honestly. move on.

she's resolute. committed. her resolve doesn't waver even when she gets off the plane, ready to call an uber, and there's a guy in a suit with a sign that says MACNEARY on it. it doesn't waver when the guy stops her and says no, he's not looking for another macneary, he's here for her, courtesy of ms. arnault. it doesn't waver throughout the ride—the chauffeured ride, in a fancy car, just her and the guy—from jfk through the streets of nyc, seeing the skyline she's only ever known from movies and on tv. it doesn't waver when she's escorted into a skyscraper in the garment district and guided up to the floor where ms. arnault is waiting for her.

it wavers when she sees her. when dorothea says her model couldn't make it that day and she could really, really use petra's help, it falls completely.

you can guess how the rest of that trip goes. petra barely remembers it herself. she gets back home to enbarr, trying to recover from the whirlwind week she's had by doing what she does best—working. she can scarcely believe any of it was real. she has to believe it when she gets back to her shithole apartment, sets to the task of transcribing the audio from her tape recorder, and realizes it was rolling the whole time.

the whole time.

and there's absolutely no denying any of it after dorothea sends her the photos for her review.

you look so good in these, she tells petra when she sends her the first photoset. i think you look better out of them, she says when she sends the second.

petra considers her options. considers freaking out. considers not replying. considers moving to australia. she considers and reconsiders and does none of those things.

what she does do is send dorothea the audio recording. dorothea sends her some photos of her own.

they meet up again in LA on the day the profile drops.

act 2

if that first week was a whirlwind, the summer is a hurricane. petra's being lauded for the quality of her profile on dorothea, as well as for being the only member of the press who can get close to ms. arnault. it's borderline scandalous, how she's also modeling the summer line despite not even being a real model. it's a thinly-guised affair—almost completely un-guised when their flirting gets a little too overt during a show in tokyo. who cares. petra's entranced. dorothea takes her everywhere, her personal reporter, lavishing her with gifts, showing her the world. she's keeping her busy between all this travel and all this passion. they go to show after show, shoot after shoot; petra works her ass off, keeping the tape rolling, listening, paying attention. so what if she doesn't have time to answer shamir's texts right away the way she normally would. the website's getting more traffic than it ever has, carried by petra's inside scoop on the world of dorothea arnault. shamir can cut her a break.

and she's surprised by how much she likes dorothea. how much she likes spending time with her. dorothea's all the things petra thought she was: glamorous, bubbly, charismatic. but she's also so brilliant, so hard-working, busting her ass every single day of her life. and she's sweet, too. she lavishes petra with attention, gives her all kinds of little gifts and things—nothing too expensive as to make petra uncomfortable (the jetsetting is bad enough as-is), but small, practical things she actually likes and could use. she asks petra about herself almost as often as petra asks questions about her. it's not petra's job to talk beyond getting the conversation flowing, to put more of herself into the discussion than there needs to be to get dorothea to open up. she's here to listen. to pay attention. write honestly and move on.

but she's finding she doesn't really want to move on.

one night they're hanging out in dorothea's fancy hotel room eating room service and drinking wine when dorothea makes a crack about how little petra knows about fashion. petra admits that she really didn't intend to get into it, that it just kind of happened. that what she really wants to do is investigative work, writing about events, exposing corruption, that sort of thing. no offense to dorothea! it's been fun doing this, don't get her wrong, but she's got goals, other things she wants to do—once dorothea gets tired of her, she jokes. sort of jokes. dorothea laughs. she smiles at her and asks why she wanted to be a journalist.

and petra's honest again. honest like she hasn't been before. she tells her a little about her childhood, her family life. about growing up in brigid (you know, the country on planet earth) and moving to enbarr as a teenager after her father died. seeing her super-smart, brilliant mother and grandfather go from these auspicious jobs in their home country to shitty ones that just barely pay the bills here, all in the name of long-term security. how they taught her to work hard and always act with integrity, no matter what she's doing. she tells her about the struggles of learning a new language, how it made her become a good listener, how she fell in love with writing because it gives her time to think about her words, to express herself the way she wants to. she wanted to be a journalist to speak for those who can't raise their voices loud enough on their own.

dorothea smiles at her the whole time she's talking. petra's not used to being on this side of the table, to being listened to like this. she almost doesn't know how to handle it; she's apologizing, feeling embarrassed for having said so much, but dorothea says don't be sorry. that's beautiful. she's lucky to have such wonderful people in her life who love her and support her. and she likes hearing petra talk.

things are different after that night.

act 3

the start of the Drama Arc. the summer's coming to an end. petra and dorothea are still spending so much time together, jetsetting around the world. petra's working on a piece that's a backstage look at the arnault company's leadup to milan fashion week. the stress is getting Real and the cracks are starting to show. petra's missing deadlines, blowing off shamir, blowing off edelgard, blowing off her family. she's barely in enbarr these days, jetlagged to hell, lost between time zones. her pal bernadetta reaches out and says hey, there's something Big i'm working on that i could use help digging into, can you give me a hand? petra says sure, i'll take a look. she doesn't. she forgets somewhere between london and são paolo.

things are still hot between her and dorothea, but she's starting to see the cracks in her, too. she's getting to see more of her, more of what lies beneath all that glam and bubbly personableness. you don't go from being a nobody to a mogul in your 20s by being nice, and what petra slowly discovers is that dorothea isn't just not nice, she is ruthless. she's nonstop, working her ass off, and anyone who can't keep up with her gets left behind. she hints at her past sometimes: at her shitty childhood, at growing up in poverty, at being orphaned, at having spent years in foster care. but she never opens up. she's 100% focused on the future, and it's all she wants to talk about. dorothea wants to live her dreams, yes, but more importantly, her goal is self-preservation.

petra finds this out when they're at a shoot one day. petra's off to the side, fucking with her piece of shit camera when who storms up to her but ingrid, and she's pissed as shit. she chews petra out. calls her an asshole. says she stole her job. asks what the fuck is wrong with her, doing that while posting her articles, publicly announcing to the world that she never even wanted to be a model. petra's floored. she doesn't even know what she's talking about. she asks ingrid to start over.

that "second date" of theirs in manhattan, way back when? turns out dorothea was telling the truth when she said her model couldn't make it that day. ingrid was supposed to be modeling. she was dorothea's #1 for ages. she'd just come off back-to-back-to-back shoots when she got sick, really sick. stuck-in-shanghai-and-probably-not-going-to-be-able-to-board-a-flight-to-manhattan-tomorrow sick. she told dorothea so, said she'd try her best. dorothea said not to bother and didn't call her again.

it'll happen to you, too, ingrid tells petra, once you aren't useful to her. you're giving her all this press now, but if you ever do anything else, she'll drop you like she drops everyone else.

ingrid storms off, leaving petra standing there, holding her stupid camera. she looks at dorothea, standing across the room, running the show, correcting this and that, getting everything perfect, exactly the way she wants it. petra looks at her and wonders. wonders what would happen if she wrote something dorothea didn't like. if somebody new caught her eye.

they get dinner that night and it's tense. dorothea's stressed. she's carrying on about this and that, talking about the shoot, texting and responding to emails, slamming back glass after glass of wine. petra's quiet, letting her talk. too quiet, apparently, because dorothea eventually takes her head out of her phone and asks her what's up. nothing, petra says, just thinking about everything going on, about the shoot today. dorothea rolls her eyes. i know, she says; on top of everything else, ingrid was there, and she wanted to have a whole conversation with me, like i wasn't busy and like she didn't fuck me over the last time i saw her. she texted me earlier, too. the audacity of this bitch, she gripes, going back into her phone, still mad. a little later into dinner, manuela calls and dorothea answers it; she's bubbly and sweet, all hi how are you omg it's been so long, i miss you, sorry i've just been so busy~ i've gotta go but we'll catch up soon. she hangs up and shoots petra a look. she's so needy, dorothea says, laughing. petra tries to laugh too and can't quite manage.

they're still going everywhere together in the leadup to milan fashion week, and petra's still working on the piece, but she's feeling a little gross and she's quieter than ever. she lets herself believe that maybe it's fine, maybe it's okay, maybe she's not really that cold and ruthless. but then dorothea shows her one day.

everything's been going wrong: there's equipment stuck in customs, marketing materials haven't been delivered from the printers yet, the studio they rented for pre-shoots is double-booked. then a model's late to the shoot and another one is complaining and dorothea is done, so done. she fires them on the spot, gets on the phone and calls two new ones who will get the job done and done without question. petra's quiet. listening. paying attention. keeping the tape rolling as dorothea justifies herself aloud, without prompting. don't judge me, she says. i do what i have to do, and everyone else should, too. i know no one is going to take care of me. i've got no reason to take care of anyone else.

she's a mess all night. angry. stressed. shutting herself off. petra's seen her get like this a few times, but this is the worst it's ever been. she's in her phone all night. practically snaps at petra when she asks if she can help her with anything. shrugs away from petra's touch.

they go to bed and petra barely sleeps. she just lies awake, thinking. thinking about dorothea. thinking about herself. thinking about how she's been blowing off her friends, her family, her boss. thinking about how swept up she's been in all this crazy stuff she doesn't even really care about, putting off her own career. feeling guilty about ingrid. feeling guilty about blowing off shamir and bernadetta. worrying about who she's become around this woman. wondering what happened to her integrity.

fashion week goes great. flawlessly. petra heads back to enbarr afterward. she's almost ready to publish her piece, but she's gotta make up with shamir first. she apologizes. says she's so sorry. sorry for blowing her off. sorry she missed her deadlines. shamir is pretty fucking done with her and has told her as much already, but petra's earnest, and her piece is ready, and she wants to give the girl one more shot. she tells petra alright, i'll forgive you, but i need this piece tonight or we're done. i can't keep waiting on you and your schedule.

okay, petra says, you'll have it tonight.

she's worried. nervous. there's so much on her mind. the piece is ready but it's not going to make dorothea happy. she wants to call her first. she tries and gets her voicemail. tries again. nothing. texts her instead, a few times. hey, she writes, i need to talk to you. call me when you get the chance. it's about the profile. it's important. i'm on a deadline.

nothing. the hours are ticking by. she calls her. texts her. it's really important, dorothea. i need you to talk to me. please.

nothing.

petra's left wondering. wondering what to do. whether she should hit send on this email or hold off. wondering what she wants out of this.

and what is this, anyway? a summer fling? are they dating? girlfriends? they've never put a name on anything. do they have a future? can petra even think about building a future with someone she doesn’t trust to keep her along if she ever should need help? maybe dorothea’s hot and smart and maybe she’s got incredible drive but if she doesn't share petra's values, if she’s not going to be able to live for more than herself, and be true to herself, can petra accept that? does dorothea even know herself well enough to be able to be authentic?

time runs out and petra sends her piece to shamir. dorothea leaves her on read.

the piece is published. it's a huge hit, and not just in fashion circles, because it's a perfect portrait of dorothea arnault, and who doesn't love a biography of a wunderkind. it's honest. it's real. it talks about everything: her light, her darkness, the ups and the downs of being with her. it's raw. personal. revealing. it's all her brilliance and all her evils, captured in the way only someone who really loves her could do.

when it drops, petra expects dorothea to call and rip her a new one. she doesn't expect her not to call at all. but dorothea's radio silent. a few days later, some dickhead paparazzi petra has the misfortune of knowing (hilda and claude) send her a picture of dorothea in LA, running around with some red-headed douche (ferdinand).

sorry, dorothea texts her eventually. i've been soooo busy. i've missed you, but we'll catch up soon.

sure, petra writes, knowing they won't. i'll see you soon, she writes, knowing it's goodbye.

act 4

petra goes back to her career. back to her friends. crashes on edelgard's couch for a while. spends time with her family. starts addressing the connections she fucked up, fixing things with shamir, trying to gain momentum again. despite the profile on dorothea being such a success, it takes a long time for her to get back on her feet. but it's okay, 'cause if she's busy, she doesn't have to think about her.

months go by. every couple of nights, dorothea drafts a text to petra and deletes it.

it's february now, which means new york fashion week is here, and although petra is branching into investigative stuff nowadays, shamir calls in a favor and asks her to help cover it. petra knows she might see dorothea there. knows it’s a risk. decides she’s gonna be so strong and brave, and she can’t really afford to pass it up anyway because it’s a big career opportunity, a chance to revisit fashion after her profile last year. so she goes.

and they see each other. and nothing happens. they don't even say hello.

but that night, when petra’s in her hotel room, spiraling, dorothea calls her. she's in a hotel up the street. she asks petra to come over. for all her sense, her morals, her logic, petra is no more than a lesbian, so she says yes.

they don't talk. they jump right to making out sloppy style and fucking nasty and holy shit, it’s just like it was when they first met: hot and intense and so good, so perfect. except it’s not, it’s not, because this isn’t going to work out no matter how much they want it to, and they both know it. they get into a big fight after dorothea makes a crack about the profile and petra loses it. she puts dorothea on blast for being such a piece of work, saying she can’t ever be with her no matter how much she wants to because dorothea won't ever put someone else first and she’ll never figure out how to be anything other than alone.

then petra drops another bomb. over the past few months, she's made up with bernadetta, and it turns out that the big scoop bernie uncovered is about exploitative business practices a certain scummy fashion company engages in. a certain scummy company that dorothea's company is partnered with. said company's dealings wouldn't get their business partners in legal trouble, but public perception would certainly change. she's been working on an exposé about it. she's going to release it soon. really really soon. like as soon as she gets back to enbarr.

dorothea looks like she's been hit by a truck. she begs petra not to release the story about the company. it’s going to fuck her brand. she'll be ruined. she offers petra whatever she wants. gets nasty, even, defensive. then she fucking breaks. she doesn’t fully open up, but it’s the closest she’s ever come to doing it. she says she's sorry, sorry for hurting her, sorry for shutting her out, sorry she cut and ran like she always does when she might catch feels, when she might be vulnerable for once. she says she's sorry and she asks her please, please, not to release the story.

petra doesn’t give her an answer. she just goes back to her hotel.

once she gets back, she doesn't sleep. she stews for ages, pacing, going back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. act with integrity and drop the story as-is. don’t drop the story and protect the person she cares about, in spite of herself. amend the story so maybe dorothea won’t catch heat...? no, that wouldn’t be acting with integrity either. she can’t win either way.

and dorothea’s having a think, too, which is to say she’s a fucking WRECK. realizing how bad she’s fucked up her life. realizing that petra liked her for her. wanted to get to know her for more than her name and her money and her connections. told her things about herself she didn’t even realize were true. and she hurt her at every single turn. for the first time in her life, she had a chance at something real with a good person who really loved her and she fucking blew it. there’s so much dissonance as she tries to defend her own actions to herself and can’t because petra’s wormed her way into her head, the only person who ever Really questioned her, the only person who ever made her question.

she's always figured things out alone. she's always had to figure things out alone. this time, though, dorothea's not sure she can handle it. so she does the only thing she can think to do: she goes to manuela with her tail between her legs. manuela's a little pissy at first as dorothea's been blowing her off for a while now, but she's also worried, because dorothea has never come to her like this. not once. and she's offered for her to, a lot.

when manuela hugs her, dorothea breaks. she ugly-cries into manuela's arms. tells her how bad she's fucked up. how much she hates herself. how sorry she is for being a dickhead when manuela's only ever wanted to be there for her. manuela comforts her. chastises her for being an asshole, yeah, but shores her up, too. tells her if she's really sorry, she'll figure out how to change. tells her that she's there for her, and she'll keep being there for her, so long as she tries. dorothea's blown away. she thought she'd lost her shot at having love in her life, but she was too blind to see there are other types of love she's been shutting herself away from, too.

dorothea leaves manuela's, still feeling like shit, but with plans to get lunch or at least call each week, and with the promise that she's going to do better, be better.

she makes an effort, too. she cuts ties with the skunks. changes her business practices. starts being more charitable, less ruthless, less aggressive. it’s a slog and it sucks and she’s bad at it but fuck she’s going to try. even if petra never takes her back, even if petra just thinks dorothea’s trying to cover her own ass again and protect herself from the impact of the story, it doesn’t matter. she’s going to be better. she’s going to try to do things right, because someone believed in her, someone thought she could be better. and she’d never thought so highly of herself, never thought she could be more until petra came into her life and saw the potential in her.

petra releases the story a week or so later, unrevised. she texts dorothea before she does. says she’s sorry. dorothea says it’s alright. she understands.

the story drops and it’s a clusterfuck. an absolute PR disaster. the scummy company folds overnight. a bunch of related fashion companies, including dorothea’s, are in huge hot water. dorothea’s on the press circuit, doing damage control. petra’s watching an interview with her, listening to her spouting off her PR beats. fully expecting dorothea is going to deny everything, throw everyone she can under the bus to keep her shit afloat. so she just about has a heart attack when dorothea admits she’s fucked up. admits she made the wrong decisions, did stuff she knew was scummy. takes accountability. is honest for once. honest in a way petra didn’t think was even possible for her.

dorothea outlines her plans for how she’s going to be better, the changes her company’s making, how things are going to be different. says she’s making a commitment. if it all folds, so be it. at least she’ll be able to sleep at night.

because capitalism is the way it is, the company doesn’t go under. they’re in the red for a while and the "Controversies" section of her wikipedia page is now significantly longer, but the news cycle goes on and consumers forget and a few months later, pieces from dorothea’s summer line are all the rage with the kids on tiktok. petra’s more than a little bitter about it, but mostly she doesn’t give it any thought. she did her part. wrote honestly. spoke the truth. kept her integrity. she’s become a big name since that scoop, too, with her career really taking off. she's writing books and shit, appearing on tv, what have you, doing the investigative work she's always dreamed of doing.

she’s in london one night on the final leg of a press tour, sitting in her hotel room, when she gets a call.

it’s dorothea. she’s in london too. would petra like to get brunch tomorrow?

yeah she would. bitch loves a mimosa.

they get brunch and it’s tense. they try small talk but don’t really know what to talk about. dorothea makes it more awkward by cracking a joke about petra writing an article about her after this brunch and petra only kind of laughs.

but then dorothea apologizes. earnest. honest. like she’s never been with petra. tells her she’s sorry. tells her how she changed her life and made her think about herself differently, made her think she could be a better person. made her Want to be a better person. convinced her it’d be worthwhile to try. and she has. she’s made so many steps since they last saw each other. doing better. living kinder. living true. says she doesn’t expect anything from petra at all. just wanted to say sorry, and thank you for seeing the best in me.

petra says you’re welcome.

dorothea pays for brunch and they go their separate ways. dorothea holds it together until she gets to her hotel room and then she loses it, bawling her eyes out like she has never ever done, like she’s never let herself do. but it’s okay. she loves petra, that hot journo with the cute accent and more morals than sense, but dorothea knows she doesn’t deserve her, and she’s going to be okay with that. she’s going to live better anyway, for herself, because she’s worth it.

act 5

a year and a half goes by before dorothea and petra run into each other at a formal Thing. they talk, cordial, business-like, just catching up. dorothea makes a crack about the tmz photos of petra with three or four different high-profile supposed gfs over the past year and a half, calling her a heartbreaker. petra laughs, a real laugh. says dorothea's one to talk. asks if she's been keeping up with her? how often does she google her? dorothea says she does it more often than she'd like to admit. petra blushes, laughs again, flattered.

she asks if dorothea's been breaking more hearts lately herself and dorothea says nah. she's been focusing on her business. she's got this non-profit going now too, and it's been taking off. just landed some pretty big investments that will bring arts programs to schools that don't have funding for them. she looks proud of this. she is. she's actually spending more time doing that these days than her fashion stuff, which makes her a little sad, but it's not so bad because it's given her a bit of a mystique: the designer whose work was once Everywhere, now dropping limited release lines every few seasons instead of keeping up with the fast fashion whirlwind. it's different but it's good. she likes it. she's happy.

petra says she's glad to hear that. that she's happy for her. makes a reference to the new line dorothea's rumored to be dropping this fall. dorothea's eyes almost pop out of her head. you know about that? yeah, petra says, i google you. she's known about the non-profit, about everything dorothea's been telling her about. she's a journalist. she likes knowing things. but she likes knowing about her. knowing that she's doing well. and it's really good now, knowing that she's happy. she tells dorothea she's happy for her. that she's proud of her. that she knew she could do it.

dorothea doesn't cry. just says thank you. she gets called away by somebody else, and petra does too, pulled in the opposite direction. dorothea thinks about hugging her first. almost touches her hand. elects not to. says it was good to see her. then they're both whirled elsewhere and they don't see each other again.

but that night when dorothea's in her hotel, she gets a text. it's from petra. would she like to get coffee tomorrow?

FIN

#fe3h #fire emblem #doropetra #dorothea arnault #petra macneary #sterge.rtf #journalist x fashion designer au #long post #thinkin about them girls #wish i could do this idea justice #i just wrote an edeleth fic and Need to get back to hpnd as i miss those fellas #plus there's the matter of old man clod who is the albatross around my neck at this point #but now i've got this doropetra situation on the brain and it's gonna be the death of me.#apologies to arrow and caller as i literally vomited this entire au at them this morning #copy and pasted chunks of this from discord bc i'm lazy and spent Too Fucking Long writing this up anyway #might write the first part as a one-shot for funsies #i like exploring the ruthless side of dorothea. the side of her that is focused wholly on self-preservation #yeah she's funny and flirty and sweet but she's also Very Aware of how the world works and Will get what she wants out of life #also love petra's determination and drive. her self-sacrificing nature #her integrity and her commitment to doing the right thing even if it's devastating for her personally #as y'all will eventually find out in hpnd i'm a sucker for a journalist #but even if i had time i could not be arsed to learn enough about the fashion industry to do this justice #realistically this is far enough departed to be its own book but what do i care. i'm not gonna end up actually writing the thing anyway

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floorpancakes · 2 years ago

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im having thoughts about gay people again

#xxxholic #douwata #listen i have a lot to think about i always think abt them theres so much to discuss #if they had one confessional conversation it would all be over doumeki would die but not literally this time #i love the rarely discussed thing which is like 'sure watanuki is a blushing tsundere nerd loser BUT he could have the upper hand'#the element of surprise....the element of actually acting on all the boldness hes acrued but never actually committed to in canon #if he had any sort of healthy natural growth that wasnt affected by The Situation itd b over for that poor man #its like an explosion if either of them act on their feelings the other will just be like a human firework tbh #i love the idea of a potential relationship of theirs being just as much about revenge game 4d chess tactics #as much as it is goofy or serious or tender #then again im the type to view positive friendships in my real life that way so i naturally enjoy it in fictional relationships #but like #you have a tsundere who was trained in the art of being a seductress #and you have a more outspoken bolder type with strong conviction in his romantic feelings but also an expectation of it being unfulfilled #they have strengths and weaknesses that counteract each other greatly for the game of taking each other aback #they already do but in a relationship itd be tenfold #they also each have enough smugness in them to propel it to the next levek #imagine them constantly trying to one each other up #he who blushes first loses (but wins the consolation prize of a REALLY cute relationship)#heh ...all the excellent fic fuel if i could write fic without getting distracted panicking abt lore inconsistencies or cringing at myself #not for the act of writing fic i just find it tricky to like my own longform writing #but i wANNAAAAAAAA

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quietwingsinthesky · 1 year ago

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unfortunately i unironically enjoy stupid my little pony horror stories why am i like this

#im sorry. i am!!!#cupcakes is ironic enjoyment to be clear cupcakes is. not a good fic lmao. but its like funny gore shock value.#BUT THERES GOOD ONES I SWEAR #GO READ BIBLICAL MONSTERS BY HORSE VOICE #GO READ THE WRITING ON THE WALL. ALSO BY HORSE VOICE.#GO READ LEVIATHAN. AGAIN BY HORSE VOICE IM STARTING TO REALIZE A LOT OF MY MLP FIC RECS ARE HORSE VOICE FICS #GO READ A FLEETING LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS (and its sequels) BY FLASHGEN #the blink series (various authors) is also a personal favorite of mine because i love the teletransportation paradox in horror #uhhh what else. why am i even doing this literally no one following me wants mlp darkfic recs #look i need to say something or ill explode thats how i function #The Visiting Hour…. good fic. Silent Ponyville is closer to cupcakes in terms of quality/vibe i think but its a fandom classic.#Somno Captis. Something Sweet To Bite. Rainbow Factory is good and let no one tell you otherwise. THERE IS NO LUNA!!!!! GOING HOME!!!!#im telling you guys. i promise. they’re good fics.#no one wants this rec list and yet. here it is.#and personal rec but like if you want a really long thing. The Secret Life of Rarity and its sequels.#again. cupcakes vibes in its slasher/gore nature. the first fic in the series drags a little towards the middle with episode recaps #But With Murder This Time. the public life of sweetie belle is great though. and obviously the next few fics in the series are fantastic.#genuine compliments for how it takes the ‘what if pony…. but SERIAL KILLER????’ concept and then has Serious Repercussions that end up #slamming into you like a brick wall and fucking up the entire world of the fic. i should reread that series.#anyway im done now sorry about this #mlp

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partystoragechest · 1 year ago

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, there are fireworks. Sort of.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,790. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 22: Hardly Working

The Inquisition’s red lyrium sample was kept far, far below.

Far below the Undercroft, where Trevelyan and Dagna prepared for their descent. Far below the dungeons, where two guards escorted them deeper still. Far below the sounds of people and life. Far, far below.

Door after door barred their path, each more fortified than the last. The keys were old and rusted, having existed much longer than the castle’s current occupants. The passages beyond were long and winding. One was not supposed to know the way. The stone of the stairs they descended appeared as if new. Few feet had ever trespassed here.

Trevelyan could not help but wonder for what this place had originally been built to contain.

Further they went. The darkness that had settled upon these steps was cast aside by the light of a torch, held aloft in the hand of one of their guides. Trevelyan felt its warmth in the air, and glanced nervously at the small chest Dagna carried. Their device lay inside—insulated, inert. But it was still within Trevelyan to worry.

The long stairwell curved, the end at last coming into sight, a chamber door revealed. Daylight—somehow, daylight—poured through its barred window, casting a slotted shadow upon the floor. Had they come so far as to breach the bottom of the mountain?

“Here we are,” said a guard, producing the largest, oldest, and most complex key yet. “Be careful, Arcanist; your Ladyship.”

He opened the door. Breath escaped Trevelyan’s body.

The cavern beyond was thrice the size of the Undercroft, in both height and depth. And like the Undercroft, it, too, had a maw: a narrow fissure running high across the back wall, like the slash of a gigas claw, through which light spilled in its gallons.

This, however, was not the central feature of the space. Indeed, it was only there to light the central feature of the space. For in this chamber, suspended by the strength of three large chains, was a small stone chest. Red.

The size of the cavern was such that, in the doorway as they were, Trevelyan and Dagna still stood a good sixty feet from it. But its glow was evident. Cracks in the stone, where the red lyrium had broken its bonds, pulsated with that eerie colour. Trevelyan felt she should step no closer.

“Smart to keep it off the ground,” she commented.

“Have to,” Dagna replied. “Grows fast! We change the casket every three weeks—sometimes the chains, too, if it’s gotten a little enthusiastic.”

“I take it that’s why it’s made of stone?”

“Yeah! Grows through it slower than metal or wood—especially wood. It loves organic material! But for stone, I think it… respects it, kind of? Like it remembers where it comes from, almost… Anyway! Let’s get to it!”

With brazen confidence, Dagna marched beyond the threshold. Trevelyan remained reluctant to follow. No wonder she was being paid so well.

Swallowing her unease, she left the guards posted at the door, and entered the room. But as soon as she did, she could feel it.

She had been near lyrium, before. The Formari in her Circle used it, and she would sometimes have to visit their workshops in the midst of her storeroom duties. Dagna employed it quiet frequently, too, but Trevelyan would keep to the other side of the Undercroft, or run errands. She didn’t like it, particularly. It made her dizzy.

Red lyrium was worse. Only a few feet closer, and a hum entered her mind. A constant, droning hum. There was pressure on her head, too—like a hand, pushing down with all its might. Trevelyan tried not to give it her attention.

“All right,” Dagna said, setting the chest down about forty feet from the casket, “let’s activate!”

Slow and careful, she lifted the lid. Trevelyan held her breath.

But as their device was revealed, the world remained still—and Trevelyan was grateful for it. Though it did not look one, this thing they had created was better called a bomb.

Dagna reached in, and lifted it out: a thick, metal disc—about the size of a dinner plate—held best and most carefully in two hands. Trevelyan’s eyes scoured the surface for any change. But the runes inscribed onto it—runes of her own design—maintained a faint glow. Safe.

The moment it touched the ground, Dagna whipped out her toolbelt. Trevelyan took up the usual position beside her, ready and willing to do or hold anything that Dagna instructed her to. Theory was more her domain. The practical—this—was best left to Dagna.

And so she tinkered away, runes beginning to brighten. The buzz of their growing magic competed for space in Trevelyan’s mind. She began to gather Fade energy around her fingers. Just… in… case...

“Ooh, shiny!”

Trevelyan startled, and whirled. Dorian Pavus stood behind her, gazing down on Dagna’s work. He noticed Trevelyan’s stare, and smiled.

“Dorian?”

“Don’t mind me”—he winked—“just came to see the show.”

Though Trevelyan rolled her eyes, she could not help but smile. “Very well,” she said, and returned her focus to Dagna.

Dorian did the same. He even managed to stay quiet for some number of seconds—though it seemed the banality of observation could not satisfy his ever-operational mind for long. Whilst Trevelyan handed Dagna a precise-looking implement, Dorian asked:

“Will you be attending the banquet?”

Maker, that thing kept slipping her mind. She would have to make certain her gown was ready.

“Yes,” she told him, “will you?”

“Physically, yes. Mentally? No.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Likewise.”

There followed a brief moment of quiet. But Dorian would not be quelled so easily.

“...Have you seen the guest list?”

Trevelyan gave him an exasperated look, yet answered regardless: “I have. Though I fear I recognise very few of the names, and know only their characters from the descriptions given to me by the other Ladies.”

“Oh,” Dorian chuckled. “Then you are in for quite the evening! I met some of these people at the Winter Palace. I also met some demons. Completely indistinguishable.”

“Which did you prefer?”

“Oh, I think you know. After all, it’s at least socially acceptable to strike demons with lightning.”

Trevelyan laughed. “The more I hear, the more I wonder why they have all been invited in the first place.”

“Because ‘keeping the peace’, something like that.”

“But why are we all to be involved?” Trevelyan complained.

Dorian smiled. “I hardly know. But far be it from anyone to refuse our lovely Ambassador.”

A flare of magic stole Trevelyan’s attention. She looked back at Dagna, whose grinning face reflected a blue glow. The device below her pulsated, lyrium energy blooming from its carved runes.

“There we go!” she sang. “Activated. How’s that magic amplification feeling?”

“I can certainly feel it!” answered Trevelyan. “I merely hope it’s enough to bypass the anti-magic effects.”

Dagna hauled the device into her arms. “So do I, because I added a little extra oomph. Just in case!”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened. “Are you sure that’s a good—!?”

Dagna punted the device towards the red lyrium casket. Trevelyan scarcely had time to draw breath.

It was like a clap of thunder. Booming sound and blinding light plunged them into darkness. Smoke and dust and falling debris. Reverberations rumbled through the stone around them. Clanging of chains. Whining in the ears. All of Skyhold shuddered, and then fell to silence.

When Trevelyan dared open her firm-shut eyes, a dark and burning haze surrounded her. Yet, it did not touch her. Her arms were outstretched; energy cocooned her. Smoke shifted and moved against the shimmering surface of a protective barrier. She’d got it up just in time.

A quick glance to either side. Dagna was all right, thanks to her shield. Seemingly unfazed by the explosion, the Arcanist looked with shining eyes into the cloud of dust from whence it had come.

Dorian, meanwhile, appeared to have had the same idea as Trevelyan—arms outstretched, barrier up. He met her gaze.

“Great minds!” he said, his levity not quite masking the shake in his voice. “Would you like to do the honours”—he nodded towards the smoke—“or shall I?”

“You,” Trevelyan told him, “I’ll hold.”

“Very well. In three, two, one—” Dorian dropped his share of the barrier. Trevelyan held firm.

With her protection, he began to twist his hands. She felt a pull, as he put out his call, and summoned the Fade.

One of his fists balled up tight, a gathering of energy thickening within. He raised this hand to his face, fingers unfurling before his mouth. With one deep and powerful exhalation, he blew.

His breath turned to a hurricane wind, and blasted forth, unimpeded by Trevelyan’s barrier. Smoke and dust was banished from the chamber. Light poured in once more.

“Wow…” breathed Dagna.

Wow, indeed.

The scene before them had changed entirely. The chains that once suspended the red lyrium chest hung loose, half-extant, against the stone walls. They rattled in the breeze of Dorian’s spell.

The casket they had held? Gone. All that remained in its wake was a large, circular scorch mark, burnt into the floor.

Trevelyan dropped her barrier. “Oh Maker, it worked!”

“Yes!” cheered Dagna, pumping a fist into the air. “It worked! Though, I guess the bad news is, we lost our red lyrium sample!”

Dorian grinned. “Rather the point, wasn’t it?”

“Are you all well?” called one of the guards, from the doorway. Trevelyan had just been about to ask the same of them.

“We’re well!” she replied.

“Mainly because of that barrier of yours,” Dorian muttered. “Good form. Strong. I know very few mages who could create one so stable without a focus—other than myself, of course.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “It was only a barrier.”

“True, but I’ve seen very little magic of yours, and I feel I should like to see more. You’ve got more power than you’re letting on.”

There was a good reason for that: “I suppose I got accustomed to not practicing it. My parents weren’t exactly keen on my using magic around the house.”

Dorian laughed. “We had very different upbringings! But—anyway, you aren’t under the thumb of your parents now. You ought to be loosing fireballs upon the sky.”

“Or causing large explosions?” Trevelyan suggested, gesturing to where Dagna prowled the scorch-circle.

“Fair point.”

Dagna interrupted: “Your Ladyship, we should get started on sweeping the room for trace remains. I want to know if anything was left at all.”

“Absolutely,” said Trevelyan, curious of that herself. She had noticed that the head-pressure was gone—but that did not mean every shard of red lyrium was.

Dorian, meanwhile, took a step back. “Well, you have my congratulations, both of you—but I am leaving before someone asks me to help clean up.”

“I don’t think she meant that kind of sweeping,” said Trevelyan.

“I heard the word ‘sweeping’, I’m leaving,” insisted Dorian. “Best of luck.”

They gave him their farewells and waved him off. Trevelyan watched him as far as the door, then turned away as he disappeared up the stairs. Her eyes were needed on the floor.

But her mind lingered elsewhere.

“Dagna, I’ll be just a moment,” she said, “I need Dorian to pass a message along.”

Dagna permitted her leave, and Trevelyan hurried away. With any luck, the sheer amount of stairs would have slowed Dorian down.

And indeed she found him, halfway up the first ascent. Nearly out of breath, she managed to call:

“Dorian, wait!”

He stopped and waited, sure enough—probably glad of the break. “Miss me already?”

“Naturally, but that is not why I came,” she said, taking a moment. “I wanted to ask, will you tell the Commander we’ve succeeded? He’ll have likely heard the explosion—most of Skyhold will, and I want him to know it’s all right.”

Dorian folded his arms. “And when exactly did I become your messenger boy?”

“I know this is far beneath your standards, but I think he would better see a friend right now, than a... suitor. Given his, ah, current circumstances.”

A sly little chuckle spilled from Dorian’s mouth. “Oh, I think he’d much prefer to see you than I, on any given day. But if you think it best, I shall go and take your glory.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the trouble.”

She expected him to take the message and dart off, but Dorian seemed to settle himself upon the stair on which he stood, and fixed her with a frown.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Why would I not be?”

“Cullen—the Commander—believed you weren’t, the last we spoke. He mentioned you found him… you know.”

So Dorian knew. Of course he would, given his friendship with the Commander. Trevelyan did not blame him for not telling her of the circumstances. Such closeness required confidence.

Regardless, she sighed. “I told him yesterday I was fine. Several times.”

Dorian laughed, and hopped down a step—to meet her eye-to-eye, and speak in more hushed tones. Those guards were still down there, somewhere. “He is something of a worrywart. You seem all right to me.”

Trevelyan nodded, her back slumping against the wall of the passage. Maker, the stone was cold. “Have you ever seen him like that?”

“No. Though as I understand it, it’s a rare occurrence for him,” Dorian explained. “The Inquisitor’s seen it, though. Cullen once threw something at our dear Herald’s head!”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened. Dorian must have taken note, for he immediately followed with:

“Well, not at the Inquisitor; the Inquisitor just so happened to walk in at precisely the wrong moment. A habit. Cullen was throwing it at the door, in anger, unaware someone was about to walk through. We all joke about it—it’s how we know he isn’t a spy for Corypheus. If he was, he wouldn’t have missed.”

Trevelyan smiled. She could hardly judge the Commander for acting upon his anger whilst believing himself to be alone. One needed to, sometimes. She’d set some things on fire in private moments. Most recently being yesterday.

Dorian sighed, and shook his head. “I thought he was on the up, you know. He said this one was bad—though you, especially, are already aware of that. Peaks and troughs, I suppose, and you can’t predict when one will follow the other.”

“It is impossible to know,” commiserated Trevelyan. “No one has managed to survive it, to my knowledge. It’s like the Grey Wardens. Departure comes only through death.”

The mention of the latter word seemed to light a fire in Dorian. “Well, let’s hope that’s not the case, shall we? I’m sure it’ll all shake out. After all, the Inquisition’s best boffins are on it—Dagna included! And it’s more than the Chantry’s ever done—though the southern Chantry isn’t particularly known for doing much…”

Yet another person Trevelyan was now convinced that Baroness Touledy could have a scintillating conversation with. She would merely need an opportunity for introduction. Banquet, perhaps?

“Anyway, I best be off to deliver your message,” he continued. “Though, if I am to do so, I’ll no doubt be asked if I doubled-checked: are you sure you’re all right?”

“Of course,” Trevelyan confirmed. “Is he?”

“Peaks and troughs.”

“I see. Do you think he will attend the banquet?”

Dorian laughed. “I hope not. His table manners are very Fereldan.”

She knew the joke was to make her smile, but she could barely manage it. Her worries were too overpowering. “It’s hardly going to be good for him,” she muttered, continuing—without thinking—to say: “having us suitors running around after him is strife enough.”

Dorian’s lip quirked upward. “Oh, if you want to talk the ethics of this little competition of yours, it goes far deeper than that.”

The comment pulled Trevelyan from her own mind. “Oh?”

He shrugged. “Well, I’ve not quite put my finger on it yet, but… it all feels rather sordid. Not quite right. Not quite right at all.”

Trevelyan was at once reminded of the argument she overheard between the Commander and Lady Montilyet. Just what had that been about, truly?

“Have you spoken to the Commander about it?”

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, you have no idea of what we talk about. You come up quite frequently.”

Trevelyan did not know how to feel about that. Though she was certainly feeling something.

“Ergo,” continued Dorian, “I have. But the man is obstinate, and I feel there may be powers at play that I cannot interfere with.”

“Whose?” asked Trevelyan.

Dorian smiled. “Oh, it’s as I say: far be it from anyone to refuse our lovely Ambassador.”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #look i am more natural with dialogue than description this i know why do u think i chose to write a genre where its people talking a lot #but i reeeeeally wanted the description of the red lyrium chamber to be mission status: sick as hell #i wrote it while fully awake and raring to go #and wrote the rest when i was tired and barely had time #and would you BELIEVE which part i ended up rewriting every day for five days on the trot #SPOILER: IT WASN'T THE PART I WROTE WHILE HALF-ASLEEP #this was my first instance of writer's block for a while and it suuuuuuuucked!!!!! almost in tears!!!! wtf!!!! its just silly words!!!#anyway thats enough complaining enjoy goodnight i am out!!!

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