#learn to survive. (au lore)

[perfectly-intoxicated]

tw: physical abuse

"There you are. I was wondering when you'd arrive, mein diamant."

Hannah's smile falls the moment she steps through her front door and sees blonde hair and a sharp green stare stabbing right through her.

She hadn't heard from Vincent in weeks after she had blocked his number, and really, she'd honestly forgotten about it the next morning. It had been in a fit of anger, exasperation from the incoming calls and unanswered texts that she'd tried to subtly tell him to fuck off. Her life wasn't completely fucking insufferable now, and the only thing stopping it from being perfect was him.

Obviously, it would take more than subtlety to get him to leave her alone.

"Why are you here?" Hannah consciously asks, closing the door behind her and taking a few steps into the room. She wasn't afraid of him. He needs to know that.

That doesn't stop her heart from banging against her chest when she watches him stand.

"I missed you. Can't I visit whenever I please?"

"No, you can't. Not in my home."

Irritation twitches in Vincent's face, annoyance beginning to bleed through his carefully constructed facade. He always hated that about Hannah, how she never knew when her mouth was 'useful' and when it wasn't. He thought she looked prettier when she smiled, except she knew she was pretty even when she gave him the nastiest of snarls. Comes with the genes, she'd guess.

"You're barely here nowadays. I wouldn't say it's much of a home anymore." As Vincent walks towards her, she resists the urge to take an instinctive step back, one hand curling up at her side and her nails digging into her palm to stay put. Hannah can smell the suffocating cologne of his, something with highly concentrated musk or amber, and she moves her face away when his hand leans up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Where is it you've run off to, kleiner dieb?" Her jaw is gripped, bordering on being too tight, and her gaze is forced back onto him. This close, she could see his pupils dilate if she focused enough. "It's upsetting not hearing from you. Work has been really stressful, and you know I don't mean the things I say when I get angry. You just drive me crazy, mein diamant–"

"Oh, fuck off, Vincent."

The words leave Hannah's mouth before she lets the thought of them simmer, and Vincent pauses. The air conditioning is suddenly louder than their own breathing, the wind from outside is an accompaniment. Then his grip on her jaw tightens painfully, and the prim and proper display he'd been trying to put on melts away like butter.

"Excuse me?"

Glaring right back at him, she grabs him by the wrist and tugs it off of her face, even daring to step forward and stare up at him with a look of contempt she's been pushing down for too fucking long. Hannah practically shakes with the urge to strangle him, stab him, suffocate him, anything to watch the life drain from his eyes.

But she can't do that, and so she miraculously holds back.

"I said fuck. off. I'm tired of dealing with your bullshit. Find some other lonely bitch who would actually want to put up with you, but until then, I get to do what I want. If I want to ghost you, then you better believe I'm kicking your ass to the curb. So once again, fuck off–"

A hand comes down on her cheek hard enough to make her tumble. There's the familiar taste of metallic blood in her mouth.

Holding herself up against the desk next to her wall, she comes to the conclusion that she must've bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to bleed. As Vincent grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls her head back, she can only think about how she won't be able to take another job until it heals. Not about the growing ache at the top of her scalp, and not about the pain in her right cheek from the blow.

As painful as it is, she hopes this means he's gotten too tired of her to come back around or that he might kill her.

"Are you proud of your little outburst? You better be, because I'm going to enjoy making you pay for it soon enough."

With a push of her head as he lets go, she doesn't look up to watch him storm out of the room, her house, her life. The front door shuts with a slam that nearly echoes. It's not often people deny him of anything, and she did just that.

She can't help but laugh, wiping blood from her lip.

It was worth it.

[waywardsalt]

mmm

[euthymiya]

it always ends with i love you ft. wriothesley — in which you, a small floral shop owner, meet the duke of meropide by a chance encounter—and then you meet a bunch more too…but not so much by chance anymore

contains: 20.3k work count (please give it a chance i put my soul into it) ; female reader ; mature content—not suitable for minors ; strangers to friends to lovers ; flower shop au + florist reader ; reader has a small backstory regarding her dead father ; use of canon flowers and and lore, meaning i did my best so please be gentle on me with my botany facts ; heavy spoilers for wriothesley’s story quest and backstory, explores themes such as murder and hints at child exploitation and trafficking—all pertaining to his adopted home life ; slight oc’s because i gave a few of his adopted siblings names ; a fun neuvillette and clorinde appearance! ; a not so fun childe appearance + jealousy ; a short argument ; love confessions and getting together ; wriothesley is scared of love (anyone who had to kill their parents should be tbh) ; reader sits on his lap/lays on him ; there’s sex in every scene lol i got carried away—includes vaginal fingering ; cunnilingus ; nipple play ; hand + blow jobs ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie

the first time you meet wriothesley is by accident.

he doesn’t exactly come up to the surface regularly—he sees the sun frequently enough to remember what sunlight feels like if he tries to recall, but not enough that most people of fontaine would know he’s the duke of meropide just by looking at him.

he likes it that way. the duke is no small title, and he’d prefer the trip through the streets of the court without being stopped for idle chit-chat.

he doesn’t intend on stopping on his way to the palais, but you’re a bit of a unique circumstance.

he hears the smashing sound of something breaking before the scream, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the noise. nothing could have prepared him for a flower shop to be the source of such chaos—what could be chaotic about selling petals on a stem?

except you’re clumsily chasing after a man as he stumbles past your door, knocking over the potted plants on display in the process as you follow him.

the look of distress on your face as the pot falls and shatters compels him to investigate the scene. (of course, there’s a note of distress on your face before the pot falls, but the way it deepens when it does is almost criminal. your face is too lovely to have such creases in your forehead, even if he won’t admit as much out loud).

“stop! please,” you call, “you haven’t paid for those!”

thievery. wriothesley knows a thing or two about pocketing things that don’t belong to him.

first, it’s because he spends a portion of his life on the streets, surviving more than living. those moments reduce him down to a simple pocket thief at times. (he had standards for his crimes: never too much and only enough to survive for a bit. always from someone who dresses expensively and looks like they’re comfortable enough not to feel the damage to their wallets. and, of course, never from women).

second, it’s because people, on the streets or in the fortress, love to steal from those who are weak and vulnerable. people who are sleeping are of that classification of individuals, so wriothesley learns how to keep his things hidden and how to be a light sleeper. he’s never had too many things that are precious to him, of course, but he owns little enough that he’d notice his losses harshly should they come.

he hates thievery. partly because it reminds him of his past and the darkness that taints it, but mostly because it always involves someone innocent who doesn’t deserve to lose. not even a little.

his feet carry him over to the scene before he can stop himself—not that he would stop himself even if he did have control over his body, but it’s just that this particular circumstance seems to have him in some sort of trance. one that won’t allow him to look away from your face.

“please,” you follow the man past your shop’s door, “those are the last of my glaze lilies—i promised them in an order!”

the man running doesn’t seem to care about your pleas, snickering as he turns to give you an amused look, as if your distress is entertaining. he doesn’t make it far, though, before he bumps into a muscled chest.

“what the—”

wriothesley cuts him off, raising a brow. “i do believe the lovely lady here has asked for her flowers back. or did you miss that part?”

“and just who do you think you are, mister?” the man barks, glaring wriothesley up and down. (it’s a bit funny, considering he’s much shorter, so it takes a tad bit of effort on his part to give wriothesley the menacing once over it’s meant to be). “i don’t remember asking you what she asked.”

“oh me?” wriothesley cracks his knuckles casually, shrugging as he says, “duke of meropide at your service. i must say, i’m not very popular around here—not a lot of people know me, it seems.”

your jaw drops. the man’s face pales—which is a nice confirmation, at least, that he does have some sort of a brain.

“w-what? and just why would i believe that? you expect me to think the fortress’s duke is just prancing around the streets as if he hasn’t got duties? as if!”

wriothesley’s lips quirk up at the edges as he hums, fishing through the pocket of his shirt before he pulls out an envelope, sealed with the stamp of the iudex himself. there’s writing on it in clear letters, bold and italicized, as if just to mock the man.

to: duke wriothesley

from: iudex neuvillette

“that clear things up for you?” wriothesley asks, traces of a cheeky glint in his eyes as he raises a brow.

instantly, the man is clasping his hands, head bowing as a string of incoherent apologies flows past his shaky lips. “i-i’m sorry! i’ve never done anything like this before, you can check! my records are clean! i-it was a moment of weakness, but it won’t happen again, sir. p-please don’t take me to monsieur neuvillette. or court. or—”

“your first thieving gig, and you picked flowers?” wriothesley snorts, “i almost don’t want to bring you to court just save myself from the embarrassment.”

the man flushes, bashfully shrinking as he mumbles, “w-well i just…i just wanted to get flowers for my girlfriend for our anniversary and these…th-they’re her favorite you know? b-but they’re hard to come by since liyue is so far and…and the lady wouldn’t sell them to me so…you know…i uh…” the man trails off, wilting as wriothesley’s stares down, unimpressed. “i promised her i’d get them,” he adds, as if it’ll help.

“what a tragic sob story you got there,” wriothesley deadpans. “your girlfriend must love your honesty.”

“if i may interrupt,” you call from behind, making both men glance over to where you stand some distance away.

wriothesley forgot you were there, truthfully. but now that he’s taking in your appearance up closer, he can’t help but appreciate it. your features complement each other well—like an assortment of carefully arranged flowers, hand-picked one by one by celestia themselves.

“hello miss,” he nods, raising a hand to half-wave at you, “don’t worry, i’ll get this man out of your hair in a moment with your flowers too. just give me a sec—”

“no,” you say softly, “no it’s okay. he can keep some of them…i’m sure i can make do with a shorter hand than usual.”

he blinks. you couldn’t have possibly offered to let your thief keep his earnings at your expense, could you? he can’t decide if you're just that naive, just that foolish, or truly just that kind.

maybe all three, if he’s being honest.

“uh…are you sure?” he tilts his head in disbelief, “you want to let him keep the flowers?”

“partially,” you confirm, “it’s alright. everyone deserves flowers on their anniversary. especially their favorite.”

wriothesley decides you’re just that kind—and in some ways, it’s worse than being a bit on the naive side. at least you can sharpen yourself to become untrusting and skeptical if naivety gets you in trouble. kindness is as easy to take advantage of as it is to take for granted, and it’s not just something people like you can turn off like a switch.

“oh, thank you!” the man exclaims as soon as the words come out of your mouth, not wasting a second to grin at you as he says, “you’re really so kind! if you’d just tell the duke here that it was all a misunderstanding and that you’d like to drop all charges, then i’ll be on my way with partial the flowers—”

“make no mistake,” your hands find your hips as your face hardens with a certain strictness even he’s a bit startled by, “if you should come here and cause trouble again, i have the duke’s word to press double the charges next time. i would tread carefully if i were you—don’t ever let me catch you stealing from me again.”

wriothesley stares at you and gapes. he’s sorely mistaken about you—kindness is not the absence of your spitefulness, and the man shrinks back as you stare down at him expectantly.

“o-of course,” he says quickly, “it won’t happen again.”

“good,” you nod, “that’ll be five hundred mora, please.”

“b-but—”

“is there a problem?” you raise a menacing brow, making the man scramble to shake his head. 

“wow,” wriothesley snorts as the man scampers off after fishing enough mora from his pockets, “i suppose i underestimated your ability to handle the situation, miss.”

“i think i owe a good portion of my success to you, your grace,” you bow your head slightly, unable to meet his eyes as you nervously chuckle, “i don’t usually have robberies. the people in this area are familiar with me. they’re quite kind—i’ve never had someone as stubborn as him.”

“well, rest assured, if he bothers you again, you can come to find me for my word at court.”

“i’ll hold onto the offer,” you grin.

that chance meeting becomes history after a while. he comes and pays you a visit every time he’s at the surface, which isn’t all too often, but often enough that you start to look forward to at least one routine visit per month. sometimes, he teases you about whether or not you’ve had new thieves pay you a visit. other times, you make use of his strong hands and built muscles and cheekily order him around to move heavy bags of fertilizer around. 

he likes tea, you learn—he takes a very piqued interest in the jars of dried petals you keep on shelves, ones you tell him are good for making blends for tea, or to boil with water for natural remedies, or to make syrups for beverages like lemonade. it’s a slow, steady, blossoming friendship until, all at once, you feel incomplete without the routine visit from the fortress’s warden. you’re too reliant on the familiarity of explaining flowers, their origins, what stories they share, and what they mean—and likewise, you feel incomplete without his stories from the fortress, what the inmates are up to, and what changes he’s developing to make things better for the people under his wing. 

you like to think he feels the same way; otherwise, he wouldn’t come around as much as he does. 

sometimes he walks you home, and sometimes you invite him for tea. you drink coffee, but you don’t mind the trouble of brewing two beverages if it means some extra time with him in your cozy little home.

like today, where he sits comfortably at your dining table while you cut fresh bulle fruit as tea steeps in the hot water. he watches you with fond eyes, listening as you ramble intently about your recent endeavors at your flower shop.

“—and i think i’ve finally managed to grow a cactus from sumeru long enough to bloom my own henna berries,” you grin, looking at him brightly, pride settling into the crinkles of your eyes, “it did take some trial and error—fontaine rains far too often for cacti to survive, but this one i managed to grow indoors.”

“couldn’t you just get the berries delivered from sumeru? since you have plenty delivered from there already,” he asks in amusement. you huff, rolling your eyes as you walk over, setting the platter of fruit down before him. 

“of course, you’d want to take such a simple route—but plants are far more rewarding when you grow them yourself, you know. plus, every fruit i’ve managed to grow on my own here in fontaine has had a bit of a unique flavor as opposed to ones grown from their original nation. i’d like to see if that’s the case with these berries, too.”

“well, if that’s the case,” he hums, taking a slow sip from the tea you’ve brewed for him—it’s perfectly made to his liking, with two sugar cubes and piping hot just as you’ve learned he prefers. he closes his eyes and lets out a content sigh as the warmth trickles down his throat. “let me try one when they’re ready.”

“of course,” you brighten excitedly, as though the prospect of someone to share such a moment with is one you look forward to. there’s something that tickles in his chest, right beneath his ribcage, at the sight of your wide grin.

you chatter until the sun sets, warm, honeyed rays of orange and pink pouring through your windows and painting his skin vibrant hues. it’s about time for him to leave—you can tell even before he clears his throat and stands, grabbing the plate and mug and heading to the sink.

“i should go,” he says kindly, washing the dishes with so much familiarity that it almost feels domestic and natural to have him here. you shake the thought out of your head as quickly as it enters your head. “thank you for having me this evening.”

“oh, i think we’re past the formalities,” you huff a small laugh, “you’re doing my dishes.”

“technically they’re my dishes,” he chuckles, “since i did dirty them.”

you hum, walking over to where he stands as he turns the faucet off—until a small twist of your ankle has you gasping as you stumble forward. you brace yourself for the impact of the hardwood floor, but instead, you’re met with a firm yet soft chest as strong arms wrap around your waist and catch you before you can fall.

“oh,” you breathe as you open your eyes, staring into him with just as widened pupils as him. 

“are you okay?” he asks quietly, voice just barely audible as he whispers to you—he’s so close, so painfully close, you think the only reason you heard him was because of the proximity. 

“yeah,” you nod. it’s hardly a nod, really—if you were to move your head too much, you’d risk brushing your nose against his. or maybe even your lips. “i’m fine. thank you.”

“yeah, no problem,” his eyes are still trained on yours, and neither of you can find it in yourselves to pull away. you can’t, and he definitely doesn’t, and nothing seems to give as you stare at each other. you’re pressed against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around you, and there’s a strange beating in both of your chests that you think you can just barely make out.

they almost seem to beat in sync, rapid and untamed. so, so fast, you wonder if it’s even healthy.

you don’t know who does it first—or maybe it was the both of you. all you know is that one second, you’re staring at each other, and the next, your heads are tilted so that your lips meet tentatively. he hesitates at the first brush of your lips, but your hands cup his cheeks and pull him forward, making his eyes flutter shut as he shakily breathes into your mouth. it’s so slow, so dizzyingly slow, that you wonder if time has just stopped altogether to grant you a moment with no interruptions. 

he fits perfectly against you, the soft flesh of his cheeks spilling over your palms, your thumb rubbing affectionately into the skin as he nips at your lips, kissing you like he’s waited his whole life to feel you. the curves of his mouth connect with the curves of yours like pieces of a puzzle, like he was carved to match you from the same stone. 

you’re not sure how long you kiss like that, but slowly, it grows needier, more quick and hasty as your hands leave his cheeks to wander to his hair and gently tug at the strands as his hands wander to your waist and lower back, feeling every curve of you as he groans into your mouth. 

he tries to pull away, but you chase after him, unwilling to let go.

“w-wait,” he mumbles, “maybe we should stop—”

“you really want to?” you ask breathlessly, and all it takes is one glance down at your glossy, swollen lips for him to close his eyes and shiver.

“no,” he admits hoarsely, “i don’t. are…are you sure about this?”

“yes,” you whisper instantly.

he doesn’t waste a moment, quickly pulling you into your bedroom as you both collapse on the mattress. you climb onto his lap, crotch pressing against the semi-hardened erection in his pants, the press of your heat against his bulge earning a low, drawn-out groan from him that shoots straight to your clit with a dull ache. 

“sweetheart,” he says in between kisses, making you inhale sharply at the pet name, “you’re killing me here.”

“okay,” you smile against his mouth, pecking it sweetly before you add, “then let me do something about that.”

he doesn’t expect you to drop down between his legs, face to face with the obvious tent in his pants—wriothesley is a gentleman, a giver before he is a taker. his first instinct is to protest as he opens his mouth and starts to say, “hang on—you don’t have to—”

“i want to,” you pout, looking up at him, “please? i want to.”

when was the last time someone looked up at him like that, staring up at him like pleasing him is the only way they’ll survive? he doesn’t recall, doesn’t think it’s ever happened, in fact. he groans, head falling back against your bed frame as he nods slowly. 

“okay,” he concedes, lifting his hips up so you can pull his pants down his legs, leaving him in his boxers. there’s a wet patch where his tip meets the cloth, the evidence of pre cum drooling from his swollen head that makes you hum in satisfaction as you leave a tender kiss on the spot through the fabric. he gasps, hips jolting as his thighs clench at the teasing touch.

“can i?” you purr, hand rubbing soothingly over his tense thigh as he swallows and nods, looking anywhere but at you as he breathes harshly. 

“y-yes,” he grunts, “please.”

you’re freeing his cock as soon as he utters the plead, letting him spring free and meet the cool air. he hisses, gritting his teeth as his chest rises and falls erratically, labored breaths that he tries to use to calm himself as he stands painfully hard between his legs. 

“pretty,” you murmur, entranced at the sheer size of him—he’s flushed an almost painful red at his thick tip, leaking enough pre cum that you’d think he might have already had his release with the way it runs down the side of his hardened length. 

your hand wraps gently around the tip, thumb smearing the pre cum along the tip before coating the rest of his cock, using it as lubrication for the steady stroke of your hand along the girth. he throws his head back, groaning as his hips buck into your touch before he stops himself, frantically trying to keep himself still and let you take your time. 

“f-fuck,” he rasps, “that…that feels nice.”

“yeah?” you breathe, smiling as you press a kiss to his thigh as he chokes on a grunt while your hand slowly pumps him. “am i doing it right?”

“you’re doing just fine,” he assures, biting his lip as he finally can’t keep himself from bucking impatiently into your fist any longer, “feel free to do more, though.”

you giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his lip before gliding your tongue through his slit and watching as he melts against your bed frame at the gesture, body loosening up like he’s limbless as you slowly take him into your mouth, swallowing around his cock and bobbing your head, pumping the rest with your hand that you can’t fit down your throat. 

“shit,” he curses, hand cupping the back of your head as he guides you up and down his length, moaning your name when you swirl your tongue around the tip, “you…you’re so good at this, yeah? take me so well in that pretty mouth of yours.”

you hum around him, making him cry out at the vibrations around his cock, one hand running through his hair as he tries to keep himself grounded, the other still cradling the back of your head. he’s a gentleman, though, living up to one just as much as he always lets on to be when he doesn’t force you to take more of him by pushing your head down or burying himself deeper into your throat by fucking his hips into your mouth. he lets you do things at your own pace, and you think it’s enough when you feel the telling signs of his release as his panting grows harsher and his cock twitches in your mouth.

“w-wait, wait,” he says frantically, “i’ll cum—i’ll cum. not yet, not until i have you.”

you reluctantly pull away, a trail of spit connecting from your lips to his tip that makes him close his eyes and groan, clenching his jaw as his near-orgasm dies down to nothing again. his cock is achingly hard, hot and swollen and throbbing after denying himself for the sake of feeling you.

“c’mere,” he motions for you to climb onto his lap. you do, sitting on his thigh as he slowly trails a thumb under your shirt, rubbing the skin with a feather-light, heated touch that has you shivering against him. “you sure you want this?”

“i want it,” you whisper, leaning to press a kiss to his lips that he reciprocates with a low hum of approval, “with you.”

“such a sweet way with words,” he murmurs, slowly pulling your blouse over your head and unclasping your bra, tossing them to the side as he marvels at the view of your tits. “such a sweet view, too. beautiful.” 

you flush at the praise, looking away. but his hands grab at your breasts, large as they cup them and massage lightly, thumbs running over the pert nipples as you shudder and breathe out a light gasp. 

“wriothesley, need more—”

“give me a moment,” he shushes you, “and then i’ll give you what you want.”

he admires you like that for a bit, sat on his thigh as your eyes flutter shut and his thumbs tease your nipples, wetness pooling in your core that he can feel on his thigh—you’d be embarrassed, you really would, but it’s not as though his cock is any less leaky at the head. 

finally, he inhales sharply, sitting up slightly to unbutton his shirt, revealing the scars down his chest before he helps you out of your pants. you stare at the harsh, jagged lines that pain his skin, raised, discolored skin, the only evidence of some brutal, vicious past that he survived. 

your thumb traces down the lines, making him shiver at the fragileness behind the touch.

“where’d you get this?” you murmur, staring at him curiously. 

“hmm? oh the scar on my body? it's from a gash i got while battling a gigantic undersea monster that tried to take over the fortress of meropide…” he stares at you cheekily as you blink, looking at him unimpressed. “hah, just kidding.”

“do you ever take anything seriously?” you shake your head and huff, but there’s endearment on your face as you fight back a smile.

“on the contrary, milady,” he murmurs, grabbing your hips and pulling you back slightly, exposing your drenched cunt before he slowly sinks two fingers into your folds and curls them against the back of your walls, “i take this quite seriously.”

you gasp at the feeling, his digits rubbing against your walls and angling to hit a sensitive, achingly sweet spot at the back of your cunt. it’s precise, the way he pumps his fingers into you, slowly sinking in a third digit while you mewl and throw your head back. the heel of his palm catches against your clit, the sweet friction building your orgasm up slowly, slowly, until suddenly, you’re near the edge all at once. 

“c’mon, don’t hold back now,” he drawls, voice low and sweet and so attractive, you feel like the sound of him alone is enough to send you tumbling over the edge, “why don’t you be a sweet little thing and let go for me, hm?”

you do—instantly, you do, crying out his name is choked garbles as he works you through your orgasm with his fingers, still thrusting into you with a precise pace. finally, when you’re done clenching around him, he pulls his digits out, the slickness of your pussy coating them as he hums in satisfaction. 

“think you’re ready?” he asks softly, cradling the back of your head with his good hand as he pulls you closer, “or do you need one more from me?”

“i’m ready,” you huff impatiently, “i need you, need to feel you already.”

“okay, okay,” he laughs, amused but not anymore patient himself as his cock pulses between his legs, “i’m not trying to wait any longer, either. do you have a…uh…y-you know…”

you snort at the way he trails off awkwardly, flushing at the thought of asking for a condom as if he’s not completely nude under you. “no,” you giggle, pinching his cheek as he huffs, “but we don’t need one. it’s fine.”

“okay,” he nods slowly. his hands grab at your hips, firm yet so gentle with the way they lift you up and guide you to angle over his swollen cock, slowly helping you sink down on him as he chokes on a grunt when his head pushes past your folds. 

you gasp as soon as he intrudes into your tight hole, splitting you open on his thick girth as you take him inch by inch until you’re sat on his lap completely, buried completely with his length as his jaw clenches at the tight squeeze of you around him. 

“wri—wriothesley,” you sob brokenly, unable to say anything else besides cracked repeats of his name. he’s so big, buried so deep, and leaving you so full, you’re not sure if you have it in you to fuck onto him from this position. 

he takes things into his own hands, though—roughly grabbing your hips and pulling you back before helping you sink back down on him again, rolling his own hips upward to bury deeper into you. your head spins, and all you can think to do is weakly plant your hands onto his shoulders before you roll your hips, grinding down on his length and sloppily fucking yourself onto him.

he bullies past your folds, curves deliciously into the most intimate parts of you, fat tip slamming against the soft, sensitive spot that makes you see white. pleasure burns up your spine, building a coil in your belly that grows tighter, tighter, tighter—so close yet so far from snapping and letting you plummet into your second release. 

“that’s it,” he grunts, “fuck—you’re so tight, so good. i’ve…i’ve never felt anything so good. it’s like you were made for me, weren’t you? take me so well, fit around me so well.”

his hand moves to your clit, thumb pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves and rubbing merciless circles against it as you mewl, head burying into his neck as your nails claw at his shoulder. everything is so good—so hot and filthy and leaves you impatiently desperate for some form of release. the friction of his cock dragging along every ridge leaves your mind hazed, and the harsh press of his tip against your sweet spot leaves your vision blurry. 

you’re not sure how you even have the strength to rock yourself onto his stiff length, but somehow you manage, and he seems keen on helping you, too, with rough, bruising hands that grip your waist with a punishingly tight grasp.

“c-can’t hold on much longer,” you cry, voice a strangled sob that’s muffled into his skin, “i’m s-so close. please.”

“me too,” he pants, voice just as strained as yours as he moans through a cracked voice when you clench down on his particularly tightly, “me too, sweetheart. i’m right there with you, alright? let go—c-c’mon.”

once more, you cum around him—this time on his cock instead of his fingers, and if the first time felt good, the second time is devastating. your vision practically goes white as your walls spasm around him, slick and dripping with your release and mixing with his own as he follows you not long after. his cock jolts, pumping hot, sticky ropes of his seed deep into you, and both of your bodies are slumped against one another as you barely roll your hips, sloppy pace with no rhythm as you focus on getting yourselves through the ecstasies of your orgasms. 

his thumb is still pressing against your clit, and your hands have left his shoulders to bury into his sweaty hair, tugging fiercely at the dark strands and making him groan at the mix of pain and pleasure. 

finally, you both ride out the final few waves, him slumping against your bed as you fall against his sturdy chest, face still buried into his neck. sweat clings to your skin, but you don’t mind the feeling of his damp skin against yours, not when the warmth of your body makes the afterglow feel so sweet. your fingers thread through his hair, soothing over his scalp with the rake of your nails where you’d just tugged so harshly, and his palms glide up and down your hips, rubbing gentleness back into the parts where he dug bruises along the skin. 

“wait, is that watering can supposed to be a dog?” he asks out of the blue, making you lift your head and look over your shoulder.

“yes,” you quirk a brow, watching as he lets out a small snort as he looks at the watering can by your plants in wonder.

“it’s pretty ugly.”

“rude!” you gasp, pulling away slightly as he shakes under you in laughter, “i think it’s adorable!”

“do you now?” he bites his lips, attempting to suppress the smile that threatens to take over, “you have…interesting taste.”

“oh, you’re dead to me,” you spit dramatically, collapsing back against his chest as you bury your head into his neck again. “dead to me, i say.”

“my apologies,” he snickers. his hand rubs slowly into your hip, quietly humming for a moment before he asks, “what made you so passionate about plants?”

“i can’t just really like them?” you challenge.

“sure,” he shrugs, eyeing the watering can again as he smiles, “but you don’t give the impression that you just happen to just really like leaves, and that’s it.”

“there’s more to plants than leaves,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. and then, much gentler this time, “my father was a scholar from sumeru. an herbologist.” your voice is a quiet murmur, a low hum as you speak into his neck while his hands are still rubbing into your hips, “i used to be fascinated by his journals and all the plants he’d seen. he died when i was young, so sometimes…sometimes i try to grow them here in fontaine myself. just to feel close to him.”

“do you?” he asks quietly, staring at the various plants that decorate your small home. it’s cozy, he thinks, so lively and warm that it almost doesn’t feel like you’re the only inhabitant. “do you feel close to him when you do?”

“if it works,” you admit, “it’s not always easy to recreate the same conditions they’re meant to grow in.”

“i think you do an impressive job,” he praises, earning a slow smile from you that he can feel curve into his skin, “i’ve yet to come across a flower shop in fontaine with as much variety as yours.”

“you flatter me, your grace,” you chuckle, pulling away as you stare at him, the tousled hair from where his hand ran through, the swollen bottom lip where his teeth sank in, the flushed skin where heat settled. you take all of it in slowly, admiring him as he looks up at you through lidded eyes.

“do i? i meant it seriously, not in flattery,” he raises a brow and smirks, “if i wanted to try flattery on you, i think i’d have some other choice words.”

“don’t be so insatiable,” you gently swat at his chest, earning a chuckle from him. “will you be able to stop by tomorrow?”

“i’m afraid not,” he sighs, “i have a meeting with some people from the palais tomorrow at the fortress. it’ll run a bit late.”

“oh,” you try to hide the disappointment in your voice, but he seems to sense it instantly. “that’s okay. i just had a blend i thought you might like to try—for tea, that is. it’s um…i dried the petals myself, and it’s new. i thought i’d let you be the first to try it to let me know what you think.”

you try not to giggle at the way he perks up at the mention of tea.

“ah, i’m afraid i won’t have time tomorrow. but…” he coughs, trailing off as he looks away, contemplating his words.

“but…?” you press.

“but…well, i have a few guards returning tomorrow from the surface from a few tasks i gave them. i could have them stop by the shop to escort you down to the fortress if that works for you…it’s okay if you can’t, though! i can always come by sometime this week when my duties aren’t as—”

“that sounds nice,” you cut him off, grinning widely, something close to excitement blooming across your features, brighter than any set of petals in your shop, he thinks. “you can give me an official tour of the fortress, perhaps. i’ve only ever heard about it through stories.”

“as you wish, my lady,” he winks.

he leaves not too long after—you try not to focus on his lingering scent in your sheets once you settle back in after bidding him goodbye. it’s oddly peaceful, being surrounded by him even when he’s not there, and sleep lulls over you quicker than usual. 

the scent is faded by the time you wake up, so you take one last deep breath to inhale it before you set off to get ready for the day, counting down the hours before you get to see him again.

——————————

as promised, a group of fortress guards stop by your shop, politely waiting for you to close up before you join them on their return. 

the fortress is darker than you expected—but not at all as small as your mind anticipated. in fact, it’s huge. you follow the guards, making idle chatter as they take you up an elevator, up, and up, and up—until finally, you finally arrive on the floor of his office. 

you’re so busy taking in all you can of the fortress that by the time they escort you to his office door, you remember why you’re here in the first place. to bring wriothesley dried petals of sweet flowers that you grew yourself—flowers often make for a wonderful tea blend, and learning his passionate liking for the drink makes you feel compelled to share with him every one of the various floral teas you’ve learned about in your time as a florist. 

you knock on the door of his office—except, oddly enough, there’s more than one voice you can make out from the room. you didn’t think his meeting would still be in session by the time you arrived, making you anxiously regret the knock as soon as your knuckles leave the surface of the door.  

but he answers before you can think too much of it. “come in,” his voice calls. 

“your grace,” you hum, stepping in, “if this is a bad time, then i can…”

you trail off. both fontaine’s chief justice and champion duelist stand in his office, gathered around his desk as he sits and sifts through files. of course, wriothesley is a duke, which is no small title by any means, but you’re caught more than a little off guard as you step in and share the room with two of fontaine’s more important figures in the justice system.

“no,” he says casually, “come in, you’re right on time. i was just telling miss clorinde about the delicious tea blend you would bring for her to try. she couldn’t wait a moment longer.”

“if you want to try it so badly, just say so,” she rolls her eyes.

“fine,” he huffs, lips curling into a slight pout, “i’d like to try the tea you promised me. clorinde will pass, though.”

“i think i’ll try it, as well,” she chimes in, suppressing a smile as wriothesley crosses his arms.

“but you just said—”

you giggle, walking over as you hand him the bag with dried petals, grinning at the amusing dynamic, and murmur, “i believe it would be the polite thing to do if you made an extra cup for the madam while making yours.”

“picking her side, are we? such an act of betrayal won’t be forgotten,” he huffs. still, almost as excited as a child opening a present, he opens the bag to add the petals to the tea maker he keeps at his desk. you watch with fondness at the action. “you still owe me a present, by the way. and tea won’t do—i’ve just received a batch.”

“then i suppose i can gift you a new tie,” clorinde hums, eyeing the loosened tie around his neck and making him furrow his brows as he subconsciously straightens it, “something that fits your neck better so you look a bit more put together.”

it’s almost like she sees through the both of you, eyeing between you and him with a hint of a knowing glint in her eyes. wriothesley scowls, giving her a petulant glare.

“there’s nothing wrong with my tie. i look just fine.”

“i do believe it’s a stylistic choice,” neuvillette pipes up from the side, “it doesn’t seem to be an issue with the tie itself.”

you snort at the way the joke flies over his head. “you’re right, monsieur,” you join in the banter, “i do believe his grace has a rather…unique choice of style.”

“i wonder if he ever plans to properly wear the coat he always seems to keep hanging over his shoulders,” clorinde adds, the earlier grin she attempted to fight back now fully curled into her lips. you laugh, much to wriothesley’s dismay.

“perhaps he just values being prepared,” you hum, “one can never tell when the fortress will suddenly be too cold. someone as busy as the duke surely can’t afford the wasted time to go and fetch a coat.”

“ah,” she nods, “i suppose you’re right. he is too busy learning legal codes as of late.”

“i take it that my gift has been useful, then?” neuvillette brightens, turning to a miserable wriothesley as he rubs his temples wearily.

“most helpful,” he sighs, not bothering to explain to the iudex that he’s once more missed the point of the joke. 

“oh, we’re only joking,” you laugh, taking the tea cup sitting at his desk and pouring him a glass of the now freshly brewed tea, “it’s all in good fun, your grace.”

“wriothesley is just fine,” he mumbles, “as you can see, this isn’t a very…formal meeting.” 

he watches as you carefully make his cup, one sugar cube as opposed to his usual two—before he can point it out, however, you beat him to it. “i know you’re particular about your tea. i can see it on your face you’re about to insist i give you two, but this is a very sweet blend as it is. one will suffice.”

“careful when it comes to his tea,” clorinde warns, “he’ll be in a foul mood all day if it doesn’t live up to his standards.”

“not true,” he grumbles. as if to prove a point, he takes a sip, slowly blinking before he looks at you with an awed grin, “it’s lovely. you’re right, it is just perfectly sweet with one cube.”

“perhaps you’re the only person he won’t make a fuss with then,” clorinde teases, “he’s got quite the list of grievances if i make him a cup of tea.”

“that’s because you don’t know how to make proper tea,” wriothesley rolls his eyes, “there’s a set of steps you’re meant to follow, you know.”

“water is a most simple beverage,” the iudex cuts in, “one that has many complexities in flavor, as well. perhaps you should consider it as a fitting option if tea gives you too much trouble.”

“i would hate to think of the wrath the poor inmates would have to face if he were to miss a single tea time,” you grin, fighting back a chuckle as wriothesley takes a tired sip from his cup, resigning himself to his fate as the target of your banter, “water simply won’t do.”

“well, i believe we should be off,” clorinde looks at neuvillette, “perhaps we should leave them to themselves.”

“ah, yes,” the chief justice nods politely, “there are many more files for me to read through at the office.”

“do you ever take the day off?” wriothesley raises a brow, “wouldn’t hurt.”

“even his dreams are of legal cases, i’m sure. he wouldn’t last a day on vacation,” clorinde hums.

“i don’t typically dream when i sleep,” neuvillette frowns, still so serious that you choke on a snort as you try to hold back you giggles. wriothesley looks at you with an amused grin, biting his lip to hide a chuckle himself.

“i’ll be seeing you,” he waves as the two leave, “and hopefully with my present ready next time,” he calls to clorinde with a pointed look. she rolls her eyes, fondly waving as she heads out the door.

“i didn’t know you were friends with such important people,” you murmur as they leave, making him raise a brow as he takes another sip.

“friends isn’t the best title for it—consider us work acquaintances.”

“with banter like that, i hardly believe it,” you chuckle, earning you a half-hearted glare from him over the rim of his tea cup.

“did you have your fun at my expense?” he asks dryly—but there’s no real bite to the words, “it seems you got along quite well with clorinde.”

“monsieur neuvillette is lovely too,” you giggle, “even if he’s not exactly…the earliest to catch onto jokes.”

he laughs at that, setting down his empty cup as he stands, eyeing the door to his office quickly before stepping closer to you, eyes staring down at your lips as you chew on the bottom and wait for him to make his move. 

“thank you for the tea,” he murmurs lowly, lips just barely a millimeter away from yours, “it was quite sweet. i enjoyed it.”

“there are plenty of other floral blends i have for you to try,” you hum. 

he grins, hands finding your waist before he whispers, “surely i couldn’t take all that from you without offering something in return, could i? i wouldn’t want it to seem like i'm taking bribes.”

“oh?” you breathe, grabbing a hold of his tie and tugging him closer until your lips meet his in a slow, heated kiss. it awakens a sick, insatiable heat in your core almost instantly. “what did you have in mind, your grace?”

he groans at the way your voice teasingly lilts at the title, hungrily chasing after your lips again. it’s more tongue than it is anything, messy and almost too scandalous to take place in his office where anyone could knock and come in at a moment’s notice. he seems to know it, too, because slowly, he guides you backward, slow steps that don’t interrupt the lock of your lips until your back meets a door.

“why don’t i show you,” he breathes—and then the doorknob is twisted open, and you’re gently pushed in with an arm curled around your waist to guide you. there’s a bedroom connected to his office, you realize. 

not entirely a shock—you’re sure the duke of the fortress has his own quarters to sleep in away from the other inmates, but it doesn’t surprise you less enough that you don’t pull away to take a glance around. 

it’s empty, mainly. not too many things besides a few scattered files and another tea maker with a few cups surrounding it at a desk in the corner. the sheets are dark grey, plain, and neatly made, with two pillows and nothing else. it has no more than what he needs, no more than what’s necessary. no hints of anything that’s his, anything that makes the room belong to him outside of being a mere sleeping quarters. 

“not one for decor?” you hum, wrapping your arms around his neck as your fingers fiddle with the collar of his shirt.

“i only come here at night to sleep,” he shrugs, “never felt the need.”

“everyone needs a space that’s theirs, don’t you think? even a few flowers would brighten the place up.”

“offering me more business?” he chuckles, making you roll your eyes, “and they’d die. there isn’t much sun down here.”

“i can think of a few options that would thrive,” you murmur.

“so it is business,” he quips. sigh exasperatedly, and he grins cheekily at you before you’re gently pushed to fall onto his bed, his body moving to hover over you as your legs wrap around his waist. his cock is semi-hard through his pants, and you wiggle your hips to press against it, the friction making him groan as you feel him stiffen even more from your actions. 

“i think i’d like my payment now,” you hum, making him raise a brow.

“eager?” he asks, making your hand travel to squeeze at his bulge.

“and you aren’t?” you challenge.

“fuck,” he grunts, shuddering at the feeling, “looks like you got me.”

it happens faster than you can process—the shedding of clothes, the way his fingers slowly sink into you, pumping in and out expertly as your head spins from the way he brushes against your sensitive spots. he’s quick, the way he stretches you apart with his digits, adding a second and third finger with little to no time to waste. you hardly have time to accommodate the third when you feel a familiar ache building up steadily. 

“c-close,” you say shakily, voice brokenly whispering against his mouth as he drinks up your moans, “i’m going to—”

“i know,” he hums, “shh. just let go—you’re doing so well.” 

the praise shatters you—you break at the way he sounds so in awe of you, of the way you suck his fingers into your slick cunt, so tight and wet with every clench. your back arches, and your hips roll into his hand, whimpering as his palm rolls over your sensitive clit. “god,” you gasp, “wriothesley, please.”

“please what?” he drawls, “you already got what you needed.”

“please let me feel you.”

“such a demanding price for some tea,” he sighs, “alright. i guess i can afford it.”

the nudge of his cock against your folds is enough to make you mewl, a sweet, whiny little cry that he groans at—every sound you make leaves an ache shooting up his stiff cock in the form of a twitch, like your every cry calls out to him. he responds with a rough thrust of his hips, burying himself into the depths of you, so deep and so close you can practically feel his pulse alongside yours. 

“so full,” you gasp, panting as you try to adjust to the sheer girth of him. he waits a moment, jaw clenched and teeth grit as he waits for you to nod your head and signal him to move.

“and you’re so tight,” he grunts, moaning softly against your ear as he nibbles on your earlobe, “i wouldn’t mind it if you charged interest either, just so you know. i’ll pay it over as many times as you want.”

“oh be quiet, would you?” you roll your eyes at his words at first, but then they roll back at the feeling of his thick, swollen tip pressing against the deep, sweet spot in the back of your walls. he lets out a breathy laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth so he doesn’t muffle the precious little moan you let out. 

“sure thing,” he hums, “i like listening to you more, anyway.”

“oh,” you gasp, “oh—wriothesley!” his finger teases over your clit, making your walls quiver around him as you feel your second orgasm creep up on you. “w-wait—i’m close.”

“why would i wait?” he asks in amusement, “that’s the idea.”

“t-together,” you whimper, pouting up at him through swollen lips and watery eyes, “please. please.”

he curses, closing his eyes and inhaling shakily at the way you look so fucked out, so drunkenly hazed on pleasure from the drag of his cock along your every ridge. you ask so sweetly—and who is he to deny such an innocent request?

“fuck—okay, sweetheart. fine by me,” he pants, rolling his hips harshly as he works himself to his own orgasm. his thumb teases your clit cruelly, fast and merciless one second, and a slow, bare feather’s touch the next. it keeps you right on the edge, a drooling mess of broken pleas as he finally approaches his own high. “close?”

“so close,” you gasp, twitching as he buries himself deep into you again.

“me too,” his voice cracks, “c-cum with me—please.”

hearing him plead sends you over the edge again—your first orgasm pales in comparison to your second. you didn’t even think that was possible, but the thick of his cock bullying into you is infinitely better than his nimble digits. the blunt head hits all the right spots, curves in all the right angles, and fucks you through your high expertly without even trying. 

you both cry out each other's names like prayers, muffled strings of curses, and breathy gasps that you swallow up between slow, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. finally, when the last few twitches of his cock finish painting his release into you, he slumps on the bed beside your body, body shaking in slight tremors as he catches his breath. 

“you okay?” he asks through a labored voice, “didn’t hurt you?”

“i’m okay,” you breathe, smiling softly. he closes his eyes, relaxing into the mattress, pulling the covers to tuck the both of you in before he stares up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head while he seems to be deep in thought. “what’re you thinking about?” you murmur.

“just how good you got along with clorinde,” he hums quietly, almost in wonder. “she’s not exactly the easiest to banter with so quickly.”

“well, i guess it’s not too hard if it’s at your expense,” you tease.

“ah, yes,” he sighs, pretending to woefully shake his head, “i’ve been reduced to the butt of the joke one too many times today, it seems.”

he grins to himself at the sound of your quiet laughter, so soft and sweet, so perfectly filling up the quietness in the room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears like a symphony. you stare up at the ceiling yourself, eyeing the pipes, the dark amber metal that makes up his home. it’s quiet like that for a bit—not awkward or uneasy, almost like you’ve known him for ages. almost like this is natural.

“can i ask you something?” you murmur after some time, shifting under the covers to face him. 

he raises a brow, looking at you curiously. “you’re scaring me with that look. going to confess some wicked crime you want me to help you hide?”

“it’s not like that,” you huff, rolling your eyes. carefully, as if treading unknown territories (you are, in all fairness), your fingers find his bicep, running along the skin soothingly. it’s an affectionate touch—you and wriothesley only touch each other for physical pleasure, nothing more. this is new, something you’re freshly navigating with a weak compass that points back and forth between your heart and your head, unsure whether to follow logic or emotion. 

“well, go ahead and ask,” he insists, “you’ve got me curious, anyway.”

“what…what did you serve for? when you were an inmate,” you say quietly. he tenses under your touch, muscles becoming rigid as you instantly regret the question. your fingers pull away at the same time as you start speaking, “it’s okay if you don’t want to answer! i just got curious and—”

his hand catches your retreating wrist, gently pulling it closer, closer, until your hand rests on his chest. this is definitely uncharted territory—but his hand firmly lays over yours as he presses your palm over his bare chest. 

“it’s fine,” he mumbles, “it’s not exactly something people in my inner circle don’t know.”

“oh,” you whisper, “i’ve been promoted to inner circle, huh?”

“you’ve seen me naked,” he snorts, eyeing you with a hint of amused disbelief, “you’ve sucked me off, in fact. i think there’s a special other circle inside the circle just for you.”

“okay, no need to get all…”

“all what?” he teases, waiting for you to finish.

“all uncouth about our activities!” you huff, face feeling hot as he grins.

he laughs, wrapping an arm around you, pulling you against his side so your cheek presses against a muscled pec as his warm hand traces circles into your hip. you gasp slightly at the sudden gesture but relax all too quickly, your own hand moving to rub into his chest slowly, feeling the rough scars and tracing them with your fingertips.

“i was adopted when i was young from an orphanage. when i was a bit older,” he swallows, voice quiet, serious—so oddly vulnerable, you think you’re talking to a new version of him altogether, “i found a diary in my mother’s drawer. i didn’t…i didn’t mean to snoop. i was just looking for some paper for my sister to color with.”

“you had a sister?” you ask softly, looking up to see his jaw tighten slightly. 

“i had quite a few siblings,” he admits, voice strained. “older and younger. my parents would adopt a few children at a time and raise them until they were old enough to be adopted into families of greater means. and then they’d adopt more younger children. i thought they were perfect parents,” his eyes stare off distantly, unfocused as they look up at the ceiling, hand mindlessly wandering along your hip as you listen.

“until…?”

“until i read that diary,” his voice hardens, still strained as he clenches his jaw and swallows thickly again, “they were records. of my older siblings, the ones i thought were adopted off. all of their names were followed by prices, and the ones who didn’t have prices had been crossed off. i didn’t understand until i saw my own name and my brother antoine’s. we had blank spaces next to ours.”

“how come?” you furrow your brows, looking at him in jarred curiosity. 

“because we weren’t sold yet,” he smiles ruefully, “i realized we were being sold off like livestock. and i started to piece together why i had never heard from any of my siblings even when they’d promised to write. i…i never knew what became of them.”

“oh, wriothesley,” you say gently, so delicate, he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. you press a soft kiss to his chest under you, hand moving up to cup his cheek, “what awful people.”

“i…i should have kept it to myself,” he whispers shakily, “i didn’t…i couldn’t figure out what to do, so i told antoine—i thought…i figured maybe…” he trails off, eyes closed once more as he breathes heavily, trying to collect the composure he fights so fiercely to keep.

“it’s okay,” you kiss his jaw, “we can forget about it. i’m sorry for—”

“no,” he shakes his head. “i want you to know.”

it should make you feel special—maybe even a little happy that he trusts you enough to want to share. but nothing about this makes you feel anything but pain—you can feel his pain, every inch of it. from the way his hand clasps around your waist in a shaky grip to ground himself to the way his jaw is tight under your lips as they press a soothing kiss to the angle of it. every part of him is in pain, and you can feel it. deep in your own bones, like a lingering ache. one that runs years deep, living in the deepest, most intimate parts of your body.

you don’t mind it, though. you don’t mind sharing his pain, not if it’s him.

“okay,” you nod slowly, “okay.”

he inhales sharply, taking a deep breath before he continues. “i told him because i knew we were next. i thought maybe we could have figured out a plan together. but he asked my mother about the diary, what the prices meant, and why we’d never heard from the others once they’d left. he was gone the next morning—my mother told us he was adopted, but i knew. i knew he was merely disposed of. and it was my fault.”

“it was not your fault,” you turn your head swiftly, looking up at him in disbelief as he scoffs and shakes his head.

“if i hadn’t told him, if i handled it on my own—”

“then what? he would have been fine? you don’t know that, what if he was sold off for something awful? or found out on his own without you? you were a child, and you didn’t know that he’d choose to do that.”

“but i still could have kept quiet,” he chuckles dryly, voice cracking as he adds, “i could have gotten us both out of there. on my own.”

“you shouldn’t have to have done it on your own,” you cup his cheek, bringing him to face you as your forehead presses against his, “you didn’t want to be on your own, did you?”

“no,” he admits, lips trembling, “i didn’t.”

“and that’s okay,” you murmur, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone, “you didn’t deserve to be alone.”

“maybe it was for the better, though,” he sniffles.

“a lot of things are. we can’t hope to predict everything for what would turn out better.”

“he died,” wriothesley chokes, “my brother. he died that night—i…i knew he did. so i ran the next day, when my parents were busy, i snuck off and ran. i didn’t come back until a few years later and i…” his breath catches in his throat, glancing at you for a moment. there’s something fleeting in his eyes. doubt, maybe—perhaps even fear.

you’re not entirely sure, but you press a kiss to his lips, soft and tender, so unlike your usual heated ones. something that’s shared not for the sake of pleasure but for the sake of knowing you’re there—that he has you. you’re both here, together, just the two of you. he can feel your warmth, and you can feel his. 

it eases the tension somewhat, making his rigid muscles relax as he pulls you closer. 

you pull away first, murmuring a soft, “i don’t care what you did. whatever it is.”

“you say that now,” he chuckles weakly, “but you don’t even know what i did.”

“i don’t care,” you say seriously, “i don’t. whatever you did, it was because you didn’t have a choice.”

“i killed them,” he says against your mouth, such harsh, dark words that don’t belong against your soft, pure lips—he thinks he might have just tainted them. almost like you know his thoughts, you prove you don’t care when you peck his mouth lightly. “i killed them and set the other children free.”

“you were just a kid,” you breathe, “a baby.”

“a teenager,” he huffs a laugh hoarsely, “maybe not that young.”

“a baby to me,” you say firmly, “no one that young should be pushed to such extreme methods.”

“you’re oddly calm about sharing a bed with a murderer. was the sex that good?”

you roll over, laying on top of him, pulling a soft oof from his lips—you know it’s exaggerated. he’s strong and broad under you, capable of taking your weight and then some as his hands find your waist to keep you in place, eyes boring into yours. so bare and so easy for you to look into, to read, to see so plainly for all he is. 

he doesn’t even blink—as if he’s offering himself to you, trusting you to see as much as you want, see as much of him as he can show you. 

“is that all you see yourself as? a murderer?” you ask seriously.

“of course not,” he denies, breathing softly into your hands as they cradle his face, “but it’s the part of me that matters most. that defines me the most. whether i want it to or not.”

“not to me,” you shake your head, “and not to you either, i can tell.”

“i know why i did it,” he tells you, staring at you so intensely, you feel like maybe he’s seeing you more than you’re seeing him, “i did it for my siblings. because i knew it was the only way to get them out. no one else would do a thing. but when you strip my title as duke from me, whether you put me in the underworld or put me in the overworld, i am a murderer. that won’t change.”

“and?” you raise a brow, “do you regret it? what you did?”

“never,” he says instantly. he means it. “but i’m aware of what i am to others. what they see me as. i’m not naive enough to believe my past will go away.”

“and it shouldn’t,” you shake your head, “i don’t think it should. i don’t think murder is what matters most about you—i think a child raised like livestock, betrayed, and taken advantage of, matters most. a boy who willingly gave up his freedom so his siblings would have theirs is what matters most. a man who served his time and chose to stay so he could make things better for everyone who followed is what matters. death was a kind fate for your parents, wriothesley—i for one, believe there were more fitting fates for them. far crueler ones than a peaceful demise.”

he chuckles at that last part, staring at you in wonder, in slight amusement, in so much awe that you almost feel shy.

“now i’m really questioning if the sex was that good—you’re really rationalizing my crimes, aren’t you?”

“oh, you’re such an asshole, do you know that?” you huff, “i think that’s what defines you best. a complete, utter, shameless assho—oh.”

he kisses you—abruptly so. his lips are pressed hard and firm against you, kissing with so much conviction, so much need, you’d think that you were disintegrating in his arms, that this was his last opportunity to kiss you and commit how you feel to memory. 

“you sure it’s not my stamina?” he wiggles his brows, “how about my—”

“i’ll see to it that this is the last time we ever engage in such activities if that’s all you can focus on—”

“okay, okay,” he laughs, pouting as he pulls you down to lay on him, your head tucking under his chin as he kisses the crown of your head, “enough sex jokes. i promise.”

“so crass,” you scold, “have some decorum, will you?”

“my apologies, milady,” he sighs regretfully, voice exaggerated and theatrical as he adds, “i won’t allow myself to forget my manners again. from here on out, i’ll make sure to discuss more…gentlemanly topics for your liking.”

“you’re a real handful,” you sigh, “poor sigewinne. such a sweet little angel to put up with the likes of you.”

“you met her?” he smiles fondly at the mention of her.

“briefly, yes,” you nod, “the poor thing must be tired of your antics.”

“i’m on my best behavior around her!” he insists, “you can ask her.”

“i don’t think she’ll vouch for you, you know.”

“yeah, you’re probably right,” he withers in defeat.

you giggle, kissing his collarbone softly before nuzzling against him as he relaxes. it’s comfortably silent, just your body against his, warmth seeping between the space that hardly separates your bodies, spreading across your skin. you share your heat, and he shares his. it lulls you, slowly but surely, and you can feel it lull him, too as his breath slowly evens out under you. 

sleep is just a breath away from clutching you when you mumble, “wriothesley?”

“hmm?” comes his sleepy hum.

“thank you,” you whisper, yawning, “for trusting me. enough to tell me.”

“go to sleep,” he grunts tiredly, “you can be sappy and sentimental in the morning.”

“okay,” you grin tiredly, pressing closer into him, “i’ll hold you to it.”

sleep comes quickly after that—so easy, so natural in his arms, you wonder how you’ve rested all these years without him. 

——————————

your routine to meet with wriothesley ebbs and flows between the surface and the fortress. sometimes, he stops by just like before, and sometimes, he sends for guards to fetch you when he’s too busy to make an appearance himself. your meetings more or less end the same—catching your breath together, bare bodies huddled together in a tired mess as you share quiet, whispered words into each other’s skin. it’s a routine that both of you are too used to by now, that even a short gap of not seeing each other makes the both of you impatient for the next time you’ll get to see each other. 

on days you can’t afford to see each other, your days at the shop drag by slower when all you can do is think about him. sometimes, the guards will be relieved to come to escort you, woefully expressing the awful mood the duke has been in, shuddering as they recall how unpleasant he is to be around when he’s unhappy. they seem to insist your visits are what help end his supposed awful temperament—your instinct is always to flush and insist they must be mistaken.

but it’s an intimate sort of development—the way the two of you slowly learn to depend on each other for comfort. you on long days at the shop, him after tiresome affairs with the fortress. every delicate touch and every saccharine word you exchange slowly peels away the harsh layers of the week, leaving you raw and bare to each other. 

it’s nice. something you’ve grown a bit dependent on, in fact. a part of you would like to be scared, but wriothesley doesn’t let you fear anything—it’s just the kind of guy he is. everything about him feels too safe for you to consider being scared. 

you miss him terribly, too. you haven’t gotten a chance to see him in over a week—it’s the first week of spring, the blooming season for a number of flowers. you have shipments from across the continent—cecilias from mondstadt, silk jades from liyue, sakura blossoms from inazuma, and padisarahs from sumeru. there are plenty more—too many for you to list off the top of your head, but those are the ones you’re sure will sell out the quickest. 

there’s a certain man who stops by every day, a mop of ginger on his head and an interesting aura about him as he asks you if you’ve received kalpalata lotuses yet—they’re for my sister, he tells you, i bring them home for her every time i visit sumeru. but i won’t have a chance for quite a while.

you learn he’s a harbinger, the eleventh in rank, and hardly one to step foot in his homeland for too long at a time. but he’s due back, he tells you, for a project that won’t allow him to leave for quite some time. mingling with a fatui operative is hardly on your list of possibilities for the week, but you realize even a harbinger can appreciate the beauty of flowers. so you promise him your batch's biggest blooms as soon as they are delivered. 

and he’s patient, coming every day in hopes that they’ve been delivered, helping you organize the deliveries you do get, going as far as to join you to loch urania amidst a terrible storm to assist in picking lakelight lilies when you’re low. you appreciate the small companionship you’ve formed with him—childe, as he’s called, he tells you. a code name for his place as a harbinger that you relish in being given the knowledge of.  

the day finally comes when the lotuses are delivered, and for all his help and kindness, you try to repay him with a free bouquet. 

he declines persistently. “no, no miss,” he chuckles, waving his hands in dismissal as you offer the beautifully bundled flowers, “i couldn’t possibly accept them free of charge.”

“oh, don’t be silly,” you huff, “you’ve done plenty for me. an extra set of hands in the shop is as rare as glaze lilies blooming in midwinter!”

“i was happy to help,” he chirps, “i had a good time occupying myself as i waited to depart fontaine.”

“and archons know when the next time you’ll return is,” you sigh, “which is why you should accept these as a parting gift.”

“a parting gift, huh?” your eyes widen at the familiar voice—wriothesley. it’s been almost two weeks since you’ve heard it, and you beam as you look over at his approaching figure.

“wriothesley!” you hum, “what are you doing here?”

“thought i’d come to pay a visit,” he says gruffly, eyeing childe, who grins tightly at the warden. “i wasn’t banking on seeing an ex-inmate, though. what a shocking surprise.”

“the fortress’s duke in broad daylight,” childe coos, “what a fascinating sight.”

it’s tense—you can feel the atmosphere shift all too quickly as the two men stare each other down. 

“i didn’t know childe was a prisoner at the fortress,” you murmur, making the warden scoff as he glares at the harbinger.

“well,” childe shrugs, eyes sharp as they gaze at wriothesley, “i like to consider myself wrongly sentenced. justice isn’t always fair in the courts of fontaine, it seems.”

“ah, is that why you escaped from your sentence early?”

“i believe my escape proved to be quite helpful in saving the people of this nation in the end, didn’t it?” he asks, voice low, almost predatory, as wriothesley grits his jaw, glancing back at you before crossing his arms. 

“is the fatui boy giving you trouble?” he asks, making you shake your head frantically as the harbinger lets out a dry chuckle from the side. 

“oh, no!” you insist, “no, childe has been quite helpful, i promise. he’s given quite a hand, in fact!”

“is that so?” wriothesley perches a brow, tongue poking his cheek as he glares to the side at the smug ginger. 

“oh, absolutely,” childe nods, “you see, i’ve been offering the lovely lady my assistance as i waited on my delivery. we even visited loch urania together to pick lakelight lilies for a bouquet she needed to deliver.”

“he treated me to lunch,” you beam innocently. you might have missed the way wriothesley’s jaw tightens, but childe certainly doesn’t, making his grin spread even wider. “he’s nice, wriothesley, i promise. i hope you both can sort out whatever differences you had during his previous sentence.”

“perhaps next time, you could join us for lunch,” childe drawls, “it’ll be on me.”

“a kind offer,” the duke chuckles dryly, a rueful grin on his tight lips as he adds, “but i’ll have to decline.”

“please, i really insist you take these lotuses,” you hold the bouquet out to the harbinger, and much to wriothesley’s dismay, there’s an evident amount of extra care put into the floral packaging. your careful handwriting in soft, looped letters spelling out his name across the paper, with a heart beside it as though you took time to thoughtfully scribble each letter just for him. “give your sister my best regards.”

“you know his sister?” wriothesley grits.

“oh no,” you chuckle, “but he tells me of her. the flowers are for her!”

“like i said,” childe hums, taking out a heavy pouch of mora and placing it on your counter—both yours and wriothesley’s eyes widen at the sheer amount of mora you’re sure is inside. it’s undoubtedly far more than a small, simple bouquet would cost, but he waves it off like it’s nothing as he says, “i insist on giving you the payment you deserve. you’ve certainly made my last few days here at fontaine interesting. it’s made up for the less than…welcoming treatment from the beginning of my trip.”

wriothesley’s eye all but twitches. 

“that’s far too much to accept for a small bunch of kalpalata lotuses, you can’t—”

“consider it a payment in advance for the next time i return to fontaine,” he winks, “i’ll be sure to visit for more of your lovely flowers. i’m sure my mother will appreciate a bouquet too.”

with that, he waves at you, walking off with a grin as you sigh and shake your head fondly, waving him off as you call, “you’re quite the handful, you know. do visit again next time you’re here!”

“oh, i wouldn’t miss the opportunity for anything.”

wriothesley scoffs at the final exchange of words, watching the retreating figure of the harbinger with hardened, distant eyes while you exhale softly and grab the pouch of mora. 

“are all harbingers this loaded with mora, do you think?”

“who knows,” he mutters, looking away as he swallows before adding, “i came to visit on my way back to the fortress. i had business with neuvillette.”

“oh,” you hum, smiling as you ask, “is he doing well?”

“fine,” is all wriothesley says.

“that’s good,” you nod, “we haven’t been able to see each other in quite a bit, huh? i’d have visited, but the deliveries all week have kept me busy.”

“good thing you had the harbinger to lend a hand, huh?” he remarks, raising a brow.

“well, yeah, i suppose so,” you frown slightly, watching as he takes a slow, deep breath before fixing his tie. “is everything okay?”

“yeah,” he says instantly. “may i walk you home?”

“of course,” you smile—it doesn’t reach your eyes, and he wishes he could find it in himself to do something to reassure the lingering worry in your irises, but he doesn’t. instead, he quietly waits for you to close the shop, so uncharacteristically silent that you can practically feel the tension in the air tangibly.

the walk to your home is just as silent. wriothesley doesn’t say anything, and you don’t have the confidence to break the silence yourself. you’ve never seen him like this, so bothered and visibly so. you’re not entirely sure what brought it on, either—but you are sure it has something to do with childe. 

you finally reach your home after a long walk, quietly standing in front of the door as you turn to him and inspect his face. hard-lined lips, distant eyes, and crossed arms. he doesn’t look like the usual wriothesley you know—the one who grins and gives you a slight bow as he says, we’ve arrived at your lovely home, milady. 

“thank you for walking me,” you murmur, looking at him carefully as he nods.

“sure,” he responds flatly, “my pleasure.”

“you didn’t have to trouble yourself if you were tired from your meeting,” you add.

“not tired,” he shakes his head. “it was no trouble to me.”

“are you sure?” you raise a brow, sighing as you cross your own arms, “you don’t seem too happy to be here.”

“what do you mean?” he shrugs lamely, avoiding your question, your gaze. you know that one look into your eyes is all it takes to make him spill, and normally, you don’t take advantage of that, but you think tonight you will. 

because you’re tired of dancing around half-truths and coded words you have to decipher. you want one straight, laid-bare conversation with him. so you reach over and tilt his jaw, making him inhale sharply at your touch as you force him to face you and look at you. 

“what is up with you? and don’t even think about saying nothing.”

“nothing is up with me,” he mumbles stubbornly.

“wriothesley,” you warn, looking at him unimpressed, “i was not born yesterday.”

“my apologies,” he says sarcastically, a rueful smile curling on those chapped lips of his, “i suppose i’m just a bit shocked i’m not the only customer you offer your affections to. i suppose that was silly of me—it must be good for business.”

“excuse me?” you recoil, staring at him in disbelief. a little hurt, too—he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, flinching slightly at the implications. “how dare you insinuate i’m a common whore?” 

“that’s not what i was trying to say at all,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “it came out wrong.”

“then what were you trying to say?” you demand, looking at him expectantly, hands on your hips and a raise of your brows that almost mockingly tells him, i’d love to see you work your way out of this one. 

“you never told me you and the fatui boy were so close.” 

if there’s one thing wriothesley is good at, it’s shifting things to focus on other people. so he can observe. watch closely. take note of all the little things so he can figure out what he wants to know without asking at all. all without having anything told to him right out. it’s how he works—and you won’t entertain it. 

“the fatui boy has a name,” you point out.

“his name is not actually childe,” he snorts—there’s no real amusement in the action, just as sarcastic and sardonic as everything prior. “is that what you believe?”

“if you’re not going to say the problem with your words like an adult, i’m going to go inside,” you spit, “we’re both wasting time here if we’re just going to talk in circles.”

“yes, because i’m the one who’s not admitting things,” he chuckles dryly. 

you glare at him—because enough is enough, and you’re sick of taking one step forward just to stumble ten steps back. with one swift move, your hand grips his wrist firmly and yanks, pulling him to stumble into your home as the door slams behind him. you’re tired of having bystanders walk past you and listen to your pointless discussion, and you’re tired of getting nowhere the longer you stand outside. it feels like the more you talk, the less you know. every word he says confuses you more and more.

and that’s the thing about him—he never tells you things, not since that night he first opened up. you thought you broke some newfound trust, a new ground to walk on with him that leads somewhere further than just two people who seek each other out for pleasure. you feel something for him—and you thought he did too, but it’s always something vague or another with him and you’re tired of it. tired of wondering where you stand, what he wants, how he feels. you want to know, and tonight, even if it kills you, you’ll find out.

“what is it you want me to admit wriothesley? huh?” you scowl, “tell me so i can tell you what you need to know so you’ll finally answer my question. i’m tired of the back-and-forth game with you.”

“you don’t need to admit anything to me,” he shrugs, “it’s not my business.”

“you don’t even believe that yourself,” you scoff, “even i can tell that much. is this about childe? you don’t like me mingling with the fatui? he’s just friendly, that’s all. and good business.”

“right,” he nods slowly, disbelievingly. you almost see red—how dare he hint that you’re a liar. 

“what do you think i’m doing then?” you challenge, “let’s hear it. fraternizing with the fatui? is that the accusation you’ll pull out?”

“well, if he’s helping you pick flowers and buying you lunch, then you certainly can’t be strangers,” he smiles tightly, “perhaps next time he can join us in our canoodling too if you’d like.”

“so that’s what it is?” you shake your head exasperatedly, “you’re moody because you’re jealous?”

“i’m not jealous,” he narrows his eyes, “i have no reason to be.”

“i’d believe you sooner if you’d said the underwater beast really was the cause of your scars,” you scoff, pursing your lips. “why is it so hard for you to just speak your mind?”

“then let’s start with you,” he retorts, hands throwing up in the air as he takes a step closer and glares daggers at you, “why are you dancing around what your relationship with the harbinger is?”

“there is nothing between me and the harbinger! nothing at all, and i don’t appreciate you assuming things about me. i’ve only been intimate with you!”

“you don’t need to hide it,” he smiles bitterly. finally, as if the conversation has chipped away at his resolve enough that bits and pieces of his inner turmoil can show, you can see the lingering hurt in his gaze. the betrayal. the doubt and fear—all of it pools in his eyes, swimming in the many, many flecks of his eyes as you stare into them. “it’s not as though we’ve committed to anything here.”

“i’m not hiding anything,” you say firmly, “you don’t have to be jealous.”

“i’m not jealous,” he shakes his head. it feels like he’s convincing himself more than you. because more than you, admitting to himself he cares is hard. all of this is hard—you know that. the last time he dared to trust someone, to love someone, he’d lost more than he could fathom. more than he was ever ready to lose.

so you sigh, dropping your shoulders as you let the anger dissipate.

“i wouldn’t blame you if you were jealous,” you say softly, extending the olive branch with a slow, hesitant hand to his cheek. he stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away, “it would kill me, too, to think you were close to another woman. but the harbinger is a customer i’ve become friendly with and nothing more. don’t you believe me?”

he closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath as he hesitantly leans into your palm, letting your thumb brush soothing strokes along the scar under his eye.

“i was jealous,” he admits, quiet. hoarse. strained. it takes every ounce of him to admit as much to you—the progress makes you smile softly. “i…i was so jealous i couldn’t think straight. and i took it out on you. i’m sorry.”

“maybe it’s time we had a discussion,” you say softly, “about…well, us. what it is we’re doing. it’s long overdue.”

“i’ve been avoiding it,” he confesses. 

“i know,” you murmur, smiling tightly, “i know you have. that’s why i didn’t bring it up. but we can’t dance around it forever.”

“i’m no good at this,” he opens his eyes, defeated and so lost, you can’t help but lean in and press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“you’re not so bad,” you hum, “give yourself a little more credit.”

“no,” he shakes his head, “you don’t understand. i’ve never been good at this…at trusting people and getting close to them. i don’t even have real friends—i see clorinde and neuvillette every few months, and briefly at that. one of them was the judge at my trial, and the other knows as much about me as the files say. i don’t like talking about my feelings, and i hate sharing things about myself. i’m not jealous of childe because he threatens me—even i know you’d never give a fatui member a chance. but i’m no good for a stroll in the park, or picking flowers, or lunch at a cafe. i live underwater in a large prison that i run, and i rarely come up—at least, not often enough to be a healthy, functioning member of society, that is.”

“so what?” you frown, “i don’t care. nothing is easy at first—isn’t that why we try? who says you have to share all your feelings immediately? we can work up to that slowly. this was sharing, wasn’t it? what you just did? that’s a step in the right direction.”

“and look how much we had to battle for that little bit,” he lets out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh that makes your heart ache, “you’ll grow tired of me.”

“you don’t get to decide that,” you shake your head stubbornly, “i would never grow tired of you. never you.”

“i might be a duke now, but i was a murderer in the past,” he adds, a low and cheap attempt to convince you he’s not worth it. you roll your eyes at the statement.

“i’m aware,” you say blandly, “i don’t care, wriothesley. i don’t. those are all excuses—if you want this, if you really want this like i do, because you care about me just like i care about you and you feel the same way, then you’d realize these are all petty excuses your head is coming up with. i’ll wait for you to be better at communicating if you promise you’ll try. and your past is just a small stain on the cloth that we can ignore.”

“it’s murder,” he says in disbelief.

“i said what i said,” you huff. he blinks once, then twice before letting out a breathy chuckle.

“you’re insane.”

“thank you,” you nod, grinning, “and you being at the fortress is just a small obstacle. we’ll make it work, you and me.”

“how?” he asks, voice small and unsure.

“you act like it’s impossible, you silly thing. i’ll come see you, and you’ll come see me, and we can spend nights together wherever is most convenient for the time. why are you overthinking it?” you ask like it’s obvious. maybe it is—maybe his brain just doesn’t let him see how simple of a solution it really is.

“the fortress is no place for someone who’s used to the surface—”

“enough excuses,” you scold firmly, “i won’t have any of it.”

“you don’t know what you’re getting into,” he shakes his head—you cup his cheeks, pulling his face close as you press soft, delicate kisses along his skin. like he’s fragile. like he needs to be handled with care. 

no one has ever handled wriothesley with care. even as a child when he was defenseless. when his parents saw a commodity to raise and sell like livestock instead of a child to love and cherish. when the streets saw a rat with dirty clothes and nimble fingers only good for theft. when he woke up in a hospital bed with cuffs to his hands, wrists shackled, and a caseworker sat a comfortable distance away, even without his gauntlets. when they saw him as nothing more than a murderer on trial as opposed to a child with no other way out. when the world showed him no mercy and left him to fend for himself in a dark, ruthless corner of the nation under the sea with no sun, no grass, no fresh air, and no hope.

no one has thought to treat wriothesley with gentleness, with kindness, with grace—as if he mattered. not until he made himself matter, taking what he wanted through a pen, paper, and meaningless title. 

no one until you. 

“i know exactly what i’m getting into,” you whisper, “you know what i see? when i look at you?”

“what? big muscles?” he teases, voice weak. a last, feeble attempt at keeping himself guarded. it’s useless, and he knows it as well as you do. he’s already far more vulnerable than he’s comfortable with. 

“a good man,” you say firmly, “a good man who is worth the effort. one who has a good heart and no one to share it with. someone who knows when change needs to happen and makes it happen. someone who knows a thing or two about second chances. who shows people mercy if they’re willing to be better—because that’s all he wants. for things to be better.”

“you’re giving me a lot more credit than i deserve, sweetheart,” he says shakily, trying to give you his usual smirk. his lips wobble, much to his dismay—you kiss them to help him hide the tremor like the angel you are. 

he’s not sure why the archons, celestia, or whoever is in charge of fate would send him such a perfect, pure angel in his arms. but they did. he’s certainly not one to miscount his blessings—they’ve been few and far between as is. 

“no,” you murmur, whispering between kisses, “i’m not. i’m giving you as much credit as you deserve. because no one has ever told you these things about you, and it’s time someone did.”

“doing the dirty work, huh?”

“i wish you’d stop with that,” you smile at him sadly, “i wish you would treat yourself with the same kindness you treat everyone else with. that you treat me with.”

“you’re an angel,” he murmurs, pecking your cheek, “that’s the difference.”

“you can’t be that bad if that’s the case,” you grin cheekily, “what kind of angel picks such an awful guy?”

“one who thinks the fatui harbingers make good friends,” he snorts, “one who’s a little on the naive side.”

“i like to think of it as seeing good in people,” you wink. 

he laughs, arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he kisses you. and kisses you. and kisses you—and kisses you some more until you’re forced to pull away and breathe. even then, he’s not satisfied, lips finding the sensitive skin along your collarbones, traveling up along your neck and finding your jaw, peppering soft presses of his lips until they hover over your mouth again.

“you good?” he asks smugly, “need a minute to catch your breath?”

“you’re such a pain,” you huff, pressing against his mouth and closing the gap as he hums against you. 

“what were you just saying about me just a few moments ago? something about a good man?”

“come here,” you sigh exasperatedly—and then you’re tugging him into your bedroom, stumbling and giggling as you both impatiently find the bed. you fall back, the mattress catching you along with him as he hovers over you and doesn’t waste a moment to nip at your neck.

“next time you need help with flowers in a dangerous, stormy place, you ask me,” he says lowly, breath fanning over your skin and making you shiver, “you don’t need the fatui boy.”

“okay,” you laugh, breathless as your eyes flutter shut when he nibbles on the sensitive spot over your pulse point, “you might have to temporarily drop your duties as a duke for that, though.”

“consider it done.” his hands tug your blouse over your head, doing quick work to toss it somewhere on the floor as he grins at the lacey red bra you have on underneath. “this is new,” he comments, “i like this.”

“of course you do,” you grin in amusement, “so predictable.”

“hey,” he pouts, “i’m an easy guy to please. just need you, maybe a few accessories…i don’t ask for much.”

“well,” you look at him in anticipation, “are you going to stare all day? or are you going to take it off?”

his eyes darken—hazed with lust and desperation as he quickly works the bra off of you and tosses it off to the side, too, but not before he stares at the label quickly. “chioriya boutique,” he reads, nodding, “remind me to give her my thanks. and business, too, in the future.”

“shameless,” you scoff, shaking your head.

“grateful,” he corrects, grinning cheekily at you. you don’t even get a chance to retort before his lips are around your nipple, teeth lightly grazing the pebbled nub as he sucks, making you gasp as your hands find his head, cupping the back of it as your own head throws back against the pillows. 

“wri—”

“you know what i see when i see you?” he hums, pulling away from one nipple and latching onto the other, tongue rolling over it slowly as his thumb finds the other, not to leave it neglected, “i see the woman i would defy the gods themselves to possess. who i would commit far worse crimes for, and serve time all over again for. one who commands my every thought. do you know how many times i’ve neglected my duties just thinking about you alone? when i see you, i see the one thing that’s finally mine—mine alone.”

you whimper as his lips reattach themselves to your breast, sucking and grazing his tongue around one nipple and pinching and toying with the other with his hand. your hands tug at his hair, pulling a soft groan from his throat as he pulls away and stares at you. you’re a panting, heaving mess already—he grins in satisfaction.

“pretty,”  he hums, nuzzling his nose against your throat, right where your pulse is erratic, “so, so pretty.”

“all this flattery, and you’ve yet to do something,” you rasp, just to rile him up as he lets out a deep, gruff sound of disapproval, eyeing you with a raised brow.

“oh, you want me to do something, is that it? i thought we’d take our time,” he grazes his finger along your waist, tracing the edge of your skirt before looping his finger under it, tugging slowly, “but if you insist, i guess we can pick up the pace.”

he pulls the skirt down your legs, eyes widening as he takes in the matching red laced panties from the bra earlier—you grin cheekily as he does. “like this one too?”

“oh,” he chuckles, breathless, “sweetheart, you have no idea.” wriothesley is a giver—you’re reminded of this fact as soon as his head buries between your thighs enthusiastically, kissing your clit through the lace as your breath hitches. “did you pick this little set up just for me?”

“don’t be silly,” you tease, “i obviously got this for myself. consider yourself a lucky witness.”

“and a lucky witness i am indeed,” he nods, humming as he slowly, carefully inches the lace down your legs, admiring the way it contrasts against your sweet, supple skin. “i owe chioriya boutique my life. i’ll even give my thanks to madame chiori myself.”

“please do not,” you say in horror, making him chuckle, “that would be utterly undignified.”

he’s not even listening, you realize. his lips attach to your clit as soon as the fabric is discarded somewhere to the side like the rest, a soft groan rumbling from his chest as soon as he tastes you, spreading your legs for better access as he glides his tongue to your folds, pressing between your folds and looking up to watch as your head throws back with a soft gasp. 

“wriothesley,” you gasp, pulling his hair in a tight grip to ground yourself.

you’re the most gentle with him when you handle him—but you’re also the roughest. the way you grasp him so harshly, mercilessly in your grip, makes his eyes flutter shut in a sick, twisted sort of masochism. he loves the pain, the dull throb in his skull from your pleasure. 

“yeah, i’m right here, sweetheart,” he chuckles lowly, “feels good?”

“yes,” you whine, “s’good—so good.”

“i know,” he hums, pressing soft kisses to your clit, along your inner thigh, until he’s back to your folds, hovering over them as he whispers, “i can tell just from the way you’re dripping. isn’t that cute?”

you whine in embarrassment, closing your legs around him as he grins against your cunt, grinding down on his mouth until he’s back to devouring you, tongue slipping deep into you as far as he can, exploring your tight, wet hole with fervor. 

“close,” you whisper, voice bordering on broken, “i’m s-so close—oh, wriothesley!”

you come undone on his tongue with one more roll of his tongue over your clit, shaking as he sloppily eats you out through your high until your whole body is a shaking, quivering mess along with your walls. 

“got anything else from that boutique you want to show me?” he murmurs, moving back up to hover over you, burying his face into your neck as your arms snake around his shoulders, rubbing into his back.

“maybe,” you say vaguely, grinning, “it’s a secret. maybe if you behave, you’ll find out.”

“yeah?” he chuckles, “consider me on my best behavior, milady.”

“then take this off,” you tug at his shirt, pouting as you add, “not fair that i’m the only one undressed.”

“as you wish,” he agrees. you watch as he strips—it’s not embarrassing like the first time or two when you looked away with a hot face and ears. now it’s intimate, watching him bear his soul to you, with every scar and imperfection, every flaw and tainted part.

his cock is hard, standing between his legs as it throbs, a bead of pre cum coating the tip. your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close again as you feel his hardened length poke at your thigh, making you press against it and pull a groan out of him.

“i want you,” you whisper, “i’ve never wanted anyone else. not like this. not like you. i don’t think i ever will.”

“you can’t have met too many people then,” he teases.

“oh, i meet plenty of people. romantic ones at that—flowers are a love language, you know.”

“and you still want me? they must all be taken.”

“they’re not you,” you correct, pulling him into a sweet, slow kiss, taking your time to mold your lips against him and feel him against you, “nothing close to you. no one comes close.”

the bees should come to your lips for nectar, he thinks. flowers bloom from your mouth, delicate and sweet petals that light up his world and color him every shade of love. 

“in that case,” he whispers, pulling away from your mouth to press a soft kiss to your nose, “i’m the luckiest man in fontaine. maybe teyvat.”

“i would agree,” you wink cheekily, “aren’t i such a lucky catch?”

“oh absolutely,” he laughs, amused, fond, so deeply enamored. then his lips are back on yours, and his hips are angled so that his cock teases your folds, grazing the entrance of your cunt as he coats his tip with your dripping slick. 

you both shudder at the feeling, gasping against each other’s mouths as you exchange hot, labored breaths. 

“i want you,” you repeat, “please.”

“you have me,” he whispers, letting out a soft moan as he pushes the tip past your entrance, “as long as you want.”

“that’ll be forever,” you say breathlessly, “think you can handle that long?”

“i’m sure i’ll manage.”

finally, he pushes all the way through, buried to the hilt and stretching you apart until he splits you open on his cock. he presses so deep into you, you can feel him nudge against that sweet, spongy spot without even trying. it’s like he was made for you—like the laws of this land declared him yours from birth and made him fit you in every way possible. the slot of his fingers with yours, the mold of his lips against you, the press of his cock into your cunt. all of it fits you so well, you wonder if you’ve lived your life just to find wriothesley. 

you both moan into each other’s mouths, strangled sounds that you swallow from each other’s mouths as your lips sloppily press into each other. 

“wr-wrio—fuck,” you stammer, nails raking along his back as he rolls his hips, slamming into your deepest, most rawest parts.

“yeah, baby,” he pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, “m’right here, sweetheart.”

you sob when a rough, callused thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles into the bundle of nerves perfectly in tune with the harsh thrusts that fill you so deep. deep—he’s so far into you, you wonder if you can feel him in your throat, in your lungs, and in your heart, knocking the air out of you as you breathlessly try to call his name. 

“faster,” you plead, clinging to him, “more—please, need more.”

“think you can take it?” he chuckles, cutting himself off with a strangled grunt when you squeeze around him particularly tightly, “i think you’re falling apart as is.”

“more,” you whine, back arching as your hips desperately buck up to meet his in tandem, trying to feel him closer, deeper, harder. 

“if that’s what you want,” he hums—you want to scoff at him, but you’re too delirious. you’d tease him for acting like he doesn’t want the same, like the ache of his cock doesn’t crave more friction, doesn’t want to slam into you with little to no self-control outside of chasing his pleasure. you feel so good around him—so good, his head falls to your shoulder as he pants harshly into your ear, murmuring stammered praises. “s-so good, sweetheart. you always take me so good, like the pretty thing you are. how in teyvat did i score the affections of fontaine’s most radiant lady? o-only the gods could know.”

“why don’t you ask them,” you breathe, head pressing against the pillow as your back arches and your toes curl when he slams his swollen tip against your sweet spot once more, hips rolling in perfect precision, “ask them how you got so blessed.”

“maybe i’ll ask the divinity right before me,” he hums smoothly, chuckling when you mewl as his thumb rubs faster into your clit, “how did i get so lucky?”

“because i need you,” you whine, “n-need you—only you.”

“what a sweet answer,” he groans, pumping his cock into you faster, feeling the familiar twitch indicating he’s close—and you are too. he can tell from the erratic squeeze of your walls. “always spoiling me, right sweetheart?”

“wriothesley,” you cry, “i-i’m close. m’so close, please. please.”

“no need to say please, baby,” he grunts, “you can have whatever you want. when you want it, yeah?”

and just like that, you break—his thumb is still rubbing those harsh circles into you swollen clit as you cum, clenching down on him through your high as your mouth parts and your head presses deeper into the pillow. he’s fucking into you, still slamming his hips into you as mercilessly as before, riding you through your orgasm as you chant his name. 

“wri—wriothesley,” you sob.

“yeah, sweetheart? what is it?” he teases—it doesn’t last long, though. his bravado falls apart as soon as the first twitch of his cock indicates his own orgasm. you feel the hot, sticky, endless ropes of cum fill you up, coating your walls as he stiffens over you and shudders, groaning lowly as he empties himself into your sweet cunt. “f-fuck, you feel so good—you’re the only one. the. only. one.”

his hips thrust into you to punctuate the words, cock pushing his release deeper into you, messy and leaking down your thighs and forming a ring at the base of his length. it’s so filthy you almost think it’s a sin. but how could it be when it feels so right, so good?

finally, he slumps over your body, spent and panting as he finishes. you catch your breath under him, labored breath one after the other as your sweaty skin clings against his own.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs after some time, kissing the damp skin of your neck.

“i know,” you whisper cheekily, making him chuckle as he rolls over, pulling you into his chest.

“so humble,” he snorts.

“of course,” you beam, “but feel free to leave more compliments.”

“oh don’t worry, i won’t run out any time soon.”

it’s quiet for a bit, apart from your giggles and his low chuckles. soft, peaceful, and so painfully comforting, you wonder if heaven itself wishes for a place beside wriothesley. 

“when you first came up to the surface after your sentence,” you mumble after a few moments of quietness, tracing small loops into his chest as he silently hums for you to continue, “what was the first thing you did?”

“i got a croissant,” he answers thoughtfully, thumb rubbing circles into your hip where his hand is comfortably rested.

you blink, tilting your head to look up at him. his lips curve into a knowing grin.

“pardon?”

he laughs—it’s a beautiful thing. like a boy, eyes crinkled and lips freely curved so wide, you’d think his cheeks were endless with the way they expand to accommodate for such a large stretch. it’s the one time he doesn’t seem like the rugged man you usually know. something younger, more innocent, more raw comes out when wriothesley laughs.

“they go well with tea,” he shrugs, looking down at you, quickly stealing a peck of your nose, “and…” his voice is softer as he trails off, smile faltering.

“and?” you press delicately. so delicately, you’d think you were speaking to a house of cards, one word that’s breathed too harshly away from toppling over.

“and i wanted to visit a bakery i went to as a kid,” he murmurs quietly, voice dropping to a whisper as if he’s admitting something he’s never told anyone. something tells you he just might be. “there was an old lady who used to feed me sometimes when i was a kid on the streets. after i ran away. she’d give me a chocolate croissant and warm tea. i thought…i thought maybe there was a chance she’d still …”

he swallows, cutting his words off just before his voice has the chance to break. it’s a measured gesture. you know it is because you know him. just like you know the feelings of petals and thorns with your eyes closed, you know wriothesley. just like you can tell flowers apart from scent alone, you have him memorized. just like you know what every petal and its origin means, you understand him like it’s your job, too.

except you get paid to do this with something better than mora. with open-mouthed kisses and lingering touches. with coffee in a mug to complement the tea next to it. with strong arms to shield you when rain pours hard over your unsuspecting heads. with a gentle voice that learns to whisper back the language you speak better than anything else.

it says you’re the one i need the most, like rainbow roses. i miss you so much, i ache for you, like mourning flowers. i’d shed blood for you to live, like dendrobiums. you’re what i desire more than anything else, like romaritimes. each word is carefully formed, fragile as it hangs from a singular point. like petals on a stem, his words blossom from the tip of his tongue, falling one by one to your awaiting hands as your thumb traces his lips.

they all tell you one thing—whether he says the words out loud or not, he tells you he loves you through the things he does say. every little promise, every compliment, every form of praise. they say one thing—i love you.

you have always felt loved around wriothesley. you know he loves you, even if you question it sometimes, even if you ache to hear it, you’re always reminded he does when those eyes soften as they look at you, training on you like they never want to look away.

he loves you. he loves you not. he loves you. he loves you not. he loves you.

he loves you.

he loves you.

he loves you.

it always ends with he loves you.

“was she?” you whisper, finger tracing up his chest, along his neck and jaw until it cups his cheek tenderly. he shivers at the touch. “was she still there?”

gentleness isn’t something wriothesley is very familiar with. it raids his skin, takes over the territory that’s only known harshness, and conquers the scarred patches that are barren and empty from all the pain and desolation.

“no,” his voice is barely audible. “her son owns it now. the croissants still taste the same, though.”

“some things never change, i suppose,” you smile softly, leaning closer as your nose presses against his, “even when everything else does. it’s not so bad if you hold onto what you can.”

“and what if you have nothing?” he challenges, closing his eyes when you kiss his jaw sweetly and slowly inhaling a soft breath.

“i’m sure that’s never true,” you murmur, “there’s always something.”

“yeah? how optimistic of you,” he chuckles.

“i’m serious,” you pout, “there’s always a way to make do. look at cacti. they go ages without water, don’t they? and did you know naku weeds can survive being struck by lightning?”

“do you just compare everything to plants?” he asks in amusement, eyeing you with a charmed glint.

“of course,” you huff, “don’t you compare things to what you love most?”

he looks at you for a moment. really looks at you. grazes his eyes over your supple skin he’s traced so many times, over the small crinkles by your eyes permanently etched from smiling so often, over the curve of your nose and lips he’s pressed his own against, over the two eyes that stare back at him and see him more than they do look.

and then he nods.

“yeah,” he admits, “i do.”

your lips are as sweet as the warm chocolate that coated his lips and chin as a child. your touch is as soft as the hands of his mother when he thought he could trust her. your eyes are as bright as the sun when he first saw it after years of dark, rusted walls. everything about you reminds him of his past, the better parts and the worst. all of it.

some of it is healing, and some of it hurts so raw he thinks he’ll bleed out. but your hands are dipped in gold, he thinks. they’d make the most infertile soil rich and filled with life, letting him blossom new again right where his blood spilled.

he’s reminded of you in everything he sees. tea reminds him of your coffee with too much milk. paperwork reminds him of how distressed you are by wasted pages and killed trees. his gauntlets remind him of your hands so small in comparison. he’s doomed, he thinks. cursed, even.

cursed to always remember you in everything.

so, of course, he compares everything to what he loves most. because why else would you reside in his mind so endlessly, taking up the space from one end all the way to the other? why else would you remind him of you in even the mundane of things if he didn’t love you so deeply, so purely, so easily, that you’re everywhere all at once, even when you’re nowhere in sight?

he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply before letting out a slow, shaky breath.

“i lied,” he admits, making you frown.

“about?”

“about the first thing i did when i got to the surface,” he says quietly. “i went to my parents' graves.”

“to visit them?” you raise a confused eyebrow.

“no. to make sure they were really dead.”

“oh,” is all you say, staring into his eyes as he waits for you to say something more. “well, were they dead?”

“yes,” he snorts, closing his eyes and huffing out a small laugh. “very much so.”

“well, that’s a relief,” you giggle, “otherwise, you’d have served a sentence for murder for nothing.”

“good thing i didn’t, huh?”

“good thing you didn’t,” you nod, grinning as he stares at you softly.

“i’ll take you one of these days,” he hums quietly after a moment. you look surprised, eyes widening as you process the words.

“to your parents' grave?”

“to the bakery,” he rolls his eyes, letting out a breathy laugh. “i don’t think my dead mother would appreciate me bringing back a woman after i killed her.”

“oh, very funny,” you scowl, glaring at him.

“you think so?” he winks, laughing when you gently shove his face away, making his hand grab at your wrist and bite gently into the skin.

you squeal, giggling as he nibbles into your skin. “stop that, you brute!” you demand in between laughs.

it’s quiet for a moment as the laughter settles down, just you and him. him and you. silence echoing off the walls and warmth radiating between your bodies, the sheets clinging to your bare skin. you can feel his bare hip brush against yours. it’s intimate—far more intimate than either of you are used to, but not unwelcome.

he turns, pulling you into his arms and pressing your foreheads together. you think that’s his favorite position to be in—when your faces are so close, they touch. when his eyes can bore into yours. when he can feel the warmth of you tickling his skin as you breathe, as you talk, as you exist before him.

“you’ll like the croissants,” he adds quietly, thoughtfully, “the blackberry ones are particularly nice with the lemon and mint tea—”

you cut him off. before you can think. the words fly past your lips, swept with the breeze like dandelion seeds, and carried through the room as they find shelter in every little crevice. they’ll be here, in every corner, in every little place, a memento of your first real confession.

“i love you.”

he pauses as you cut him off, blinking as he stares at you. something flashes in his eyes—fear, excitement, a small bit of shock and doubt that makes your heartache. you can read him like a book.

it’s not doubt because he thinks you lie. it’s doubt because he thinks it shouldn’t be him. you know that, and you’re prepared to patiently prove him he’s wrong. little by little. day by day. one kiss at a time.

“that’s really enthusiastic,” he shoots you a teasing grin, too easy and too practiced for your liking, “if i knew you liked croissants that much—”

“no, wriothesley,” you say gently, like your words could rock the boat and topple you both into a dangerous, unforgiving current any moment. “i love you. i love when you tell me things you don’t like sharing, and i love when you show me things that are hard to revisit. i love you. because you try, and you’re good at trying. and that’s enough.”

“getting sentimental on me?” he asks hoarsely, smiling tightly.

your hand cups his cheek again, pulling him in so you can kiss the corner of his mouth as you whisper, “yes.” your lips find the other side of his mouth, still at the corner as you whisper again. “because you deserve to hear nice things. even the cheesy ones.”

his eyes close. one moment turns to two, and you let him take his time. let him swallow as he takes a shallow breath before he opens them again and looks at you.

he’s laid bare before you. in more ways than one. being nude is easier than being seen—he trusts you enough to let himself be both.

“you deserve to hear nice things, too,” he admits. it’s not the same as admitting he loves you too, but it’s as close as he can get—still difficult enough that his voice breaks. like it’s hard for him to confess something like this.

it is.

it’s hard for him to tell someone he loves them. the last time he did, he felt the sucker punch of betrayal in his guts, so young that he hardly understood what it meant to be betrayed at all. he watched the same eyes he used to think were his saviors die out as blood spilled in the living room, where his tiny feet padded across as he ran around and played. he misses them sometimes, even now.

his mother’s beautiful green eyes that greeted him in the mornings as she kissed him awake, warm and gentle on his forehead. his father’s deep blue ones that would look at him proudly as he grew and grew, clasping his shoulder with that firmly affectionate grip.

sometimes, he misses them, misses what he thought he had. other times, he’s glad he did it. sometimes, in the dead of night, when it’s just him, he mourns the old him. the one that didn’t have blood on his hands, the him that didn’t have to take two lives to set so many free. the version of him that was allowed to be a boy who existed freely, no taxes to pay for the love he so desperately wanted.

love is wicked like that—it creeps up on you, takes pieces of you, and changes you until you can hardly recognize yourself. until you can hardly recognize everyone around you. how long has it been since he’s seen his siblings? can he even still call them that? do they remember him? would he even recognize them?

he still loves them in his own way. his precious little sisters camille and lucie, and his sweet baby his brothers alexandre and nicolas—he came back and set them free just before it was their time. he didn’t want to leave them, but he had no choice. there were ones who left before him, a time that he can hardly remember anymore. a time before him and antoine. but he recalls them being so delicate with him just as older siblings should be. did they make it out of whatever fate they were sealed to? were they disposed of with no witnesses to bring their demises to justice? he doesn’t know. it’s easier not to know.

it’s easier not to love at all than to open up the risk of hurting. every person he’s ever loved has caused him pain. even the innocent siblings who did nothing wrong—all he’s ever known is pain. the pain of not having them around anymore. the pain of their quiet demise. the pain of setting them free and letting them go. the pain of never having them to himself like a proper family.

loving is so hard for him, so hard on him. so unforgiving to him. so cruel and harsh to him that he hides away behind guarded fists and loaded punches. and you know it, too—he knows you do because you reward his confession with the softest kiss you’ve ever given him as soon as he spills the words.

“i love you,” you murmur the sweet words into his mouth between warm kisses, “i love you. i love you.”

“say it again,” he pleads. it’s easier to let you love him than it is to love you—you don’t mind letting him be a little selfish. he deserves it, in fact.

“i love you. more than anything i’ve ever loved.”

“promise me,” he begs.

“i promise,” you say firmly. “and you don’t have to say it back, not yet. but i want you to know it because you should know you’re loved.”

all at once, the vines wrapped around his chest release, one petal blooming across his heart and arteries at a time until the nectar is running through his veins.

it’s warm. it’s sunny. it’s soft. it’s so, so safe. it doesn’t hurt. it never does with you. you never let it.

“i love you too,” he croaks. he shivers as he says it before he’s grinning slowly, chuckling in wonder as he lets the words sink in before he repeats again, “i love you.”

“yeah?” you beam, eyes crinkling as joy tucks itself into the crevices.

he nods. “yes. and your weird nature lectures.”

you pout, making him laugh. “hey—”

“and your annoyingly aromatic house with petals everywhere—”

“they’re not everywhere—”

“and that ugly dog watering can of yours—”

“it kind of reminds me of you, so—”

“i love them all, and i want them for the rest of my life. i hope you take it easy on the snapdragons, though. i think i’m allergic.”

“such a romantic at heart,” you grumble, rolling your eyes. but they’re glassy, swelling with unshed, precious little tears.

he kisses your eyelids as you close your eyes, murmuring, “i’m doing my best here. cut me some slack, i’ve never dated someone before.”

“oh, wriothesley,” you sniffle, tears coating your sun-soaked skin. and despite the evidence of tears, he’s never seen joy on your face like this before—so clear and radiant. “who taught you about romance? you’re hopeless.”

“hopelessly in love with you,” he shoots back smugly, wiggling his brows.

“i’m doomed,” you snort, letting out a watery chuckle.

“yeah,” he says cheekily, “you are. i hope you’re prepared.”

you kiss him in reply. he kisses you, too. you kiss each other. flowers bloom everywhere your lips touch—wriothesley swallows every petal gratefully.

you love him. you love him not. you love him. you love him not. you love him. you love him not.

you love him.

you love him.

you love him.

it always ends with you love him.

and he loves you, too. you both love each other. the words bounce from both of your tongues like you take turns tasting them, feeling them, familiarizing yourselves with them.

it doesn’t matter who whispers the words first or who murmurs them last. no matter who breaks the silence, it always ends with i love you.

ITS FINISHED. WOW. i never thought a flower shop drabble was going to turn into this—i actually had a completely different flower shop au idea that was going to be a long fic but i just wanted to write a tiny practice round drabble to get the itch out my system before i had time to sit down for the full fic. well as you can see…the practice run kind of took a mind of its own so now we have this. LOL. i think perhaps i will also write the other idea but we will see!!! this one kind of replaced the other one in my heart as flower shop wrio lore lol 🥸

ANYWAY!!! i hope you all enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it. idk if wrio was ooc or not or if i did his past and trauma justice but i certainly tried!! all the things about his past with the siblings and his mother's diary and the croissant at the bakery are all headcanons i carefully crafted and hold so so so dear. they are my truth!!! and they make me fall in love with him so much more deeply :( anyway! if you liked it then as always, reblogs and comments are appreciated. now if you’ll excuse me, i will be doodling his name in pink glitter pen with hearts in my diary and giggling.

[hemlock-dreams]

Not me absolutely frothing at the mouth about this AU. Can we get an info dump on the Lore? It's making me want to abandon my current Spideypool WIP for this. Absolutely terminal brainrot for this boy

BEHOLD: MASSIVE LORE DUMP!

Peter B. Parker is a young troublemaker who has a problem with authority. He also has a knack for picking tech apart and putting it back together, which puts him on the radar for a small-time gang that needs someone to act as their alarm system breaker for a big score.

Unfortunately, said score had bad intel and what was supposed to be a simple robbery turns out to be manslaughter when the resulting fire that was supposed to cover up their tracks ends up killing two guards.

Peter is tried as an adult with the rest of the gang and sentenced to Rykers for 5 years.

Check out the full page HERE.

At Rykers, Peter meets Marko Flint, who takes Peter under his wing. and teaches him how to survive and thrive when wearing the orange.

Life goes on for 5 years. He learns the trade, gets some tats, learns how to make some great shivs, and becomes a better criminal all around. Yay prison!

Peter gets out at 21, and reunites with Uncle Ben and Aunt May. He does his best to clean up his act, but normal life is hard for someone who spent their formative years in prison.

(He also makes questionable hair and fashion choices. What can I say, he's catching up!)

He goes from job to job, trying to pay back his aunt and uncle for all their support but is completely unequipped for the 'real world.' After a few months working/getting fired from soul-crushing menial jobs (HS dropout!), he agrees to take 'one last job' with Marko that is 'guaranteed to set them up for life'.

*cough*

This robbery goes off without a hitch! No one is hurt and they make off after hitting a heavily armored Oscorp Transport with a ton of documents/tech that they aim to sell to the highest bidder.

The biggest mystery is that one glowing vial of untested, experimental serum they found...

Unfortunately, Oscorp doesn't take robbery lightly. Marko finds out through contacts that the serum (whatever it is) is too hot to sell on the market, so he instructs Peter to get rid of it so it can't be traced back to them.

Peter, a rational 22-year-old ex-con, 'gets rid of it' by mixing the serum into ink and tattooing it onto his wrist, triggering the start of his mutations.

It takes a bit, but Peter get's all the regular spiderman benefits (webs are organic), plus one more. The serum was created from the venom of the Portia Spider, a hunting/jumping spider known to be uniquely intelligent among arachnids.

Alongside the speed/strength/spideysense, Peter also grows some fangs that secrete a powerful venom.

The venom speeds up the body's processes, working almost like an insane performance booster and enhancing an injected person's strength, speed, and senses for a few hours.

Unfortunately, repeated doses also eventually induce shock, paralysis, and, later, death.

He gives a few samples of it to Marko as an exit fee.

Uncle Ben was suspicious of how Peter suddenly got so much money, but took him on good faith. But, while he was watching the news that covered the Oscorp robbery, connected the dots and had a blowout fight with Peter that ended with him having a cardiac event.

Unfortunately, he did not survive.

Aunt May and Peter were estranged over this for several years.

This event crushes Peter, sobering him up immediately. He goes back and gets his HS diploma, and works on night courses in college.

However, he spends much of his days wandering, angry at himself and what he did. He beats up a mugger one day and realizes that he could be using his powers to back up the faith Ben had in him.

Spiderman is born!

Eventually, he and Aunt May reunite, and their relationship is slowly healing.

A few years later, Peter is on the up. He and Aunt May are close again! He's got a bachelor's in computer science, has a (semi) steady job, and is well-liked as Spiderman by the populace at large. His rogue's gallery is roguing- etc.

Unfortunately, a variant of his venom (developed by Kingpin) hits the streets as a drug. It's favored by both criminals for its performance-enhancing strength, as well as civilians, for the time-slowing sensation/high it gives them.

His girlfriend, Mary Jane, who has been sober for a few years, relapses. Peter, knowing that he can't stop her from getting it on her own, reveals his identity and becomes her main source.

At least, this way, he can control the dosage.

Marko (who sold Peter's venom to Kingpin) manages to fire off his only two brain cells and realizes that Spiderman IS Peter Parker.

Then he outs him to the world because Spiderman made it personal.

Peter's life catches on fire. The entire world is after him. His loved ones have to go into hiding because there's no shortage of criminals and psychopaths who want to get their hands on MJ and Aunt May to get to Spiderman.

Peter ceases to exist. It's not safe anymore. He spends days (weeks? months?) in the suit. Eventually, on the run and burnt out, he pleads his case to Dr. Strange in desperation. (Ala No Way Home)

"Everyone deserves a clean start."

Dr. Strange agrees, but the spell can't work with Peter still existing as part of the equation. So it fires him off into a reality where Peter B. Parker, and by extension Spiderman, never existed.

So how's an ex-con/ex-superhero (for now) supposed to carve a space in a world that never knew him? By finding somewhere that doesn't ask any questions.

And it just so happens, that St. Margaret's School for Wayward Children has a reputation for both being a bar of questionable repute and looking the other way.

Might as well start there.

~~~~~~~~~

Thank you so much for this lovely, lovely ask! I hope this massive lore dump wasn't overkill, but I'm having a lot of fun with this world and wanted to share.

And I offer this lore dump ONLY on the condition that you do not drop whatever you're working on. There is always space for more spideypool in the world, don't deprive us!!!

[novaursa]

Of Gods and Men (exodus)

Introduction

This is Dune/GOT/HOTD/FAB/ASOIAF crossover AU that you've voted for. If you always wanted to see House Targaryen in space, I got you. Please note how some of the lore of both universes is bent to blend in both worlds. This is my original idea that I've been cooking for at least two years. Be gentle with my work, and enjoy the ride.

- Summary: House Targaryen survives their ancient exile after being overthrown by House Corrino and the Bene Gesserit. Fleeing to the unknown planet Albiron, the Targaryens build a hidden civilization powered by drakaon crystals, reviving their dragons and creating advanced technology. Millennia later, whispers of their survival begin to surface as the Bene Gesserit confront a mysterious Red Woman on Arrakis, who warns of a coming Prince That Was Promised destined to challenge their control. The Targaryens secretly prepare to return, ready to reclaim their legacy.

- Paring: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Note: For more details about House Targaryen and their technology, please check out the masterlist.

- Next part: contact

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Millennia before the reign of the Padishah Emperors, before the Guild navigators learned to bend space, and long before the Bene Gesserit began their breeding program, there was another power, a House whose name was whispered with awe and fear across the stars—House Targaryen of Valyria.

In those ancient days, Valyria was a shining jewel of the universe, a world of towering spires and grand pyramids, whose mighty fleets ruled not one world but twelve. From the skies of Laansarad to the distant colonies of Qohar and Sarnor, their banner—a red three-headed dragon on a field of black—was a symbol of dominion, and their words, "Fire and Blood," were a promise. Their secret to power was not only their advanced technology or their skill in combat, but something far older, something the Imperium would come to call "unnatural." For the Targaryens were bonded to creatures of legend—dragons—whose very existence defied the laws of nature and technology.

But their power, their fire, had not gone unnoticed.

Once they emerged, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, ever-seeking control of bloodlines to further their goals, had long coveted House Targaryen's strength. Yet they could not penetrate the Targaryen bloodline, for the House was immune to the Sisterhood's manipulations. Rumors abounded that the dragons themselves had gifted their riders with an ancient magic that made them resistant to the spice and to the Bene Gesserit’s arts. The Targaryens did not bow, did not mingle their blood with the lesser Houses of the Imperium, and did not submit to the Sisterhood’s schemes. This isolation, this defiance, would be their undoing.

It began as whispers in the shadows of the imperial court of House Corrino, whispers that spoke of Valyria’s growing influence and its potential threat to the Emperor's rule. Fearing the power of House Targaryen and the dragons they commanded, House Corrino, in secret alliance with the Bene Gesserit and several other noble houses, set in motion a betrayal that would forever change the galaxy.

Without warning, the skies of Valyria turned dark as Corrino's fleets descended upon the planet like locusts. Great dreadnoughts unleashed their fury, raining nuclear fire upon the unsuspecting cities. The Targaryens, though powerful, were not prepared for such treachery. The star cities of Valyria, with their grand pyramids and towering spires, were reduced to ash in a matter of hours. Their colonies—once strongholds of the Targaryen vassal Houses—were similarly annihilated in the firestorm.

The Bene Gesserit, cold and calculating, had played their part well. They ensured that no Targaryen blood would escape their reach, confident that the ancient dragonlords were now a cautionary tale, a reminder that even the greatest Houses could fall.

But they were wrong.

In the chaos, a single fleet—a fraction of the once-mighty armada—managed to escape the inferno. Led by Aenar Targaryen, a visionary dragonlord, and his most loyal vassals, the remnants of House Targaryen fled into the void. Their dragons, too, escaped, fleeing with their riders into the unknown. With the enemy forces closing in, Aenar made the hardest decision of his life. He ordered the abandonment of the civilian starships—hundreds of them—that could not jump through space at the speed needed to escape. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children—innocent lives—were sacrificed to buy time for the chosen few. As the slow ships limped away at sub-light speed, doomed to be caught by their pursuers, the core fleet vanished in the blink of an eye, jumping to coordinates no one in the known galaxy had ever seen.

In their flight, they left behind only death and ruin, convincing the Imperium that House Targaryen was no more. The Bene Gesserit believed the bloodline had been wiped out. House Corrino celebrated their victory, confident that their throne was secure.

But the Targaryens were not dead.

As the surviving ships jumped further and further into uncharted space, their surviving dragons roared in defiance. Aenar Targaryen vowed that his House would rise again. The fire that had consumed Valyria would be reborn, and one day, the red three-headed dragon would fly again over the stars.

Their enemies had only bought themselves time.

In the vast, unknown reaches of space, the last of House Targaryen sought a new home, far from the grasp of the Empire, far from the Bene Gesserit’s eyes. In their hearts burned a single truth: fire and blood. It was all they had left.

And it was all they would need.

Far beyond the reach of the known universe, in the vast and uncharted depths of space, the last of House Targaryen drifted. For weeks, their ships had traveled through the void, their destination unknown, their hopes tethered only to the coordinates embedded in their ancient star charts. Aenar Targaryen, now the sole leader of his House, stood at the helm of his flagship, his mind consumed by thoughts of what was lost and what might yet be found.

Then, the scanners caught sight of something—a planet unlike any they had ever seen. Its atmosphere glowed a rich, deep red, the color of blood under an alien sun. Its oceans shimmered like rubies, and its vast jungles, though strange and wild, thrummed with life. The planet seemed to call to them, a beacon of hope in the darkest night.

"This is it," Aenar said, his voice carrying the weight of a prophecy. "We shall call it Albiron."

As the Targaryen ships descended upon the planet's surface, they found a world brimming with untapped potential. The air was thick but breathable, rich with minerals that nourished the vast jungles below. Towering mountains stretched into the sky, their peaks capped with dormant volcanoes. Aenar made his home there, at the highest point, building a grand pyramid into the volcanic chain that would serve as both fortress and palace. Around it, more pyramids soon rose, connected by a complex nexus of pathways above the dark amber forests. Below, cities began to form, hidden by the jungle canopy, shielded from prying eyes.

Albiron was a world of secrecy, and House Targaryen would see to it that their new home remained unknown to the Imperium and its allies.

As they delved deeper into the planet's surface, they made a discovery that would change the course of their history. In the heart of a vast canyon, buried beneath layers of rock and time, they uncovered a crystal unlike any they had seen before. The crystals, translucent with a faint golden hue, pulsed with an energy that seemed almost alive. Aenar named them drakaon, in honor of the dragons that once ruled Valyria, and the power they held was nothing short of revolutionary.

The drakaon crystals, as they soon learned, could be harnessed as a new energy source. They could be used to fuel their ships, making long-distance space travel possible without the reliance on melange—the spice that had kept the Imperium in control of the stars. For the first time in millennia, the Targaryens were free from the constraints of the galaxy’s economy, free from the Guild's stranglehold on space travel. Their technology advanced rapidly, fueled by the power of the drakaon crystals, and soon, the Targaryens had fleets capable of crossing the stars without detection, fleets that no longer needed to bow to the powers of the known universe.

In secret, they thrived. The cities of Albiron grew more complex and advanced, their pyramids rising higher, their pathways extending further across the planet’s vast jungles. Their ships patrolled the unknown regions, mapping uncharted stars and ensuring that no one would find their new home.

But the greatest secret of all lay within the depths of their new world.

Within hidden caverns, deep beneath the volcanoes of Albiron, Aenar and his descendants built vast hatcheries. Here, using knowledge salvaged from the lost archives of Valyria, they revived their ancient bond with dragons. Clutch by clutch, new dragons were born, their eggs glowing with the same fiery life that had once illuminated the skies of Valyria. The first to hatch was a magnificent beast, its scales a deep, molten red, its eyes like twin suns. They named it Vexarion, a harbinger of the new Targaryen age.

As the hatcheries grew, so too did the dragons, each one bonded to a rider, as had been the tradition for millennia. Once more, the Targaryens flew on dragonback, their fire-breathing companions reclaiming the skies of Albiron. They were stronger, fiercer than ever, their lifespans prolonged by the spice, their health enhanced by the crystals, just as their ancestors had once done. The galaxy believed the last dragons had died millennia ago, but here, on this blood-red planet, they lived—and they thrived.

Under Aenar’s leadership, House Targaryen rebuilt its strength. They did not forget their defeat, nor did they forgive it. But they had learned patience. For now, they would remain hidden, waiting, watching, biding their time in the shadows of the Imperium. They would rise again, but not yet. For now, their future lay in the skies above Albiron, in the bond between dragon and rider, in the power of the drakaon crystals that flowed beneath their feet.

Thousands of years had passed since the fall of Valyria, and the known galaxy had all but forgotten the name Targaryen. House Corrino ruled unchallenged, the Bene Gesserit continued their manipulations, and the spice flowed as the lifeblood of the Imperium. The Targaryens, once feared and powerful, were now little more than a cautionary tale—a story told to remind the galaxy of the dangers of defying the throne.

But in the far reaches of space, beyond the gaze of the Emperor, beyond the Sisterhood’s influence, whispers had begun to circulate. Minor Houses in the fringe systems spoke in hushed tones of strange transactions, of peculiar spice shipments that defied the standard flow of commerce. Most notably, a small, unassuming House known as House Vex had begun to quietly sell a specific brand of spice to select, discreet buyers.

The spice itself was nothing extraordinary at first glance—reddish-brown in color, with the same faint glow that all melange possessed. Yet, when examined closely, it held properties that puzzled even the most skilled refiners. It resisted traditional refinement processes, requiring a unique method of rensfuration to unlock its full potency. And it was always purchased by the same anonymous entity, whose representatives never gave names, never left a trace.

Rumors swirled throughout the Imperium. Some said the spice had properties that could extend life far beyond what even melange could achieve. Others whispered that it had been tailored for use in genetic experimentation, perhaps even to create a superhuman race immune to the Bene Gesserit's influence. The most outlandish rumors claimed it was being used to resurrect a forgotten House, one whose bloodline had been immune to the Sisterhood’s powers millennia ago.

At first, the whispers were dismissed. Minor Houses always had their secrets, after all, and House Vex was hardly influential enough to warrant concern. But as more and more shipments of this peculiar spice quietly disappeared into the unknown universe, suspicions began to grow. The Spacing Guild noticed the irregularities in the spice routes, and the Bene Gesserit began to pay attention. Still, no one dared speak openly of it—House Corrino had no interest in encouraging the notion of a long-lost enemy returning from the shadows.

In truth, the rumors were closer to the truth than anyone realized.

Deep within the jungles of Albiron, the Targaryens had mastered the art of spice refinement—not for their own use, but for their dragons. The spice, in its raw form, had always been a valuable tool to extend human life and grant certain enhancements, but the Targaryens had discovered a very specific strain, a rare and potent variant that, when carefully refined, could do far more. It extended not just the lifespan of their dragons but enhanced their vitality, their strength, their fire. The dragons of Albiron, already magnificent creatures of fire and fury, became more resilient, more powerful than they had ever been in Valyria.

This strain of spice could only be harvested under particular conditions, and it required an even more delicate process of rensfuration, one that took years to perfect. The Targaryens had kept this secret for generations, using it only sparingly to ensure their dragons thrived in exile. And to maintain their anonymity, they allowed House Vex—a small House bound to them in loyalty for centuries—to sell a portion of the raw spice to the wider galaxy, hiding the true purpose of the refined strain.

The transactions were always discreet, the buyers carefully selected to ensure that no one could trace the spice back to Albiron. Yet despite all their precautions, the galaxy had begun to take notice. The mystery surrounding the spice—and the shadowy figures who bought it—grew with each passing year.

The Bene Gesserit, ever watchful, sensed a disturbance in the patterns of the Imperium. Though they could not put their finger on it, the Sisterhood had learned to listen for the subtle currents of power that ran through the universe, and something was shifting. The idea that a House immune to their influence could have survived all these years in secret sent a ripple of unease through their ranks. They began to dig deeper, their agents searching for any clue that might lead them to the source of the rumors.

House Corrino, too, grew wary. The spice trade was the lifeblood of the Empire, and any irregularity in its flow could have disastrous consequences. The Emperor’s spies were dispatched to the farthest corners of the galaxy, though none returned with answers.

Still, the rumors persisted. The spice that had no clear origin. The mysterious buyers from beyond known space. The possibility that a forgotten House might yet live.

In the halls of the Imperium, no one spoke openly of House Targaryen. To do so would invite questions that no one wanted to answer. But in the dark corridors of power, in the quiet whispers between those who dealt in secrets, the name began to surface again.

Targaryen.

Fire and blood.

The galaxy had forgotten them, but House Targaryen had never forgotten the galaxy. And as their dragons grew stronger, as their power in exile continued to build, they waited.

For one day, the whispers would no longer be rumors.

And when that day came, the stars themselves would tremble.

The scorching winds of Arrakis blew fiercely through the narrow streets of Arrakeen, carrying with them the dry scent of spice and the whispers of rebellion. The city, usually shrouded in an oppressive silence broken only by the occasional hum of machinery, now thrummed with tension. A crowd had gathered in the heart of the city, their faces hidden beneath hoods and veils to protect against the harsh sun, their voices rising in fervor as they listened to the woman who stood before them, bathed in the blood-red light of the setting sun.

She was known only as the Red Woman, a stranger from a distant corner of the galaxy, draped in flowing crimson robes that shimmered in the heat. Her eyes burned with an unnatural fire, and her voice, rich and commanding, seemed to cut through the dry air like a blade.

“Brothers, sisters,” she called out, her voice echoing through the square. “You have been deceived! For too long, the Bene Gesserit have whispered their lies into the ears of your leaders, guiding the hand of the Empire toward a future of darkness and death. But the Lord of Light has seen their evil, and He has sent me to show you the truth.”

The crowd murmured in agreement, their eyes locked on the Red Woman as she raised her hands, flames seemingly dancing at her fingertips.

“The night is dark and full of terrors,” she intoned, her voice growing louder. “But there is a light coming, a flame that will burn away the lies of the Bene Gesserit. The false messiah they prepare will lead to the deaths of billions! But the Prince That Was Promised, the true savior, will rise and deliver us from their evil.”

The crowd erupted into shouts of agreement, their fists raised toward the sky as the Red Woman’s message of salvation stirred their hearts. But not everyone in Arrakeen was so moved by her words.

From the shadows of a nearby alley, a figure emerged, flanked by a dozen Bene Gesserit acolytes. The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, her face etched with the lines of age and power, strode forward with the grace of a predator. Her sharp blue eyes took in the scene before her, the riotous crowd, the Red Woman at their center, and the burning passion in their eyes. She had seen such passion before, in other corners of the universe, and she knew well the danger it posed.

The Red Woman turned her gaze toward the Bene Gesserit as they approached, her lips curling into a cold smile. “Ah, the serpents come to silence me,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “Do you fear the truth, Mother?”

Mother Mohiam’s expression remained unchanged as she stepped forward, her voice as cold as the sands of Arrakis at night. “You have no place here, woman. You are not of Arrakis, and you bring only chaos to these people. Leave this world, now, or you will face the consequences.”

The Red Woman laughed, the sound high and sharp, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. “I serve only the Lord of Light, not your false Empire or your twisted Sisterhood. You, who claim to see the future, who shape the paths of men to serve your own ends, are the true servants of darkness. You pave the way for a false messiah who will bring nothing but death and destruction to the universe.”

The Bene Gesserit acolytes shifted uneasily behind Mother Mohiam, but she stood firm, her eyes locked on the Red Woman. “You speak of a prophecy you do not understand,” she said. “The future is not for the untrained mind to glimpse. You meddle with forces beyond your comprehension.”

“The future is clear to those who serve the Light,” the Red Woman retorted. “Your Kwisatz Haderach, your so-called savior, will be the harbinger of death. He will lead the universe into a war that will consume entire worlds, killing billions. But the Prince That Was Promised will come, and he will burn away the lies you have sown.”

The crowd began to stir again, their fear and anger rising as the Red Woman’s words took hold. Mother Mohiam could feel the pulse of the mob, the heat of their desperation, and knew that if she did not act soon, this riot would spread like wildfire through the streets of Arrakeen.

“You play with fire,” Mother Mohiam said softly, stepping closer to the Red Woman. “And fire will consume you.”

The Red Woman smiled, her eyes gleaming. “The night is dark and full of terrors, Mother. You would do well to remember that.”

With that, the Red Woman raised her hands, and for a brief moment, flames flared at her fingertips once more before she stepped back into the shadows. Her followers, emboldened by her defiance, began to chant, their voices growing louder as they echoed her words.

“The night is dark and full of terrors. The Prince That Was Promised will come.”

Mother Mohiam watched as the Red Woman disappeared into the crowd, her eyes narrowing in thought. She had faced zealots before, had seen the power of faith wielded as a weapon. But this… this was something different. The Red Woman’s words echoed in her mind, unsettling her in a way few things ever had.

As the crowd began to disperse, the tension lingering in the air like the scent of spice after a storm, Mother Mohiam turned to her acolytes.

“Find her,” she said quietly. “Find her and bring her to me. We must know who she truly serves.”

For a moment, she stood in the empty square, the wind stirring the dust around her feet. She looked up at the burning sky, the twin suns casting long shadows across the desert, and a chill ran down her spine despite the heat.

The night is dark and full of terrors, indeed.

And Mother Mohiam knew that the terrors were only beginning.

- A/N: Let's see how well this does before I post another part.

[nothing-leave-me-alone]

Transformers one swap au

It has begun, people are making swap aus and I can finally share the brain worm.

(I desperately need good sentinel and evil optimus to survive ok?)

I think optimus would be the false prime with megatron as as his second in comand. 50 cycles ago, Orion pax, the Primes trusted archivist sent them on a suicide mission. with the aid of megatron, his conjux, they killed them all. The remaining population lives beneath the ground in kaon. A city centered around a massive collyseum that hosts the kaon muera. A select few are allowed to fight for a chance to join the Primes high guard.

The matrix would still be lost and the quintessons would still be up there. But the war never ended, the mines are replaced by a massive underground drone factory. not OSHA approved so tragically many smiths die, a sacrifice their prime is willing to make.

Sentinel would be the adventurous yet reckless miner with his AR-1 (arachnid) as his best friend and protector. Together since the beginning they been working together seamlessly like a well oiled machine.... If you ignore sentinels uther infatuation with joining the Primes guard, he's constantly kicked out of the kaon collyseum as he tries to snop in on the gladiators. He hopes to become one, just like megatron and Optimus and aid on the front lines of the war. AR-1 has no complaints of her current life (besides that damm stinger of a boss) because it's honest work to be a smtih, why would she change anything?

I think starscream should replace Elita. He is a no nonsense head of a forgery. He has no time not patience for failure as he has kept a perfect efficiency record for nearly 12 cycles since being appointed. Despite his acceptance of his role and pride on his work he can't help but feel there is more for him, that and an utherly inexplicable connection he feels to skywarp and thundercracker, two of kaons best gladiators. He feels something missing

And darkwing would be B-127. Or D-816 as his designation number. But if you ask his friends (he has none) he goes by Dark. He's been trapped in sublevel 50 for so long and he is so so glad to have some new friends!

Bee would replace darkwing as a mine boss who cares very little for much other than racing, fighting, and pleasing the prime even at the expense of the miners. Doing anything for his 5 minutes of glory he'll step on the back of anyone, specially uppity cogless bots who should learn their place.

Elita would replace starscream. As the old leader of the high guard she saw her bots and Primes fall at the hands of those they trusted. She became bitter with the death of chromia in the last battle and decided it was every bot for themselves. Jazz and Prowl are her right hand mechs (reluctantly)

Onto the lore.

I did think of changing the comflict of the quintessons a bit. Instead of mining for energon, having the bots forge weapons like a massive underground factory, forging drones and guns for the Primes guard. Calling them cogless smiths.

Optimus and megatron keep the ilusion that the war is still going on massively all around cybertron and that they along with with their guards depart to the surface every cycle to fight on the front lines to protect them all. They should all be glad they serve on kaon, the last safe city in cybertron. Every time, they return with only a handful of drones.

In truth, they are giving drones, weapons and even cogless bots to the quintessons as payment for their debt.

----

I'm not sure how I would swap the Primes other than swap their order. Make someone else AR-1 favorite prime so that they become the simbol for the decepticons and so that optimus takes their Tcog. I'm thinking of prima or onyx.

make alpha trion be replaced with megatronus so he's the one who tells the cogless bots the truth.

[twilights-stuff]

So remember that Star Wars x Gravity Falls Au post I did a while back? So I decided to go back to it and create some doodles for the au. Problem is I haven't finished them considering I put way too much effort on Stan's mando armor. I'm yet to finish Ford too so that's something I'll dive into next. Can't wait to share those doodles in the future!

Also changes to the lore of this au:

• Stan and Ford are born on a tropical beach planet (still deciding what) and were separated at 14 (same age as Dipper and Mabel in this au) (I know Jedi usually take Force-sensitive kids at a younger age but I'm gonna bend canon a bit on this one)

• Stan was sold to slavery by his own father in order to pay off his debts in gambling shortly after Ford left and after their mother died.

• Stan was then brought to Tatooine where he would later be bought out of slavery by a Mandalorian belonging to the "Children of the Watch" cult, who then took Stan under his wing and trained him to become a Mandalorian.

• After growing up and swearing the Creed, Stan would later get kicked out by his cult and get consequently kicked out by other Mandalorian factions that he would later come to join in the future before obtaining his own ship and crew (Wendy and Soos) and becoming a bounty hunter whose also keen on gambling.

• This all happened before the rise of the Galactic Empire.

• Meanwhile, Ford would be trained under Bill Cipher and would eventually succeed his Padawan trials and become a Jedi Knight, even having his own padawan (Fiddleford) in the process.

• Unbeknownst to Ford, his master was secretly working along side Sidious and Tarkin in order to bring about the fall of the Jedi Order and the Republic.

• Set to be killed by his former master during Order 66, he and Fiddleford tried to save as many Jedi as they can but was forced to run away in an effort to escape, unfortunately leaving his padawan and the rest of the surviving Jedi to fend for themselves.

• He would later be caught by Bill and would be forced to train to become an Inquisitor, even go through a series of torture designed to break him and turn him into a shell of his former self.

• Ford would then escape and hide from the Empire before joining and aiding the Rebellion from time to time. As he helped the Rebels, he also made it his mission to take down Bill and the Inquisitors.

• On the other hand, after learning about Order 66 and the fall of the Republic, Stan would try to search for his brother hoping for the possibility that he was still alive. He never found his brother and eventually mourned him.

• The brothers would then reunite shortly after Stan met Dipper and Mabel when both kids found themselves lost on the underworld of Coruscant and ran into a six- fingered stranger who protected them from the eyes of stormtroopers. Though, unbeknownst to the kids, this man also happened to be their Grunkle's bounty.

•Ford protected Dipper and Mabel after sensing they were Force-sensitive. But, when a Mandalorian bounty hunter came to get them, Ford did not hesitate to keep the kids safe. Though, unbeknownst to him, the Mandalorian he just fought with turned out to be the kids' great uncle and his twin brother, whom he has not seen since they were 14.

That's all I have for this Au! Can't wait to share more with y'all in the future.

[vampirtulpe]

Kampfmaschinen maintenance

Was struck by the sudden idea for an au that solely consisted of "What if Kaiser actually is a machine", so I drew two quick pics and wrote some lore to get it out of my system.

Anyway, some notes about it are under the cut (It's pretty long, sorry about that)

-Whole reason for Kaiser being a machine is basically him getting super injured during his time in the army, there was no chance of him for survival. Kaiser's only family was his mother, so scientists decided to take the opportunity and run some experiments on Kaiser to see if they can make super soldiers by enhancing them with machinery

-Kaiser survived, miraculously, but the experiment was still deemed a failure, since Kaiser didn't only get some horrific trauma from the procedures and his time in the army, his body was also weaker than it was before all the machinery was inserted into him. The technology just wasn't advanced enough at the time and keeps him alive rather than actually making him stronger

-Aside from that he actually works very similar to how he was before, just more traumatized. He doesn't need to breathe or eat or drink, but he still likes doing it, just to feel like everything is normal

-Things get a little more difficult with maintenance, cause the lab that ran all the experiments on him was forcefully shut down after it was discovered what was done there. Kaiser knows how to maintain himself, but he's worried that there is now nowhere he can get replacement parts, should something break one day (Which it inevitably will)

-Kaiser still found a home in the WVBA, all the boxers are very nice with him and some of them even learned how to help Kaiser with maintenance. The main person for that is Joe, Kaiser trusts him with his life (while Joe almost shits himself every time, he's that scared of messing up)

-He was a feared boxer for a long time, but eventually his trauma caught up to him and the technology that kept him running was getting more and more outdated, causing him to lose more and more often and eventually move to the minor circuit

-Kaiser knows that it's just a matter of time until regular maintenance isn't enough anymore to keep him running and tries to make peace with it by telling himself that he is just a machine and not the man he used to be. It's his way to cope, even if it's unhealthy, it's the only thing that desensitizes him -But in truth, he's absolutely terrified of the day he stops working, he doesn't feel ready at all, but tries to not let it show, he doesn't want it to make it any more difficult for the other boxers (Who are having absolutely none of it and always aggressively shut him down)

-Right now the only people even willing to give it a try to help Kaiser are the scientists that worked on Soda, but Soda REALLY doesn't want them anymore near his friends, so he'd rather they wait until it isn't an option anymore. He just knows what they are capable of and wants to protect the WVBA, they are like a family to him

-Kaiser has a kind of berserk mode, where he will just rampage and destroy everything and everyone in his path. He isn't aware of it existing and no one knows how to trigger it, so let's hope it stays that way Well, yeah, that's all I came up with, hope you enjoy this. Oh, and here is the second art, as a continuation of the first ^^

[worldsewage]

what's the home run au?? pretty please infodump!! /genpos /nf

The HOMERUN au is what I want to call a Salmonid and Inkling swap au, but eventually became so convoluted it’s now it’s own separate thing.

I’m glad this ask exists because I will be using it as a pseudo pinned… until I get that… figured out… ⛩️ thank you! I’ll be splitting the main ideas into parts, (and chances are any unanswered questions will be answered later! I want to explore this au in little lore tidbits, so please be patient with me! But don’t be afraid to ask!)

Idol / Agent lore will be explained in mini comics and posts… :] but as for what the Homerun au actually is…?

I’ll explain everything under the cut!

THE GREAT TURF WAR:

During the Great Turf War— inklings and octolings were at a horrible stand still, resources and morale is low due to the two warring species exhausting themselves. The waterline rises high (WAY higher then canon) wiping out the lands they’re fighting for and reducing the habitable lands into waterlogged territories that are too dangerous and flood-prone for either species to survive… the war ended with Salmonids on the rise, dominating the lands, and nearly wiping out both species thanks to the ocean and the brute strength and resources they had.

Because of this inkling territory is very small— but still succeeded in claiming land, unlike the Octarian, which were forced to retreat to the wastelands— the wastelands are devoid of life, but worse, flooded and horribly weathered.

Relationships between the warring species goes as this: Politically, all of the species are enemies, but at this current state, have no real reasons to continue fighting.

Salmonoids are trying to “mend the relations between Cephalopods and Salmonids”— at least that’s what they’re saying. They make efforts such as propaganda pieces, but their biology(see “anatomy” column) Is far too different from cephalopods to properly live together. They mostly push this effort towards Inklings— half because they are the species that utterly despises them, and the other half as a power play. A few Salmonid Company’s that control the local politics have a few ideas they want to use to control inklings, but it’s no use if they’re not allies.

Octarians still see inklings as the species that drove them out, despite salmonids being the unlikely winner of the war, Inklings are the ones that claimed the only slightly habitable lands, so they are the adversary.

Octarians are still an ally to the salmonids, their industrial mega cities are often seen as “barbaric” or “frightening” to most species, but the Octarian see them as war-strong allies who they desperately need to learn off of. Octarian culture has vastly evolved to accommodate Salmonids— this has changed most Salmonid’s(within the public) understanding of inkling/octoling biology for the better. Having survived off their trade / resources, every Octarian issue becomes a Salmonid issue, and vice versa, these two groups are closely intertwined.

Inklings are enemies with the Salmonids, but due to their loss in the war they were forced to truce— Inklings are the only species that do salmon runs, so they see Salmons at their most aggressive, and in turn are taught to view them as monsters, despite the species affinity towards politics, business, and other relations they’ve made public— they only see them as language-less inkling-murdering monsters. Because of their hatred of salmonids— they yearn to rekindle the relationship with Octarians.

It’s a real “be my ally” love triangle. But truly, Octarians and Salmonids are BUDDIES!

THE MAP

Inklings are doing better, they still construct Inkopolis in this au. Inkopolis is prone to flooding, but it’s still plenty safer and operates much like it does in canon (with the same stores and such!). The city is now equipped with many functions that keep it’s citizens safe from flooding. Flooding is less common in the plaza as opposed to the outskirts of the city. Inkopolis is a staple location, proof of survival and glory, the place every kid said they wanted to move to when they got older.

The Octo-Canyon + Domes still exist here, but the surrounding area is nearly all water, so resources are scarce and its difficult for them to survive on their own. They thrive on trade, and what can only be described as “for-hire agent work” for salmonoids and other wasteland neighboring species. Their technology was forced to rapidly advance to accommodate for this.

The area right to Inkopolis, where Calimari County would lie, are sandy (sort of beach-swamp esque) farm lands. The towns are rural distant areas, perpetually flooded, sort of resembling low tidepools, it’s pretty gorgeous lands . They primarily farm seaweed here, as well as cultivating other sea animals and rice grain.

The area above New Inkadia— in the Wastelands— is similar, farm lands and small villages, but to note: more Salmonids are here, and the inklings here speak Salsegal (the language salmonids speak) and here Salmonids and Cephalopods engage in this reverse salmon run.

The Wasteland inklings cultivate and raise Zapfish, most are young and unable to power full cities, and so Cephalopods in this zone have (as a result of water damage affecting HOW they retain ink) developed a new type of ink that is able to act as an electrical current— these types of inklings/octolings are known as KRAKENS, and Salmonids occasionally enter these areas and capture this electric ink technology since it’s on their turf, and they can’t use their eggs out of respect, Zapfish are in low supply, and in turn, Inklings collect power eggs.

AC TOKYO is a city built on the idea of mending the relationships and creating a society where all species can thrive! And oddly enough, the city and decor is described as historic… due to all of the designs looking very… human. The reason for this is unknown. (Wink.) (DEEPSEA METRO rests underneath it.)

NEW INKADIA is where splatoon 3’s locations lie! Though under a different name, and a very different appearance, and ALTERNA is a secret project that has created an entirely new society that consists of both Cephalopods and Salmonids… at the expense of changing them.

Alterna is where DEEPCUT appear.

ANATOMY

How salmonids and inklings function is plenty different from canon

Inkling’s skin is incredibly paper-thin fragile, but extremely reliable, it is made up of trillions of individual parts that collapse into a thin membrane that essentially splits all of the insides into even tinier parts when coming into contact with a certain chemical signal that triggers the “transformation reaction”, allowing their skin to collapse into Ink Puddles, and as a result allowing it to reform into the Swim Form. So essentially, when Inklings are in the “puddle form”, they are a super thin nearly invisible sac carrying all of their super small broken apart organs, and reforming is just these broken apart cells very quickly attaching back together to either shape into Kid or Squid.

When a cephalopod gets “splatted”— all that’s happening is that there’s either too much stress, or too many injuries, or there’s a drastic shift in the amount of ink the subject is currently carrying, causing them to Self Destruct, as inklings are safer when the cells are broken apart, it’s harder to damage larger parts of the inkling IF they are broken into tiny parts that cant be broken apart any further.

“RESPAWNERS” aren’t actually “a place for the ghosts of inklings to land to revive”— this is a myth, and plenty easier to explain.

Respawners are attached onto the ground in inky turf grounds, and they cycle through ink at an extremely fast rate. Most turf battles have a very small layer of water or ink on the ground to allow respawner to filter ink— in doing this, the respawner are drinking in a shit tone of ink in order to suck up inkling puddles that carry near invisible flesh sacs thanks to Inkling’s weird skin membrane. And in the respawner, they’re refreshed with new ink and injected with a chemical that shakes them awake, quickly waking up a splatted inkling inside the respawner.

During Salmon Runs, the sight of Inklings who are missing limbs on the battlefield returning the next day to attend a shift with no visible injuries isn’t uncommon. As long as the cells still exist within the membrane, they can be rapidly rebuilt and regenerate.

But, despite all of this, Inkling skin is incredibly weak to water, this membrane that can carry collapsed organs, severed limbs, and gives the signal that allows inklings to transform— can melt and collapse and can permanently damage if coming into contact with too much water. Water against this skin-membrane is similar to water on a tissue, melting into it, and splatting the inkling— but because there is now a tear in the membrane— it affects how the inkling is able to heal, how quickly the inkling can recover, how much ink the inkling can now retain, or if it’s possible to transform after the injury. Membrane Water-Damage scars can vary, but they are all regarded as dangerous if left untreated too long. Since small holes can be treated and taught to heal over, but left in water, can cause these holes to grow too large for the membrane to function as intended.

In fact, even overly HUMID environments can wear on inkling skin overtime; which is a problem for cephalopods and salmonid relations.

Salmonids have gills, but are amphibious, and in the adult (not spawning, spawning Salmons have very different anatomy, I will go into salmonid life cycles below) stage of their growth, they require air to thrive. Hence, needing land, but because they have gills, they require humid environments or close by water in order to keep the gills moist. Or else they could dehydrate and suffocate.

TLDR: inklings+octolings need dry environments so they don’t die from overexposure to humidity/water, Salmonids need wet humid environments so they don’t suffocate to the lack of water.

SALMON RUNS, and the LIFE CYCLE:

During salmon runs, you collect eggs, and in the warehouse, fertile eggs are seperated from infertile eggs, and are shipped back to Salmonid cities.

In salmonid cities, the eggs are sorted, genetically tested, and are given a name— the reason why salmonids have such long names is because the eggs are named by the title of the clans of their origin, and the families then extend the titles via new names or traits.

Having children isn’t a decision that can be made on a whim, since it requires traveling to a salmon run grounds in a race to these lands that allow both parents to officially breed in what’s known as a “HOMERUN,” but unlike IRL salmon, the need to return home is NOT a requirement or a hormonal change, but rather a decision, and the transformation into spawning-forms is a result of the journey.

Most parents have hundreds of eggs, and hundreds of children, but most of the time— in salmonid culture, only those who are considered “high status” are selected to “bring glory to the clan name” and go on these homeruns, most common folk don’t.

Salmonids are in a way socially (a tad culturally) aromantic, in a way, since they don’t have any desire to find a special someone never sprung into existence, especially since relationships initially begin as a concept due to the act of having children, but to salmons, it is viewed as a business decision. So romance is nearly non existent. (Again, socially, not emotionally, but the concept is still very much foreign.)

All salmonids are orphans in some way or another due to the parents dying in the Homerun (it’s extremely rare for a parent to return, if they do, it’s most likely they won’t survive the transformation back into a non-spawning form— which is why those who do survive usually remain in homerun grounds.)

The offspring are given back to the clans of parents of the children, not as eggs, they leave them to develop and once they become “SMALL FRY” they are given to the families.

THE EGG- power eggs, power houses, even infertile eggs are still high wattage batteries.

ALEVINS- you will most likely never see these few, in the wild, they grow up in the water and feed off the power egg.

FRY- they begin to grow lungs and muscle, they start to come onto land and use their fins as hands, if only slightly. They still are stronger swimmers than they are walkers. This is the stage in which they begin to swim home, they aren’t very good learners due to this form expending all energy in strength in order to travel and survive.

AWKWARD TADPOLE PHASE! - their fins grow into hands, and they slowly learn to walk. You see this stage at around four or five years old. This is considered the most important time in thier lives, because as FRY, they were running on instinct more than anything, so this is the time when their brains truly start to develop. Their head fins sort of fray, splitting into a growing head fin and a dorsal fin.

SMOLT- The phase between Tadpole and Nearly fully fledged salmon, their hands begin to fully form, they have more canine teeth that begin to grow in as teenagers. Fingers are webbed! The dorsal fin grows in. Most teenagers are still a tad hunched, but otherwise have no issues standing upright.

MATURE SALMON- Dorsal fin is fully developed, and they stand without a hunch.

In order to have offspring, they HOMERUN, and doing this transforms them back into waterborne species to accommodate for the vast journey. Their arms turn into fins, this change is far too jarring and aggressive for the species to live long after this.

SALMON RUNS ONLY EXIST BECAUSE INKLINGS HAVE DISTURBED THE NATURAL PATH THAT SALMONIDS NEED TO TAKE IN ORDER TO HAVE OFFSPRING. They intend to enter the aggressive phase at the river, before reaching the end mid land, but because inklings occupy this land, they’re forced to remain in these aggressive stages.

The slaughter of the spawning season salmonids is not a part of the cycle that salmonids worship so thoroughly. But, Salmonids were designed to die during this phase, and they never grew to be revolted by this idea— but that is not the reason why.

A Grizzco partner company named SENSHINCORP. that specializes in Cephalopod/Salmonid Trade, Safety, and Relations has taken control of the public’s opinion of the neighboring species.

(it’s a persuasive warning shot that makes every species doubt the opinions they feel they should have. It’s the reason why new paths weren’t created for Homerun Salmonids, POWEREGGS are big buck business, and it’s best you don’t pry.)

Okay, final section:

GRIZZCO. (+SENSHINCORP.)

Grizzco functions the same, a company that thrives on exploiting desperate job hunting inklings, and exploiting a culture that relies on the glory of dying.

But, this time, Mr. Grizz remains in contact with Senshin Corp, a salmon operated company that thrives on the tension between salmonids and cephalopods.

Salmo-San owns Senshin Corp, he’s a friend. He only wishes the best.

[hootbon]

I have a both a lore and stupid question

Is the au going to have an ongoing plot? Like trying to fix the virus that infected the circus (which might be impossible), find the exit and so on or it would just be: survival

Cause any direction this could have looks so cool!

For the stupid question, how good are the members of the cast in Just Dance? Cause I'm sure Ponmi would destroy all of them!

The plot is.. more so similar to the actual show, less about trying to get out of the situation and more of learning about the world and characters in the situation

But there’s a possibility for a genuine plot

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Hannah has control over every aspect of her life. The people she kills, the ones she fucks, how she looks, the amount she chooses to drink ��� no matter what kind of spiral she sends herself into next, it's always her choice, because everyone hates the feeling of being powerless.

That's why she hates Vincent Ansaldo. No matter what, it's always what he wants. She just happened to be exactly that.

"Mein diamant, what a surprise. What are you doing here?" Sturdy arms snake around her waist from behind, a sharply-accented voice dripping with his shit-eating grin cutting through the blaring music from how close he's made himself. "Did you not get enough of me yesterday?"

I got plenty of you yesterday. The words are right on the tip of her tongue, as cut-edged as a blade. She’s still got that bruise on her hip, the bastard, yet she swallows the spew of insults down. The grip on her gin martini tightens, her white knuckles concealed by the dim room.

"I'm not here for long." Hannah's voice is hard to make out through the blaring sound of the room, but she still is seemingly unamused. She can see his reflection displaying itself in and out of her glass thanks to the flashing lights above them. From an outsider's perspective, any woman would deem herself lucky of his attention.

Sandy blonde hair that reaches his shoulders just enough brush against her cheek, and she doesn’t need to look to know a pair of dark jade greens are staring down at her with unwavering attention. Charming, deadly, and smart, Vincent came from a long, powerful line of questionable family affairs and affluent descendants who took what they wanted, when they wanted.

She knew he frequented here. It was one his clubs, why wouldn’t he? She had just hoped to be able to get the information she needed and buzz off before he could spot her.

Obviously, hope was fucking useless.

“And why not?” His hand raises up to brush away her hair in favor of revealing her neck, and he leans down to press his lips to her pulse. It always stuttered when he was near, but not for the reason he believed. “Running off the moment you can before stopping by to greet me. I’m hurt."

“You’ll live.” Hannah brings the drink up to her lips for a short sip, and she tries not to think about how the arms around her tighten when she glances around for the target she'd been following. Alex Aguilar, a woman who thought it was a good idea to bring kids into her dirty work.

Now those kinds of people were the scum under her heel. At least she’d be able to take her sweet time with her once the right moment came around.

"Vince, I'm trying to work, so can you just–"

"Who are you tailing after?"

The voice next to her ear lowers, and it's not the kind of tone he uses when he's planning on dragging her off to fuck her. Someone is getting in the way of him spending time with her, and even though he's trying his damn best to make his question sound as nonchalant as possible, she's known him long enough to know when he's getting irritated.

The burn of alcohol when she swallows barely affects her.

Hannah takes a deep breath, forces herself to glance up at him with an easy smile. Just like he liked to see her. You’re prettier when you smile. She still remembers tears being wiped from her face with a deceptively gentle hand and his blurry frame hovering over her. “No one important. None of them are.”

That seems to please him, because he’s grinning down at her like a predator who’s decided to have mercy instead of one that’s about to attack. “That’s right, pretty girl.” Vincent sighs deeply, smile faltering but not disappearing just yet as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I trust you’ll come back to me later then?”

When does she not? When could she not?

Vincent walks away with a kiss to her cheek and a slap to her ass once he's had enough of her. The sound of his chuckle as he further distances himself makes her want to turn back around and smash her glass over his head, strangle him, lodge the pieces of glass into his throat and force everyone to watch his blood splatter and spill over the floors. That would be nice. That would be perfect actually. At that moment, she wouldn't care if it eventually got her killed.

He's a prick. He gets on her nerves. But all she had to do was do what he wants, and he'd eventually get tired of her. Not much she can do now except suck it up.

Hannah shuts her eyes. Takes a deep breath.

You're fine.

She downs the rest of her drink and goes back to her hunt. Maybe that would bring back the spring in her step and the bloodlust she needs.

[scho17]

@hibiscusseaart

Ren Nohara

Ren and Kks doodles + me yapping ab this AU bc the brain rot has me in a chokehold

close ups so yall dont have to zoom in

I JUST REALIZED THIS WOULD MEAN THAT NARUTO IS TECHNICALLY ALSO THE HATAKE CLAN HEIR URAGHHHH

I NEED TO DRAW HIM WITH ALL THE NINKEN SO SO BADDDDDD

KAKASHI SHARING CLAN LORE BC HE HAS PACK TO CARRY ON HIS CLANS HISTORY AND TRADITIONS BC IT ISN'T JUST HIM ANYMORE SAVE ME SAVE ME

Hatake 'the line ends with me' Kakashi BUT NOT ANYMORE BABY HELL YEAH!! having a spouse and child will do that to you

Now does he really gaf ab tradition? Honestly, probably not but the idea of him not being alone in terms of family/clan is what he deserves (along with a lot of therapy).

HE MAY STILL BE MENTALLY ILL BUT NOT AS BADLY AS THE FIRST TIME AROUND 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Also, the consequences of Naruto having two parents who are both some of the most elite shinobi in Konoha is probably one of the best 'fuck off' deterrents he could have in terms of curbing harassment over his being the nine-tails container.

ALSO ALSO, "I'm gonna be Hokage!" oh and he's wearing those little blue goggles and carrying around the weight of a dead boy's dream without really knowing just how heavy that burden is but still carrying it all the same in the way only optimistic children can. Oh bitch I'm throwing up everywhere. Like yes he's going to bring peace to the shinobi world but he is also giving both his dad's the worst type of heart ache. Seeing doubles because he's so much like Obito but blonde and four times as stubborn.

kkrn trying so hard not to see ghosts in their kid but he's literally a mash up of Minato, Kushina, and Obito. Minato's kindness, Kushina's vitality, and Obito's pure will to be good.

Not saying that ghosts are all they see cause it's very much not. Naruto is still Naruto but sometimes there's that outline of an old memory that just doesn't fade. A little like deja vu I guess. Kakashi and Ren are so glad it's peacetime because even the thought of dandelion blonde beneath a too-big boulder makes breathing that much harder.

I imagine he gets trained an insane amount because both Kakashi and Ren want him to be able to defend himself. Even while it's peacetime, they're shinobi, there's always a risk. So long as Naruto is on active duty he'll always be in danger. With both of his guardians growing up/serving in the third war when they were barely older than Naruto it's practically a given.

Not that I think Naruto would complain about being able to learn jutsu/shinobi skills. He'd probably be stoked about it until he has to spend like four hours straight throwing shuriken and reading survival guides about edible plants. He complains about it. Loudly. mb lil bro half of ninja training is literally just ingraining reflexes and learning the land.

mmm academy-era Naruto going to the memorial stone and ranting about his day to it in the way he's seen both Ren and Kakashi do in the past. That's so cute and sad like "and then Shikamaru slept the whole time but it was supposed to be a GROUP project! Can you believe that!" and Obito is in the bushes nodding his head along like the good uncle he is. (He literally tried to murder Naruto when he was less than an hour old.)

Naruto just talks and talks and talks. About everything and nothing and its probably like the least depressing one-sided conversation Obito has ever heard in front of his grave (looking at you Kakashi, Ren).

I imagine that Naruto kind've treats the stone/Obito's memory fondly. Both Ren and Kakashi talk about him in warm tones and with growing up hearing stories of him it's hard not to feel like he knows him. He's not there, obviously, but if Naruto closes his eyes and imagines that scowling boy in his parent's team photo while he talks it almost feels real. (Honey, you've got a big storm coming.)

To their family, Obito is forever thirteen. He's passionate and has a short fuse. He loves sweets and has eyes and hair darker than the night, he's a sucker for a sob story and helps old ladies with their groceries. Naruto finds it hard not to see a friend in a ghost he's never met.

AA and then post Uchiha Massacre, Naruto just stares at the stone and wonders that if Obito were still here would he be gone too? Man I need to see what's going on in Obito's head during that.

On an unrelated note i wonder where the fuck Jiraiya is in all this. Bro is just out and about doing fuck all as two fourteen year olds take care of his godson and he's running from responsibility😭 i bet he sends guilt money. Ren literally doesn't give a single shit because even if Jiraiya did try for custody he would literally be getting his hands chopped off. No way in hell is Ren letting a pervert like that raise a kid that's a recipe for disaster. The money is nice but Ren could not give less of a fuck ab that mans guilt. Like "oh, you feel bad for not owning up to your God Father title that Minato, my late sensei, entrusted to you? Good."

I need to see Ren and Genma + Anko and Kurenai friendship. They would be a horrible terrible no good amazing friend group. Terrifying when together. Four horsemen of the apocalypse when they have an idea and put their mind to it.

Anyway, what are our opinions on ANBU Ren and Ren meeting 'Sukea' bc that all i've been able to think ab today. Okay, I'm done yapping thanks for listening.

[astxrope]

Here's a basic rundown of the species found within the Yggdrasil System. Unfortunately due to the rule of the Aesir under the Allmother, much of the information has been destroyed, censored, or erased, making researching these species particularly difficult. However, I have managed to collect a general consensus on what each of the species look like.

Helheim is impossible to know, any first inhabitants of the planet are long dead or in hiding. No one on Helheim are born there, and few leave alive.

Here's what I gathered:

Jotun: Tall, Digitigrade legs, Pointed ears, Tail, Some have horns

- Examples: Loki, Logi, Fenrir (Heimdall: Hybrid; Jotun/Asgardian)

Vanir: Pointed ears, often blond or ginger, Ungulated legs (hooves)

- Examples: Frey, Freya, (Kvasir, Hybrid; Vanir/Asgardian)

Midgardian: Plantigrade legs (human legs), tails with fur on the end, rarely (but not unheard of) winged. Winged Midgardians often have feathers at the end of their tails and feathered ears.

- Examples: Ottar, Vidfinn, (Lyfrassir Edda (Winged)

Helheim: There are no known natives of the planet. Prison Colony.

- Examples: CLASSIFIED

Asgardian: Plantigrade legs, pointed ears, often with blond or silver hair, occasionally other colours, hair is often braided, and braid patterns are passed down through families. a tradition shared with Midgardians. often blue, grey or dark skinned. They also appear to have extended lifespans, living upwards of 200 years.

- Examples: Odin, Thor, (Heimdall: Hybrid; Asgardian/Jotun), Sigyn

Muspelheim: Able to withstand extreme heat, often lizard-like, digitigrade scaled legs, draconic tail, horns, slitted pupils

- Examples: !!ERROR!! RELOADING

Niflheim: Able to withstand extreme cold, short, covered in fuzzy fur, digitigrade pawed legs, short furred, long furry ears,

- Examples: !!ERROR!! RELOADING

Alfheim: Similar to Vanir, plantigrade legs. golden hair, pointed ears, often have blue or silver eyes, many have symbolic tattoos. rich golden skin, clawed nails.

- Examples: !!ERROR!! RELOADING

Svartalfheim: Similar to Vanir, digitigrade legs, black hair, long pointed ears, often have blue or purple eyes, many have symbolic tattoos. dark skin, often purple-ish, dark clawed nails. pointed tail.

- Examples: !!ERROR!! RELOADING

The train has yet to arrive. It would be a shame if the cultures were to dissapear.

And yet…

————

Other bits of lore here:

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

————

Celest - A star borne researcher and investigator.

Born from the collision of two stars, Celest has dedicated his life to learning all they can about different life forms across the universe, one solar system at a time.

They have a lot of time on their hands, as stars can live for millions of years, and Celest is only a mere 200 years old.

ART

1

2

3

___________

THE FINAL VEIL

-

A Magnus Archives AU

See Below Cut

___________

lore for the final veil, a work in progress magnus archives au surrounding the entities and what happened to their remains after the change was reversed.

THE CHARACTERS

___________

alan frost - an avatar of the dark

lee davies - an avatar of the hunt

-

lore also includes prerequisite stories about their life before and during the change, and how they managed to survive the apocalypse.

-

THE ENTITIES

___________

the extinction - deceased

the lonely - unknown status, likely deceased

the dark - alive

the flesh - unknown status

the eye - unknown status, possibly deceased

the slaughter - unknown status

the stranger - unknown status

the spiral - unknown status, likely deceased

the hunt - alive

the vast - unknown status

the buried - unknown status

the corruption - unknown status

the web - alive

the end - status unknown, possibly alive

the desolation - status unknown

-

THE LORE

___________

1

___________

the final veil is still a work in progress and may take a while for more lore to be released as the story is still being smoothed out along with characters individual backstories and character arcs.

i am one person, and while i doubt anyone will be invested or care about this au, for whoever may be, please be patient.

also, i will say, the lore of the final veil isn't really based off much, just an idea i had that may nit be possible in actual magnus archives lore. it's kind of hard to tell, i don't know what's happening half the time.

if i get anything wrong, please tell me, i'll see what i can do, but if something integral to the story is impossible in the magnus archives lore that is okay as it's an au. i don't particularly care what is and isn't possible i'm having fun okay.

this section of the post will update as lore continues to be added, with links to core posts being added in THE LORE section to make it easier for quickly accessing posts.

also much of this au will ignore the magnus protocol, simply because i haven't listened to it yet. i will, trust me. i just haven't gotten around to it.

may the entities spare you, for they are not quite dead, and they live on in their strongest.

their remnants, their holders, may be unpredictable, and they are in most every way just like regular people.

however some may be violent, and left unchecked and unaccounted for, may cause significant problems.

this is asterope signing off.

[sapphicseasapphire]

Miscellaneous Cryptid au lore bits that are too short/too specific to make it into individual posts!

If you want more information about any of these, feel free to ask! I’m always willing to ramble about my Little Guys haha!

(In no particular order)

• Sky’s wings are too big to fit through doors. He will 100% for sure run into people in a crowded street. Because of this, he stays behind when the others go to villages. This gets incredibly lonely for our friendly little bird boy so eventually it’s decided that someone has to stay with him. This leads to one on one bonding between Sky and everyone in the Chain! (Except Time)

• Four can control water, earth, fire, and air, but not particularly well. Jack of all trades is a master of none. That being said, each individual color is a master of their element, so when separated, they are a FORCE to be reconned with. Their diminished power as a whole is a huge source of frustration for them, but I can’t let them be too powerful.

• After the their adventure is over, Time lives out the rest of what would have been his mortal life with Malon, then he takes care of his children, and his children’s children. But eventually he’s just… lived too long. His humanity falls away and he becomes more and more of a God and stops interacting with mortals almost entirely. Except when the other Links are born in their own eras, Time looks after them Father Time style and if they fall, he rewinds to before they were injured (their last “save point”) and pushes them to a better path. (Game over. Continue?)

• Even if someone is born with the blood of a God, their powers need to be awakened. This usually happens in a moment of desperation. For example, during Time’s adventures, he meddled with the flow of time so much that it became his dominion. Twilight’s powers awakened when he was like two years old. His parents had been killed by monsters- monsters that were now looking for him. And in his desperation, he looked to a squirrel in the tree above and he copied it. The monsters lost track of him, ignoring the animals of the forest. Time was gifted, well… time… because against a falling moon, it was his last hope. Twilight was gifted shape shifting because he had no other chance of survival.

^ Hylia doesn’t count because she was one of the original Goddesses. Many of the Zeldas, while they do possess the blood of the Goddess, have not had their awakening. Yet.

• Warriors will sometimes blurt out random sets of data without being prompted. He’ll ask to run calculations on things that no one has ever asked him to. And while the others might find this confusing, it’s his way of expressing his interests. Of learning more about the things that he likes, of telling people about the things that he likes. This happens rarely, but when it does, Sky drops EVERYTHING to talk with him, so excited to see him opening up.

• The Legend of the Godkiller is a very idealized and not very accurate retelling of Sky’s final battle against Demise. It paints him as a very confident, willing knight of the Goddess. Full of righteous anger and absolutely thrumming with power. In the story that Time knows, Sky wasn’t even scared. He knew he was capable of killing Demise, and he wasn’t even surprised when he was cursed. This is… far from the truth.

• Yeah, Time knows about Sky’s curse. But what’s he gonna do? Confront him about it? Tell the others? And risk drawing the wrath of the Godkiller? Absolutely not.

• Wild is more sentient than he lets on. He understands more than the others might think. He’s a little chaos gremlin who gets so easily distracted and acts more like a wild animal than a person, but he’s very smart. He couldn’t do long division but he can tell that… something’s not right with Sky and the Master Sword. The others haven’t caught on yet.

• Wild KNOWS THINGS. That he SHOULDN’T.

• Hyrule is so incredibly timid by nature. He’s used to being hunted: first as a fairy, sought for his healing magic, and then because of his blood curse, sought by monsters to bring about the revival of Ganon. Because of this, he’s incredibly shy. Until one of his companions gets hurt!! Then he’s ALL BUSINESS and he speaks with the authority that one might expect from a fairy so powerful.

• Speaking of that! At first, no one knew he was a fairy! He was afraid that they’d bottle him (they had other bottled fairies in their pouches when he’d first met the others, so it was justified). He kept up his glamour until he physically couldn’t anymore. The others knew he was a magic user- he tended to fight less with a sword and more with his spells and had an affinity for healing, but they didn’t know JUST how powerful he was until his glamour fell apart.

• Hyrule’s glamour can change the way that people see things, but it cannot change the physical shape of something. (Except himself, because his body is mostly magic anyway). For example, he could hide Four’s horns, but if you were to touch the top of Four’s head, you’d still feel them! He can make Wild look like a Hylian, but that doesn’t make their antennae go away. This is why Sky can’t go into towns: his wings may be invisible, but they’re still there, they can still feel pain and can still bump into people and walls. So… he can’t fit, unfortunately.

• The best swimmer (aside from Legend, Ravio, and Wind) is Sky. Which is weird, right? One might think that those massive wings would slow him down. But he has the Water Dragon’s Scale! Everyone’s so surprised when he starts racing people and WINNING. When he jumps out of the water in a spiral spin. Legend can call him a cheater all he wants, but he’ll be a hypocrite for it. He can’t say anything about using magic items to bolster abilities.

• Legend and Wind go from enemies to best friends in the course of like a month. They bond over a war and the ocean, and their connection is strengthened by the conflict that they’re both familiar with. Honestly a big reason that Legend warms up to Wind is that Ravio is fond of him. Also it’s actually impossible to hate Wind. Also he went to Outset that one time and was ablel to better understand Wind’s perspective.

• Wind dies a little bit inside every time Aryll or his grandma call themselves a Sea Monster. But he doesn’t have the heart to correct them.

• Ravio was never really afraid of Wind himself. More so… afraid of the monster that he had the potential to be (Ku). When Wind was never corrupted, Ravio had no reason to hate him! So they became friends during the War of Eras.

• Ravio joins the Chain very late. But we love him anyway.

• Twilight has little nicknames for everyone. If he calls them by their actual name/their title, they’re in trouble.

• Four only splits around Sky, Warriors, Hyrule and Twilight at first. Actually, the first person they split in front of was Sky but that was an accident. Once they determine that it’s safe, they start doing it around the others… slowly but surely…

• Post God Reveal, Legend and Four join Sky in the “distrust Time” corner

• Time wields Wars’ sword because Wars has deemed him the most powerful. Because of this, Warriors will go with Time when their adventure comes to an end. (This way, neither of them have to face eternity alone).

• I know I made a whole big long post about what happens to Mer if they don’t soak, but I neglected to say that all that will happen to Aquili too, just to a lesser extent. Wind needs to soak as well, just not as often as Legend and Ravio do.

• Mer cannot assume their natural form if they have anything on their legs/feet where their tail would go. Ravio’s… not wearing anything under his robes. And Legend… isn’t wearing anything under his skirt. Being barefoot definitely isn’t ideal but it’s better than the alternative: being unable to soak and drying out. Now, they could simply remove their shoes/pants, but they’re traveling and often in battle and they don’t always have the time to shed their clothes. If they need to jump into the water? They jump into the water.

• During Legend’s adventures, him being Mer was a secret. (The Zora were already antagonistic- imagine what they’d do if they knew he was a war mongering Mer!) This is why he needed flippers or a magic item to be able to swim- something on his feet or something magically imbued to keep him from transforming.

• For Sky, Link and Aepon are generally completely fused, but there are certain events that can force an imbalance between their influence over him. For example, if he’s hurt and takes a heart potion for healing, the body is healed, his Link half is healed, but is Aepon half is still weakened. The others might notice that he acts differently after taking a potion and he just seems very… unwell. Distressed, panicked. But also, he has both Aepon dreams and Link dreams. And depending on their frequency and severity, they can affect how he acts when he wakes, at least until both halves are sufficiently awake.

• When Sky’s Aepon half is more dominant, he is actually legitimately a bird. He doesn’t speak, he just chirps and squawks and trills like a bird. He looses all sense of personal space. And he’ll LOOSE IT if his feathers are touched.

• Sky can’t see well at night but he has a much greater endurance for looking at bright things.

• Hyrule hangs out around Sky as much as he can because Sky can’t take heart potions and also his bones are literally hollow and can break a lot easier than the others’

• Hyrule is a GIFT to this world and I don’t draw him enough.

I have a LOT MORE to say about these guys but this is just off the top of my head right now. Also I don’t want to spoil story elements! But let me know if you have any questions or want more context! I have short stories written about like half of these.



[ask-the-pioneer]

How did you start the story? Obviously you had a start from the lore but the rest of it is all you. I'm just trying to start stories for my own characters and wondering if you have any advice.

Hey anon! I will answer this in OOC manner.

I'm fairly new to Rain World fandom, I drew my first fan art in March this year. Before that, I've been watching a lot of walkthroughs, lore discussion videos, and browsed rain world tag on tumblr daily (I still do).

I like all slugcats, but the one that specifically caught my attention was Artificer. There's countless interpretations of this character, but the one aspect of them that I latched onto is that they're a mentally unstable parent. By the time I bought the game, I'd already seen a few AU comics where Arti's pups survive, but they always left me wishing that the parent-child dynamic had been fleshed out more. And thus this ask-blog was created.

One piece of advice I can give is to decide what you want to say through your story. My AU will focus on a handful of themes that make up its core: generational trauma, mental illness of a parent affecting the child's wellbeing, blood feuds, shame and guilt ...but it'll also have some light-hearted humor, and intense fight scenes (my favourite). I've not seen many people explore these topics (at least in the RW fandom), and because I feel strongly about them I want to see more of them. It helps with motivation, too! A big undertaking like this should be both fun and educational, if that makes sense. I feel satisfied when I read a story and learn something new from it.

Hope this helps!

-- Kali

[bluegekk0]

babygirl (malnourished and traumatized)

some au lore for this under the cut

as you can see, he was really skinny before the "feral" chapter of the au. that is because, as i mentioned before, he pretty much only survived on soul. he had multiple reasons to do so, most of them rooted in trauma and the fear of rejection. he was born a weak runt, and having to fight for scraps all of his childhood turned him very food-greedy. once he learned soul magic, he began to sustain himself with soul, both to satisfy himself and to avoid killing too many lesser bugs, as his plans of building a kingdom were already in motion. however, his greedy behavior never went away, and after changing forms, he continued to avoid food out of fear of being rejected and seen as a beast (and thus a hypocrite), as he still struggled to control his gluttonous instincts

then came another storm: the xero incident. what seemed like an evenly matched fight between two powerful beings, quickly turned much darker than anticipated. hornet's presence changed its course, and after xero aimed one of his blades in her direction, the king blacked out. the next thing he remembers is xero's corpse, and the smell and taste of blood that stained his own robes. shaken by the event, pk became even more wary of eating, as he feared that his instincts could make him a threat to others

his soul-based diet seemed to satisfy him for a long time, and the side effects have only begun to appear many years into his reign. he was always slim, but over time, his body weakened, and he became sickly and fragile. he needed nutrition, and yet he kept telling himself and others that it's just a result of the stress related to the infection and everything that surrounded it. he didn't want to acknowledge the truth: what once seemed to be the perfect solution, was now slowly killing him

pk's breakdown over the return of the infection, and the subsequent hibernation, ironically served as a wake up call. once his slumber was interrupted, he couldn't use his powers anymore, so the choice was simple: eat or die. no more tricks, he couldn't buy himself any more time. and so, eventually, he embraced his instincts, and continued to do so even after moving to dirtmouth. his unusual ways were generally accepted by the community, and the prospect of finally being himself felt liberating. he gained weight, perhaps a bit more than necessary, but most importantly, his body regained its strength, although even at his current state he's still quite sickly