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alavestineneas · 1 year ago

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Losing dogs

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader

summary: His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return. warnings: not really canon-compliant, mentions of minor violence, blood and shitty relationships word count: 4k

Part 2 is here!

author's note: remember kids, manipulators and sick bastards are only hot in fiction - don't do them (and drugs) in real life!

The polished toes of his new shoes reflected everything in the grand hall—they caught glimmers of lamps adorned with gold, colourful drapes on the enormous windows, and the kaleidoscopic dresses of women around. The chatter filled the room, almost too loud to hear the music—not that he would enjoy it either. Some things require focus.

''Mister Fabius, Missis Fabius.''

Corialanus's face melts into a smile-like expression at the sight of the older couple.

They look like lice in the large building—rich lice, that is. The golden and platinum rings on Missis Fabius's fingers shine with every gemstone known to man, mirroring the bright lights. The jewels look ugly on the wrinkly hand, he notes. What a waste.

''Mister Snow, what a surprise! I was just telling Livia of your prodigious success in your new position. Incredible work, Mr. Snow; simply incredible! ''

The man's face radiated with excitement, getting closer in shade to his burgundy tie. The gold threats on it piqued more interest for Mister Snow than the words of the old man—after all, it's not every day you meet such luxury in person.

The man's wife, however, seemed less enthusiastic; her cold, bored gaze circled him up and down, stopping only after getting the satisfaction of an undoubtedly unpleasant conclusion.

Coriolanus mentally went over his outfit, hairstyle, and anything else she might have noticed. Nothing was out of place; the holes in his coat were a thing of the past. Still, it was something—that thought found its place in his brain, drilling a small hole in its way.

''When will we know of your decision, Mister Snow? We gave you time—a lot of time.''

''This evening, Mrs. Fabius. After the play, I promise to give you my answer tonight.''

He has to look first. What fool buys a horse blind? Sure, the horse came with immense fortunes and, most importantly, connections, but still. He couldn't afford to make a hasty decision, especially when the stakes were so high. After all, he was one of the most desirable bachelors; Fabiuses had to thank him for even considering the offer.

''There is no agreement until tomorrow, Mister Snow. We will have you for breakfast at nine o'clock sharp,'' Mr Fabius said, placing a hand on his wife's back and leading her towards the entrance. They could afford not to make one's adieu.

The opera was popular among the richest; all of the seats were taken. He would have lied if he said the golden rails and red velvet didn't make him feel a bit out of place. Nobody paid him any attention, although this time it didn't hurt him as much as usual. He could hide in the shadows of his box seat without being concerned about making an impression.

Not the stage, of course. It was the least of his worries, although he did pay a high price for a ticket. No, he looked at her.

The golden gown on her was a shimmering masterpiece. Layers and layers of the most expensive fabric covered her body like soft waves, crashing down at the round neckline with their gilded ends. She wore diamond earrings, just like her mother did, although they suited her better.

Coriolanus remembered her from the academy; she always sat near the window, gazing out at the world with a longing in her eyes. She wasn't a very bright student but rather a dutiful one. always on time, always prepared with her assignments, and always eager to please her teachers. The heiress to the jewellery empire. The flower of the elite social scene. Her presence attracted attention, yet she seamlessly blended into the background, never stealing the spotlight. YN Fabius was everything he needed her to be—a picture, but never a spectacle.

The manor was grand and opulent, showing the wealth and status of the Fabius family. Its sprawling gardens and delicate architecture were a testament to its esteemed position in society. Collums, paintings, and endless staircases stood as if frozen in time. It was as if there was no war just a decade ago.

''Mister Snow,'' the butler called out, his voice echoing through the grand foyer. ''Breakfast is served in the blue dining hall; if you would please follow me.''

Thousands and thousands of steps and passages lined the walls, leading to various wings and chambers of the mansion. It was warm, even during the cold autumn season. Only keeping the fireplaces always lit must cost a fortune.

When they finally reached the needed room, Coriolanus was slightly out of breath. The blue walls reached the high ceiling, painted with pictures of half-naked gods and goddesses frolicking in fields of flowers. It created the illusion of a smell wafting through the air as if the vibrant colours had come to life.

The table was served for four, not three, suggesting that someone else was expected to join them. The silverware gleamed under the soft rays of sunshine, casting a shimmering glow across the room—pure silver, nothing less.

The door behind him opened with a gentle creak, revealing Mr. Fabiuse's humble figure. His simple, at first glance, shirt was another of the perfectly constructed illusions—Coriolanus knew the fabrics like the back of his hand. The shirt, though seemingly plain, was made from the finest Egyptian cotton, woven with intricate patterns.

''Mister Snow, how good that you came on time. Excuse my ladies, the girls are such girls at every age. Take so long to get ready,'' he laughs. ''Please, take a seat," Mr. Fabius said, gesturing towards a plush chair covered in velvet.

''There is no point in all of those paints once you hit sixty,'' Mrs.Fabius said, appearing right behind her husband. She circled the table before taking a seat herself, her eyes glancing disapprovingly at the young man. "Let's begin before the food grows cold," she added with a sigh, her tone tinged with resignation.

''Of course,'' Mr. Fabius nodded, lifting the lid on the first dish. The aroma of it filled the room, and Coriolanus couldn't help but feel his hunger grow. He didn't have the habit of eating so much in the morning—another thing he needs to adjust about his routine.

When Mr.Fabius finally placed the fork down, Coriolanus knew it was time. ''Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Fabius. I must say, I thought a lot about your proposal, and after careful consideration, I have decided to accept it.''

''Good.'' Mrs. Fabius answered instead, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that, Coriolanus. I believe this union will bring great delights to both of us."

Mr. Fabius seemed not to notice the interruption. ''I think a winter wedding would be absolutely perfect. Everybody seems to be getting married in the spring, but in the winter? Oh, it's definitely going to be a hit. Ah, and here's the lucky bride-to-be!''

She stood beside the just-opened door, her eyes following his expressions. Her hands, adorned just with one small pearl ring, were gently clasped together in front of her. She looked nervous, like a child standing in front of the full class on the first school day. Her dress, a delicate lace creation, clings to her figure like a second skin.

He smiled at her. YN looked like an antique statue, as if she just stepped out of the ruins of the Panem. Coriolanus wasn't even sure she was breathing—her stillness was so deep.

''Let's leave the lover birds to chirp,'' Mrs.Fabius said, standing up. She walked towards the couple, her heels clicking against the floor, and extended her hand towards YN. "Congratulations, my dear," she said with a warm smile before leaving, her husband following after her.

''It's time for a ring, isn't it?'' Coriolanus cleared his throat. Everything is to be done appropriately; there is no reason to avoid traditions. He reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a small box. White, of course—who is he, if not a romantic at heart?

''Mr. Snow,'' YN watched him stand up and come closer with the same expression she always bore—a mixture of melancholy and worship. ''Grant me something.''

He paused. Coriolanus didn't like to make promises. He would have to make it clear to her later, after the wedding—the fact that he took her for a bride was enough of a promise. Still, he needed this engagement to work, and he was not about to lose it to a crude lie. With a sigh, he softly replied, "What is it that you desire, Miss YN?"

''Promise me you will be kind to me. All of our marriage, promise to be kind to my heart.''

Coriolanus almost laughed in her face. Oh, what a lovely, clueless fool. "I will do my best to treat you with kindness, Miss YN."

''Good,'' she smiles. ''I think we will make a great couple then, Mister Snow.''

''Coriolanus, my dear. Please call me Coriolanus."

He couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It was sealed. His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return.

Mr.Fabius didn't lie—his daughter was the perfect bride. She never spoke to him unless he did first; she never questioned him. She simply followed his lead, like a well-trained pet. A pretty, lovely YN. She knew what to do, how to dress, and what to say. He searched for one—at least a slight imperfection—and couldn't find one; it was as if she wasn't a human, which, to him, she wasn't.

''What are you going to do today?'' he asks, without bothering to look up from the newspaper. He doesn't wish to hear her answer, but he still asks out of courtesy. Coriolanus knows that her daily routine is made up of attending charity events, dinners with influential figures's wives, and shopping for designer clothes. It's a predictable pattern.

''Well, the trees I ordered came in today; I'll have to chat with the new gardener about them. Are you meeting with anyone important later?"

''As a matter of fact, I do. Larry Tremblay wants to include me in a business deal he's been working on."

It's partly true, but she doesn't need to know more. Just a familiar name was usually enough for his wife to hum in satisfaction and assume that he was still climbing the social ladder. Not this time, evidently.

''You shouldn't accept.''

He looked up from his cup, trying to guess if she had gone out of her mind. YN looked like usual, her eyes meeting his without a care in the world. Why today, of all days, she decided to question his decision was beyond him. He cleared his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. "And why should I decline such a good-looking opportunity?"

''He beats his wife. Just yesterday, I saw her with bruises. ''

Coriolanus fought hard to keep a smile from forming on his lips. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference. He knew his wife wasn't the brightest, but this? "Is that so?"

''Don't you understand what it means? The man only beats his wife for two reasons. If he has always enjoyed those types of things, which Larry did not, or if he loses power and control in other aspects of his life. The business isn't going as well as he wants it to,'' YN lowers her gaze, losing confidence in her voice. ''I thought you would want to know that.''

He would, very much. Her conclusion was the dumbest thing he ever heard, based on some black and blue marks and a twist of her imagination. Still, it was interesting—his wife's head wasn't always empty like he hoped. She thought enough to notice something, and she listened enough to remember his partners.

''I will keep that in mind,'' he replied, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance. What harm could it do to entertain her thoughts? It was even slightly amusing to see her try to piece together a puzzle that didn't exist.

It wasn't so fun anymore when Larry Tremblay was fired exactly two weeks later. Surely, it could be a consequence, but Coriolanus Snow didn't believe in them. There had to be something, anything, to explain his wife's sudden knowledge—she couldn't have acquired it on her own, about that he was sure.

YN looked unfazed by his questioning gaze as she lay on the dark olive-coloured sofa in his office, continuing to play with a snow-white kitten on her stomach. It was his wedding gift, one of many—the pricy creature with a diamond collar. He thought it was rather symbolic—two caged animals who were once considered sacred.

''How did you understand that Tremblay was about to be fired?'' Coriolanus asked, his voice laced with suspicion. It could be that she overheard the woman talk about it, or even that she had some inside information from her connections. What bothered him more was what she could know from the same source about him.

YN paused, her fingers gently stroking the kitten's fur as she met his gaze. "I didn't know that. I simply knew he had trouble at work. Evidently, they were big enough for him to lose his position."

''Really?'' he chuckled. Maybe she was telling the truth. ''Then, what can you say about my work?''

YN's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your work doesn't matter; how you present yourself does. Can I give you some advice?'

"Sure.'' Coriolanus bit his tongue, fighting the urge to snap back at her. After all, it is what he married her for—to fit in. He took a deep breath.

''Buy a new car, but not the most expensive one; it will give off an impression of stability, like you know the job isn't going anywhere. Your shoes are always too polished; it's like you wore them right out of the box. And throw away that hideous tie you always wear—you look like a student."

''Something else?'' Coriolanus mustered a weak smile, trying to hide his frustration.

''I don't want to offend you, Coriolanus. But I want you to do well. After all, you are my husband now, and your success reflects on both of us. Why not help where I can? You know I love clothes.''

''Good, '' he replied, forcing a more genuine smile. "Now get away from that cat before it scratches you. I'll figure out the rest on my own."

''Of course you will. You are the smartest man I've ever met.''

He was. It was because of his intelligence that YN married him, because of his ambition. Well, that and something else.

From her earliest childhood, YN knew what she was destined to be. She was the child of late parents, the only child, and a girl; she would inherit everything the generations of her family worked so hard to achieve. And YN was no fool; she needed a man. Driven, proud, and cold-blooded. The one who was not afraid to get his hands dirty while she spent her time leisurely in his shadow. Oh, no—YN never minded her place, much like her mother did. She taught her to bet on the finest horses, and Coriolanus Snow was no exception.

From the time she saw him in his ridiculously tight shirt in the academy, she knew what she wanted. Him. The top of every class, the charmer with pretty eyes—a catch, really. Her mother said there was darkness inside her dear Coriolanus, but YN knew. That's why she now sits in the opulent living room, waiting for him to get home. Mr. Snow was a horrific, ruthless man. But he was still, at his core, a man.

And men never listen. That's how she got him and got him good—a silent, fawn-eyed creature that he thought he could control. An obedient wife and a lovely lap dog. It was funny to see his gaze twitch slightly when she said something she wasn't supposed to—how long would it take him to figure it out?

It's time—his tall figure appeared in the corridor leading to the living room. YN watches silently as he takes off his shoes and coat, placing them on the rack by the door. Home at seven p.m. sharp, just like any other day. Just like any other day, dinner is at the table.

He never said thank you. Instead, her closet grew bigger with countless dresses, bags, and shoes—sometimes even brand-new jewellery. YN didn't mind it; she loved it—the jealous whispers of other women at the events about how lucky she was. She didn't have to sleep with a big, fat old man to get the latest fur coat or the most exquisite diamond necklace.

At least a few times a month now, Coriolanus would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. This night was one of those: YN woke up from the constant turning and tossing in the bed. She doesn't know how he didn't figure out why; it was easy to guess his food contained something to make his sleep far worse—YN made sure of that. Maybe he just didn't have the heart to admit his weaknesses, even to himself.

''Hey,'' she whispered, getting out of the warm covers. YN tiptoed over to Coriolanus' side of the bed, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. ''Hey, wake up. Are you okay?" she asked, gently shaking him awake.

Coriolanus jolted upright, his eyes wide with fear as he gasped for breath. He wasn't; of course, he wasn't. Yn would have lied if she said she didn't find it hot to see him like this—sweat glistening on his forehead, his chest heaving.

''You were having a nightmare again.''

He looked at her with the eyes of a lunatic, still not over his dream. ''What did I say this time?"

''You were mumbling something about birds and songs, I think? It didn't make much sense."

He doesn't recall that she mentored the 10th game too. Without much success, of course, but one thing she did remember was a girl from District 12 who liked to sing. Coriolanus remembered her too; it was evident from the fear that crossed his eyes.

''Excuse me,'' he said, his voice still shaky. ''I need a moment.''

YN watched as he stumbled towards the bathroom, his hands twitching. As much as her husband wanted to hide those parts of himself, he couldn't. Not from her.

There was nothing else to do but wait. YN climbed on the bed, turning her back to the bathroom door. Coriolanus would only come out when he thought she had fallen asleep. She learned to control her breath when she was just a little girl; it saved her life once, when a rebel pointed a gun at her small frame, meaning to shoot. He didn't—what use was it to waste a bullet on a non-breathing child?

Surely, after some time, the blonde man stepped out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, he listened to her steady breathing before sliding under the covers and pressing his body against hers, his large hand covering her shoulders. Coriolanus wasn't gentle; YN wasn't sure he knew what the word meant anyway, but he was careful. His arm around her chest wasn't tight—just enough for him to bring her closer.

As much as YN wanted to turn around and face him, she didn't. There was no point—like any other human, he hated the feeling of vulnerability. Instead, YN focused on the warmth of his body. Coriolanus Snow was a god more than a human, and real gods were never kind. The only currency they recognized was blood.

The annual party for the victor of this year's games. The first year Coriolanus Snow worked as a head gamemaker, his creation was a bloodbath, a spectacle of violence and despair. He did a good job—an excellent one, even—and one of the greatest stars of today's celebration was him.

They needed to dress the part in clothes that exuded power. And so they did. Coriolanus's suit was ample—purple velvet with gold embroidery—the colour of Roman emperors. The colour of the winners. The suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, suiting his white hair. Gold cufflinks, gold rings—he looked like a sovereign among men. It was risky to do so right in front of the current president, but who was Coriolanus Snow if he was not confident in his success?

YN wore the gown from the matching collection, a floor-length masterpiece. The deep purple colour was a stark contrast to her skin tone. And jewellery, of course—she came from the Fabius family for a reason. The lavender diamonds on her necklace and earrings. They were rare—the rarest—even. Only a few violet diamonds have been mined in the past seventy years.

It was all anyone talked about behind their backs. Whispers, rumours, and so much venom dripped from the mouths of Panem's elite—that's what they were hoping for, anyway. The Snows were just as shamelessly rich as they were powerful.

That's why they now sat at the President's table, just a few faces away from them. Coriolanus smiled to himself - not even the President's wife could compare to YN. Not in fashion, not in elegance. He had an impeccable taste - even a person far away from politics could see that.

''A toast!'' the President stood up with a glass in his hand, turning to face the Coriolanus. ''I am sure many of you know who was the mastermind behind the games this year - it's my pleasure to introduce Coriolanus Snow to those of you who don't. However, not many know his story of success. From a dirt-poor background, when his greatest possession was his family name, he worked hard to achieve the position he holds today. Let us raise our glasses and celebrate his remarkable journey to success and the country of Panem - the land of opportunity!''

YN cursed under her breath as she listened to the crowd cheer for her husband. He remained stoic - the only thing that gave away his fury was his eyes - they grew as dark as the sky outside. She didn't bother to calm him - this fire was impossible to put out. The President made a fatal mistake with his speech - she knows. But the true fear crept into her heart when she saw the President's wife pass Coriolanus the dish.

Cabbage.

Under a fancy sauce, it could be transformed into a delicacy fit for their circle. But tonight, it was his last straw. The colours changed on the face of Coriolanus, from white to all shades of red. His fists clenched, and veins pulsed on his temples. The room fell silent as they observed.

''Oh, I am so sorry,'' YN chipped in. Quick, something. ''I have a terrible allergy to cabbage.''

The President's wife looked concerned. ''Oh, I didn't know.''

YN made her eyes water, throwing a coughing feat for more dramatic effect. ''I think I need to step outside for some fresh air."

She felt a warm hand on her back. ''Let me accompany you, just to make sure you're alright." her husband announced, carefully leading her towards the exit.

The first thing he did when they reached the women's bathroom was break the mirrors in a fit of anger. Shards of glass scattered across the floor as he paced around the room like a caged animal. YN watched as shouted and hit the walls, sitting on the bathroom floor. Beautiful one - the tile was a lovely shade of pink, contrasting with the chaos unfolding before her.

After a good few minutes, he finally calmed down and sank to the floor beside her, his face buried in his hands. Her husband, her hauntingly beautiful, pathetic husband - oh, what a sight. He looked mad, maniac, even; his blonde hair was far from its usual perfectly styled form, falling on his tear-stained cheeks.

"What do you think of me?"

His voice is hoarse, a few notes down from a honey-like. She likes it better, YN thinks - nothing of the fasçade he was trying so hard to uphold. No, just a raw hunger with a mix of equally raw despair.

"I think you are an animal, Coriolanus."

She smiles, watching his expression change. He suspected it, of course - her husband was a smart man. Still, he can't believe it - his head twitches in her direction, his gorgeous bottomless eyes shining under the weak light of the only surviving floor lamp.

"What?" he asks with such a loss in his voice YN has to fight the urge to bring him close. Not now, she thinks. It's not the time.

"A hungry, desperate, sick, sick animal with nothing to lose."

Coriolanus gets closer abruptly, clearly angered - she can't let him leave now. His arm shouts to find its place on her neck, long, slim fingers forming a circle around her throat. "You think I am after money, don't you?"

"No, no," a yelp escapes her lips, bordering a hysterical laugh. "Only fools are after money, Coriolanus, and you are no fool."

YN watches as he loses his grip a little, calmed by her words. What a pitiful, fascinating creature was her husband - one word of reassurance and he is willing to let thousands of cursings slide.

"What is it, then? What did you fantasize about in your small dull head?"

He still doesn't believe her. YN is surprised at how quickly it becomes boring.

"You want power."

Clap - the grip on her neck is tight again.

"That's why you choose the fear. People forget the hand that feeds them, but the one who beats? Never."

The frown on his face falls a little, and through the gritted teeth escapes something like a curse. "You talk an awful lot about me," he notes. "What are you hungry for?"

"You."

He laughs. That was a deep, chest laugh - YN thinks she never heard him laugh so sincerely. "You want my love? Don't lie to me, YN," he taunts, pressing a little harder on her neck.

"Not love. Love is easily swayed, is it not? No, I want you."

Coriolanus looks at her as if he never done so before. Well, he looked thousands of times, but he didn't see. His eyes study every expression in hers, every part of her face. "A hungry dog is not a loyal dog," he finally masters.

There is a certain silence after his words. YN gulps, desperatly trying to help her dried throat - the blood from his hands ran down her neck onto her exposed chest, leaving sticky, dark trails behind.

"Feed me, then."

He kisses her. He puts a force behind it, watching her hands fall on his chest for some kind of support. Coriolanus kisses her until there is no air in YN's chest anymore, and she has to push him away to take a rushed breath.

They were going to be just fine.

After all, they both never bet on losing dogs.

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audliminal · 1 month ago

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It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 5

Masterpost

"It's a pun." Tim murmurs, staring at the notes he's supposed to be sharing with Bernard. "I can't believe I didn't notice that sooner."

"Wait what?"

"The off-key notes are the key to the Caeser ciphers."

"Oh my god." Bernard stares at Tim's notebook. Just like Tim said, each off note is exactly the same amount of steps away from correct as the corresponding number of steps to move down the Caesar cipher. "Okay that's, like, kind of insane? Do we need to be looking for puns now?"

"Potentially? Double meanings are the basis of riddles, which are basically just word-based logic puzzles, so you know... Depending on someone's motivations they might find them equally valuable."

"Huh." Bernard tilts his head considering the new information. "Wait, does that mean that like, the Riddler uses puns? Is that a thing?"

"All the time, actually."

"Dude, why do you just know that?" Tim freezes, remembering too late that most people don't have access to dossiers on every rogue. "No, nevermind I know you're like, weirdly knowledgeable about the bats and the rogues; I shouldn't be surprised."

"Well, maybe everyone should pay a little more attention to their MOs," Tim says pointedly. "They are generally considered to be the most serious safety threat in Gotham, after all.

"I mean, I know generally what their deals are, I just don't go all Genius-Mode about it." Bernard laughs, then gets a thoughtful look on his face. Oh no, Tim thinks. "Hey, maybe the bats should, like, commission your help to deal with the Riddler. I'd bet you'd work through his weird puzzles in like, ten minutes!"

"I feel like they're doing fine as is."

"Yeah, I guess, but like. What if they could do it even faster, right?"

"Maybe." Tim fiddles with his pen. "Do you want to know what else I found?"

"Wait, you found more?"

"Not much; it came to a dead-end pretty quickly, but the implications are- concerning."

"Oh?"

"I noticed that the length of time for each photo seemed randomized, which I thought might also be a choice based on the music, since they always shift in time with a note, but there wasn't any logical pattern I could find there."

"I mean, that doesn't seem like a dead-end, that just sounds like we're missing something."

"Exactly. So I made a list of the durations between each incorrect note, and I ran that through a code checker, and it turned out to be encoded in base 26." Tim points to the corresponding list of numbers, and then below it, to where he's written out the translation.

"Dude." Bernard stares at the notebook, looking back at Tim with wide eyes.

"Someone is begging for our help."

"This is so cool!" Bernard exclaims grabbing at Tim's shoulders and shaking him lightly. "How have I not dragged you into solving ARGs before this you're so good at it! Just wait till I tell everyone on the forum!"

Tim blinks, Bernard's sudden excitement in direct opposition to the words had written down. When he'd cracked it, all he had felt was a spike of adrenaline, the anticipation of knowing there's somebody that needs help. But there isn't, is there? This whole thing is just a game. And the people that wrote this, that made these videos, that encoded these messages - the real people, are just having fun.

Tim takes a deep breath and does his best to match Bernard's excitement. But the words on the page keep staring back at him.

Help us please help us

#dp x dc #the one where the amity parkers make an arg #yeah uh. tim did not think theough the consequences of engaging with a supposed unfiction project #specifically not when you regularly deal with the same kind of situation but its real

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the-littlest-goblin · 2 months ago

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Something that's stuck with me from the Arch Heart's appearance, which highlights a major underpinning of my frustration with C3, is the "Big Doors don't work" comment.

In what way exactly is the Big Door not working?

The purpose of the Divine Gate was to mitigate the gods exerting undo influence on mortal affairs, and according to everything we've seen in all 3 campaigns up to this point, this was a demonstrable success: the Calamity ended, and despite multiple potentially world-ending catastrophes cropping up since then, it has been up to mortals to deal with these threats. They've often done so with divine aid, but I fail to see how that's overreaching on the gods' part when accepting said aid is still dependent on mortal choice.*

Part of the Arch Heart's reasoning for wanting to "let go" is, as I understand it, because mortals continue to rebel against and resent the gods even from behind the Divine Gate. Which, yes they do, but like... the customer is not always right. Not every complaint needs to be catered to, especially the ones based on faulty postulates.

I get that this is not how the Arch Heart is thinking about it; my issue is not with the roleplay of individual characters, but with the narrative whole and the sheer amount of time it has spent, both in the text and extra-textual framing, sincerely entertaining the base axioms of an argument that is so poorly constructed Ludinus wouldn't make it past round one of a middle school debate club. None of the anti-god arguments have given any tangible evidence for the claim that the gods are an oppressive force or that Exandria would be better off without them that is not either:

A. Aeor, which was pre-Divine Gate and in fact the catalyst for the gods to pull back on interfering with mortal affairs, and therefore not all that pertinent to the current status quo;

or B. an event or action that, while it may be done in the name of the gods (e.g. Hearthdell) or directly encouraged by a god (e.g. Opal and the Crown) is nonetheless still contingent on mortals making choices, and therefore not a convincing argument that the gods are infringing on free will,** nor that removing them would prevent these types of situations.

An ongoing motif of C3 has been showing perspectives which challenge the prevailing narrative about the gods as established within Exandria's lore to this point. As a story enjoyer, I normally would eat up this sort of reversal—I love a metatextual play with in-universe narratives. But to do so convincingly requires more substance than a handful of characters going 'Trust me bro.' I'm going to need to see some peer-reviewed studies on Exandrian metaphysics before I take Ludinus "17 ulterior motives stacked in a wizard robe" Da'leth's word over what I've seen with my own brain over thousands of hours worth of game play.

If the message of the narrative is telling me to question the diegetic information it presents, then I am going to do just that. So far every argument that the gods do more harm than good for Exandria has been rampant citationless behavior. I find it baffling and borderline infuriating that we're approaching the denouement of this campaign and I still have yet to see evidence that the core conflict of the story, the central debate which has plagued every in-game and fandom discussion for a year now, is based on an actual problem. Like, at all.

*If you think Vax did not exercise his own agency and free will in every step of becoming Champion of the Matron, you are simply wrong.

**For real, we know there are magical means of straight-up mind control in Exandria. Like, you don't have to approve of it, but the gods engaging in standard issue verbal manipulation does not constitute a violation of free will, and it certainly doesn't make the argument that they are so immeasurably more powerful than mortals that they should not be allowed to exist.

#anyway earlier today I reblogged a shitpost that says better in 2 images what I took 3 days and ~8 paragraphs to articulate #so you should reblog that instead of this #critrole #c3 #cr spoilers

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ghosts-u · 8 months ago

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When Charlie was first born things had been… tense between Lucifer and heaven. While they had never directly threatened the life of his child the angels had made their displeasure at the implications of Lucifer having children known. They had never said out right for Lucifer not to have more children. But the indirect threats and the particularly Brutal extermination the year that Charlie was born was enough for him to get the message.

Still he would never let them hurt his child he loved Charlie with all his heart and no matter what he would protect his daughter.

The angels did not want Lucifer having more children, and he was content with only having one child. He knew he was not the best father for Charlie a part of him did want to have a chance to try again but he never actually thought he would get the chance.

—

Lucifer’s heart swelled as he stared at the little bundle in his arms. Lilith stood looking at the child pensively she reached over gently touching the baby's cheek and sighs. “How do you think the angels will react once they find out about her?” Lilith questioned. And Lucifer was conflicted the last thing he would ever want is for anything to happen to this child but… He stared down at the baby snuggled soundly in his arms and he could never imagine anyone hurting her.

But he knew the angels would, especially if it was to punish him. Dark thoughts started to haunt him of what would happen once they found out. They never said directly he couldn’t have more children so maybe this time they would give him a direct warning? Or most likely they would just kill his baby…or possibly even Charlie to send a message.

There was an even higher possibility of them just killing both. And though Lucifer hated him self for it for a brief moment he contemplated Just ridding him self of the problem entirely to protect Charlie from the potential risk.

Cute little eyes look up at him as the little girl opens her eyes for the first time, and in that moment Lucifer knew he could never forsake this child, his baby. “They won’t.” He says rocking the baby in his arms his eyes filled with resolve. “They won’t ever know about her.” Lilith looks at him her eyes furrowed yet words seem to leave her as just by looking at him she can tell he’s made his choice. “And your sure that’s the best option? Won’t it caused even more trouble if they find out we hid this from them?”

“We are under no obligation to report to them when we have children. If we hadn’t announced Charlie’s birth they wouldn’t have known about her existence either. She is not the heir to the throne so there is no need to officially announce her birth.” Lucifer states walking over to the window and closing the blinds. “And what about Charlie are we going to tell her?” Lilith asks. “No, she’s more than 100 years old now while I'm sure she would be happy to have a sibling it’s not like they would be growing up together. Besides you know how she is I’m sure she would protest about her sister not being officially recognized.”

Lilith approaches Lucifer and tries to take the small girl but Lucifer pulls away. “You had gotten to raise Charlotte. I-I just…I want to be a real father to her. I want to protect her I don’t want her to have to suffer in this place, I want her to have better than this…” He says with a sad smile. Lilith eyes narrow and she looks away and with a heavy sigh she turns away from the two. “Fine. That’s fair I had Charlotte you have this one…”

“Y/N”

Lilith looks back momentarily. “What?” “Y/N it’s there name.” Lucifer says looking down at Y/N as if she was the only thing in the world. Lilith holds back from grabbing the baby in his arms she knew he would never hurt the small girl. Yet she could feel her heart dropping to her stomach as she watched the two. “I…it’s a Beautiful name.” She says before walking out of the room feeling as if she was running away.

Liliths and Lucifer’s relationship had been on the decline ever since Charlie was born and with the birth of Y/N it was pretty much over. Not that Lucifer didn’t love his wife he still loved her even if now every time she looked at him he could see a hint of discussed in her eyes. Even if they had moved to separate wings of the palace and she no longer made attempts at seeing Y/N as if it pained her to see her child confined. It was fine, he still loved her and as for Y/N he would just give her twice as much love to make up for Lilith.

“Daddy, Daddy! Look it’s a giant duck!” Y/N says with excitement looking at the Duck shaped boats. Lucifer smiled at the girl patting her head he had taken her to the private amusement park LuLu world he had made for Charlie. It was her 6th birthday today and though it was difficult for him to let her leave the palace he made an exception just for this one day. After all soon she would have all the space to run around as her heart desired. “Would you like to go on the ride?” He asked adoring the wide smile that lit up on Y/Ns face. He thought it was extra adorable how the wings on her back fluttered with excitement.

He noted he would need to trim them shorter next time as she was hovering a little to high off the ground for his tastes. It pained him to trim her wings so short, he would’ve at least wanted to wait until she was a little older but her wings just grew so fast… Ah! He Caught himself in his thoughts. Soon there would be no need to trim them anymore and he could just imagine teaching his little girl how to fly.

Lucifer let Y/N run around to her hearts content going on rides or looking around it wasn’t long before she had tired her self out. “Daddy?” Y/N said gently tugging on his coattail. “Can you carry me?” She whined and he obliged picking her up letting her rest her head on his sholder gently rubbing her back. Y/N looked up at the blood red sky towards the white shining sphere surrounded by clouds.

“Daddy what’s that up in the sky? Is it a Castle?”

Lucifer chuckled at the question. “No dear it’s heaven. It looks very beautiful doesn’t it? It’s where all the angels live and pure souls live. But no matter how beautiful it may look it’s rotten inside and it rots everything it touches until it’s a shell of its self and rotten too.” he says gently holding her cheek brushing his thumb over her cheek. “And if they can’t do that they try to destroy whatever they can’t rot.” He presses his forehead to Y/Ns holding her close to him. “They would want to do the same to you. But daddy would never let that happen to you.”

Y/N looks up at him with heavy eyes fighting to stay open. “Sleep. When you wake up you won’t have to worry about heaven ever again.” With a smile he looks at Y/N rubbing her cheek as sleep finely takes her. “I won’t allow my precious baby to suffer in this place with all these filthy sinners.” He snaps his fingers a portal opening up he steps through revealing an entire galaxy, stepping onto a floating planet completely barren. But It wasn’t for long as he wills a tree to form lush green leaves and beautiful flowers sprouting the roots forming in a thick dip allowing him to place Y/N in the middle.

“You don’t need heavens false paradise when you have me. Daddy will make a paradise so large and grand you won’t even know it’s a cage.” He conjures soft blankets and pillows making sure she was comfortable. He turned to the vast empty land and cracked his hands and smirks he had a lot of work to do

#platonic yandere #yandere hazbin hotel #Yandere hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel platonic #yandere lucifer morningstar #Yandere Lucifer Morningstar x reader #Lucifer Morningstar x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #yandere x reader #yandere platonic

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matramancer · 3 months ago

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pt. 2 | NARUMI GEN WITH A MITSURI! LIKE READER🌸

🌸Previously we focused a lot on Mitsuri! Reader’s background, now, I want to show her relationship to Gen in particular after becoming a platoon leader and drop some interactions with Kikoru!

part 1 | Masterlist

🌸Tags: narumi pining stage(?). oblivious Narumi, mutual pining, mutual admiration, friends to lovers but not yet question mark, loser narumi, OBAMITSU NARUMI AND READER!!!

Well into your time in the First Division, you’ve established a rather interesting sense of partnership with Narumi Gen.

At first, the two of you were still quite stiff, what with how it seemed like you and Narumi were just too different in terms of personality.

One was a lousy trash man–brash, childish and stuck to his handheld when he wasn’t on the field, and while the other was a happy go lucky, passionate girl who grew to be well loved for her demeanor, you were quite shy when it came to approaching him. After all, he IS your captain and the man on top of the Defense Force. You had a great deal of respect for him even before you joined arms. In fact, striving to be worthy to stand with him–to be stronger, was the collective ambition of every officer there.

After finally earning his acknowledgement, you ended up spending more and more time with him. Since you caught his eye with your strength. then you’ll have to keep honing it if you were to prove your existence. So you trained and trained, kept your limbs stretched, made sure your flexibility and agility always stayed fresh in your blood. Turn it into second nature.

And whenever the captain threw his hand in and actually showed up for a couple of rounds to spar you, you gave it your all. It became clear that he in particular took part in stoking your flames with his principle. To show results.

With that in mind, you’ve been building blocks since the very beginning, he notes one day, rummaging through your files and every assessment result.

Your shooting range assessments during your time as a rookie. Physical check ups. Combat training. Laps. They were above average–it’s what landed you in the First Division in the first place.

But what made you shine was your insane physical prowess, and how superhuman you were with transferring your power to the weapon you held.

Your terrain practice and obstacle shooting course held the highest rookie records. Your field reports never lied, there was even drone footage. Then there was the daikaiju incident, where you wielded an entire machine gun and amassed such a formidable blast upon first use, the numbers were too overwhelming for a rookie.

He remembers another report he got after your health assessment. They had studied the composition of your muscles, your combat levels, and more. Gotten real up and personal with you, so much so that you noted the experience while looking away.

He’ll never forget Isao’s words after Hasegawa recounted their discoveries in his office. Your extreme constitution, your rapidly increasing combat power, your leap in abilities as soon as you donned on your suit. Your power.

“Another prodigy right after Ashiro Mina.” Narumi paused as Isao turned to face the both them. “The next piece of the puzzle for the Defense Force.”

If Mina was the missing link to fight daikaiju–humanity’s biggest threat at the time, then you were second just to her to complete the frontlines. Another sleeping tiger.

Isao himself gave him and Hasegawa an order. One that drove home the responsibility he had as your captain now. “Hone her strength. A girl with her potential belongs in our main defenses.”

He made you sound all cool and all, but as soon as Narumi made his way to the training hall, he was flabbergasted as you held a comically long photostrip filled with the pictures of the cats you had back at home, gushing over them with several of your platoon members.

“I love Nekotarou, General Whiskers the 2nd, and Meowy Antoinette soooo much!” Were those the names of your cats? He wonders. “I’m going to spend my life savings on building a shrine in their image near Yokohama Station.“ Impossible.

Hearing that gave Narumi whiplash. Right, the daikaiju prodigy that even Mr. Isao acknowledged…

So there you were one day, nervously looking down at a serious private meeting with your Captain and Vice Captain. “You know, Mr. Isao went over some of your assessments some time ago.” Your heart immediately dropped, your shocked expression instantly showing on your face.

“DIRECTOR GENERAL SHINOMIYA?!?!?!?!” Narumi watched as you, noting how you were akin to watching a hamster get scared by loud noise.

You quickly regain your composure (though you still looked comedically nervous in Narumi’s peering eyes) as he read out your achievements. You’ve already proved yourself well, with a high performance level that was brimming with potential.

But most notably, it was your high physical prowess and how superhuman you were with transferring your power to the weapon you held. That was what made you a force to be reckoned with,

“So, with that in mind–” Hasegawa stood up, followed by Narumi. “As a newly appointed platoon leader with one of the strongest, most unique combat power readings we’ve had in the force, we will start work on your special weapon.”

“...” You stare at the two of them. Narumi stares back. Hasegawa paces his sight between the two of you. Then, the words processed in your head, and you let out the biggest beamful smile they’ve set their eyes on. “THANK–THANK YOU SO MUCH!” you stifled a few tears, following them like a duckling to meet with Izumo Tech.

And after a long testing period, you were bestowed with what the people at the weaponries department could only describe as a weapon as unique as its user. Your whip-sword.

With how unique your weapon was, it was imperative for you to train twice as hard–learning the ropes and making sure your new fighting style was worth all the effort. Your pride as an officer–a bearer of a special weapon relied on this. That was when Narumi rolled in, and when he wanted to test your strength himself, you eagerly accepted. Unexpectedly, it turned into a new tradition between the two of you.

Around this time was the turning point of how you slowly broke out of just simple subordination to him, and towards a strange yet delightful symbiotic relationship, one where you didn’t just acknowledge each other’s strengths, but learned more about the person behind them. He started talking to you more once you asked him excitedly about what games he plays, and he started to eat the meals you brought.

Truth to be told, your journey only became more arduous then. You were strong, sure, but you still couldn’t hold a candle to Narumi. And it only spurred you on further.

A particularly remarkable moment between the two of you was the first time you really voiced your compliments to him outloud (to Hasegawa’s dismay…)

It was when he beat you in hand to hand combat one day, and perhaps something felt different with how you were pushing your blood circulation and heart beat to the limit, but it was super clear that he really went all out that day. And he was admirable. “You’re amazing, Captain!”

“Of course,” he was to reply to you instinctively, but the sheer look of admiration you had sprawled on your face despite getting floored took him by surprise. You were always holding back a little around him–though he knew from word of mouth that you really were a very excitable person–so to see this other side of you was still pretty new for him. He just soaks in your words as you continue.

“Your form is amazing, how long did it take you to perfect it?” “I need to up my precision too. Yours is so remarkable.” “Please let me spar with you more!”

Perhaps you let your mouth run a little too loose by then. “I hope to one day earn my place next to you, Narumi–” You stop. Narumi stops. Then, your hands fly to your mouth as you let out a choked sound of what seemed to be your life regrets. “--I’m sorry!!!” Your forehead had already hit the floor multiple times before he registered your apology, seeing you fret over thinking that you overstepped a line.

But things are okay. You’re good friends now. He’s confident with that. He’s seen all 2760 of the pictures in your “my cats❤️❤️” album on your phone. He has all your favorite foods memorized. He knows the best ways to bait you.

He also had a huge ego boost when you showed up one day with the ends of your hair dyed a new color, following the long tradition of the 1st Division platoon leaders.

Has been scolded once or twice by Hasegawa for making you stay up late helping him farm dungeons on his BS5. When Narumi rebutted that he was your captain and that this was “an important mission”, Hasegawa promptly shot him down by stating that it was abuse of power.

He was actually the first person you showcased your new fighting style with your whip-sword to. Still couldn’t believe that you actually named it after your cats.

When the time came for you to use your new weapon on the field for the first time, you felt a bit more pressured than you should. Despite the fruitful results from in house training, the field is a very different environment, and you couldn’t afford to mess up. This test drive meant a lot–developing your weapon probably took a fortune–and you didn’t want to disappoint Narumi. He spent so much time with you. For you.

You move towards the approaching Yoju with total concentration, launching yourself in the air. “MTS-1437 field test commenced. Initiate subjugation,” Kurusu announced through the comms whilst giving you clearance, the operations room watching expectantly.

To say it was a success was an understatement. Not when the entire operation room seemed to look at your floating figure in awe, your sword gracefully twirling around your body. You looked as light as the wind, so graceful and elegant as you zeroed in on the yoju, before unleashing an onslaught of the techniques you spent so much practice on. Seeing you with your sword dance didn’t just fit your entire being amazingly – It felt so right.

Inside of him, Narumi felt a sense of achievement, watching you from the operations room as well.

“...Did she just say Catlove Shower?” He tensed, coughing a bit.

His memories bring him back to the specialized training room the both of you frequented, when you had eagerly just showed him your techniques. He remembers how gleefully you smiled, how your eyes turned into half moons from how elated you were after he gave you his approval. It was just a “good job” he thought, but it must have meant the world for you. Your place in the force must have meant the world for you. Something in his heart started to tug.

Before he realized it himself, a snide remark came out of his throat. “She was really happy with the names she thought up–so shut it.” Everyone near his vicinity tensed, looking at him in shock. No one expected him to comment that, not even Hasegawa.

As mentioned in the previous headcanons, you and Narumi have grown accustomed to each other’s fighting style. As you also worked with the combo of gunmanship to melee–though not exactly similar, you had turned to him for a lot of pointers. Not only that, but the joint weapon training you underwent with him contributed a lot to both of your understandings of how the other fought. So, it was no surprise that your battle sense became more reminiscent of his.

Narumi only let you join his side as soon as he knew he didn’t have to worry about you. As much as he valued you as a person and the friendship you had, he knew that the laws of the battlefield were strict. He couldn’t trust himself if he couldn’t trust you to handle your own. Especially when the 1st Division handled the toughest of kaijus.

His tough love and constant, merciless training made you stronger. And truthfully, seeing you advancing so rapidly in his eyes scared him a bit (was this what Isao felt?). So he was immensely tough on you. You had to be strong.

But when it came to Narumi and your beloved 1st Division officers, you quickly reminded them of the you behind your strength. The (Y/N) that smiled and earned herself the title of the Pillar of Love, the pink creature that made up the most unlikely duo on planet Earth with Narumi Gen.

It’s the mutual understanding and respect you have with each other that brought your bond both in and out of the battlefield this far.

So when Kikoru rolled in, she couldn’t help but admire you. At the time of her transfer, you were a name she’s heard whispers about. The 1st Division’s pillar of love. An expert heavy hitter who excels in mid ranged combat. Exactly someone she could confide in in improving her techniques with the axe.

And Gen used this to his advantage.

“Oi, Narumi.” He winces in pain as you whack the top of his head in place of Hasegawa, letting out a string of complaints. “As much as I love Kikoru-chan, I don’t think General Shinomiya would appreciate it if you threw all the training to me.”

“I told you, it’s our dual responsibility,” he says in between button mashing his console, “I gave you the order to help teach her the ropes. You have a similar combat style with hers.”

“I trained with you, and you’re training with her. Which means I’m training with–” cutting off his speech, you brazenly pick up his lawn chair, balancing the captain as you carried the seat to the training grounds. You made it look so easy.

“My apologies, captain!” Kikoru watches in stunned silence as you haul him over to where the two of you were previously sparring, dropping him on the ground gently whilst listening to his childish rebuttals.

The blonde only watched as Narumi rose from his seat and yelled out more curses in an annoyed frenzy, now chasing you in circles as you held his handheld controller. You were expertly dodging him too, maneuvering the strikes he made with his hands and feet. Yet it despite the showcase of skill, it all felt too goofy to be real.

Was that… really the strongest kaiju combatant in Japan and the famed love pillar?

“GIVE THAT BACK!” Narumi yells, reenacting a forward strike so cleanly, it had Isao written all over it. He narrowly misses your body mid jump.

“MY APOLOGIES!” Your apologetic tone could not be more contrasting than your actions as your legs landed on his head, pummeling Narumi to the ground for your landing.

At this point, even Kafka was watching with his jaw on the floor, Kikoru beside him watching intently. “Even in a light quarrel, those two are masters in their field! But still…” She zeroes in on the tug of war for Narumi’s console between the two of you.

…Could she really trust the two of you during her time here?

A/n: Part three with wingman Kikoru question mark?

#kaiju no 8 #kaiju no. 8 #kaiju hachigo #kaijuno8 #kaiju 8 #kaiju no 8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 x reader #reader insert #narumi gen #narumi gen x reader #gen narumi #gen narumi x reader #gen narumi x you #kikoru shinomiya

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vaguely-concerned · 5 days ago

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To the ‘themes I am picking up on in Veilguard’ list, let's go ahead and add what I have a sneaking suspicion will actually turn out to be The theme:

— the world has changed and can never be as it was again.

— I have been changed and can never be who I was again.

— in this simple unavoidable truth there is endless grief and endless hope.

And I… may be getting a bit emotional about it haha. Let me show my work a bit:

if da:o is a game about people who are already dead or half ghosts in some form (through societal forces, psychologically, functionally, literally, in body, through the joining etc.) coming together anyway to save the world from being swallowed by total nihilism and despair (symbolized by the blight) through the power of love and friendship and also this sword/potential heroic sacrifice that I found, da2 is a game about people who have lost their homes and been set adrift finding and building new homes in each other (while completely failing to save the world. also through the power of love and friendship. as well as years of petty bickering <3 we must imagine kirkwall if not happy then worth having been because the love was there the love was there and that's the only sanctifying force we can ever have in this doomed world and city of ours), and da:i is a game about old stabilizing-but-unjust comfortable lies vs. disruptive but potentially liberating uncomfortable truths, and the power of friendship to help us distinguish the one from the other and navigate through them...

folks… I'm starting to think that veilguard might be a game specifically about moving towards recovery and acceptance after trauma — about how even in this flawed, severed, scarred state, what is here right now is worth loving and worth caring for. even in an imperfect and impermanent world and self, there is worth and joy. and of course the first real tragedy — and threat — of Solas is that he just cannot find it in himself to accept this and move on, to let go of what was, the regret won’t let him go or he won’t let go of it. which means that even though on the surface it’s Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain (and the will to subjugate and violate they represent) who are the main villains, the real antagonistic force in this story beneath that is the Dread Wolf’s despair. A despair Rook must make an answer to by the end of the game, one way or another, compassionately or with righteous fury, triumphant or pyrrhic.

The world will change again and again and so will you — BUT the crucial element is that so will everyone else who exists along with you, you are fundamentally not alone in this existential truth. all we’ll ever have is each other and my god that is plenty, my god that is enough!!! Which is the second thing Solas just can’t accept, he keeps himself separate and completely alone out of an awful mix of fear and pride and feeling himself unworthy of anything else. Rook and the player want to save the world of Thedas because it’s where everyone we love lives, Solas wants to go back to the past because that’s the only neighbourhood where he can still visit those he loved — and the person he himself was, before. A very sympathetic and human instinct/trap to fall into when touched by trauma, I think, if only it wasn’t backed by godlike power, a fundamentally oppositional personality, and a catastrophic lack of therapy to make it literally everyone else’s problem too lol. It’s varric and solas’ banter about the man on the island and where meaning in a life comes from all over again, writ large and with detail work — and the added idea of ‘what if there are also other islands out there, though. With other people on them that you could find if you reach for each other’. Rook with the best of intentions has to make choices to which there are no perfect outcomes and live with what happens — and not cut themselves off from everyone else around them even when there is regret or shame. You get back up every day and you make a life with other people doing the same and you do your best, and that’s the only victory this world will give you. In the end, that is more than enough, that is essential. And I um. I love that. So much. It’s why some of the writing clumsiness on top can’t hurt me because this thematic spine is so solid and so beautiful to me. It’s DA2 all over again that way for me personally — I forgive this story for what it isn’t and couldn’t be, and I love it with my whole stupid open heart for what it actually is. Thank you for coming to my TED-talk and goodbye etc.

(For my fellow TLT heads out there — you know what this story is reminding me of most of all, actually? It has some big Nona the Ninth vibes down there in the deep. It’s about… the horror and unspeakable beauty that can only be found in liminality, and the role of love in making that basic fact of existence bearable. And also even more unbearable at the same time. I'm so sorry.)

#I told you all I was going to be extremely myself about this. I suppose we all hoped I was joking. even while knowing I was not #dragon age #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #dragon age spoilers #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age meta #solas #varric tethras #anyway. at the end of the day and despite everything varric won the 'I told you so chuckles' rights over solas in this philosophical debate #and isn't that enough in a way. I think so. the world and the story of the world is his legacy. people get to keep telling it #I want to say so much about how each of the companions play into the different aspects of this theme but I should uh #probably finish the game properly first haha #guys I literally opened my eyes this morning and wrote out most of this before even getting up. the pressure cooker brain is back #the lone brain cell in here boileth over with dragon age feels & thoughts #very little sends me deranged quite like this series I'm afraid. I'm just still so relieved that even if this story isn't for everyone.#it is for me. thank god. I needed it

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whxtedreams · 3 months ago

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The Hunter and His Witch

A Witch Hunter!Din Djarin x witch!reader oneshot

Summary: The task assigned to him by the lords was a simple one, whether her body was brought in warm or cold mattered little to them, as long as her life had been extinguished. In their eyes, she was an abomination, a stain on this holy land that needed to be purged. And the more he watched her, the less he understood why.

Word Count: 7.1k

Tags: Witch hunter AU, witch!reader, third person POV, reader has she/her pronouns, probably inaccurate witchy things – just using my imagination, injury, threats, din reconsidering his life choices.

Main masterlist - Series Master list

There were precious few of us remaining, scattered across the land in hiding like hunted game. Fear gripped our hearts as we were hunted like deers, too dangerous to scavenge in groups or pairs, lest we be mistaken for the witches we were. Yet traveling alone was even more lethal, for the target on our backs grew a vivid red in the eyes of those who hunted us. The threat was too great, and the risk too real. Our very lives were at stake, every moment we remained on guard and alone.

For generations upon generations, witchcraft had been referred to as a gift, a mystical force that some bloodlines were lucky enough to wield. But now, it was seen as a curse, to be punished with a brutal and painful death simply because we were born with something that someone else did not have. The injustice was unbearable, as the gift became a burden, the once celebrated power a thing to be feared. The fear of witchcraft permeated the land, and any who bared the power must hide it for fear of being discovered and punished.

The men that hunted us were no better than ourselves, their fear of us blinding them to the reality. We meant no harm unless we were first threatened, our existence being no danger by itself. We were not naturally dangerous, unless unjust violence was thrust upon us.

And now, as she sprinted through the woods in the black of night, the unjust violence chased her. Fear gripped her heart and made her legs move even faster; the adrenaline rushed through her veins as she tried to escape the threat that hunted her down. Her body trembled, knowing that should she slow down for even a moment, her death would be swiftly and cruelly delivered. Every twig that snapped or leaf that rustled fueled the adrenaline running through her blood, every glance at the shadows or movements in the corners of her eye raised her heart rate all over again.

She had never hurt a soul, and yet here she was, being hunted for what she could potentially do. The unfair treatment made her heart weep, and her resolve wavered. The injustice of being hunted like an animal, like a dangerous beast with the potential for harm, was a crushing blow. But she persisted, through the pain and despair, to run. To run through the night with unjust violence in her wake, her life on the line.

He was faster than her though, and she could hear his footsteps gain traction as she attempted to flee. The hunter said nothing, never did. For two days, they have played a twisted game of cat and mouse, evading his deathly grip with the magic that threatened her very life. Every second spent evading the hunter, the threat of being caught grew exponentially, as the magic that has served as her shield and defense gradually chipped away at her health. The pressure was overwhelming, but she dared not stop.

She dared not harm him, to truly become what he feared her to be. To prove them all right. No, she would not harm him even when he eventually has her by the throat and she stares up into his hateful eyes, she will do no harm.

There was a series of events that had brought her to this point, the hunter trailing after her like a wildfire ripping through the forest. A glance that lingered too long in a village she was passing through, catching the attention of the masked figure who lingered in the shadows, stalking anything he considered a potential threat. Perhaps the smell of power he believed to be dangerous emanated from her person as she smiled and thanked the merchant for the bread she bought.

The man, the hunter, was surrounded by darkness, as if the very essence of the shadows were drawn to him and drowned him in a sea of inky black. She could feel him from where she stood across the bustling street, the dark alley that he stood in created an ominous presence. The very light of her power roared in agony, the burning brilliance and warmth drained away and suffocated by the all consuming darkness this man was. He was the very personification of darkness, a void that swallowed everything it touched, a living abyss of emptiness.

And yet, she felt sorrow for him. Though he was the one hunting her, she could not help but feel sympathy and pity for the man. She mourned the light that had been snuffed out from within him, extinguished by the darkness that had surrounded him like a shroud. Perhaps he had once been light as well, once held warmth and brightness, once given off the rays of hope. But that light had been taken away, replaced with shadows and nothingness.

He sat across from her that fateful night in the tavern, the corner she sought as a refuge now shared with the reaper. His face was shrouded in darkness, the hood of his cloak hung low, obscuring and hiding his identity. His lower face was covered by thick material, the features underneath hidden from view. His presence was ominous and unsettling, the air charged with tension and dread, as if he were more than just a regular hunter.

He wore black and grey, his clothes fitted like they were a second skin, every contour and line defined and displayed. Weapons littered his body, worn freely, as if he were advertising his level of threat. Though he did not need the weapons on display to make his threat known, his entire presence broadcast his danger to all who looked upon him. His whole being was one of immense threat, every part of him declared with boldness and certainty that he was a dangerous entity, a being to be feared and respected.

And yet, she was feared and hunted.

"A hunter," she declared, the weight of the words heavy upon her tongue.

Her meal, once a pleasure to consume, no longer held a taste for her. Her appetite lost as her mind raced. She set down her spoon, the presence across from her was the source of her anxiety and dread. A threat she could barely see, but felt, nonetheless.

“A witch," his voice was as dark as his presence, the words dripped with contempt and hatred in equal measure. He tilted his head, eyes hidden behind the thick material that covered his face as he studied her intently. His gloved hands rested on the table, clasped together, his stare sharp and unyielding.

“There’s no such thing,” she shook her head, the weight of his stare threatened to crush her. She kept her hands in her lap, avoiding any movement that might have painted her as a threatening or dangerous force.

Heaven forbid she appeared a threat to the darkness that he is.

He remained still, the silence hanging heavily between them, thick and dense, almost suffocating. It made her believe that he did not believe the words that spilled from her mouth. He could have said anything at that moment, but the silence spoke louder than any words. He had found his target, and nothing she said could convince him otherwise. He saw her, a witch by his definition, a creature to be exterminated and eradicated with ruthless brutality. The silence spoke for itself, speaking of an unspoken truth that filled the air with the scent of danger.

She stole a glance around the tavern, catching the gazes of the other occupants of the establishment as they exchange whispers and passing glances. Their bodies were still, and their whispers were soft, but their eyes betrayed their intentions, staring at her and the obvious witch hunter seated across. They all wondered if he would kill her right here, in front of them, in a display of his hunting prowess and skill. She knew that they awaited with bated breath, wanting to see the slaughter of another witch. Their praise of the hunter is inevitable should he deliver the show they all desire.

"You are going to kill me," she said, speaking up into the silence, addressing the masked hunter directly. Her words cut through the tense, charged air like a dagger, the truth of them sharp and piercing. He was a hunter after all, a hunter after her, and there could be no other reason behind this encounter but to see her death.

"This is the way." He stated coldly, a death sentence from his lips. The phrase was one she assumed he had uttered on countless occasions, as this was a familiar ritual for him. One of countless witches that had been captured, executed, and forgotten. For him, it was just another routine, another day on the job, another name to add to a list that would never end.

"It doesn't have to be." Her words fell upon deaf ears, dismissed and ignored by the hunter as his hand moved towards the dagger strapped to his chest. The simple gesture spoke volumes, the cold, emotionless demeanor that did not falter, the resolve that filled his visage as his hand closed around the dagger, all conveying his intentions.

“This is the way,” This was not a negotiation, nor a threat. This was a statement of fact. No witch had ever escaped this final encounter, none ever would. It was their moment of reckoning.

She had come to accept her fate, to make her peace with the inevitability of death at the hands of the hunter. She knew with certainty that her death would come with no just cause, in the name of someone else's beliefs. To die here, with an audience, was not the way she had intended. When she passed on from this world, she wanted to do so in the loving eyes of the earth, in the caring and nurturing embrace of her beautiful mother nature, to bleed and die into her, becoming one with her.

A smoke bomb was thrown, and screams of panic echoed through the tavern as chaos ensued. It was thrown not to save her life, but rather to give her just a moment more, a precious few seconds, to flee the hands of death, and the hunter who was hot on her trail. She raced towards the woods, ran with everything she had left, the hunter's footsteps grew louder and closer with each passing second.

If she managed to escape death, that was just a bonus.

But the woods were her home, a safe refuge, a sanctuary of solace and peace. It was the source of her strength, her power, her magic. The plants and earth itself were her lifeline, fueling and nourishing her gifts, a comforting and welcoming embrace. The woods were where she would run for safety, and where the hunter now sought to follow.

On the second day of relentless pursuit, her muscles grew weary and tired, her body had begun to feel the strain and fatigue of her nonstop use of magic. Her reserves were being drained for all they were worth, her strength and willpower waning as she continued to evade the hunter, who had followed her deep into the woods. It was becoming a game of who would tire from the hunt first, and it appeared as if she would be the one to succumb to exhaustion first.

She fell to her knees, digging her hands into the dirt as she struggled to muster the power within the earth, but the exhaustion was all-consuming and the reserve of her magic was running dangerously low. She felt as if her life force was being drained from her body, and she was unable to access the potent essence that normally flowed freely through the earth. The power was there, she could feel it, but she was unable to harness and channel it into herself. Her mind and body was reaching the point of utter fatigue and exhaustion.

He's behind her, the never ending darkness that he exuded and that engulfed him as he breathed, made his presence known to her in an almost otherworldly and menacing way. She could feel him creeping up on her, the shadow and the darkness grew in intensity and threatened to envelop her whole, to extinguish her light that was barely there anymore.

She knew that if she used more magic, it would surely cause irreparable damage and even kill her due to the strain it would place upon her. She had reached her limit, and to go further would push her weak and exhausted body over the brink, to be devoured by the all-consuming void that awaited.

His darkness had a thirst, and its hunger was for her life and existence. It was a race against time, against fatigue and exhaustion.

As she crawled towards the nearest tree, she slumped her back against its rough and splintering wood. She closed her eyes. She felt the world around her slip from her grasp and control, the life force steadily being drained out of her against her will. If this was how she were to die, then maybe dying here was not such a bad fate. Maybe death would be preferable to exhaustion and powerlessness, the feeling of being unable to control the world around her, having her magic drained without having the time to regain the strength she once had before.

The soft whirl of a stream nearby, the howling of a wolf, and the sound of frogs that hopped around her brought some sense of life back to her. The forest screamed of life around her, despite the exhaustion and emptiness that she felt within herself, the absence of the power and strength that she once had. Just because she cannot feel it, it does not mean that it is not there. The forest was alive, and it's calling to her, urging her to stay and to hold on.

The hunter was before her as she opened her eyes, his breathing heavy. His eyes were hidden in the shadows that enveloped his face, his features almost invisible in the darkness of night. She could not make out his features or his expression, only the faint shimmer of the moonlight reflecting on his sword as he took it from his back.

“You stopped running, witch?”

In one last final attempt to save her life, she summoned every last remaining shred of magic that she had left. She screamed out in agony, using all the energy that she could muster to conjure the vines from the ground, wrapping them around the hunter's body as he struggled against the will of nature. Her screams of pain echoed off the forest walls around her, rising above his grunts as he swung his sword in a desperate attempt to break the shackles of her enchantment.

All too soon, the vines were twisted around the hunter, her own body becoming a conduit for the potent and lethal magic that she had conjured, and the vines began breaking the hunters' bones and caused serious harm. Her cries blended in with the night, mixing together in a haunted melody, the sound of pain and anguish rose from her throat as the forest around her stilled and became silent like a tomb.

She had not meant to injure him, she just wanted him to stop.

She would have killed him that night, the magic she had summoned suffocating the air from his lungs, if she had not passed out from the sheer force of the exertion and effort that was required to conjure it in the first place. Her exhausted body was depleted of all the magic and energy that she had built up, and her weakened state led to her passing out before she was able to finish off her hunter and send him to his death.

When she woke with the rising of the sun, she felt like death itself had already seized a hold on her. Just the simple act of breathing felt like a struggle in her weakened state, and as she opened her eyes, she perceived how close she was to death. When she looked around, she saw that the hunter was still lying on the ground, the decaying vines still wrapped around him like an armored shell, his body unmoving.

Her chest constricted, and she let out a painful cough that brought up blood, leaking from her mouth. This was the price she had to pay for pushing herself beyond her limits.

The man stirred, groaning in pain, the soft murmurs of agony pulling at her heart. Knowing that she had caused this, almost having killed him in her struggle for life. It tore into her heart, an aching, bitter feeling that lingered even as the man began to come around, the thought and the knowledge that she had played a part in his suffering.

She had become what he feared her to be, only brought from the fear in her own heart.

She stood on shaky legs, wiped the blood from her mouth, the pain of exertion still present throughout her entire body. She stumbled over to the man, desperately trying to hold herself up as the exhaustion set in. She managed to make it to her knees beside him, examining the wounds that she had inflicted and observed the extent of the damage that she had caused. She saw the broken bones and the deep cuts through his clothes.

"I'm sorry..." She managed to whimper; her voice hoarse. her hands reached out for him, her fingers fumbling helplessly as she tried to stop the bleeding. Tears trickled down her face as the feeling of guilt and shame washed over her, the realization of what she had done weighed heavily upon her mind and conscience.

His hand moved like lightning as he grabbed onto her wrist, a sharp and sudden action that caught her completely off guard. His grip was tight, the muscles taut and the fingers gripping hard on her wrist. "Don't touch me." He groaned, the words filled with disdain and fury.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," she tried to explain, her voice caught in her throat as she tried to offer a rational explanation. Her gaze traveled to the void that lay behind his hood, unable to make out any features.

Her explanation was met only with silence, the echo of her own voice filled the void between her words, and the only sound around her other than the rustle of the forest leaves in the wind.

“Liar.”

He tried to move his other arm, but gasped in pain as he did so, the movement sent a jolt of pain through his body that rippled with the force of lightning. He closed his eyes tightly, the strain and the pain evident in the grimace on his face, the effort caused him to struggle to even breathe.

She shook off his grip on her wrist, his hold loosened as she reached across to his other arm. Raising the shredded sleeve of his shirt, she saw the broken bone lying beneath. The wound that she had caused. His unbroken arm reached back for her, gripping her cloak in a futile attempt to pull her away.

His sudden tug pulled her forward, pulling her close and caused her to press against the solidity of his chest. She was forced to stare at the shadow and the darkness that laid beneath the hood of his cloak, and her eyes traveled up to the edge of his hood, where the smallest hint of the hunter's face remained hidden in anonymity.

“Please, let me help you.” She pleaded.

"You will do no such thing." His voice was sharp and cold, the anger and disdain evident in each syllable. He lashed out at her, pushing her away and sent her tumbling onto the ground. She landed on her back, the force of his shove sent a jolt of pain through her body, the exhaustion further compounding with the effects of the fall. She laid there on the ground, the cold hardness of the forest floor pressing against her back as she felt the blood trickle from her nose.

He tried to move, but the sudden jolt of pain and the weakness that had come over his body forced him to fall back to the ground beside her. He groaned, a sharp gasp of air as he hit the ground, the impact sent a wave of pain up his spine. His body was still, the only movement came from his labored breaths as he tried to regain his composure and his strength.

She knelt beside him once more, her fingers wiping the blood from her face as she moved closer to him. He looked up at her through the pain that was etched across his face, his eyes burned into hers as she took his hand in hers. This time, he did not shake her touch; he allowed her to hold his hand, his fingers wrapping around hers as he let her touch him, holding on despite the pain and the anger that was still present within him.

"Just kill me." He sighed, the words spoken bitterly and quietly as he closed his eyes, his body tensing as he waited for her to deal the killing blow. However, the soft touch of her hand gently caressed his face. Her hand was warm against his skin, and her touch was tentative and tender, a stark contrast to the harshness of his words.

“I told you, I will do no such thing.” She repeated herself.

If she had the power to do so, she would heal every wound on his body and soul, to mend and to repair the damage that had been done. Even though he had tried to snuff out the light from her soul, she would ignite his, her own strength and resilience shining bright as she refused to waver in the face of his anger and his pain. The gentleness of her touch was a reminder of the empathy that still lived within her.

Despite the weakening of her own body, death's grip strong upon her as the remnants of her power slipped away, she gathered her remaining strength and dragged the hunter through the woods. Her destination was a cabin that she had taken refuge in days prior, a place where she would be able to tend to his wounds properly and give him the care and attention he needed. Her own body was struggling, the toll of her own fatigue and weakness starting to take its toll, but she pushed on, determined to reach the cabin before it was too late.

Blood flowed freely from her nose and ears, her body weak and close to collapse. In a desperate plea, she begged the very foundation of the world to give her just one final ounce of strength, to help her lift the hunter onto the bed. And with a sickening laugh, her prayer was answered. The price of said power snatched her consciousness away like a fleeting dream, and her body collapsed onto the floor beside the hunter, the last remnants of her strength used up in the act of bringing him comfort

The hunter groaned as he was placed onto the bed, the impact causing a sharp jolt of pain to run through his body. However, it was the sound of her body hitting the floor that caught his attention, the sound of her collapse echoing off the walls of the cabin. He sat up in the bed, and he peeked over the side, peering down at the girl who lay unconscious on the floor, lost to the world around them.

If his leg and arm were not broken, he would have walked right out of the cabin and left her there, abandoning her without a second thought. However, his injuries prevented him from doing so. He knew that he would not make it out the door without collapsing, the pain and the weakness too much to bear. The frustration and anger in him flared up, the helplessness and the fact that he was reliant on her for his own survival eating away at him.

The thought crossed his mind, the idea that he could end it all right then and there, taking advantage of her unconscious state and prevent her from ever waking up agin. But something about the fact that she didn't end his life in the woods and instead saved him nagged at his curiosity. Despite his anger and his pain, her act of mercy had bewildered him.

Witches were supposed to be heartless creatures.

She stirred once more, her body shifted as the moonlight streamed through the torn curtains. She managed to pull herself to her feet, the effort costing her as she trembled with weakness. The hunter watched her keenly, his jaw clenched tightly as he waited for her to notice him, to realize he was there. He braced himself for her to strike, expecting the worst.

The softly curled smile that formed on her lips as her eyes met the cloaked face of the hunter was not what he expected at all. It was an expression of peace and a calmness that went against the anger and the pain that lay within him. Her smile was gentle and sweet, and even through the shadows of his hood, he could feel the warmth that emanated from her gaze.

Her eyes shifted from his hood, moving down to his broken bones as the smile faded from her face. She sighed softly as she took a seat at the edge of the bed, positioning herself with her back facing him, her body mere inches from him and the bed, all too close to the danger that he posed. Her head fell as she looked away.

“It will take a few days until I’m strong enough to heal the wounds I caused you.”

The hunter grunted as he tried to shift himself further away from her, the effort caused him pain but he was determined not to let her touch him with her magic. He did not trust her, nor did he want to be vulnerable and weak in her presence, the remnants of anger and caution still lingering within him.

She paid no attention to the hunter's movement, as she stood up from the bed, her attention focused on the task at hand.

“I may not have magic at my disposal, but I can do what I can with simple medicine.”

Her mind was set on tending to his wounds and helping him recover, despite his protests and his unwillingness to accept her help. She moved around the cabin, gathering the necessary supplies she would need to treat his injuries.

The hunter watched her with intent, his gaze sharp and filled with suspicion. He tensed up as she sat before him once more, the labored sound of his breathing filling the air between them.

She had no intention of causing him any further pain, and yet he looked at her as if he expected her to draw nothing but screams of agony from him.

In the folktales, witches are often portrayed as beings who spread terror and destruction, burning villages to the ground with their magic. But in truth, it was often the hands of men, driven by fear and ignorance, who brought about the downfall of those villages. Their paranoia and superstition led to the persecution of those who were different, casting blame and suspicion upon anyone who did not fit into their narrow view.

In that moment, she turned to act not in violence and destruction, but in healing and care. She set his broken bones, mended his cuts, and soothed his bruises, tending to his wounds with a gentleness and a care that contradicted what he had come to expect from her. She acted not as his downfall, but as his savior.

The hunter had finally given into exhaustion, his body stilled as he drifted into a deep sleep. The pain and the fatigue that had plagued him had settled deep within his bones, and she was grateful for the silence that followed. She no longer had to fight him, to fend off his hands as he tried to push her away while she worked on him. A small part of her wondered if he would even offer her a word of thanks for her efforts.

She took advantage of the hunter's sleep to gather food and replenish her own strength. Drawing from the very earth itself, she felt her magic begin to flow back into her blood, replenishing the energy that had been drained from her. She was still too weak to wield any significant magic, but she no longer felt the icy grip of death upon her, a small but significant victory.

On the second day, the hunter woke with a sudden gasp, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet cabin. She held his arm in her hands, her eyes closed in concentration as she focused on her healing abilities. He yelled for her to release him, his voice filled with anger and pain, but her grip was unyielding, her hands like iron shackles holding him fast. Despite his protests, warm energy filtered through his blood, causing his body to jerk and writhe in agony as he felt the bones in his arm shift.

And then bliss.

He felt himself slowly sink into the bed; the once hard mattress now transformed into a cloud of blissful softness. His body grew heavy, as if he was sinking into the warm embrace of a river on a summer's day. A profound sense of contentment washed over him, a smile crept onto his face, and a strange and unfamiliar high took over his body.

The girl stumbled and fell to the floor, her fragile body succumbing to the strain and the toil of her magic. The cost of healing the hunter was too great, and the stain upon her magic was all too painful to bear.

The hunter opened his eyes and sat up on the bed as the blissful haze began to recede. His gaze fell upon the witch, her body lying motionless on the hard wooden floor. He studied her for a moment, the rise and fall of her chest the only indication that she still lived.

The thought flickered through his mind, the possibility of ending her there and then while she lay defenseless within his reach. He balled his hand into a fist, the arm that had been broken mere moments ago now completely healed, and he hesitated.

The frown that crossed his face was a reflection of the unfamiliar feeling within him. He had never hesitated before, for hesitation lead to death. But now, he was filled with doubt, a feeling foreign to him.

She had once again healed him, healing his wounds even though it drew her own death closer. She had tended to his injuries, only to cause greater harm to her own self. The act struck him as selfless and strangely altruistic, a strange and unexpected act from the very creature he had sought to kill.

When she woke once more, he asked for her name.

She managed a small smile where she lay on the floor, even as blood trickled from her mouth, staining her lips and chin. In a soft whisper, she spoke her name aloud into the darkening cabin, the sound echoing off the thick, wooden walls.

“Din,” The hunter replied.

She remained on the cold floor throughout the night, lying there unmoving and silent. He tried to convince himself that he didn't care, that her wellbeing didn't matter to him. Yet, as the morning light began to filter through the cracks in the cabin walls, he found himself looking towards her, his gaze lingering as she rose slowly to her feet.

She was so weak; he took pity on her.

She would make such an easy kill.

“So, Din,” she spoke, her voice a soft sigh that broke the silence of the cabin on the fifth day. She was seated, her legs curled up against her chest as she placed a small, worn book on the table beside her. Her gaze darted up to meet his, the light from the fire casting a warm glow across her face.

Din gave a soft hum in response, his attention still focused on stirring the contents of his bowl, the sound of the spoon clinking against the sides of the ceramic filling the air. He remained engrossed in his task, occasionally pushing the carrots around in the liquid, making no effort to look up at her as she spoke.

“Will you still kill me?”

The question hung in the air, the sound of his stirring spoon suddenly falling silent as he froze, the room seemingly holding its breath in anticipation. She waited, her heart pounding in her chest, yet she already knew his answer deep within her heart.

"This is the way," he repeated, his voice firm and steady. The words were more than just a mantra, they were the philosophy by which he lived his life. He continued stirring his soup, the movement of the spoon punctuating the finality of his statement.

There was a pause, a moment of quiet, before he spoke once more. "Will you still heal me," he asked, his voice steady, "knowing my intentions?" His eyes did not meet hers, yet he could feel the weight of her gaze upon him, her eyes piercing into the very depths of his soul.

"This is the way," she repeated his own words back to him, the words carrying the same stubborn resolve with which he had spoken them.

On the seventh day, she finally managed to coax Din from the bed to a chair on the porch. She could sense the brooding aura that clung to him like a dark cloud and felt that a change of scenery might help lighten the shadows that seemed to burden him.

The task assigned to him by the lords was a simple one, whether her body was brought in warm or cold mattered little to them, as long as her life had been extinguished. In their eyes, she was an abomination, a stain on this holy land that needed to be purged.

And the more he watched her, the less he understood why.

She sat among the flowers; a radiant figure surrounded by the very essence of life. Rabbits darted playfully beneath her feet, their tiny paws rustling through the grass. Birds perched on her shoulders, singing her name like a melodious chorus. As she moved, flora sprung from the earth in her wake, a beautiful trail of color and growth behind her.

It made no sense to him how he was tasked to end the life of someone who so effortlessly brought life into the world. Everywhere he looked, he saw the evidence of her power, in the flowers that bloomed, the creatures that surrounded her, and the beauty that spread like a canvas at her feet. How could he snuff the life from someone who had the power to create it?

And yet, he knew he had to follow the path laid out for him, for this was the way of his people. His creed was his identity, his purpose. If he did not abide by their teachings, then what would remain of him?

For whom would Din be without his creed?

That evening, her fingers danced through the air with grace and elegance, weaving intricate shapes and figures out of the wild vines that grew outside by the window. With a smile, she conjured a doll-like figurine of him, the resemblance striking even though she had never seen his face behind his cloak. And to his own surprise, he laughed.

The truth was, she had regained the strength to heal his injury days ago, yet, she had found herself reluctant to do so. She hadn't even realized how she had grown to enjoy his company, how he had filled the loneliness that had settled in her soul after all those years on the run from people like him. The time they had spent in the cabin, the moments they shared, had become something she had begun to cling to.

She knew this would not last, for he would kill her.

But, oh, how she was tired of running.

In the quiet, still darkness, she stood over him, her form bathed in shadows as she loomed over his sleeping figure. He lay vulnerable, defenseless against her presence, yet her actions were not sinister. She knelt beside the bed, her hands hovering over his wounded and broken leg. Then, she closed her eyes, her hands lowering gently onto his flesh, her touch soft and gentle.

He awakened with a strangled cry; his body drenched in torment as he bolted upright in the bed. The pain was all consuming, coursing through his core like a wildfire. His arms flailed, his hands seeking to grab the source of his suffering — her hands, which were still firmly pressed against his leg.

He gasped for breath, his vision hazy and unfocused as the pain overwhelmed his senses. He looked at her then, and saw the vitality slowly draining away from her as her own life force was transferred into him. He tried desperately to push her off, to break free from her grasp, but her hold was ironclad, her determination to heal him unyielding.

The pain, that all-consuming torment, finally yielded, giving way to a wave of bliss that washed over him. It was then, and only then, that her hands left his body, their touch gone as her body collapsed onto the floor beside the bed, the effort having robbed her of her strength once again.

She had braced herself for the inevitable, fully accepting that the moment Din stood on his own two feet, he would fulfill his objective and snuff the life from her. She lay there, weak and spent, knowing that she would not rise again, knowing that she had saved him at the cost of her own existence. And in her last moment of conscious thought, she found peace.

He rose from the bed, his leg no longer crippled and broken as he placed weight on it. There was no hint of discomfort or pain, as if the injury had never existed. He moved towards his belongings by the door and at the last moment, he paused, casting a brief glance in her direction, lying motionless on the floor. He grabbed the sword that leaned against the wall, the weight of the weapon familiar in his palm.

He moved closer, towering above her prone form on the floor. He hovered over her, his gaze fixed on her face. He raised his sword, the edge catching the light from the fire, the steel gleaming. He froze, his hand trembled slightly, the sword hovering above her vulnerable body, the silence stretching between them.

With a grunt, he raised the sword high above his head, muscles coiled tight. In one swift movement, he brought the blade down, the steel cutting through the air with a whistling sound. The sword met its target, driving deep into the wood of the floor, mere inches away from her head.

He let out a yell into the silence of the night, the sound a raw and primal thing, as he crumpled to his knees before the witch. The weight of his emotions was overpowering, the feeling of his heart being torn from his chest overwhelming him. He felt as if he was being unmade, as if everything that he was, everything that he believed, was being ripped away from him.

He was filled with a mixture of anger and frustration, his heart torn in two as the conflict raged within him. He loathed her for what she had done, for saving him, for making him question everything he knew.

Yet, despite his anger, he gently scooped her frail body off the floor and placed her within the bed she had healed him in, his hands tender and careful, everything he was not.

As she slowly stirred back to consciousness, the first thing she saw was him, sitting at her bedside. He was holding the book she had been reading, the one that had held her attention for days, his eyes focused on the words on the pages. She blinked a few times, her eyesight still adjusting as she watched him for a moment, confused and disoriented.

“You did not kill me?” she muttered.

The silence in the room hung heavy, broken only by the soft flutter of the pages as he continued to read. He did not look at her, his gaze fixed on the book in his hands, until her eyes started to flutter shut once more. Then, he spoke, his voice a soft rumble in the stillness of the room. "You are hard to kill, I'm afraid," his words spoken as a mere observation, his attention never left the pages in front of him.

As the days passed, he would carefully lift her from the bed and carry her outside, laying her gently in the soft grass. He would sit beside her, watching quietly as the earth healed her in ways he never could.

It was beautiful.

At first, the animals were hesitant to approach, wary of the man in their midst. But as the days went by, they began to join him in his vigil, taking their place beside him, silently keeping watch over their witch.

As he sat there, watching her sleep, a new creed formed in his heart. He vowed to himself that he would not allow any harm to befall her, for he would be there to protect her, to shield her from the harshness of the world. He would be her guardian, her defender, her champion, for as long as the world turned, and the stars continued to shine upon her.

For the first time in years, he felt the warm caress of sunlight on his face as he lowered the hood of his cloak. He sat there beside her, soaking up the rays of the sun as if it was the most natural thing in the universe. It was as if he was awakening from a long, dark sleep, the light chasing away the shadows that had clung to his soul for so long.

Din Djarin was a Witch Hunter no more, for how could he hurt something as beautiful and pure as her?

Notes

MY FIRST DIN FIC!!???? I have been so nervous to write anything to do with my beloved din because I just want to do him justice and star wars is so scary to write so, au it is. When I say this has been in my WIP for three months now – I mean it. You can all thank the writing class I’m taking because it brought this back to life. Also I have been deathly ill with influenza A and my mum has been in the hospital with viral pneumonia, I have not had time to write until today, the first day in nine days that I have been able to get out of bed.

#din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x reader

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ericsprincess · 4 months ago

Text

until you overflow

nc-17, Na Jaemin/Reader, historical au, queen!yn, war prize!jaemin, mildly dubious consent, cunnilingus, penetration, breeding kink

~~~

You need an heir.

~~~

“I already SAID, I am NOT going to do this now,” you spoke through your gritted teeth, holding yourself back the best way you could to not smash your fist on the table out of anger. The atmosphere in the room was tense, and yet the scene was all too familiar for everyone.

"B-but you need an heiress! Your highness, the war is over so now we should focus on important internal affairs, one of which is ensuring the succession!" scuttered one of the ministers, a capable, but also an extremely annoying woman with a particular penchant for bureaucracy. One of those people who never knows when to stop, whether they mean well or not.

“The war is over and we should focus on repairing what it ruined first, don’t you think?” you replied sarcastically, but the minister as if she were deaf to your tone.

“But..what if something happens to you? We need to have the security of an heiress! The people need it, it will boost the morale of the entire nation too!”

And this was already going on for 20 minutes. For the third time just this week.

Thankfully, this useless exchange was interrupted when one of your highest advisors, an ancient noble lady, an advisor of your mother before she was yours, stepped out, essentially ending the bickering.

“Your highness, there is still the..new war prize. You surely know which one I mean,” the advisor bowed deep in front of you. “He seems very strong. He could give our queendom many heiresses. It would silence many mouths, not only about the ones talking about you, but also those that are raising concerns about his future and purpose. Please consider that.” she spoke and retreated back amongst the others.

Of course you knew which one she meant. Ever since the moment he was brought by your army, and as a part of war prize paraded around the capital to be finally thrown to kneel at your feet, he’s been the talk of the entire country. There were many captives brought in that day, but this one, as if he had put the spell on our entire country. All the men and women alike were marveling at his beauty, mouths hanging open with fingers pointing at that one, do you see that one? as the procession of soldiers and captives and carriages full of gold was passing through the capital city towards the Queen’s Palace. People soon started spreading eyewitness accounts and half-truths as well, even sharing made-up stories how he was so strong and raging that he almost fought off an entire squad of your soldiers before he was captured, how they had to bring him bound in thick iron chains and muzzled, a beautiful, but rabid beast.

Most of that was not true. As far as the generals’ report that was handed to you said, he was ambushed while he was quietly traveling on his horse alone on a forest path, and went willingly, with a smile. He just let himself get captured, even shooting a joke or two, greeting his captors goodnaturedly like old friends. However, under his plain clothes, your soldiers found out he was armed up to the teeth.

They tried to interrogate him, but even after hours, no one was able to figure out where he came from and where he was going. He spoke with an accent not native to the conquered kingdom, so he clearly wasn’t a local citizen, but refused to prove his ties to another country to avoid being taken as a war captive. Nothing about his clothes or things he had on him specified anything. He provided his name when asked, but it was a simple, plain name, very common in any country around, so no one even believed it’s real.

So they just followed the orders and just like any other captive, they brought him to the palace to have his fate decided there, and most court people half-expected you would have him publicly executed, as a statement and also just to simply get rid of the potential threat. They threw him at your feet, and he didn’t beg for his life as everyone expected he would. He raised his head from where he was kneeling, dirty with hands tied behind his back, but said nothing and only smiled at you, before dropping his head back down. The crowd gasped at the audacity of him daring to even lay his eyes on their Queen and immediately started whispering, everyone expecting you would immediately order your guards to have his head cut off, bloodthirsty atmosphere rising in the hall.

But you didn’t want to. You have learnt years ago, by necessity, to have no qualms or hesitation about ending an unworthy life, but something drawn you to him. You couldn’t tell what, but you didn’t want to kill him, at least not before he would give you an actual reason. You didn’t want to waste his life, just for the fleeting enjoyment of the masses. You wouldn’t have admitted it, not even to yourself at that time, but you were also intrigued.

You couldn’t decide and you ended up stalling, staring at the back of his head that was hung between his shoulders, with his forehead almost touching the cold marble of the throne room as he was slumped on his knees. The throne room was completely silent, everyone waited with bated breaths for the verdict.

Then a sharp pain in your rib woke you up from your stupor. You startled and looked at the source - your closest court lady, who was until now only standing at her usual place by your right hand, entirely bored, has just elbowed you to bring you back to earth.

She leaned over to you, covering her mouth as she whispered to your ear.

“Keep this one. We will put him to good use.”

You rolled your eyes at her as she drew back, and she just shrugged. What? Sue me, she mouthed back at you before she resumed her bored expression.

You sighed and irritatedly waved your hand to the right, signaling the guards to take him to the dungeons instead of beheading him right on the spot. The crowd groaned a little, annoyed that they couldn’t witness an almost poetic death of an exquisite beauty, but no one dared to raise a protest. They all knew better than that.

~~~

This is all entirely her fault, you were rubbing your temples two days later to stave off the headache, thinking about what to do about him, cursing your best friend and her one track mind.

But she did have a solid point, and you are a benevolent and generous queen so you decided to put him where he would be appreciated the best and guarded the most - a royal harem, private only for you and your court ladies to use at your leisure.

Despite his dubious and potentially dangerous origins, you weren’t afraid for the safety of your court ladies. None of them were here just for decoration - all highly trained professional guards and assassins, the loyal extensions of your power, you weren’t afraid of them getting hurt or letting him escape. Vice-versa too - if anyone decided to become some kind of a vigilante justice and lay a hand on the mysterious dangerous man who could be seen as a threat to the queendom, he would be well-protected.

It really seemed to be the best solution.

A solution that would make everyone happy - you would have one less problem, the man would be out of prying and gossiping public eyes hidden well within the palace walls, the court ladies would get a new shiny toy and him…Well, no one cares about what he thinks or wants.

But even this turned out to not be an issue, because as it was reported to you a month later, the new harem addition was settling into his new role well. Maybe even too well, as you have found out from the gossips and giggles between the court ladies. Apparently, not only he didn’t have any reservations about the kind of services that were expected from him, but also he provided them very willingly and enthusiastically. Seemingly impossible to tire out, he was always happy to let himself be used by any woman, even multiple at once! as you heard the whispers.

The never ending rumors about his skills with his fingers or tongue were constantly making you blush every time you overheard. But not only that, part of why he was so popular was also how comfortable and desired he made the ladies feel. He seemed to always figure out very quickly how each woman wanted to be touched or talked to, or whichever kink she might have. He was also not shy about his own body or sexuality, but his own needs always took a back seat. He seemed to be born for this role, made to please the others.

The only thing he was not approved nor allowed to do was penetration. He was not deemed fit or deserving to sire a child for your queendom yet, that was an honor and a privilege reserved for only few distinguished harem members that have been in service for a long time. But the potential was there and everyone acknowledged it.

The beautiful, charming Probably Na Jaemin has quickly become the darling of the harem. Friendly with everyone, staff, servants, even other harem members liked talking to him and had nothing to say about him but high praise.

No suspicious behavior was reported, no escape attempts, no strange questions, no forbidden items found hidden between his possessions. Na Jaemin seemed to be fully satisfied and content with his living situations and when the servants asked if there were anything he could be missing, he only asked whether there would be a teeeny tiiiny possibility of getting a cat, maybe? If it wouldn’t cause too many problems, of course?

This bastard is just having a vacation on my account, you fumed as you were stamping your Queen’s Approval seal on the request to purchase a ragdoll for the palace.

Despite the continuous nagging and encouragement from your court ladies, especially your best friend, you haven’t seen him yourself yet. Actually, you haven’t seen anyone from the harem recently, because you were avoiding the entire palace wing by a mile. You wouldn’t admit that to anyone, but you didn’t even want to run into him in the corridors.

And now you’re expected to consider him as a possible father of your daughters. And you didn’t even have any good reason to reject this idea outright.

~~~

You have been tossing and turning in your bed for hours already and sleep was yet to come. The full moon has been shining into your chambers so strongly you could see everything even with the lights of. That must be the reason why you can’t sleep, you fumed as you were annoyingly shutting the curtains.

And then you were lying down staring at the ceiling in complete darkness for one more hour.

Okay. I give up. You said to yourself and climbed off the bed, picking up a robe, some slippers and a candlestick holder for some light to take with you.

You left your room quietly and let your feet lead you while trying to not think about where you are going. You passed a few guards on your way, replying only with a curt nod to their deep bows. At the very least you could see for yourself that they are doing their job properly.

You finally ended up in front of the door that was the target destination of your night trip. You put your hand on the handle and were just about to open it, when the door flew open and a young giggly lady ran out straight into your arms, startling you both.

You did your best to not drop your light or burn either of you, while she quickly (and with complete horror) realized who did she run into, composed herself and started apologizing, bowing deeply and begging you for forgiveness. You just dismissed her with a wave of your hand and she didn’t need to be told twice - she bowed once more for good measure and disappeared into the corridor.

Once the commotion calmed down you were free to look into the room. It was a normal harem room, nice and spacious, beautifully decorated with imported furniture and full of lights and candles, with a big bed in the middle. And just there, in the middle of the bed, leisurely spreaded on the finest silks your country could provide, was Jaemin. And what a sight for sore eyes he was - dressed only in light silk pants,so thin, you could almost make out what’s under them, with only his upper body on display, all in its tanned and muscular glory. Lying there, like a picture perfect example of debauchery, sweaty, used, and covered in lovebites and bodily fluids, as if letting himself to show you what he's there for.

He didn’t scramble off the bed to bow to you, which would be a punishable offense and he must have known. Instead, he let his head drop back on the pillow and with drowsy eyes, tired voice and wide smug smile he asked:

“Your highness… How can I help you?” he drawled slowly, without any care about what’s proper and what is not. He seemed to enjoy being seen in such a state, especially by you.

You clenched your jaw. You will not be entertaining this kind of behavior. You promptly turned on your heel and left his room, slamming the door behind you.

You took on the way back to your quarters, fuming the entire time, but trying to not think about why exactly.

~~~

It’s been a few days and you can’t sleep again. But this time, you are not trying to. You’ve been periodically alternating lying restlessly in your bed with pacing around your room. You might have checked yourself in the mirror once or twice. And now you’re back in bed, more nervous and anxious than you should be. You keep glimpsing on the clock even though it’s still a little bit too early - your instructions were clear - better later than to be seen. But you still can’t wait, you’re not sure if it’s just the anxiety or also maybe some anticipation.

The heavy door to your chambers slowly opens, revealing your visitor - Na Jaemin, slipping through the door silently like a cat, closing them after himself without any sound. He’s wearing only a thin, almost translucent white silk shirt and some light linen pants - both entirely inappropriate attire even for slinking through the palace corridors deep at night. He is looking at you, his facial expression neutral, not exposing any of his thoughts.

“Your highness,” he greets. He doesn’t bow.

You nod in reply, but don’t know what else to say. Usually you wouldn’t be so shy or embarrassed, but none of your harem members unsettles you like he does. You could just order him around, but it doesn’t feel right, you don’t want it like that. The moment is so awkward that you don’t know whether to start laughing or not, as you are just staring at each other. So you decide to slightly break the tension by lifting the silk duvets in invitation.

He doesn’t wait a second and swiftly joins you in your massive canopy bed, throwing half of the bedding off on the ground. He settles between your legs, laying down on his belly and pushes your nightgown up. With just a brief glance at your face to confirm his intentions he gets to work. He starts eating your pussy with the skill and talent of someone who, well, eats pussy as a profession - and it would have felt maybe too impersonal if he weren’t so good at it. He’s enthusiastic and he clearly likes doing it, with his eyes closed and occasional humming. It feels good, his tongue feels like it’s everywhere at the same time and the tempo is perfect, even more when he dares to slip two fingers inside you.

It’s good, too good and you don’t want to come. Not yet, not before he does what needs to be done. But he doesn’t know that yet.

You reluctantly grab him by his hair and unstick him from your pussy. He looks so beautiful, his eyes are closed and his face is flushed, with sweat gathering on his temples. His lower face is all wet and his lips are so red. He opens his eyes, slowly, blinking:

“You don’t want to? Is that not why I am here?” he asks, looking surprised. You are not sure whether to trust it or he’s just pretending. But you don’t feel like you are obligated to explain yourself to him.

“Take it out. Put it in,” you order.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” his face transforms completely, his smug wide shark smile back on his face. You let his hair go and he gets up, keeling between your legs, towering over you. He starts to untie his pants.

“Is that what this is about?” he asks, while grabbing you by your hips, pulling you closer to him so easily as if you weighed nothing. “I heard some gossip about an heir. So are you just using me for breeding?” he says, putting on a fake accusatory tone. How does he have the mental presence to pretend-pout while he’s literally pushing his hard cock inside, flashes through your head.

He stops when he’s all the way in and leans forward over you, unmoving and staring right into your eyes, his unsettling smile plastered on as usual.

“Yes.” you do your best to keep your voice stable as he starts moving. You relax and lift your legs to wrap them around his back to push him deeper. His movements are fluid and he’s gentle, clearly thinking of your comfort first, not just hammering in without consideration.

“The royal court has found you a purpose,” you breathe out, closing your eyes. You drop your head back on the pillows. “And I am not using you, you should be honored.”

“Does the royal court not care about the father of its heirs being just a lowly pleasure slave? Maybe we are more equal than you think, you know” taunts Jaemin. You run your hands over his wide back, holding on for the dear life and he’s starting to fuck you more thoroughly, his tempo getting faster. Despite that, he doesn’t seem to get any winded, his stamina is solid and his self-control clearly impeccable, as he doesn’t seem to be affected in any way. But he is, you can feel him sweat, you can feel the slick wetness between your bodies just as well as you can feel how hard he is.

“It’s-it’s not important,” you stutter between thrusts. You’re slowly getting there and it’s becoming hard to think. He’s going fast and deep and finally you can hear him getting out of breath.

“Okay,” he breathes out. He lowers down so he can kiss you on your neck. “I’ll give you your daughters” he puts his lips close to your ear, his deep voiced whispers accompanying his final thrusts, as he loses the rhythm and cums inside of you, with your orgasm following right after, triggered by his and his words.

You keep holding on to him tightly as you feel pumping his cum inside of you, both coming down from your orgasms. You’re enjoying this closeness and you don’t really want to let go, but everything is getting too hot and sticky, so you reluctantly let him drop on the bed next to you.

You feel completely liquid but when you glance at him, he’s already recovered, with his breath back to normal and wits fully gathered.

He grins at you. “Your highness~~ Were you satisfied with my services?”

Yes. “We will see that soon.”

He turns to his side and gets close to cuddle up to you. You don’t know what to do with your limbs, but let him do as he wishes. Which is sticking himself fully onto you like an octopus.

“I was thinking, If it works out well, maybe you could let me make a few more babies for your court ladies, so the throne heir has friends to play with, what do you think?” he mumbles into your skin.

Fuck no. It’s not that you are possessive, not over a measly harem member, but something about this proposal rubs you the wrong way. You frown and start to fight your way out of his embrace to scold him from a more dignified position, but you’re stuck in an iron cuddle grip. And the more you try to wiggle out, the tighter it gets.

“Noooooo? Does your majesty not like this idea~~?” he asks. “That’s okay then, we will just have to work eeeeeextra hard to make this one a twins,” he laughs, already scrambling up so he can get between your legs again.

And you can’t help yourself, and laugh with him.

~~~

a/n: i like to imagine that this jaemin is actually a runaway youngest prince of some neighboring country who decided to become a hitman for hire, because that’s just so much more fun. he loooves killing people, but he really did need a vacation :)

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howtofightwrite · 4 months ago

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Hello! I know yall have talked about how overusing violence in a story makes it less impactful especially if it doesn’t cause lasting impacts for the characters. In my story this lack of impact slowly clues the mc in that something is Wrong with [them/reality, they’re not sure] because hey, these things *should* be having some effects, healing in this setting may be magic but it’s not *miracles*, but I’m not sure how to differentiate it from the typical outcomes of violence in fiction that the reader will simply be used to seeing, outside just the mc’s thoughts on the matter. What are some things yall would want to see acknowledged and/or explored when treating violent encounters this way intentionally? Would someone become more violent (or more willing to do awful things to others when engaged in violence) over time when it didn’t have lasting consequences? Thanks!

Okay, so there's three separate things going on, and two of these intersect normally, but we usually approach them separately.

The first is the diminishing returns on violence; the simplest explanation would be that the less violence you have in your story, the more impactful (or potent) it will be. For example, looking at a pair of films from Tarantino's career. The violence is Reservoir Dogs hits much harder than the violence in Kill Bill. For example, if you've seen the former and I mention, “the ear scene,” you know exactly what I'm talking about. Yes, it's a somewhat gruesome scene, but it sticks with you, even decades later, potentially even to the point that you can't listen to Stuck in the Middle With You, without thinking of that scene. Now, how many people were decapitated in Kill Bill? It's a bit of an honest question, because I genuinely don't remember. While Tarantino has a well deserved reputation for violence, the violence in Reservoir Dogs is far more memorable, because there's far less of it, and the violence that occurs serves very deliberate story purposes. None of it is gratuitous for the purpose of, “here's a fight.” Where Kill Bill basically posits the question of, “how much can you cut out of an action film, while keeping the fight scenes, without the narrative completely collapsing?” As a result, there's a lot of violence, but none of it sticks with you. None of it has any particular impact. Even the moments that are supposed to be meaningful (such as the wedding) blend together.

Managing consequences of violence is more about preserving narrative tension. If that violence poses a real threat to your characters, then putting them in situations where they could be seriously injured or killed does have tension. But there are multiple points of potential failure with this thought process, and the more violence you engage in, the more risk you'll accidentally vent tension when you didn't intend to.

A major issue that can undermine your tension is when your characters, inexplicably, avoid harm. This is frequently an issue with non-powered superheroes, where throwing mountains of cannon fodder at them doesn't result in any meaningful wear and tear on the character.

Ironically, being too cavalier about violence can have a similar effect. Kill off too many characters, and your audience just won't care anymore about the survivors.

There are ways to manage this. A lot of the time a better option is to tie your characters' “fail state” to something other than your characters being hurt or killed. In fact, a lot of superhero narratives have to find other ways to maintain tension, because the protagonist is functionally immune to harm.

For example: The danger that a superhero will become completely ethically detached from their humanity. I hate to break it to you, but that's not a strictly new concept. The classic example of that is probably Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen, though The Comedian from the same is probably a better affirmative answer to your question. Could someone become completely debased when they're insulated from the consequences of their actions? Yeah. You don't even need fictional examples. Whoever Fights Monsters by Robert Ressler is a pretty decent, introductory, look into serial killer pathology, and the process of escalation they go through. Lack of adverse consequences can lead someone down a path to becoming their worst version of themselves.

Specifically talking about superheroes, Watchman casts a long shadow, and one of the issues that a lot of imitators suffered from was to pawn off a superhero's psychological problems into far more mundane causes, like abusive childhoods. (If you're wondering, this is why I'm not recommending things like The Boys, Irredeemable, or Invincible, it's because the only one of those that's even peripherally applicable is Invincible.) If you really want another example, Planetary comes to mind, though it won't be immediately apparent why that's relevant.

Something that's probably worth saying is, it's not about what I, or anyone else, wants to see from your work. This is about you finding the tools to do the best you can with your idea. So, I'm not really sitting her as an arbiter about what you can, can't, should, or shouldn't do. Rather, I'm mostly sitting here observing that, “this is how these things tend to work,” in a story. So, ultimately the decision is what you want to see in your work.

It's also worth remembering that hyperviolent media does exist. The violence doesn't have the same impact as in a more constrained narrative, but that doesn't make one story better than the other. I'm sure there are people who will argue that out of Tarantino's career, Kill Bill is the better film than Reservoir Dogs, (even if I'm not one to make that specific argument.) The point I don't often draw attention to, within the diminishing returns is, if you're going to use a lot of violence, it becomes difficult to pull out an individual violent moment and say, “no, this one's different; this one means more.” You can write an absolute gore-fest, but the individual moments of violence won't have the same kind of weight, and if you want one of those to carry more emotional weight, it's going to require a lot more care in how you structure your events.

A lot of the times with writing advice, it's not about, “right or wrong,” it's about identifying what works and what will take a bit more finesse to get working.

-Starke

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#writing reference #writing advice #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers

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vickyvicarious · 6 months ago

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Oh yes, the feeling that you have to rely to the creeper who you loathe so much that you have come to hate even the rooms he resides in, that he's not the scariest thing in your life, that you have to run to his arms for safety. Horror! Dracula claiming him was the high point of the entry (than the almost-bite)

Honestly, yeah. The dynamics between Dracula and Jonathan are so scary, to the point that all the supernatural events are the cherry on top rather than the main course, as far as the horror of this section goes.

Dracula does so much manipulation here, holds so many different kinds of power over Jonathan, and multiple levels of each too. He's got physical power - both in the sense of the castle being a prison, and in the sense of his incredible strength. He's got social power - as a noble, and as a client/boss. He's got monetary power over Jonathan too, able to potentially make or ruin his career. He has so much control over Jonathan's ability to express himself - he's the only company available to him, he's forcing him to keep up a pretense of friendship, he's limiting and controlling his communication with others. Jonathan has no escape: he can't go out of the castle because he's locked in, he can't go many places inside the castle because he's locked out of them, and now he can't leave the rooms Dracula wants him in because otherwise the vampire ladies will get him, and within those rooms there is nowhere safe from Dracula himself. Jonathan has seemingly no action he can take: if he sneaks around behind Dracula's back, a greater threat awaits. If he acts openly, Dracula's own threat may become realized. If he doesn't act at all, he's doomed. If he acts at all, he's doomed. If he trusts Dracula, he's doomed. If he doesn't trust Dracula, he's doomed.

Of course, the supernatural elements are the mechanics by which Dracula increases the stakes, the threats underlying the charming veneer. Specifically, the introduction of the vampire women is what puts Jonathan in this seemingly inescapable box, and one with potential threats to something even greater than his life.

But Dracula's playing this Bluebeard role and could have done so with some more mundane threat as well, without changing too terribly much about his own actions. Where he's scariest (at least to me) is in these interactions with Jonathan, in these manipulative webs and traps he lays out in his words, in the way he pushes so many boundaries until they're forced to collapse or warp under the pressure. Jonathan's privacy keeps getting worn away. Dracula's speech and touch get more familiar and more possessive. He started out the first night blaming Jonathan for the things he did himself ('oh, why did you make your conversation so interesting we had to stay up all night?') and escalates until now he's making Jonathan be the one to act, and to suffer the consequences: whether in forcing him to lie to his loved ones, or in dangling the bait of sleeping outside his room and then only barely saving him when he does. And Jonathan has no real choice but to act. To fail to do so, in one way or another, would mean giving up all hope at escape or likely even survival. But because he has to act, he winds up feeling complicit. He ends up in situations where Dracula thanks him, forgives him, saves him. It keeps putting them on seemingly the same side, with Jonathan in a lesser/reliant role. And that's all a huge lie, at its core. But in a very real way, it's true too, to an extent. More and more, he's getting layers of resistance scraped away, and having to seek safety from Dracula now is so, so horrifying. In many ways all he truly has left is his will to live, his internal determination to resist - and now he's been given powerful incentive not to trust in that latter part too much. It's absolutely brutal.

He's walking a wire that just keeps getting thinner and thinner. All he can possibly do is try to keep this balancing act going, and hope for something to change that will give him more options down the line.

#dracula daily #jonathan harker #count dracula #rikiteekeetavee #replies #dracula claiming him was nearly the worst part of the entry. but for me jonathan's thoughts about it after the fact are even worse.#and it's not nearly rock bottom yet!

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yuri-is-online · 7 months ago

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The TWST cast from the original Fyuuture Kid timeline is so Cleopatra by Lumineers coded. They just get their (pregnant) joyfriend ripped away from them, cursed, and then sent back to earth, where they can't follow all in one day. That's gotta be a fucking nightmare. They just lose everything at the same time. Bro. Imagine Jamil or Azul, they had to fight for everything and just when they finally, FINALLY, think they have something that will never leave, it's taken away. Imagine malleus or cater or silver; they've already lost so much, silver just lost his dad and now, when he's going to make his own family, they're taken from him too.

TW FOR SUICIDE.

You wrote one time that of Yuu ever died, Floyd would be quick to follow, so. Did Jade and Azul have to put him on suicide watch? My mind is reeling there were NO WINNERS in this timeline Goddamn.

Sorry for the angst dude I just think about this AU a lot

i am so sorry for making you all live with this many thoughts and just waltzing on off to do fuck all

So there weren't any winners in the original timeline no, but the way things went down sort of prevented the type of outcome you are describing with Floyd due to the potential for hope, that most dangerous of falsehoods. In a way that sort of makes it worse though... so lets talk about what went down shall we?

(I'm going to keep this post to more general information, but I did write some specific ship thoughts I'll probably use for another post later on, I just need to think on some of them more...)

notes: they/them used for Yuu, this is part of my fyuuture kid au which can be found under the series section of my masterlist. This post will not contain discussions of suicidal ideation, but will contain major character death and descriptions of violence. If you are curious about what happened to Yuu and Fyuuture kid, look at this post here.

General Original Timeline Facts

To give a brief re-cap of what happens to Yuu, they were arrested by the Magical Marshall's office and sent back to their world, while pregnant, and cursed to forget everything that had happened to them in Twisted Wonderland. Something I didn't mention in that first post, mostly because I intended to imply it in the answer about Riddle's relationship with Yutu but ended up cutting, is that none of the characters actually know that this is what happened at first. They know that Yuu disappeared, but they don't know that the Marshalls were involved or that Yuu went back to their world, which causes a real sense of panic in all of them because holy shit their spouse and unborn child just went missing and they can't seem to get anyone to take this seriously. How the Marshalls went about hiding this information, and what the general public believed happened to Yuu depends on who their husband was, as did the fallout of their disappearance.

For anyone who might be a bit confused, the Magical Marshall's Office is an elite squad of police officers who investigate magical crime, and occasionally deal with overblots. They are the organization that Deuce wants to join one day, which does mean that the people who made the decision to see Yuu as a threat to public safety and send Yuu home were Deuce's own co-workers and friends.

Deuce is the first to suspect that the Marshall's might have had something to do with Yuu's disappearance, but he isn't able to really do much with that. He tries, but he is stonewalled and eventually fired- though by the time that happened monster attacks started getting really bad in the Queendom and Deuce had a whole other set of questions.

Speaking of those monster attacks, the instant Yuu is removed from Twisted Wonderland Grim overblots I have an idea as to why, but it isn't super set in stone. This "Chimera" begins hunting and stirring up monsters, inciting them to attack civilization while it focuses on trying to "wake up" the Phantoms of the Great 7. These phantoms want to re-join with their respective overblot boy, which is an easier task for some of them than others.

The first phantom to re-appear was the Thorn Fairy's. Malleus chose to seal himself and his phantom in an eternal sleep inside the Briar Valley capital after ordering Sebek and Silver to evacuate everyone who lived there, leaving his people truly leaderless and in shambles. He technically also ordered Lilia to go with them, but he refused. He wasn't able to abandon another Draconia to die alone. A lot of nocturnal fae died to the Phantom before Malleus's sacrifice, but because the problem was more or less contained to Briar Valley not all of the other nations saw the monster problem as a threat. They should have.

The second phantom to re-appear was The Queen of Hearts'. Riddle, having been approached by Deuce with his suspicions regarding Yuu's disappearance and outraged by what he saw as a clear violation of the law (if nothing else) was easy prey and re-assimilated into the monster. The phantom then began hunting down each of Riddle's previous dorm mates to corrupt them into card soldiers for its army, eventually fashioning four lieutenants that were a touch more sentient that the others out of Trey, Cater, Deuce, and Ace.

Certain members of the Al-Asim family saw that happen and quietly, without Kalim's knowledge, arrange to have Jamil killed. This doesn't prevent the Sorcerer of the Sands' phantom from reuniting with him, it just means the monster is puppeteering a corpse. And dragging around a second once it gets its hands on Kalim...

Obviously at this point something of a pattern has been established, meaning S.T.Y.X. is expected to do something. Idia does not actually overblot for a second time thank you very much, Phantom Ortho has a mind of his own and he promised to stay in the Underworld until it was Idy's time. His first order of business is to check in on Vil, Azul, and Leona to make sure they're ok. He manages to make contact with Vil, but the Coral Sea proves impossible to get a message through to and Leona is M.I.A. Literally, he and Ruggie have both disappeared while investigating monster attacks around the slums. Idia has a decision to make, and it's not one he really likes, but S.T.Y.X. has a better relationship with the Sunset Savannah than it does the Coral Sea, so it's off to the Elephant Graveyard while Vil agrees to stay behind on the Isle of Woe under observation for his own safety.

It's a decision Idia regrets later. He gets to Leona in time to help him fight and kill the King of Beasts's phantom, but it costs Leona and Ruggie their lives, and while he's there, the Sea Witch's phantom finds Azul and begins using his magic to drain the merfolk dry. Floyd manages to use his unique magic to distract Azul long enough to allow Jade to escape, who only flees because he thought his brother was behind him the whole time. The oceans become polluted with blot, forcing the surviving merfolk to the surface. Many go to NRC and take refuge in the Octavinelle dorm pocket dimension, resulting in the Mostro Lounge being closed to make more room. Somehow that feels more like a killing blow to Azul for Jade than what the phantom did.

Schools like NRC, RSA, and Nobel Bell become sort of centers for survivors due to the large amounts of mages, magical wards, and artifacts that such schools typically have made them safer than most towns. NRC specifically has seen a large influx of magicless people who run a lot of the things the ghosts used to and runs a lot of normal school classes in additional to the magic program, which shifts over time to be more focused on fighting due to the increased monster attacks.

Also Crewel is now Headmage. It would have been Trein but I don't think he needs the stress. I haven't decided if he is still alive or not, but Vargas and Sam are still kicking.

So to give a run down of where everyone stands in the original timeline in order: Malleus and his phantom are trapped in an eternal sleep, Lilia is dead, Silver and Sebek are alive (at least at first) and trying to help the fae refuges displaced by the Thorn Fairy's Phantom. All of Heartslabyul are overblot phantoms, and actively making the Queendom of Roses unlivable. Jamil was assassinated and the Sorcerer of the Sands's phantom went on to kill Kalim and most of his family. To be clear that wasn't because of Jamil's lingering emotions, but good luck explaining that to most people. Vil and Idia are overblot free, Vil because he is being detained on the Isle of Woe and Idia because of his promise with Phantom Ortho. Leona and Ruggie died fighting the King of Beast's phantom. Azul and Floyd are blot phantoms, while Jade is alive and tending bar at what remains of the lounge at NRC.

Now Epel, Rook, and Jack aren't named in that list. No one really knows what happened to them, but they are assumed dead (or at least Jack and Epel are.) Since this is my AU and I get to give out the information, I'll let you know that Rook is a phantom under control of the Fairest Queen's phantom, Jack is dead, and Epel is alive, but cut off from the rest of Twisted Wonderland by the monsters under the Fairest Queen's control. He's right teed off about that, hey Yutu go get him that ladder he's gonna give Rook a piece of his mind-

I do have some ship specific thoughts but I want to cook with them a bit more... but to maaaybe tease some of them?

Yutu and his friends had to fight the Heartslabyul boys multiple times. Yes this hurt their Yutus a lot, and is one of the main reasons Riddle! Yutu hates his dad so much.

Vil can hear the Fairest Queen talking to him and it's not great for his mental stability. Neither is being cooped up in the Isle of Woe, his Yutu did meet him and remembers it being a terrifying experience.

Jade has a good relationship with Floyd! Yutu, Jade and Floyd are their own people but losing Floyd killed a part of him that was slightly healed by getting his nephew back. He likes to tease Azul! Yutu and told him a great deal about his dad. As for his own Yutu... their relationship is a tad strained by how protective Jade is over his son. He is terrified of losing him and what is left of his pearl...

Not all Yutus are in the same dorm as their father. I haven't decided on where all of them are yet, but I did mention once in my replies that Azul! Yutu is in Savanaclaw. I did not mention that he did intend to transfer but couldn't when he accidentally became the Dorm Leader because he got tired of being mouthed off to and knocked someone out. I have an ask about Cater! Yutu I'm working on but I'll add him here as having been put into Octavinelle, and I think I want to put Kalim! Yutu into Pomefiore but I need to cook more...

#<3 asks #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #future kid au #tw character death #ngl i cried when i was writing about jade #so no one yell at me i am already yelling at myself ok

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