#sometimes sacrifices must be made no matter how small
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can we see more of your little digidevil guy... they are so small and lumpy and perfect
THIS WAS ALSO ASKED A LONG TIME AGO yes u can omgâŚ. thank you đ
#weird kitty!!!!!!!!!!!!!#if i decide to draw them lumpierâŚâŚâŚâŚ#pix#digidevil#original characters#my art#ask#anon#edit: just noticed in the first drawings i ever did of themthey had four fingers buthere i only gave them three per handâŚ#sometimes sacrifices must be made no matter how small
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Can u make a study guide in elle woods and hermione
what, like it's hard?: the ultimate guide to studying like Elle woods and Hermione granger
Elle Woods
1. romanticize study
put yourself in the spirit of Elle Wood. transform your study space into a sanctuary of style. choose colorful and original school supplies. make your school your Fashion show! why? This will allow you to romanticize the lessons as much as possible and also to relax and be in a good mood before lessons. to motivate yourself in your revision, write your lessons correctly, write the important words in red, take extra care of your writing and finally make your notes more aesthetic with highlighters.
2. study with other people
Elle knew how to build relationships with her classmates and rely on them to improve. So don't hesitate to work with other people, it will allow you to share or acquire knowledge, receive or give explanations when you don't understand something.
3. made sacrifices
Elle Woods stopped parties with her friends to concentrate on her studies. I'm not telling you to stop all contact with your friends but simply to know how to organize your time to reconcile everything.
4. find a study method
Elle Woods used self-assessment as a method. This allowed her to identify her shortcomings (know what you need to improve on the most and what you don't need a lot of hours of revision), to plan your revisions (know what you need to work on the most). I advise you to do a self-assessment every day up to and including the day before your test to see your progress, to be more and more efficient to achieve excellence on the day of the test.
5.find your motivation
Elle Woods had a reason to work, I advise you to find your reason to succeed in your studies and make yourself proud. You have confidence in yourself, recognize your value and persevere! Even if you get a bad grade in a subject, don't give up and work more in that subject.
Hermione granger
1. organization
the key to Hermione's success is her organization. identify important deadlines, plan your revision time using a calendar or diary. identify your priorities and take time for each task.
2.discipline
Hermione has a common sense which allows her to prioritize studies rather than futile things which can distract her. She focuses on her learning objectives so try to follow her example by eliminating distractions and focusing on your studies.step away from your phone and fight temptation and study.
3. learns with avidity
Hermione loves to learn learn. She has an insatiable thirst for knowledge and is not afraid to dive into books to find the answers to her questions. So awaken this thirst for learning in you and don't worry not happy to skim over the subjects. do some extra research, ask questions, and push yourself to dig deeper.
4.good time management
hermione is the queen of time management. she uses every little minute wisely without wasting time. To study like her, you have to do the same. Plan your study time intelligently and efficiently. Set goals for each session and use concentration techniques like the pomodoro technique. but hey, don't panic if you have trouble sticking to your schedule sometimes, stay flexible and adjust your plan if necessary.
5. the key to success is perseverance!
Hermione never gives up, no matter the obstacles that stand in her way, she remains focused and does everything to achieve her academic goals. So you must do the same. When things get difficult, don't let it get you down. persevere in your studies and remember that each small step brings you closer to your ultimate goal.
#elle woods#hermione granger#dream life#dream girl#high maintenance#it girl#it girl energy#self development#self love#becoming that girl#self care#that girl#clean girl#studies#study motivation#study aesthetic#study tips#romantizing school
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I think there's something poetic about Pinnochio that's crushing some of us more than others. Like, this little kid, this sweet baby was given life and from day one, minute ONE, was given a short list of rules to follow to earn his fathers affection. Because his father wanted a son, but a son cannot be made of wood, he must be a "real boy" to be a son. He's had to fight tooth and nail, splinter and varnish, to be what his father wants and the tiniest mistake? the ittiest bittiest littlest mistake? BOOM! wood.
By the end of his Story, Pinnochio figures it out. He's found the limitations, the hard lines of the laws of his life. If he is good, and kind, and doesn't ever lie, he gets to be loved, he gets to be a son. It's a solid box, small and ill fitting for a child, with no sign of what it will do to him as a grown up but that's not in his Story, so it doesn't matter. Maybe in his world, in Amanti, with his father, if The Times of Shadow never came, he would have been fine staying in that box. Being a good boy, and later man, and never once telling a lie lest he become unlovable wood.
But the Times of Shadow did come. And Pinnochio looked into the eyes of the Wicked Fairy, after hearing the screams of his friends fathers dying in the night, drowned and eaten and bled by rats and birds and all manner of critters of shadows. He saw the very thing he'd always been questioning stare him in the face with a sweet smile and screams at his back.
He saw the rules c h a n g e.
Before anyone else, Pinnochio saw a damned if he did situation and chose to be wood. He Chose to be an Unlovable, Bad, Little Wooden Boy, because he loves his father more than he fears being unloved. He'd rather be a puppet and with his father than be Real and be alone.
He loved his father so much, he made a deal with the Wicked Stepmother because she promised to take care of his father for him. After he lied to keep his father alive, safe from the Wicked Fairy and knowing he's just a little wooden boy, how could he possible keep his father safe, especially when he won't listen to pinnochio? Of course he'd agree to help the stepmother it it meant his father would be safe. Of course he'd take that sacrifice. Of course he'd die.
Pinnochio loves his father. Enough to be wooden forever. To be unloveable, bad, mischievous, foolish, left behind. Because Pinnochios life has always been harder than other children. He's used to it now. But now it has purpose. Now that repetitive hard line he'll never escape has given him the strength to survive. He's smart, fast, powerful in his own right and growing everyday. He's his own patron now. He wasn't built for the world he was forced into, but he's built for this one.
And isn't it terrible? To be in a world not made for you? Or rather, specifically designed to hurt you and only you? so that the actual end of the world isn't that big a deal at all?
"Sometimes, you have to lie... You have to lie to protect the one you love..."
#dimension 20#pinnochio#lou wilson#d20 neverafter#neverafter#brennan lee mulligan#d20 spoilers#pinocchio neverafter#ylfa snorgelsson
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Forbidden Sight
With the threat of the Fallen forcing Bumblebee to act and Megatron long since out of the picture, he is left with no choice but to seek out the aid of the divine. Unfortunately, meeting the divine is not all it is cracked up to be, and sometimes the price is not worth the sacrifice.
(Please note: This is LONG and there is body horror going on so do be aware.)
âNo, I am not going down there again.â Ratchet clutched his dented arm possessively, his optics flaring in fear of all things. Bumblebee stilled as the Doctorâs plating flared, his servo doing a terrible job covering obvious digit shaped imprints. What could have possibly caused such damage?
âRatchet, you are the only one who knows the way. You went with Optimus when he-â Ratchet cut him off with a look of pure terror and grief that ran so deep it was clear to see in his body, field, and expression. Bumblebee couldnât help but stare in shock as the Doctor shook his helm frantically.
âNo. No. I will give you the path I mapped, but I will never go down there. Not again.â Something had shaken him to the core. Ratchet was never like this, at least not around anyone who could see or hear what he was dealing with.
Bumblebee took a moment to meet the gazes of his team. They were worried. They looked to him for guidance. None of them said a word, but Windbladeâs dipped wings and Strongarmâs nervous twitching told him everything he needed to know.
None were looking forward to the journey ahead, even in light of its necessity.
âRatchetâŚâ He trailed off as everyone fell silent. Guilt radiated in Ratchetâs field, but he did not budge. He wouldnât be guiding them, no matter how much Bumblebee pleaded.
In order to defeat the Fallen, they needed information that no living mech, save for perhaps Megatron, possessed. With Megatron lost to the stars, Soundwave stuck in the shadowzone, and other possible sources similarly scattered or deceased, there really was only one choice. It was a faint hope, but Optimus had made the journey to Primusâs core long ago in search of both an end to the war and a way to restore their world. There were none left alive who knew the exact details of what went on that cycle, but Ratchet and a small cohort had journeyed with Orion Pax and they knew that when he emerged, he was greater than he was before.
Orion Pax gained knowledge on that dark cycle. Bumblebeeâs hope was that he could do the same.
Optimus was gone, dead, and given to the Well. There was no one else except Ratchet, who might have had the faintest idea as to how to get to Primusâs core safely. And yet he was shaking, terrified to the point of being unable to move, regardless of how badly his field flared with the desire to flee. Something had happened, and that fact did not give Bumblebee any confidence.
âI⌠I will wait for you here. But Bumblebee, you must listen to me.â Ratchet released his death grip on his damaged arm, leaving it free for all to see. Sideswipe cursed softly somewhere behind him, but Bumblebee could only stare at the damage in horror.
Deep, dark, and dangerous dents that turned into tears ran across Ratchetâs arm. Rust and dried energon bordered the wound, nonlethal, but a testament to something powerful down in the depths. There were four clear imprints, huge and imposing digit marksâdug into metal that for all intents and purposes, appeared delicate now. If Bumblebee looked closely, he could see a fifth imprint running along the underside of Ratchetâs arm.
Ratchet had been grabbed by something. And whatever that horror was, it had destroyed the long maintained stoicism of a mech that had never so much as flinched in the face of danger, save for the sake of another.
âDonât touch him. Donât even try to damage him. He will not hesitate to leave a far greater mark.â Ratchetâs entire being spoke of desperation. His plea rang with true terror, not unlike the horror that had been evident in his voice when the Unmaker woke. Still, this was deeper, moreâŚÂ personal.
âI understand.â Bumblebee didnât bother trying to convince Ratchet to come. He was dead set on remaining, and based on his reaction, it was a miracle he wasnât already high tailing it all the way back to Iacon.
âHere are the coordinates of the tunnel entrance and mapped paths I recorded.â Ratchet sent a message over a private link, a file quickly blaring red across Bumblebeeâs vision. He accepted it easily and shared the information with his team.
âBe careful. You wonât like what you see.â Ratchet stepped away, his gaze turning anywhere except the giant hole in the ground leading down to the core of their planet. Bumblebee nodded and gestured for his team to follow. There was no more time to waste and he couldnât afford to think too deeply on Ratchetâs warning.
Bumblebee half expected to have to rock climb down the Well in order to get to his target, but according to Ratchetâs map, there was a path for him to follow. It did take him and Drift arguing over the thing for half a groon before they found the entrance, but once the journey began, any mirth evaporated in an instant.
âI donât like thisâŚâ Strongarm muttered, breaking the silence for only a moment before it became suffocating once more. She shivered, and not even Sideswipe was willing to talk as they delved into the depths. Bumblebee did his best to lead confidently, but the road was long and there were things that shifted in the dark the deeper they went. The entire area felt oddly⌠holy, but only in the vaguest sense.
Controlled seemed like a better word. The path was controlled. Everything was methodical, placed with purpose, even if Bumblebee was unable to parse it out. Drift and Windblade made a few awed comments off and on, but as the light dimmed and the tunnels became more cavernous, his team refused to speak. Bumblebee couldnât blame them, especially not when there were pedeprints in the dust from mecha who traveled with Optimus Prime millennia ago.
This place carried too much history to be disrupted for longer than absolutely required.
âWe are almost to the core. Stay together, and donât touch anything. This is a place for Primes and Primes alone.â Bumblebee shivered instinctually as his internal map alerted him to the fact that they were close. It was hard to keep track of the time so deep beneath the surface, but he assumed they had been on the move for around a cycle. He expected the trip to take longer. Wasnât Primus at the very core of their world?
The tunnels made no sense. They hurt to think about.
âSweet PrimusâŚâ Sideswipe cursed, but it was lost in the void as they stepped through a final arch, quickly finding themselves basked in the light of their maker, or at least, his core. Bumblebee had to pause and look on in both awe and a degree of existential dread as cogs larger than life turned in a rhythmic manner, adhering to laws and designs long forgotten by any living being save for the one who ordered their continued functioning.
A thin pathway led closer to the core, one large enough for a mech or two depending on frame type. A few stray Predacon corpses long rusted littered the ground, dark energon leaking from their battered frames. They were lifeless, but they were a reminder of the battle hard fought and won.
âEveryone, keep a ways behind me. If something goes wrong, one of you needs to get out of here and regroup with Ratchet and my old teammates.â He held out an arm, not thinking too deeply on the motion as he cautiously moved forward. He could sense his team moving slowly a few dozen feet behind him, watching him like techno-hawks as he followed the curved pathway toward where he assumed he could address the slumbering god of Cybertron, or at least attempt to commune with the Primes of old.
Everything seemed to pulse and hum around him as he walked. And yet, there was no noise. Not a sound, not a creak, not even his own pedesteps as the light of Primus washed over him in waves. He might have been imagining it, but everything about the area felt intelligent, even alive. If mythology was to be believed, then his senses would be correct. However, it only served to unsettle him as he noted the marks of small pedes moving forward and far larger pedes heading toward the entrance.
How long had it been since the soil was disturbed? Were these Optimusâs marks? Or had someone else made the journey down to Primus to cry out to their absent god? He didnât think so. The marks matched Optimusâs specs. That thought bothered him, although he could not pinpoint why. The dust should have moved. Something should have changed. Despite that, the echoes of a darker time remained engraved in the very path he walked.
He stepped cautiously, his optics drawn to a series of cables and connectors hanging down from where Primusâs core reached an accessible level. He momentarily wondered if Optimusâs body was stuck amongst those of the Predacons, or caught in wires beneath the thin path he carefully tread. Was the body of his leader hanging limply, forgotten by all but the void that embraced him?
Bumblebee wished that were the case. By Primus he wished that were the case when he finally ascended, following the path as close as it came to Primusâs core.
He wanted to purge as he set optics upon the tattered mess that hung from countless wires and cables. There was no denying who it was. No other mech bore red and blue so proudly or carried a relic of a forgotten age within his spark chamber. He was thinner now, seriously emaciated with rust and dried gore of all kinds spattered across his frame at various intervals. His plating hung off him at odd angles, some pieces even missing altogether. His left finial was broken and the optic on the same side was damaged to the point of almost appearing crushed.
The connectors attached to him dug beneath armor and protoform alike, bloating his frame in strange, unusual places. Blue tinted ooze dripped from unnatural wounds, falling down into the void beneath. The cables seemed to slither into him, creeping into every seam and strut, pulsing with the waves of Primusâs light. The Matrix glowed in time with it all, seemingly content even as its bearer hung lifelessly.
âOptimus, Iâm so sorry.â His digits shook, and it took all his willpower to not turn away and purge as he stared at what remained of his mentor, his leader, and the only fatherly character he had ever known. The Prime was not honored in death, not like this. His body hung up like some sort of twisted trophy.
It wasnât right. Optimus deserved better than this.
âI wish I could bury you properly, but this will have to do.â He stepped forward, doing his best to not look at the deep gashes along Optimusâs back where his jetpack had once been. He could see cables slithering there, sliding deep and along Optimusâs spine. He fought the urge to gag as he readied himself to act.
He would take the Matrix out of Optimusâs chassis and use it to find a way to commune with the Primes of old. His leaderâs body would then be cut free, and he could rest without being strung up like a tormented attempt at taxidermy. It was the least he could do. After everything, Optimus should be allowed to pass without being held up in a grim state of disrepair.
âI wish you werenât like this⌠I wish things were different.â He found himself murmuring softly as his digits barely brushed against the relic. However, his movement seemed to stir it, and Bumblebee leapt back with a yelp as the Matrix became encased in arcs of electricity. Optimusâs body convulsed, the cables holding it up twitching and shifting as the body was lifted higher, away from Bumblebeeâs reach.
âBee!â Sideswipe was the first to move forward, with the rest of the team following behind him. Bumblebee wished he could curse and ward them all off as what remained of his leader contorted in horrible ways. The legs squirmed, kicking at nothing, as power rippled through the living corpse. The arms tensed up, digits twitching madly as the bodyâs optics began to flare without rhyme or reason.
His spark flared in its chamber, terrified as the corpse gave another unfortunate spasm, a deafening crack echoing amidst the eerie silence. The entire chamber seemed to lurch in a spiritual way before the lights all dimmed, Primusâs very core lowering in intensity. Nothing happened for a klik, and Bumblebee was half tempted to try and reach out again as the body fell still. Maybe it was just⌠lingering processor function acting up. Perhaps the Matrix was trying to awaken a host that had long since gone offline. There were always possibilities-
âBumblebee.â The garbled designation in that oh-so-familiar voice shook him, freezing Bumblebee in place as the corpseâs helm raised. The lone functional optic blazed bright enough to blind a mech as it settled on Bumblebee and his team. There was no way Optimus was alive. He couldnât be. That⌠the thing hanging from wire and cables was a corpse. It couldnât be real. It couldnât be real.
âYou have come to seek wisdom.â The corpse shuddered, its staticky voice steadying with every glyph uttered. Its helm tilted, the lone functional optic cycling in on Bumblebee in what could have been interest if it werenât for the fact that there was no spark to power the frame that continued to defy reality.
âYou come for my knowledge, that which has been lost to you, dear children.â The cables holding the corpse shifted, growing as more came down from the void. They slithered and writhed beneath the corpseâs plating, allowing the body to lower closer, almost to the point of being within touching distance. The blazing optic that illuminated the entire chamber flickered off and on, its gaze seemingly so glued to Bumblebee that it felt like fire on his plating. Yet, at the same time, it seemed the corpse was looking right through him, not seeing so much as observing.
âLittle Orion came to me long ago. He too sought out my guidance.â The living corpse shifted, its arms moving in haphazard, jagged movements. Its digits twitched, seemingly trying to gesture and grasp at nonexistent objects. It hurt to watch as ooze leaked from between cracks, forced out by movement that should not have been possible. A few of the cables loosened, allowing the corpse to move a degree. It leaned forward, its tattered frame straining as its derma failed to match the syllables of the glyphs being uttered.
It was sickening. Bumblebee wanted to retch and flee, but his very spark lurched in his chassis, frozen before the entity that wore his father figureâs frame like a suit. There was no escape. Not for him, not for his terrified team.
âWhat will you give for that which you seek?â The corpseâs neck cracked and energon so old that it was little more than a tank churning goo dripped from torn ligaments and connectors. The corpse remained focused on him, a smile beginning to form on its face, cracking the delicate facial plating that once gave Optimus his classical reputation.
It reached out. Its arms gestured to Bumblebee as the light of Primusâs core pulsed behind it, shadowing it while also making it impossible to look away. It was a mockery of all Optimus was, and Bumblebee couldnât help the rage that began to pool in his spark alongside the dread.
âWhat will you offer when my Champion gave me everything?â The Matrix flared, power arcing off it as the entity spoke. The corpseâs helm tilted a little too far to be possible for a normal mech, almost shifting a full ninety degrees. It grinned, its arms pulled close to itself as viscera and torn cables seeped out from between cracks in the corpseâs armor.
This thing was not Optimus. It merely wore his frame and mimicked his voice. Bumblebeeâs desire to flee quickly found itself overshadowed by grim determination. Whatever the entity was, it could not be allowed to continue desecrating the frame of his leader and father.
âWho are you?â A slight tremor entered his voice as he spoke. His team huddled close to each other, stepping back from Bumblebee as the thing descended lower, its smile wide enough to tear through facial plating with ease. Bumblebee could see molar derma showing through the gashes that formed as the thing pushed Optimusâs body beyond its limits.
âI am the one below, he who formed your sparks from fire and starlight.â The entityâs smile softened, although it did nothing to take away from the rotted scent that emanated from the corpse. Rusted metal, stagnant energon, and the rancid smell of corroding internal fluids long since left to rot. That one optic blazed with renewed fury as Primusâs core brightened for a moment, joining the entity, the god as it, he spoke.
âI ask you again, what will you offer? How much are you willing to give for victory?â The cables slithered ever deeper into battered protoform, puppeting limbs as the god of all Cybertronians hung within the confines of Optimusâs corpse. Bumblebeeâs digits shook as the being known as Primus continued to stare through the optic of his father.
This was so very wrong. What use would a god have for a mortal frame? Why would Primus do this to his chosen? Why would he demand sacrifices when already they had given all they could?
âI⌠I will give whatever is required.â He clenched his jaw, steeling himself for whatever was to come as Primus continued to stare, uncaring, unnatural, and yet so very loving all at once. His teamâs fields flared in horror, and distantly he was aware of Windblade and Drift dropping to their knees in submission, be it out of fear or reverent respect. Strongarm and Sideswipe continued to step away, terrified as more cables wrapped around Optimusâs frame, supporting it so that the god could pilot it more freely.
âHow noble of you. Optimus tended to you well. I can sense his touch, feel his influence all throughout your very being.â The corpse moved, the cables dragging it through the chamber as it did a slow circle around Bumblebee and his team. The god kept a safe distance away, remaining half submerged in shadow at any given moment as the spotlight that was Optimusâs optic continued to illuminate Bumblebee and those with him.
âI was right to let him keep you.â The voice echoed from all around and yet nowhere at once. Primus hung directly above Bumblebee for a moment, the corpse of Optimus Prime dripping fluids that made him want to gag. He resisted the urge, trying with all his might to not show how frightened he was as the god returned to his former position in front of the core, seemingly content.
âWhat does that mean?â The implications of the godâs words were startling to say the least. He spoke as though he controlled Optimus as easily as he did now, moving his body and commanding his voice. Would Optimus have left him if Primus had not ordained the Primeâs acquisition of Bumblebee after the destruction of his home city? Did Optimus have no free will? Or was the god toying with him just as Unicron had all those years ago?
âNothing to you. It is of no consequence.â The god continued to smile in that sickly way that was only found on corpses where the mortician simply couldnât manage to make the expression look natural. Optimusâs other finial snapped and fell into the void below as Primus contorted Optimusâs frame again, forcing it to jerkingly return to a somewhat comfortable position resting within the wires.
It didnât look comfortable at all, not with wires and cables threatening to burst from every line and seam. If Optimus were alive, Bumblebee had no doubt that he would be in agony. He sincerely hoped his father figure wasnât still functioning, trapped by some divine will within his frame as it twisted and shifted in ways it wasnât meant to.
âWhy are you doing this? Why canât you let him rest?â Anger returned in full force as Bumblebee shook. Why did the monster that called himself a god have to do this to his chosen? Had Optimus not served enough?
He got his answer as the god paused, and then laughed.
It was a deep guttural and almost pained sound, one that bordered on a wheeze and the buzz of radio static all at once. Fluid must have been gathering in Optimusâs vocalizer all throughout his time rotting in the Well. The laughter merely emphasized that fact.
âSweet child, have you no optics to see? Look upon this form, see that which it is and what it represents.â The god haphazardly threw Optimusâs arms open in a mock mimicry of an embrace. Primus smiled even wider, shattering further pieces of Optimusâs face as he forced it to match his design. He must have seen himself as benevolent and holy. He did not seem to understand the sheer horror of a god speaking through the deceased and rotted frame of a Prime.
âThat means nothing to me.â Bumblebee stood defiantly, his door wings locked in place as he forced his hydraulics to stiffen. He refused to shake, to show weakness in front of an entity that bordered on maliciousness at every moment.
âA pity. No others have ever matched this one, my dear Optimus.â Primus spoke and almost lovingly forced Optimusâs arms to wrap around himself. The god tenderly caressed the Matrix, lovingly looking down upon it with what would have been an adoring expression if not for the rust that crept along the corpseâs face.
He looked so serene, and strangely enough, even holy. In Bumblebeeâs mind, what he saw before him was a true depiction of their god. A rotting power of the old world who in turn chose new champions to pilot, corrode, and ultimately make just like him. Broken, and so very divine.
âSo strong, so dutiful, so very faithful.â A look of pure joy spread on the corpseâs face. A piece of Optimusâs shoulder plating broke away and fell into the darkness. Primus did not react as he forced the arms of the corpse to stretch beyond their limits, as if to embrace the godâs chosen Prime with even more adoration.
âAlways obedient and kind. He was, he is perfect. A true beacon for all my wayward creations.â The frame shuddered, almost like a clockwork engine as it let off steam. Energon long unused began to sizzle as the spotlight that was the godâs borrowed optic again returned to Bumblebee.
His team shook behind him. Sideswipe and Strongarm had long since fallen, their plating rattling as they unknowingly found themselves bowing. Bumblebee refused to budge. He clenched his servos into fists, unwilling to show the god before him just how frightened he was. Primus could destroy him in an instant, he was sure of it.
âHow could I relinquish such perfection? He gives himself to me so very freely. Total submission, true supplication. Much unlike others who have come before and after him.â Again, the corpse moved forward, coming closer and closer to Bumblebee until it hung only a little ways off. He could almost touch his fatherâs broken face if he so desired.
But what truly set him off was not the proximity of the living corpse. Rather, it was the red and white paint that had been transferred onto the left servo of Primusâs borrowed vessel.
âYou, did you-?â Realization dawned on him like a lighting strike. The corpse merely tilted its helm with its ever present smile.
âYou think of the doctor, my Championâs dearest friend. Yes, the damage was done by this borrowed servo. He dared to try and take what belongs to me and me alone.â Primus clenched the corpseâs fist, cables bulging within the limb in question as they were forcefully bloated with energon to facilitate movement. Bumblebee bit his lower derma as images of Ratchetâs terror and possible experience conjured in his processor. This thing had hurt him, that much was clear.
âHe might have been a fine vessel once. But he is too tainted, no longer pure. Wise perhaps, and dutiful indeed. But he would never heed my call.â Primus reached up to cup his, or rather Optimusâs face. Weathered servos touched scuffed and dirty facial plates with all the delicateness one would give a porcelain doll. Bumblebee wanted to recoil in horror as the implications hit him. No mech should be subject to whatever in the name of the Thirteen this was.
âOptimus⌠my beloved Optimus. His faith has been a delight after so many ages of silence.â Primus maneuvered his borrowed servos down, brushing up against thin and frail armor plates. The singular functional optic Primus had to use trailed every movement, watching those servos which he controlled as they caressed the body the god inhabited. It was disturbing to watch. It almost looked like some sort of convoluted assault with how pleased the god looked as he forced Optimusâs body to examine itself.
âHe gave himself to me willingly. Anything to win his little war. He called himself a sacrifice, but I have named him my Chosen.â The body shivered in what looked to be pleasure. Bumblebee couldnât help the gag that he let out at the sight. The corpse merely continued to grin as it forced Optimusâs body to embrace itself, prompting a series of cables to burst and oozing energon to slide from new wounds.
âHe obeyed my every command, listening to my whispers and calls for my brotherâs return to slumber. He was so dutiful that he chose me over all others, even the likes of you.â The god laughed again, a sweet chortle that did not match Optimus in any capacity. Then, as if that werenât enough, its helm tilted again, this time even further than before. Something snapped as Primus forced the corpse to comply with his wishes, ensuring the rotted frameâs helm all but swiveled into an impossible one hundred and eighty degree angle.
Anger swelled in his spark at the mere idea of Optimus throwing everything away for some dying deity. It wasnât like him. Optimus was a Prime for the people. He would never cast away everything just for⌠some god who hardly cared. But what truly shook Bumblebee were the tears that began to fall from the singular functioning optic Optimusâs body still possessed. The tears were discolored due to rust and other contaminants, but they were real, and he highly doubted it was Primus who ordered Optimusâs coolant stores to empty themselves.
âHe gave himself back to me entirely, and yet as he fell, he thought of you.â Bumblebee took a step back as Primusâs tone turned sharper, edging on something akin to agitation if not hatred. The god rattled, his borrowed frame shaking as the smile fell away.
âYou and your fellow companions, his little playthings meant to guide and serve.â The godâs helm swiveled back into proper position, another unsettled crack echoing as something or other broke in Optimusâs battered frame.
âBe quiet. You donât know him.â Bumblebee shot back, wrath, anguish, and everything else he had been doing his best to bottle up swelling to the surface of his mind and spark. Primus didnât know slag. He had not been there as their people died off during the great war. He had not so much as offered one vague prophecy through his Prime throughout all the time Optimus carried the Matrix. He had no right to speak on the behalf of a mech who gave everything for their world.
âBut donât I?â Primusâs tone was sweet like freshly purified energex, but he did not smile.
âI know his spark. I lived within him throughout your entire war. His thoughts were mine to glean and his affections mine to allow or deny.â The corpse was moved, again shifting away from its lighted position and into shadow. Bumblebee couldnât see it as Primus maneuvered through the dark, silence reigning for a long klik. The urge to activate his weapons was almost suffocating as he scanned the darkness, desperately trying to pinpoint the lurking threat.
His team didnât so much as twitch as they remained in various states of terrified worship. Their optics flicked around, following Bumblebeeâs lead as they too tried to track the threat. Not a spark spoke, not when the core of their world pulsed so calmly, serenely even. There was no acknowledgement of the body that hung in living chains, lurking in the dark and almost certainly observing.
âDo you miss him? Does this voice make you wish he were here?â The corpse called out, this time without any undertone of Primusâs interference. It sounded almost exactly like Optimus, and it came from all around. He had to fight back the instinctual urge to cry as the familiar gruff softness reached his audials.
It wasnât Optimus. That wasnât his father. Optimus Prime was dead and a god was making a mockery of him.
âCome. Come greet him.â He turned around, facing the way he came to try and determine where the voice was coming from. But when he returned to his previous position, the corpse was a mere few feet away, far closer than ever before. He let out an undignified scream as the corpse leaned in, its arms outstretched.
How had it moved so fast?
âYou must come closer. He cannot hear you so far away.â The tone of the thing was sing-songy, but Bumblebee shook his helm rapidly in primal terror. It wasnât him. It wasnât HIM. The thing that smiled and watched him with one wide and far too bright optic was not his leader. The mech he wished he openly called father would have never done this. Optimus would have never beckoned him like some sort of⌠creature.
He stepped back, his bravery falling in the face of true fear. His venting hitched and he prepared to run as the corpse tilted its helm again, a snarl forming on its features for the first time since it began to speak.
âWhy do you flee from me? Am I not your maker?â The thing lurched forward, its movements so stiff and unnatural the Bumblebee scrambled back just in time to dodge its attempts to grab him. The god seethed and Bumblebeeâs team quickly floundered in their attempts to get to their pedes as a wrathful field pressed against them from all sides.
âCome here.â Primus looked enraged. His borrowed face contorted into anger so rarely seen on Optimus in life that to Bumblebee it looked like the mech he once called his leader was possessed by the Unmaker himself. The god looked a klik away from forcing his borrowed frame into combat before he stuttered, power arcing off him until at last, he stilled.
âYou⌠must⌠run.â The voice of the corpse whirled to life once more, but unlike the clear sound that Primus produced despite the state of his borrowed frame, this sound was pained. It came in a wheeze that gurgled and croaked, finally matching the tears that stained the corpseâs face.
âLeave. Go before he can take you.â The body looked up, and the movement was smooth, evidently practiced. The optic that settled on Bumblebee was not nearly as bright. Rather, it was dim and flickering, sickly in the purest sense. It was a light that should not have been there with how badly the frame it was emanating from was damaged.
Bumblebeeâs processor scrambled for an answer, but the conclusion was obvious. He didnât want to believe it. A part of him hoped that his leader was at peace, if only in spark. But seeing the desperate expression on Optimusâs face⌠he knew who it was that spoke to him, and he wanted to kick, scream, and cry all at once as the body spasmed and control returned to the god of their world.
âHow dare you.â The corpse bore no expression now. Only the words came out with a thick vile venom that stung just to listen to. The ground began to shake as Primusâs core pulsed rapidly, wires convulsing and ancient gears stalling for nanokliks at a time.
âHow dare you taint him.â The voice rose in volume, no longer sounding like Optimus at all. A maelstrom of sound and sensation assaulted him from every conceivable angle as voices that were few and yet singular at the same time all converged on him. Energon and thick viscous fluid exploded out of Optimusâs throat as Primusâs speech shattered more and more of its components.
âHe belongs to me.â The corpse stiffened, its singular optic blazing so brightly that smoke rose from places, prompting more tears to fall. But instead of smiting him as Bumblebee expected, the god instead fell still once more, his borrowed optic flickering as something seemed to change.
âHe is innocent. Merely a child.â Optimus, the real Optimus spoke out in the gloom. His words were slow and agonizing, grating just to listen to. But Bumblebee found himself crying all the same as his leader began to plead, desperation evident in every glyph he uttered.
âI serve. I serve willingly.â He sounded like he was in agony.
âGlory to the one below. He who slumbers and gives us life.â Prayers flowed from his torn derma, regardless of the absolute torment he was likely enduring. Optimus held his servos in a loose symbol of the Primacy, his gaze unsteady as he spoke.
âPraise be to His holy station. His will is our demand.â He did not look up, but his stuttered venting spoke of life forced to continue operating regardless of its viability. Bumblebee couldnât find the strength to wipe away his tears, not when his Prime pleaded for his very existence.
âThere is no greater purpose than to offer Him our loyalty. For He is the truth where lies fester.â The prayers continued for kliks. There was no pause between them, nor did Optimus look up even once. Eventually, the prayers changed and strange glyphs that made no sense began to emerge in something akin to a babble. Bumblebee couldnât tell if Optimus was too pained to continue or if something deeper was happening, but ultimately, the shaking stopped and everything returned to its previous state.
âWhat will you give to achieve victory?â The question was repeated and Bumblebee was not given time to move before the corpse swept down, grabbing his face with one monstrous servo so tightly that he could feel his jaw creaking. That lone optic all but blinded him as the god held him in place, all but lifting him off the ground as Primus demanded his answer.
âWould you give me your spark?â The servo that was not holding him still wandered to Bumblebeeâs chassis, sweeping over his plating in a seemingly fond manner. He wanted to curl in on himself in shame, horror, and something that had long since evolved beyond terror. However, he was helpless to stop the god as he ran his borrowed digits along transformation seams, his expression hopeful as if he expected Bumblebee to open for him.
âIf not yours, would you give me theirs?â Seeing his lack of reaction, Primus looked over his shoulder, down at Bumblebeeâs team. He flailed, but the death grip the god had on his face was all but unbearable. Fear ran so deeply in his spark he couldnât find a way to produce words. Linguistic codes were gone, far out of reach as he stared, meeting Primusâs gaze properly for the first time.
He saw his team reflected for a moment in that lone optic as it flickered and struggled to remain online. They were terrified, but similarly frozen. They were at the mercy of their god, and they had no say in the matter once he decided what to do.
âI am not a cruel maker. I am willing to make deals.â Digits reached up, dirty from energon, rust, and years of contamination. They brushed his derma, tracing around his optics and facial features like a lover would. He wheezed, tears falling from his optics with greater ferocity than ever as the god watched him with that strange apathy and love all balled together into a disgusting mix that left him wishing it could all be over.
Primus continued to touch him for a long few moments, a hum bubbling in his borrowed throat. Bumblebee sobbed softly all the while. This wasnât right. Optimus was his father. All of this was wrong on a fundamental level. He only wanted information, a way to save their people. Why this? Why did it have to be like this?
âAh⌠it seems the debt has been paid by another.â Suddenly, without warming, Primus let go of his face. Bumblebee fell to his knees gasping in sheer relief as the corpse pulled back, slowly returning to its original position.
âThere shall be no sacrifice from you this cycle.â It spoke soothingly, as if nothing at all had happened during their interaction. Primus smiled in that divine manner that should have been comforting but only served to remind Bumblebee that this entity was a god more than capable of violence.
âYou shall have your victory, when the time is right.â Weathered arms stretched out as the corpse performed a mock bow, at least as much as it could with the way it was bound.
âI will lend him to you for a time, at least until the threat is removed.â It straightened, more cables coming from the walls of the chamber to connect to Optimusâs battered frame. Bumblebee continued to shakily vent, observing in silence as the god pulled his puppet back, far out of reach.
âGo now. Tell the doctor and prepare yourselves.â Optimusâs arms were crossed over his chassis, an almost respectful position if it werenât for the sheer amount of damage inflicted all over him from Primusâs attempts at controlling a mortal frame. Optimusâs lone optic flickered and glanced around for a moment before Primus uttered a final statement that haunted Bumblebee throughout his return journey.
âI know he was too afraid to stand before his god once again.â
Huh.
So what if he was?
Bumblebee couldnât say he blamed Ratchet for much of anything anymore. He couldn't help but wonder if getting Megatron would have been the easier decision. At least the warlord wouldnât condemn his spark to the void if he failed to show proper respect. At worst, he would be disemboweled. And quite frankly, compared to Primusâs little attempts at touch, he would prefer that any cycle of the vorn.
âI told you not to touch him.â Ratchetâs first comment was simple, but without any malice. Bumblebee all but collapsed into his arms, the aching marks on his face clear to see.
Ratchet didnât comment after that.
No one did.
What happened that cycle was never spoken about, at least not in public. Bumblebee did his best to forget, especially when Primus seemed to keep up his end of his supposed⌠deal.
Optimus came back, pristine and shiny as if heâd never been dead to begin with. He showed no signs of distress or the vaguest recollection of events down in the Well. He played it all off as if he had been peacefully deceased and promptly returned to existence at the drop of a hat. But after everything, Bumblebee now knew the faint look in his optics, the shadow that followed him wherever he went.
Primus was watching. There was no escape from the god of Cybertronians and his precious Champion.
Over and over again Bumblebee found himself haunted, hearing the words replay again and again in his mind whenever Optimusâs optics met his.
âThe debt has been paid by another.â
By the Thirteen. Just what had Optimus given to ensure no others suffered as he did?
#transformers#maccadam#transformers prime#transformers robots in disguise#optimus prime#ratchet#bumblebee#sideswipe#strongarm#windblade#drift#primus#the matrix of leadership#robogore#religious imagery#body horror#yupppppppp here yall go#another brain worm that went nuts
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The Sacrifice - Part 1
âHello there!â
A womanâs voice, rich and honeyed, stopped Fiona in her tracks. It was a voice she had heard before, but couldnât quite place it.
âCan I help you?â
Turning around, Fionaâs gaze landed on a striking blonde - mid to late 30s - wearing a chic red blazer and a charming smile on her perfect, rouged lips.
âI just wanted to introduce myself - Iâm Eliza Clare, I live next door.â
Fiona remembered then; the blonde had moved in some time ago then vanished just as abruptly. Fiona had assumed sheâd moved away.
âFiona Merridew; nice to meet you.â
âLikewise! Itâs always nice to make the acquaintance of a fellow practitioner!âÂ
Elizaâs aura sparkled with magical energy, and there was no mistaking that sharp undertone, like electricity prickling along her skin. Fiona recognized a fellow dark witch when she met one.
How interesting.
âSo, listen - are you doing anything right now? Would you like to come inside for a drink and a chat?â
The only task on Fionaâs list that morning was grocery-shopping, so she accepted.
âWhat can I get you? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?â
âTea for me, thanks.â
âComing right up! I promise I conjure the best tea.â
Fiona cast an eye around Elizaâs home: the furniture aspired to class, but it was cheap and worn and quite at odds with the womanâs designer clothing. The combination suggested someone who was used to wealth, forced by circumstances to make do with less.
She also noticed several bottles of wine in the living room alone, and Eliza wasted no time pouring herself a glass.Â
It wasnât even 10 am yet.
âSo, Fiona, do tell - what brings you to this dismal little town?â
âI was born in Walden, an even smaller town high up in the mountains, and moved here after graduating. Trust me, itâs an improvement.â
âThat bad, huh? Forgive me for being so bold, but I thought the Merridews lived across the pond, in the Windenburg area.â
âMost do. My dad moved here in his youth. What about you, Eliza? Youâre obviously not local either.â
âI needed a change of scenery, and a clean break. Messy divorce - ugh! It was such a headache, I couldnât wait to get away!â
âI can imagine. This is why I keep things commitment-free.â
Eliza toasted her good sense.
âClever!â
âBy the way - speaking as one witch to another - whatâs the state of the magical community here? Iâve been away and I havenât had time to research the matter.â
âItâs small, but growing.â
âAny covens worth mentioning?â
âThereâs the one I lead, of course.â
âYou?â
Fiona didnât appreciate her incredulous tone.
âYouâre welcome to apply. Although I must warn you, membership requirements are quite strict. We take only the best.â
âArenât you precious? I will definitely consider it.â
They made casual conversation until Fiona found a pretext to leave. She decided she didnât like Eliza Clare, from her thinly veiled arrogance to the counterfeit charm she wore like a cheap perfume. Fiona doubted anything sheâd told her was true.
Nevertheless, it was good to get the measure of a potential rival.
âWe should do this again sometime! Take care now!â
âYou too, Eliza. Iâll be seeing you around, Iâm sure.â
As soon as Fionaâs back was turned, Elizaâs bright smile vanished, replaced by a coldly calculating look.Â
When Fiona had introduced herself as a Merridew, her heart had skipped a beat - that family had wealth and connections, and she had survived this long by keeping a low profile - but it seemed that only an insignificant offshoot branch lived in the area.
Also, if this girl was at the head of Mistvaleâs most prominent coven, she likely had nothing to worry about.
Still, Eliza planned to keep an eye on her. Just in case.
#sims 2#the sims 2#sims2#ts2#sims 2 story#story: the sacrifice#eliza clare#fiona merridew#sims 2 bacc#bacc: walden
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What Shall We Become 16 - Sacrifices
The rogue is badly injured.
On AO3.
Fucking TRIGGER WARNING for torture and gore here.
Pain is everything. Wretched, grinding pain. Canât breathe, canât move, canât think. He tries to sink into oblivion once again, but his thrice-cursed vampiric nature will not let him.
Heâs broken. Blind. Canât hear. Smells only bloodâold and dead and his own. Worthless blood. Heâs tasted it before (not a thinking creature, the master had decreed, red eyes leering; have a taste, boy and it was the most rancid thing to ever touch his tongue).
Rancid, undead blood. A mockery of life.
HeâsâŚwhere? Why?
His thoughts wonât coalesce. Something touches him and his skull shifts and pain lights his hair on fire. Thereâs something deeply wrong with his head. Itâs broken. Heâs felt that before. Skull smashed like a sun melon.
Oh, what has he done.
The master rarely lets anger show so directly. It usually comes in disgust and annoyance. In a predatorâs eyes in a dark room. But he can be pushed to anger. Astarion has a talent for it. Wretched, stupid boy.
He canât remember what heâs done, this time, though.
Cold hands on him and his skin lights up in agony. Heâs being dragged, he thinks. His siblings hauling him somewhere (he knows where). More than one, even. Heâs made some terrible mistake. If theyâre all here, if it takes all of them and not just GodeyâŚ
He whimpers.
Thereâs no point in fighting. There never is. The master will let them, sometimes. Let them have that small freedom. But exercising it makes it all so much worse. Yet compliance, when Astarion forces his own legs to move himself and his own arms to stretch out for the manacles, his reward is the masterâs chilled fingers sliding through his hair and a thin voice in his ear, âSo pathetic you donât even try.â
He doesnât know how long they drag him. Must have been in a distant wing of the palace. He canât remember this night at all. Doesnât know what heâs done or failed to do to draw the masterâs ire like this.
It doesnât really matter. Master doesnât need a reason. At least not one Astarionâs stupidity needs to understand. Heâs so worthless, so insignificant, he canât even comprehend the lessons the master must carve into him, over and over again. He must be corrected so frequently.
Eventually, they stop. Eventually, his siblings haul him onto a table. His own blood is so thick he canât smell the stink of the kennels. Heâs not sure thatâs an improvement.
Then they pull his arms up and oh, heâs truly shattered, isnât he? Ragged fractures twist and tear him internally as they move him and he cannot stop the screams. The master laughs; he enjoys Astarionâs screams. Theyâre the sweetest of them all.
New pain starts. Hot slashing, scraping over his ribs. Is Godey starting with a flailing? Itâs been some time since heâs experienced that one. The screams begin in earnest, now.
Voices warble. His previous injuries have filled his ears with blood, likely crushed his ear canals entirely. There are no words, no sense. Just warbles and his own, pathetic cries.
Godey hoots and jeers, as Godey does, wretched beast. And then they pull at the incision. Heâs being dissected. He wishes he knew what he did so he can beg properly. Sometimesâvery, very rarelyâthat works. The master appreciates a good grovel, especially in front of an audience: his siblings and guests alike. Likes to show his power and control.
But Astarion canât remember, and can only scream as skin is ripped open and scraped from underlying muscle.
ââŚmore! Bleed more!â
Doesnât know that voice. The master must have company. A special guest. Perhaps Astarion did nothing at all and the master just wanted to show off his most beautiful creation. Those are the worst nights.
Something nudges him inside his broken head. His fuzzy thoughts blur a moment. The master is often in their thoughts, but never so small. And the master is right here, overseeing Astarionâs correction.
Another nudge. Something urgent. Something angry.
Heâs failing his punishment. The master means to make a pretty example of him. But he cannot move to thrash, cannot think to plead. His eyes are ruined and he canât even cry as the torment continues. A poor example. A failure, even in this.
Frustration, now. AndâŚand fear. No, not just fear.
Terror.
âŚthat. Is not the master.
Something in his skull crunches. His body tries to stitch itself together even as the tearing continues. Thatâs Godeyâs favorite part. The way Astarionâs body struggles despite his mind knowing better. He lets Astarion heal, just a little. Expend whatever meager rat blood heâs consumed enough for the nerves to reconnect. And then starts again. For the challenge. Grind Astarion down until even his body fails. Because to lift one up, to shape them to perfection, they must first be destroyed.
Sound filters in. Still warbling (must be the blood or the brains in his ears). But itâs enough to make out chanting.
âBoooal! Boooal!â
What in the hells is a boooal?
A knife cuts into him again. The air is thick and stinking. Fingers inside him as something jeers as it hooks fingers between his ribs and tugs.
He screams again. The masterâs favorite sound. Drawing it out, playing Astarionâs agony like a musician with a lute.
He hearsâŚwater. A soft lapping behind the chanting and his own vocal chords go ragged.
Thereâs no water in the kennels. Only blood. Old and rotten and his own.
âBoooal! Boooal!â
âYes! Bleed! Bleed more!â
The air shifts. He catches the scent of that water, cool and dark. And ofâŚfish.
This isnât the kennels, is it? And if itâs not the kennelsâŚ
Something else clicks and crunches in his head and a memory floats up: he fell. In the Underdark. He was running with hisâŚhis illustrious leader. And something exploded and knocked him into the depths and shattered him.
Something taps in his head again. It almost feels like her. But he remembers that, too. She was in his mind (and he in hers). She saw it. Saw his own memory. The river. The rope. His knife.
She knows he cut her loose and left her to die. Sheâll see right through everything that came after, all his pathetic attempts to soothe the ire he knew would come eventually. Of course she would find out. He always knew, deep down, she would find out because good things do not last. This, the thing rummaging around inside him, that is reality.
He might actually die here. After all the running. After everything. Not an illithid tadpole. Not an orc club or a goblin arrow or even a githyanki blade. Heâs going to be torn to pieces by what sounds and smells like fish.
A pathetic end. A pathetic failure. Thatâs all he is, anyway.
At least heâs not in the kennels. At least Cazador wonât get him back.
His arms wonât move and neither will his legs. He must have crushed his skull and probably his spine. He canât get away. He ought to resign himself and save himself the trouble. There were times he prayed to the darker gods for something like this. Any way out. Anything at all.
And yet.
âBleed the sacrifice!â
Whatever gurgling monstrosity hovers over him reeks of putrid blood. âBleed him for Boooal!â
âBoooal! Boooal!â
Ah. Heâs being sacrificed to another god heâs never heard of. There certainly is a crop of those popping up all along the Sword Coast this year, arenât there?
And yet.
He doesnât want to die. He didnât two centuries ago. And while that hasnât held true all the time since then, it does once more. He doesnât want to die down here, soaked in his own blood, surrounded by stink and fish and rot. Blind.
Alone.
He doesnât want to die alone.
ââŚarion.â
The voice in his head. Oh wonderful. Heâs hallucinating. Perhaps he can lean into that and get out of his own cracked skull while his body succumbs to the grave he clawed out of centuries ago. Perhaps he still has a soul (unlikely). Perhaps he can find the others and haunt them.
ââŚstarionâŚâ
The gith? No, too boring. And besides, she might have some astral ability to blast him to another plane. The Blade would simply exorcise him. As would the cleric. The tiefling? No, no, she doesnât deserve that. The wizard, then?
âAstarion.â
Unless someone is very good at using the tadpole. But the only one so far good enough to form words is the wizard (he gets the sense the gith can, but doesnât deign to). But that voice doesnât sound like the wizard, and Astarion has blocked himself off. Thrown up every wall he can because he cannot stop what is happening to him (never can, stupid boy, weak runt) but he can damn well hide in his own mind, at least from them. But something slips through his walls. Slips through because itâs familiar. Because heâs recently been part of it and she halts at the soft edges of his consciousness. Waiting.
Heâs usually the one who needs an invitation to enter.
His illustrious leader. Not dead. Not even distant. What�
He reaches out. And she pulls him in as she did before. He can almost touch the inside of her skull, trace the contours of the bone from the inside. Then heâs staring out through her shit eyes.
Everything dim, in shades of gray and faint blue. A vast lake. The upturned front of a boat (the bow) ringed in chanting fish creatures. A be-gored figure standing over a table, and upon that table, some broken thing, all white and red.
Itâs him. Sheâs looking at his mangled self as the disgusting figure raises a knife again.
Her rage is the sharpest thing heâs ever felt.
Eleanor.
Sheâs right there. Slipping along a rocky outcrop at the edges of the horrid camp or temple or whatever it is.
Sheâs too close. Sheâs not stealthy. Canât melt into the shadows as he does and sheâll be seen. Be captured. Be dragged to the table to join him, only her mortal, human body wonât stand up to this as his own does and theyâll both be tortured to death by whatever even is that?
But then a memory: digging through a pack (his own) (must have dropped it) (she found it, her vision blurring for some reason). A bottle filled with liquid silver. An invisibility potion. Taste of absolutely nothing in a way that makes her grimace.
Sheâs invisible. Slinking along the edges, creeping closer. Sheâs not speaking to his mind through the tadpoles. Sheâs simply gotten close enough for his unnatural ears to catch her voice.
Why. Why is she even here?
And the danger of that tadpole connection is that she can feel his thoughts as her own when theyâre not careful (the pain, the stretching and tearing of his muscles and the pink of his skin turned inside out).
She lets her thoughts be his in this moment: she returned for him.
It makes no sense. Itâs pure idiocy. Thereâs no reasonâ
The knife cuts and the gore-slicked fucking little goblin cackles and clasps its hands as Astarion wrenches and oh.
Oh, her rage is a thing to behold. Not a fire. Not a storm. Not any of the terms poets usually describe it as. Hers is a blade: clean and sharp and glowing cherry red as it burns. Itâs aimed at that figure, at the fish. Sheâs going to kill that goblin. Itâs not a question. Not a suggestion or a want or a wish. Sheâs going to kill it as certain as she breathes; she only needs to find the right approach.
And for that, sheâs fallen to her usual habits.
Itâs not a habit.
It very much is, darling.
The smooth vial in her hand. Her skin tingles where the liquid sloshes inside. A shade of orange found at the edge of a flame, shifting to hot blue where it ripples in its confinement.
Whatâs an âemotional support grenade?â
She didnât mean to let that slip.
Arsonists oil. The one he gave her.
Sheâs close enough now to smell them all even with her dim, human senses. The heavy stink of fish, the stomach-churning sweetness of rot, and the thick, metallic reek of blood, old and coagulated.
The figure (goblin) above him sways back, its head falling as it inhales. The fish flail around in devotional frenzy.
She hefts the vial. Cuts their connection. He slams back into his grinding, screaming body, blinded and paralyzed as every nerve lights in agony.
Glass shatters. And itâs as if the world (Eleanor) manifests his own agony into reality as scorching heat flashes over him and the fish scream.
The thing over him (he doesnât think itâs a goblin) shouts. Everything hurts, everything burns.
And then a rush over him. Something crashes. Screams. The sound of wood bashing flesh.
He canât move, canât see. Canât know whatâs going on and he canâtâcanâtâhe needs to see.
He finds the doorway to her through their connection. Sheâs distracted. He doesnât need to sink into her this time, only skim along the edges until he finds the shape of her eyes.
If she notices, she doesnât react. Sheâs rather busy. Everything in her is focused. A razorâs edge aimed at that awful creature. Itâs short thing, with a sharp chin and a mouth full of needle teeth. Familiar. Seen it before.
Fire boils in the midst of the fish creatures. Two lie, presumably, dead. Others back away. Many are scorched.
She sees this in a glance, and hones back in on her target.
Goblin, she calls it. Itâs not, but heâs in no shape to correct her.
The goblin screeches and swipes with the knife still sticky with his blood. She backs away, holding still at it flails. As it screams insults and pink spittle froths at its lips.
It canât see her. Good. Sheâd never believed in a fair fight (one of her most admirable traits). The goblin moves fast for her to angle behind it (which she would prefer). And itâs too close to that table and the gurgling thing upon it for her to risk another grenade.
Fear twists through her. He doesnât understand why. Sheâs not in the goblinâs reach, isnâtâ
Kill it. End it. Tear it apart.
That fear falls beneath the anger. Sheâs got her whacking stick (staff). No poison robes, though. A fucking pity. But that stickâs pretty damn solid and she demonstrates this by smashing down at the horrid beast.
It senses the blow. Tries to dodge. The staff swipes down the side of its arm. Then the thing grabs it, twists, nearly pulls it from her.
She remembers a fight like this: Laeâzel and Harvey Dent. She doesnât think. Thereâs no thoughts. Only that rage and her purpose and she lets go.
The goblin stumbles back. Sheâs already on it. Grabs its face and shoves it back. They hit the table and pain blasts through Astarionâs bodyâ
Fuck! Iâm sorry!
And the goblin kicks. Scrabbles. She doesnât have the strength to wrestle it, but she does have the bulk. Laeâzel said something about that once, huh?
She slams it down. Reaches for the eyes, fingers hooked into claws. Take out the eyes, cripple it, donât get up, donât let it get up.
The goblin shoves its chin down. Those needle teeth sink into her forearm. She shouts (hollers) and jerks back, but it donât let go. Itâs slicker than shit and manages to twist out of her hold. The knife flashes, and she has to stumble back again. But not before kicking out and connecting as pain rakes down her shin.
No, no. It needs to die. It needs to not exist. That thing will end.
She throws her staff. It goes visible as it leaves her hands; the goblin snarls and swipes but sheâs moving again. Grabs something at her neckâcareful, be careful fucking ringwraith shitâand bashes the thing full in the face with a metal flask.
The goblin screams. Throws something (poison; Astarionâs lungs stop their labored, habitual panting). But Eleanorâ
She lowers her head, holds her breath, and plows into it. Through it. Grabs it like a spitting, clawing cat and slams the both of them down to the ground. Grabs a fistful of gore-slicked hair and pops the thingâs skull against the ground. Once. Twice. Then spots the end of her staff and plucks that up, lunges backwards to her feet.
Before it can do little more than hiss, sheâs on it.
Thereâs a strategy to her work, though he doubts sheâs conscious of it (never get up, donât never get up, you donât get to hurt nobody motherfucker). She systematically begins to smash the creature apart. Crunches and shatters the joints, like she did with that gith in the mountain pass.
The knees, so it canât get up and canât run.
The elbows, so it canât claw at her.
A shot to the neck because that is her favorite spot, not that he can blame her.
And then the face.
That part isnât necessary. The beast will die after she crushed its throat. But sheâs on a roll, and heâs certainly not going to stop her.
Die, die, die! her mind chants over and over, in that same frozen, almost detached way he realizes she slips into when sheâs like this.
She beats it beyond dead. Past having a face. Spatters of blood coat everything and heâs sure it freckles his own body.
(he wonders what it would taste like if he licked it off her skin)
And then the silence finally registers. To the both of them. And she pauses to look up; stomach lurches as her gaze skitters over his ruin but heâs seen his own insides before and she notices him in her head at that thought and they both backpedalâ
Astarion slams once more into his broken puppet of a body. Agony drowns everything for a momentâhe feels air where there shouldnât be any, and if he were a living man, he knows he wouldnât feel it for long.
âYou have killed out god?â burbles a fishman.
Eleanor leans in over Astarion, smelling of blood and sweat and fury and he wants to turn his face into her warmth.
âCan you light this when I say?â she says. Holds something over his head and she found his secret stash of sparkpowder, didnât she?
âYes,â he manages. His mouth is full of his own, rancid blood. It spatters over his face when he forces air out of his shivering lungs.
âOur Boooal?â a fish says.
âAll you shits stay the fuck back, or youâre fucking next!â
âHe killed Boooal.â
Which starts another chanting of that stupid name.
She fumbles with the ropeâsimple rope; a testament for how mangled he is that something so simple and rotten could hold him down like this. Swears in her own tongue and the words come out thick and trembling. Funny, he hadnât felt her fear of the fish when he was in her mind.
âBoooal was a liar!â A different voice. The others fall silent. âBoooal was not a god!â
A murmur runs through their audience, and it sounds like wind rustling a flooded field of long grass.
âBoooal not god?â
âBoooal! Booâah!â
âBoooal was an impostor! A test!â
âAstarion, what the fuckâre those things,â she says as she manages to free one of his hands.
He doesnât answer. Doesnât reach up to free his other hand as he ought to. For some reason he cannot fathom, he reaches down to find his skin and lift it, burning and screaming, back into place over his ribs, like a maiden clutching at what modesty she can find after something horrible.
Eleanor makes an injured sound. Her own wounds must be finally hurting her.
âIâve noâŚidea,â he says, in between bouts of choking on his blood.
âA test!â the fish shout in a chorus.
âA test!â the first repeats. âA test from our true god!â
Her fingers still over his other wrist.
âOur true god! Mah-gloompah!â
âMah-gloompah! Mah-gloompah!â
The chant takes up, sounding rather like some deranged devotional, if all of the congregation had previously drowned. A sick gurgling that sweeps over them both.
âHail, Mah-gloompah!â
âIt seems,â he manages, âthat youâve become a god, dear.â
***
Heads up that I'll be taking a week off to catch up. Chapter 17 should be next, next Wednesday, September 11.
#what shall we become#these two shitheads#astarion#astarion x tav#tavstarion#slow burn#lost in a cave#he's have the Worst Time
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Hey can I please request a post war George Weasley x squib reader where she lives with her muggle mum (her wizard dad died in the war) and has been away from the wizarding world for a long time and george kinda brings her back to it thanks Xx
Helloooođ What an interesting idea! I enjoyed exploring the more melancholy aspects of the wizarding world, so thanks for the suggestion. Hope you enjoy!đŤś
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Dear reader,
As you may or may not know, I post extensive, multiple part fanfiction stories. I must remind you or clarify that I do not consider any requests I write as parts of those stories. Thank you for readingâ¤ď¸
FANFICTION (REQUEST): George Weasley x Squib Reader (Female) - Empathy - Part 1
WARNINGS: mentions of violence and death
Birthday. Every year before, the word had brought feelings of excited anticipation and joy, but today it only made you feel down (and that was an extreme understatement).
That evening you would have your first birthday celebration without your father. Almost nine months ago, he died in the Second Wizarding War, leaving you and your muggle mother magicless except for a few trinkets, including his wand.
You kept it with you at all times. Not because it would be of any use to you (because it wouldn't), but for it's sentimental value. Of course, the wand reminded you of dear Dad, but it also brought to your mind the wonderful things he used to talk about.
When you were younger, as a squib it was complete torture to only hear stories and see small tricks from your father when you couldn't go explore the wizarding world and practice magic for yourself. But, after the war and learning more about the dark side of magic, a part of you came to despise and fear it. It was difficult to feel anything else for the thing that killed your father.
Though, sometimes, when you were alone with only your dad's wand to keep you company, you would be tempted to hold it, to point it and cast pretend spells like you did when you were little. You imagined yourself commanding your bedroom to tidy itself or your cat to talk back when you asked him a question. But, no matter how hard you imagined it, you would never be able to wield magic. That was the sad truth. When your father was around, the truth was tolerable because he could. He could do all of those things and so much more, and he was so kind to show you even a sliver of what he knew.
But he was gone along with his magic. He died and you and your mum went on with your regular, muggle-styled lives. You had to tell everyone that your father died in a car crash. It hurt. You wanted everyone to know about your father's sacrifice, his bravery, and how he fought for a righteous cause. But they would never know...
"Y/n?" your mother said, pulling you away from your thoughts. You sat on the couch in the living room, failing to stay focused enough to read the book in your hands while Mum iced your birthday cake in the kitchen.
"Yeah?" you replied.
"Did you hear me?"
"No, sorry. I was distracted."
"It's alright. I was just saying Mr. and Mrs. Weasley want to pop by for a quick visit tonight to wish you a happy birthday."
Oh no. Please, no more condolences, you thought.
"Okay. Thanks for letting me know," you sigh wearily.
"Hey, don't be like that." Mum wiped her hands on her apron as she went to sit on the couch beside you. She wrapped her arm around your shoulders affectionately. "The Weasley's are good friends."
"I suppose... It's just been so long... too long since I have seen them," you said. "And they had a son die in the war."
Mum blinked in concern and confusion. "Well, yes, but I don't see why that would make them unwelcome."
You rested your head on her arm. "It's just that... they're gonna want to talk about Dad, and then it would be rude not to mention their son... It'll turn into a pity party instead of a birthday party."
"You're being ridiculous," Mum scoffed, but you could tell she understood your point just fine. "Besides, they have a present for you. And we can't eat the cake all by ourselves."
"What's wrong with leftovers?"
It was Mum's turn to sigh. "I'm sorry, but they insisted on coming. It's good of them to reach out to us. And it's just a quick visit."
"Might as well get it over with. It was bound to happen anyway."
"Y/nâ"
"Yes, yes, I know better than to act like this in front of them. Don't worry. I'll be nice."
You truly didn't want to talk about the war, but you didn't want to see the Weasley's also because they had magic. You never told your mother about your new fear of witches and wizards because you thought it was silly. You knew there was plenty of good magic, or rather good uses for magic. Magic doesn't kill. Your father never endangered you or your mum, but there were bad people in the wizarding world just like the bad people in the muggle world.
When you heard a knock on the front door that evening, your heart leapt with panic. Even though you knew Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were good people, a part of you was afraid of them.
"Mum, the Weasley's are here!" you called behind you. Mum hurried out of the kitchen to come stand behind you, leaving it up to you to open the door. You took in a deep, nervous breath as you reached for the knob and opened the door.
"Happy birthday, y/n!" Mrs. Weasley greeted you cheerily. She stood on the ends of her small feet to kiss you on the cheek, embracing you like you were her own child. "How are you, dear?"
"I'm alright, thanks. How are you guys?"
"Good!" Mr. Weasley responded, walking through the door behind his wife. He shook your hand enthusiastically. "Happy birthday, y/n!"
"T-thank you..." You began to feel emotional, remembering the love you had for the Weasley family and their caring, happy ways. Before you could get teary-eyed, another person walked through the door behind Mr. Weasley, surprising you.
You were taken aback, believing for a moment that Fred, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's son who was killed in the war, was standing in front of you. But you knew that was impossible, and you also knew that Fred had a twin. So, the young man must've been Fred's twin, George.
"Hello, y/n! Happy birthday!" he said, grinning crookedly and handing you a brown, paper bag.
You smiled, laughing awkwardly as you accepted the gift. "George, hello! What a pleasant surprise."
"Yeah, sorry about that," George chuckled, closing the door behind him. "I wasn't invited, I know. But I liked the thought of... reintroducing myself since the last time we saw each other. I was just a kid then, probably immatureâ"
Mrs. Weasley snorted as she pulled your mother in for a hug. "You say that like you've matured so much!"
You all laugh.
"I have! Just not enough to get rid of my good sense of humor," George snickered.
"I think I was about nine when I saw you last," you say, reminiscing about the Weasley's magical house. "It was Thanksgiving, wasn't it?"
"Yes, I remember it," George chuckled, nodding. "Your eyes opened so wide at everything; I thought they were going to fall out of your skull!"
Mrs. Weasley shot George a warning glance, but you pretended not to notice, and laughed, "I'm sure I'd still have the same reaction now."
"And how old are you today, y/n?" Mrs. Weasley asked.
"Eighteen," you replied.
Mr. Weasley's brow furrowed. "Isn't that a significant age for muggles?"
"Well, I can vote now, butâ"
"And how exactly does that work?" Mr. Weasley asked, intrigued.
"Oh, don't bother the poor girl with questions," Mrs. Weasley said.
"I'd be happy to tell you about it sometime, Arthur," Mum chuckled. "For now, how about we open presents!"
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#george weasley#george weasley fic#george weasley x reader#george weasley fanfic#george weasley fanfiction#george weasley x y/n#molly weasley#arthur weasley#reader pov#wizarding world#magic#battle of hogwarts#fanfics#fanfiction#weasley family
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â âIN THE WATER.â
SHIP: bakugo x fem reader
DESCRIPTION: one year unexpectedly turned into two, you start to think all hope is lost in the apocalypse. spoiler warning: the real danger in the zombie apocalypse isn't the dead, it's the living.
TW: short series, apocalypse au, rawr rawr zombies & mild gore, descriptions of a panic attack, friends to lovers, main character injury.
ăăI. WHO ARE YOU?
âplease let there be something other than canned beans.â
you stood watch in front while he was looking around the back aisles. you two were in search of food, but everything else has been wiped out already. you werenât excited about moving onto the next town.
it was cold out, you bury your face in the scarf around your neck when a shiver runs down your spine. occasionally you would see a few undead stumble towards you, empty eyes and its jaw hanging loose. you always took care of them quickly, you just have to aim for the head. âkatsuki.â
itâs been years since everything turned to shit. when the bitten were who you feared and everyone you knew was gone. sacrifice or idiocy, it didnât matter. but sometimes, youâll catch a glimpse of the survivors âthey always traveled in groups and you wanted to avoid them at all costs.
you had to remind yourself what kind of people would be left over, what morals they have.
the screams met deaf ears when katsuki saved you from this other man, grabbing his neck and throwing his body on the ground, the eyes of horror before getting a shot to the head. you shift slowly, shards of glass dig into your hands as he comes closer.
âyou killed them.â you hated the way your voice trembles. blood leaks out of the holes in their heads, your throat tightens and aches like youâre about to cry.
it was like static noise on television, the buzz of city life only a memory in the back of your mind. now all you hear was the groaning of the undead, and the screams of those who werenât resourceful enough.
your small moment of peace doesn't last long, broken by the slide of the glass door behind you and a pair of footsteps. you don't need to look over your shoulder to know who it is. âthereâs nothing but dog food. some fucks must have found our stash.â
you canât hide the disappointment on your face and it makes katsuki roll his eyes, pushing up the safety lever on the beretta 92 before sliding it back into the band around his waist. âi see more revenants coming this way, letâs go.â
katsuki holds out a hand and you take it.
the man took a glance at your arms and legs and you knew what youâd see from the excruciating agony. âyeah, should i have left you for dead?â he kicks your leg with his shoe, âmaybe iâll shoot you anyway, just in case.â
in case you were bitten? you were bleeding too much for it to be a bite.
ânoâ of course not!â
you hold your breath, bruised cheeks burning and you felt dizzy when he raised the pistol again, unblinking and focused. âstop yelling, jackass.â you canât even look at him directly.
youâre shaking and everything hurts, and the blood everywhere makes you so scared, the gun pointed at you makes you so scared. it was the ease with which he saved your life, the complete lack of hesitation.
âkeep zoning out and youâll get lost again.â
âthat was one time.â you take a deep breath, the smell of wet grass doing little to calm your nerves about being in the open like this. âhow much further?â
âjust a few miles.â katsuki says quietly, not a hint of hostility in his voice for the first time, and you nod, fighting to get your breathing under control. you wished, more than anything, that you had your anxiety medication.
âhey, relax. before you make yourself pass out,â
it took a long time to gain his trust, having to pack up the bedding while he took care of the rest before you two made it to the city, in case you made a run for it with days worth of food. the hours and hours on your feet and the whining while this man told you to shut up, struggling through a harsh winter.
but he was true to his word.
âit looks abandoned.â you look up at the house with boarded up windows and a wooden fence, it was too quiet. âwanna do it?â the sky was pretty and clear, finally warming up but that meant the undead would venture out again, too. katsuki sighs, âwe canât be too sure, be careful.â
you duck behind the car halfway up the driveway and creep up the stairs of the front porch.
the slits between the boards give you a limited view inside, seeing only the first room but there was a gate leading to the backyard, though it was chained up. katsuki kept watch while you tried the knob. it was locked, of course.
you share a glance and he held his gun at the ready with a nod. pulling out the crowbar from your backpack, you pry at the door as quietly as possible, the sound of wood splintering. it took a few tries but you finally eased the door open.
you two searched the house, both floors came up empty besides a few dead animals. there were four bedrooms, one belonging to a young girl and you wondered about the kind of family who once lived here.
smudged pencil marks on the door frame, glittery princess stickers peeling off the yellow walls. you find out the girlâs name and it didnât make you feel any better.
the sun was setting so you two settled in for the night, putting your sleeping bags down in the living room and lighting a small candle. the house was empty and wasnât completely falling apart. âhere, take it.â
he was giving up his share. you offer half of the jerky and he reluctantly takes it, the grumble of his stomach enough to shut his mouth.
âthanks.â
for miles all that could be heard was the sound of running water and kicking a stone on the road, that random tune that got stuck in your head last night.
the sun was high in the sky and it reminded you that youâd have to meet with katsuki at noon. you were the one who suggested the split up to cover more ground even if he was reluctant.
âis it too early for lunch?â you asked no one, digging through your bag for the last of the jam and bread you packed before leaving home. things were getting harder every day, and you two were getting more and more frustrated when you came back empty handed.
you take a bite out of the bread and savor the blueberry jam, rich and sweet. katsuki would always tell you to make it last, maybe youâll save him half.
you finally made it back to the market. those things always wandered about, and the place was too big to just walk inside hoping for the best.
so you knock your crowbar against the tile floor to call out any more undead but there was only silence. you start to go through the mess. sunflower seeds, some dented cans of tuna and fried apples, it must have been luck.
you were looking at the arrangement of dead flowers and think about taking a magazine with a cover that caught your eye, but then you heard a scream.
thereâs gunshots and names thrown around as you rush over to see the commotion. you quickly see more undead thanks to all the noise, hoping katsuki wouldnât come this way, because you could be stuck here for a while.
two kids were cornered just across the street, it used to be a barber shop, those disgusting things getting closer and closer. leave them or give into the last bit of humanity you had. âhey, this way!â
you call out to them from the other side, it was a little girl standing in front of the boy, who you assume was her brother. she cried in frustration when the gun clicked each time she pulled the trigger. revenants are fast, but theyâre clumsy, so you could be faster.
you stab two in the head without breaking a sweat, they fall to the ground with a hollow thump. you make a run for it since more were drawn by the noise. âcome on!â
they caught up quickly, the scraping of that girlâs shoes against the cement makes you want to cover your ears. âkatsuma!â you hear from behind, turning to see her pick him up from the ground. he tripped.
âhurry!â you might have pushed their backs too hard if the squeak that left the boyâs mouth was any tell, struggling to keep up with their small legs. then you notice the alley, taking a sharp turn and yanking their arms to pick them up.
suddenly you were inside a heavy metal door, it was dark and they whisper as you slide down the handle and thereâs a click.
âquiet,â you shush them, using your own body to shield them if worst turns to worst. you feel the boy bury his face in your shirt, grossed out by tears and snot, and the little girl squeezed your hand, so tight it felt like itâd bruise.
you were horribly out of breath, maybe even scared. but the undead finally passed âwaiting a few minutes wouldnât hurt. you listen as the groans and growls get far enough, taking a deep inhale and slowly moving away from the cool surface.
it was alright.
âweâre safe now.â but you can't even turn back before there is something cold on the back of your head. this time she holds the gun with confidence, fingers on the trigger.
âput your hands up and close your eyes.â you feel your blood boil, the tone of this girlâs voice not sitting right but maybe that was the point. âdonât do anything dumb.. take the bag.â
you noticed the boy, katsuma, had dried the tears from his face and started to walk over while you slowly took off your backpack, which he took with shaky hands. âso i just saved you and now youâre robbing me?â
he must have been surprised it felt so heavy.
the girl snatches it from him. âwe were fine, didnât ask for your help.â sure seemed like it. you turn your head and watch her digging around in your backpack and you know katsuki will kill you.
âweâll just take this, thanks. keep your eyes closed and count to fifty before you go.â she said, and for some reason you did.
the silence after their small footsteps fade out, even with your keen ear. you finally found katsuki waiting for you anxiously outside of the market.
âi heard the gunshots. what happened?â he was quick to ask and you were never one to hold back from him. too bad he was as upset as you expected. ââbut youâre alright?â
the question made your smile get bigger, and you feign a small limp. âmm, i twisted my ankle so bad.â katsuki didnât look impressed. âanyway.. katsuki, they could have been with a group, donât you think? maybe they got separated.â
you made it home before dark. when you finally are able to shake off the feeling of being watched, you collapse on a chair in the dining room, the legs scraping against the floor loudly. katsuki drops his bag on the table and you make grabby hands, âso, whatâs for dinner?â
âbeans. and more beans.â
the look you give him makes katsuki glare back, opening the lid of one can. âdonât complain! next time, donât let some kid take our shit.â
you snatch a can of beans and katsuki rolls his eyes, spoon flinging a bean at you from across the table. âdidnât your mom ever tell you not to play with your food?â but katsuki only gives a half smile, and it makes dimples dig into his cheeks. you swear you havenât seen him smile before, or maybe you never noticed.
you two eat in silence and start to get ready for bed, doing one last house check and finally putting out the light. you stayed up a little longer though, wrapped in a small matted blanket as those kids have yet to leave your mind.
glancing out the window, stars bright in the unpolluted sky, you hoped they had a safe place to sleep tonight. you sigh and finally close your eyes, not that it makes a difference in the dark.
#bakugou x reader#bakugou katsuki x reader#mha x reader#bakugou x you#apocalypse au#bakugou fic#mha x you#bakugou angst#mha x y/n#my writing
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For once⌠I wish people would stop leaving me // Chuuya Nakahara x Reader
Warnings: Angst, fem!lead death early on, Female Reader, death(slightly very descriptive), blood, nicknames(Doll, Princess, etc.(All by Chuuya)), called Y/n by Chuuya once, Everyone else calls reader Miss Y/N or just Y/N, Â Let me know if I missed any!!
Words: 777(She's a short one but so worth it)
Now playing: As the world caves in by Matt Maltese
Please do not copy, translate or post on any other platforms this belongs to @urgirlmoon thank you :)
Ever since you were a child you always loved the idea of heroes and their stories. The older you got the more you realized that the villains were a better choice. The hero would sacrifice their loved one for the world while the villain would sacrifice the world for their loved one. No matter the cost they would try and get them back.Â
You didnât know how you ended up in this situation. You were currently held hostage by Fyodor. Your fiance, the Port Mafia, and the ADA stood in front of you, a few feet away. Youâre scared, of course you would be. Mori and Fukuzawa seem to be trying to reason with Fyodor while Dazai holds your fiance back from doing anything rash that could get you hurt. âAnd you guys really think that I would do that?â Fyodorâs voice brought you out of your trance.Â
At that moment everything seemed to go in a flash, loud screams as you felt something stab into your abdomen then it was twisted. You coughed up blood and fell to the ground. Fyodor ran and everything was a blur from there. âDoll. Look at me. Please.â Chuuya begged as he laid your head in his lap. After Fyodor ran off, everyone ran after him but a few people. Atsushi stayed back to call an ambulance, and Kenji stayed beside Chuuyaâs side the whole time.
Oh how Chuuya wished Yosano was there. She wasnât. She was currently at the agency building helping Junichiro who had gotten hurt pretty badly. âIâm sorry Chuuya⌠I wish it could have been different.â You said putting your bloody hand on his face. He looked startled âNo. No no no no no! Donât talk like that! NO! You arenât leaving me! Princess please!â He seemed desperate, a lot different from the Chuuya you knew. âWere-tiger, Where's the ambulance?!â He asked Atsushi â He didnât look away from you at all.
âThey should be here soon!â He said back, finally coming beside Chuuya and Kenji. âMiss Y/N please donât leave.â Kenji said, crying. You hated seeing him cry. He was like a son to you. You looked back at Chuuya, not being able to look at Kenji anymore.
It seemed like all your memories were flashing in front of your eyes. All of your dates with Chhuya, your small hangouts with Kenji, your picnics with Kyouka and Atsushi.Â
Flashback
âChuuya!â You yell as your then boyfriend picked you up kissing your face. You were laughing and he gave you a rare smile. It was one full of love and you both wouldnât have it any other way.
Flashback
You and Chhuya were walking around when he spotted Kenji, hoping he wouldnât see him, unfortunately he did. âMr Nakahara!â Kenji yelled and ran up to the two of you âYou know him?â You asked and Kenji looked at you âYou must be Miss Y/N!!â Kenji said and you tilted your head to the side âMr Nakahara talks about you when he takes me to lunch sometimes.â He says and Chuuya grumbles and you giggle. You all go out to lunch together and you and Kenji get along well, by the end of lunch youâve grown attached and see him as if he was your own.
Flashback
Kyouka had always taken a liking to you when you would visit headquarters to visit your boyfriend and when she joined the agency she invited you to go on a picnic with you and Atsushi. That day you all had a lot of fun and promised to do it with them again sometime.
End of flashbacks
 âIâm sorry Chuuya, I love youâŚâ You said, smiling, as your hand fell from his face, falling limp in his arms.âMiss Y/N!â Kenji yelled, grabbing one of your hands, crying a lot harder than before. âMiss Y/N!! No, you made a promise to Kyouka that you would join our next picnic!â Atsushi yelled, finally falling on the ground crying âY/N!!! NO! Answer me doll! Please!â He yelled. He put his hand on your face âY/N! Please! Donât leave me!â He seemed oh so desperate. No one had ever seen him like this.
The rest of the Port Mafia and ADA came back and saw him squeezing your lifeless boy to him, Kenji and Atsushi crying. Kyouka teared up for the first time since her parents died. Mori walked up to Chuuya and put his hand on his shoulder âNakahara-san, You have to let her go.â Mori said and he just held tighter âNo!â He yelled.
After much coaxing from everyone, he finally let go. That was the day he swore that he would not stop until Fyodor was either in jail or dead.
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(Was thinking about Shen Jiu's ascent to divinity in the Great God Airplane AU, so!)
When he looks back on his last qi deviation, it's a blur. A request from a god whose face he could not see and whose robes are made of the sky, a choice made out of spite (though far less of it than anyone would ever suspect, especially the peak lords of Cang Qiong), blinding pain, that same faceless god in summer blue and cloud white, introducing himself as The Memory of Shangdi, the one who wrote this world, who wrote all the terrible words of his life.
The shouts that are demands as much as questions (and pleas more than anything else). "Why should I have had to fight for everything, no matter how hard I worked? Why should I suffer because someone else wrote me a wretched fate, why does this world need Little Nines and Shen Qingqius?"
...afterwards he can only describe it as 'if approval had a colour, then that is what he became'.
"It is true. Sometimes a fate is too cruel to bear, no matter how poetic, no matter how good the story it would make. So from now to eternity, if one meets with such a fate, and if they reach for better, then let that fate be broken... and let there be one who will lead them to better. And to the one who has given all, let all be given in turn."
He remembers... relief then. Even a fraction of Shangdi's power still carries Shangdi's will, and this- did not feel a vow easily broken. So strange, there at the last, to finally find peace as he sinks into oblivion. Perhaps his sacrifice was worth it then, not for the world, not for promises of reward or for change enacted, but for this single moment of peace. A peace so profound that, for the first time since he was abandoned, he is able to sink down, to fold himself small and sleep in the presence of another male.
(He sleeps, for close to a year he sleeps, though he does not remember it, sunk deep in slumber as he grows himself anew. From a tiny golden pearl (no larger than a grain of rice) that sighs into existence in the private quarters of the Heavenly Officials, to one the size of a hawthorn berry, a goose egg, a melon, larger and larger until finally it splits open and he spills out, still sleeping, clad in fine and simple silk, with limbs a length they might once have been, were it not for a childhood of hardship, pain, and want, with siblings he does not know waiting to smooth him into bed and gently braid his hair. (It must be so tiring, they murmur to each other as they do so, so tiring to remake oneself from mortal into a Heavenly Official, into a god. Let him rest a little longer, as long as he needs, our newest member, our precious and only didi.))
He doesn't want to wake up, truly he doesn't. But there are times, such terrible times, when - no matter how comfortable the bed or lazy the mood (and he feels so comfortable and languid) - when one is simply too well rested to stay asleep any longer.
So he wakes.
#svsss#scum villian self saving system#shen jiu#original shen qingqiu#great god airplane#fanfiction#chap when
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I finished reading your latest fic and I have to say your character study of both Rauru and Ganondorf and their relationship to themselves and power made for a very interesting read! My question: what parts of Rauru do you enjoy studying and elaborating on the most? What parts of his character endear you to him?
Thank you anon!! And thank you for the question as well. Rauru is my favorite character in the sense that my brain will NOT stop chewing on him but I donât know if I have ever felt endeared to him, per se. My firstest reaction to himâwhen the final trailer droppedâwas one of suspicion. âDid you kidnap my princess so that I would solve your problems?!â This was mildly unfair. He didnât kidnap Zelda. He sure does want me to solve his problems, though? So the feeling somewhat persisted.
Heâs just sssooooo. Infuriating. In a way that Iâm maybe 70% sure the devs didnât intend? Iâm almost but not quite certain that the gameâs writers just want me to perceive him as a noble king whose justly founded kingdom was threatened by a scary evil man who had no real reason for his violence against Hyrule, whose courageous sacrifice of his own life is to be admired and emulated (never mind that Zelda doesnât need to be told that itâs a rulerâs duty to sacrifice themself for their people, she already did that for a century). Almost, but not quite, and 30% is not a small amount of uncertainty, actually. And that uncertainty comes from:
The specifically called-out fact that he repeatedly reached out to the Gerudo in spite of a lack of positive response, whatever that looked like. Buddy that is â¨coerciveâ¨
His cold, superior treatment of Ganondorf in the Show of Fealty cutscene. Which is even more potent linguistically in Japanese and, I am told, in French. Thereâs something very twisted IMO about treating Ganondorf as a technical equal whose rightful place is beneath Rauru. It makes my brain go brrrrrrrrr real hard (this is known) and it is too apparent for me to think Iâm not supposed to find it a little sick. s-sorry I'm just thinking about it and my brain is going brrrrrrr again. give me a second. ok
Andâshifting away from that cutscene even though I live thereâI have been thinking recently about how much of the gameâs message is that you are not alone and yet how heavily Rauruâs instinct is that he must face the Demon King alone. How he sets up Link, only, as Ganondorfâs eventual doom. Itâs Zelda and Mineru who build the framework for the future sages to fight at Linkâs side. Rauruâs not fully aligned with the theme of the game, and he grunts at his sister, miffed, when she points that out to him.
So was this intended? He is arrogantâthe game names this as his fatal flaw, he names this as his fatal flawâbut how much of his arrogance does the game criticize and how much does it treat as his right? My brain will not stop chewing on this question so I make it the central question of his characterization.
What do I like about him. As a person? Not very much. He is kind and supportive to Zelda. He loves his wife. His ears are very expressive and thatâs cute. List ends here, I think. I donât even respect as a person his desire to be a good and just king because it is far too wrapped up in that âkingâ part.
But as a character, I like him as someone who showcasesâif unintentionally on the gameâs partâhow ultimately insufficient good intentions are. And how solipsistic it is to think that good intentions are everything. I like writing him as someone who truly wants to be a good person, as good as he can possibly be, and who suddenly finds that he has desires and instincts that donât support that self-perception at all. I think that happens to all of us, sometimes. We all have moments where our instincts are crueler or more selfish than our ideals. Itâs how we chose to react to those instincts that matters, and part of that process is to look at them honestly and admit to them. But Rauru, as I write him, fails this step pretty hard. And what happens as a result? He is left in this morass of inner conflict, he is not able to deal honestly with his own desires. They keep building, and he keeps blaming Ganondorf for provoking them. He faces them for just long enough to act on the worst of them and then, horrified by what he has done, he looks away from them again. Not ideal! Not a desirable outcome! But not, I hope, outside the realm of his characterization. (Zelda tells him he will sacrifice himself and he says well thatâs my duty but (A) of all you werenât here before so things will be different! dw about it! And then when he realizes that no, to sacrifice himself is the only option, there is heartbreak on his face. My guy, you were warned. Did you convince yourself this wasnât coming?)
Heâs complex. Maybe on purpose or maybe because the game doesnât realize how insidious the evils of empire and monarchy are--I think probably the former greatly exacerbated by the latter. I have made up so much about him but he would not be nearly as interesting if exported into an OC because I'd be starting with the premise "ooooh he's a lil fucked up actually" as opposed to my making this point about the game writing about a character the game (mostly, I think) wants us to think of as purely good.
gnaws on him some more. puts him back in the terrarium. gives the terrarium a good solid shake. what a guy
#thanks for the ask!#anonymous#and we were both kings đł#bad and imperialist zonai get put in the goat wiggler#tou and the tearful kingdom
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One of my favorite tropes is characters who fully and completely believe they arenât morally good. And yeah, maybe theyâre rough around the edges and maybe definitely they arenât ânice.â
But when you really dig into them, you find a moral code thatâs been tried, hardened, and tested more than most people have ever had to face. You find out theyâve had to face and make decisions with no good answer and then somehow had to find a way to live with that. Theyâve left conventions and social niceties far behind because theyâve encountered the situations where those just donât work. Theyâve faced the brutal, hard reality that you canât saveâyou canât even not hurtâ everyone. They know sometimes the only person you can save is yourself. Sometimes you have to betray or hurt more than a few people to save yourself. They know Do no harm is an impossible lie. And yet under that forcing pressure, they have forged a moral core stripped of all bloat or arbitrary hangers on and tempered in brutal, honest assessment of reality.
And yet. Because theyâve seen the world for what it is rather than what is the sorry being sold. Because they donât buy into the hypocrisy of âinnocentâ and âunblemishedâ and âpure.â Because they donât look like what society says good should look like, because they donât think like society says good should think, because they have faced impossible situations and made decisions instead of looking away and pretending that was not also a choiceâ
Because they are human and imperfect and feel the pain âgoodâ is not supposed to knowâ
They assume they must be not be good. No matter how hard they try, how brave they are, how much empathy they extent or how many sacrifices they make to help others. They assume they must always be fundamentally Bad.
Because Good people donât see the complexities, donât struggle with the complexities and failures, like they do.
Right?
I love when those characters are the kindest (not nice but kind), strongest, most truly brave characters in their setting. Who can reach others who are also imperfect and struggling and broken and beaten down in a way those who are that golden, innocent âgoodâ never could.
I love when good is not being above, separate, untouched by ramble masses and evil. But instead are right in the thick of it, scarred and broken just as much as anyone else, but made the decision to try. Even if they do not believe they are goodâor ever can be. Even if they think their efforts are too small. Even if their attempts are small.
And I always hope for those characters to eventually find enough healing to see how strong and good they are.
But in the mean time, I love them for hard they try, even while believing thereâs something wrong with them, forever staining their soul.
(As if there isnât something wrong with all of us. As if the definition a good person is not innocence from bad actions but the choice to do better. As if that single choices doesnât take more bravery than the most fearless warrior.)
#just random thoughts#if youâve been here long you probably know who at least one of these characters is about#another is my favorite oc who I will actually writeâŚsomeday#oh whoops my religious trauma is showing#would you believe I thought boundaries made me a selfish and morally bad person until I was 25?#ANYWAY#yes this is at least 50% about Takashi Shirogane
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If he sinks to darkest night
A prince gave up the life he knew for his siren until he could notÂ
Radskier, 1.9k, s3 spoilers, kissing, angst,panic attacks, blood, regicide, sad ending, AO3
âA prince and a siren?â
Jaskier laughed at the bewilderment on his face. But who could blame him? Each story he told about his time with the Witcher was more incredible than the last. And no less baffling.
âThereâs poetry in that isnât there,â Jaskier replied, fingers absently caressing his lute, âa creature of the sea and of land falling in love. Two people from two different worlds. And what are they willing to give up for love.â
Radovid watched him as he spoke. Hair delicately tucked back behind his ear. Small smile lingering on his lips as he spoke. Chemise open, chest on display. He somehow managed to look dishevelled and put together at the same time. It was endearing. And attractive, he had to admit. They were enjoying one of those rare moment of peace that they could share together. Jaskier sat completely at ease in his chambers. It was a far cry to how he looked when he had arrived. There was always a stiffness to his posture when he visited. Always uncomfortable around royalty and courts and noble fanfare. He tried to hide it. But Radovid saw through it. Jaskier was a performance, impenetrable to most. Not to him.
âSo the prince and the siren, locked in a battle of who is willing to give up the life they know for the other.â Radovid couldnât hide the excitement in his voice. It was an enchanting story. âWhat happened next?â
Jaskierâs hands returned to their place on his lute. He plucked the strings elegantly as he continued his song.
âHis choice was made aside the sea,
 A twilit red horizon.
 For she had finally made him see
 His place among the sirens.â
Radovidâs breath caught in his throat. He couldnât quite imagine it. A prince giving up his status, his everything, for the person he loved. How must it have felt to make such a decision? To know for sure in your heart that this was what you wanted?
âFor if yer goal be Paradise,
 Just give your love a firm nudge,
 If he sinks to darkest night,
 Embrace his Little Sacrifice.â
The song ended. Jaskier looked at him, waiting for a response. Radovid was threatened to be overcome by what he felt. He took a breath, sat forward in his chair.
âThe prince heâŚmade the sacrifice.â He chose his words carefully. Mulled over every one.
âHe did.â
The prince fidgeted in his seat, reflected on the story the bard had told.
âTruly,â he said at last, âyouâve told some tales in your time but this- I canât imagine someone making such a decision. A prince no less.â
Jaskier watched him carefully.
âSometimes the life weâre given is not the one we want.â
âBut such is the way of life,â Radovid replied as a matter of fact.
âNot always.â
He wondered what it would have been like to give up the life of a prince. He knew from experience that it was not all what people thought it was. Still, he couldn't deny it came with benefits. He never had to worry about where his next meal came from. He wore fine clothing. People who would attend to his whims. Sometimes in Jaskier's stories, he would talk of the hardships he and the witcher faced. Hungry days. Camped out in bad weather. Counting their coin. Was it worth it, he pondered, for freedom.
âMore wine?â Jaskierâs voice cut through his thoughts. Radovid nodded in assent. The bard carefully laid his lute down and got up. He sauntered over and poured more wine into his glass for him. Radovid waited until he had placed the bottle down to wind his arms around his waist and pull him into his lap. Jaskier laughed and let himself be dragged him. He threw an arm around his neck and their lips met. The bards hand tangled in his hair and let out a pleasant hum. Radovid dragged his fingers across his chest. They parted and Jaskier sighed. The princes hand came up further to cup his cheek.
âYou are my siren,â he murmured, âstay the night. Be with me.â
âJust for tonight,â Jaskier replied softly, âI need to leave first thing tomorrow.â
âThen I will make the most of my limited time with you.â
The bard surged forward to capture his lips once again.
***
âJust let me be there for you. Prove that I am more than a mask.â
Jaskier's face shifted with emotions that made anxiety rise in his gut.
âMaybe,â the bard settled on. A glimmer of hope. It was better than nothing. He could work with hope. It pained him to let Jaskier slip through his grasp right now, but he took comfort in the fact that it was not forever. Jaskier needed to find his family. Radovid would do anything he can to help him. Because that was what this was all about wasn't it? Surrounded by so much death and destruction. They were in the midst of war. All they had now was each other. It was love. Love was the most important thing. To Radovid, at least, it was everything.
âWait,â the prince called before Jaskier could disappear through the doorway. His heart sang when the bard turned back. Radovid reached out to him, took him by the hand. The trepidation was back in Jaskier's face. Fleeting, but he didn't miss it. He brought his hand up to lay a soft kiss on his knuckles.
âYou are my siren,â he whispered.
Something changed between then. The bard understood. He understood what he was telling him. This wasn't an end. It was a beginning. Radovid was all in, heart, mind and soul. He was willing to make the sacrifice. Jaskier gave a small nod. And Radovid let him slip away. He stayed behind a moment so that he was not tempted to follow him, and then hastily make his escape. The fighting had stopped. He tried his best to drown out the cries of those suffering around him. There was nothing he could do for them. He weaved his way through the broken battlefield towards the exit. He was halfway across the bridge when he ran into Philippa.
âAh, there you are,â she said with mild concern, âI was beginning to think you'd been buried under the rubble.â
âPhilippa,â Radovid greeted, âI'm glad to run into you actually. I need to get back to Tretogor as soon as possible. I need to talk to my brother urgently.â
A hard smile spread across her face. The prince had no doubt that she wasn't looking forward to her next meeting with Vizimir after the shambles that had happened today. But he wasn't overly concerned about that. He had better things to worry about than her being reprimanded by his brother.
âOf course,â she replied with false cheer. With a wave of her hand a portal opened before them. âCome. It seems we both have urgent matters to attend to.â
***
It had all happened so fast. One moment he was headed to his purpose and the next... Long live King Radovid rang wrong in his ears. His brother's body barely cold on the floor. The image of him lying there, throat cut open with cruel precision, would never leave his mind for the rest of his days. The walls closed around him. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. His prison had no bars. It had expensive drapery, servants, and silver cutlery. It was still a prison. His eyes locked with Philippa's. He wondered if he'd ever seen a genuine expression on her face. Something in her eyes was so...cold. Maybe he could process that later. But not now. Now, his mind went back to Jaskier. The prince could not escape to his siren in the sea. The tide went out, leaving him behind. Trapped on dry land.
âI think the king may need a moment to process,â Philippa spoke up.
âIndeed,â Dijkstra agreed, âhis Majesty needs some privacy.â
He couldn't keep his focus on the conversation. The words became indistinguishable noise. People were moving around them. Blurred shapes. Radovid stood still amongst them. A servant appeared through the mist and stood before him. Offered a bow. Led him out of the room. He followed the blurry figure without a sound. One foot in front of the other. Mechanical. He didn't know where they were leading him until the familiar door of his private chambers appeared. It was opened for him. He forced out a small 'thanks and walked through.
The door closed behind him. Radovid looked around his room. Everything was as he had left it. He had left his chambers a prince. And returned as a king. His eyes stung with tears. He had been so close. So close to happiness. Vizimir hadn't fully understood his reasoning. But he wanted him to be happy. His brother hadn't been perfect. When it came down to it, they loved each other. And then suddenly it was all gone. The rug pulled out from under him. He ran his fingers along the fine upholstery of the chair Jaskier liked to occupy. A prison is a prison.
He fell into his chair. The emotions began to slip away, a numbness taking its place. He stared blankly out into space. He didn't have the energy to cry any more. There were no tears left. He glanced around with a kind of detachment. Was this to be his only sanctuary? Or perhaps they would take that away from him too. Eventually, his eyes landed on his lute. It sat in the corner. An old, worn thing. Heâs used it for practice, planning to replace it when he improved. Maybe have one made for Jaskier too as a surprise. Not to replace his old one. He was always so attached to that thing. To show him how much he cared. There was no point to that now. Just to go out and get one would require so much more planning now. He didnât want a servant to do it. He had wanted to do it himself. His world was limited now. Responsibility weighing so much more than the crown placed upon him.
Radovid pulled himself up and strode across the room. A feeling he couldn't describe squeezed his chest at the sight of it. It sat there, pathetic. Worthless. But still asking to be held. He picked it up by the neck and sat back down. Settled it into his lap. It didnât feel right. Like he couldnât quite get comfortable holding it. He carefully plucked the note. It was wrong. Fuck. What had he showed him? He slid his fingers up a little, tried again. That was it. He played the notes mechanically. They echoed out into the empty room.
âPonder all your wants in life,â he sang quietly, âand make a little sacrifice.â
A knock came at the door and Radovid jumped.
âYour majesty,â came a voice from behind the door, âyouâre needed for important matters. At Lady Philippa Eilhartâs request.â
The king sighed deeply. He dropped the lute carelessly on the floor and rose. Straightening his back, he took a breath. And then strode forward with the mask of a king. He opened the door, greeted the servent and let himself be led away. The door closed behind him. An empty, hollow room. The lute on the floor left to gather dust.
#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#radskier#jaskier#radovid#prince radovid#the witcher s3#the witcher spoilers#the witcher netflix#hmmm im sorry they were made for tragedy im afraid
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Jily one-shot: Mittens
Happy birthday to Lily Potter, the woman whose sacrifice ended up saving the entire wizarding world! ⼠The other day I saw this^ tweet and immediately got inspired. This is just something short and silly but Iâm also working on several other (a little bit longer) fics for this couple that Iâm hoping to post sometime soon enough. Also a mandatory disclaimer: f*ck J*R. Iâm just here for the marauders.
Words: 988
AO3 link
...
âUmm⌠whatâs this, Lily?���
James lifted a weirdly shaped woolen item from a box Lily had packed for him prior to a date at Hogsmeade.
She blushed a bit. âYou know how Iâve recently gotten better at knitting? Well⌠I saw this idea in one of Maryâs knitting magazines and I thought it sounded fun. A mitten that allows you to hold hands with someone even when youâre walking outside in cool weather. Plus, todayâs Valentineâs day so I thought it would make sense to wear it... But if you donât like itâŚâ
Lily must have misread the confusion on his face, thinking heâd hate it. Sirius, Remus and Peter, on the other hand, couldnât hold down their snickers in the background.
âI guess this was a bad idea,â she sighed. âShould have known this wasnât something a Marauder out of all people would get excited about.â
James finally recovered from his initial surprise. âNo, no! Itâs a nice idea, really!â His face melted into a grin. âWho says a Marauder canât enjoy holding hands with his brilliant, talented girlfriend? Shut up, Padfoot,â he lightly shoved Siriusâ shoulder because his best friend was now laughing way too hard at his reaction.
âYou sure?â Lily asked skeptically, her cheeks adorably red.
âYep, Iâm totally sure. As a matter of factâŚâ Jamesâ face lit up when he imagined the warmth of Lilyâs hand in his. âI think I love it.â
âŚ
âDid you see Lockhartâs face?â James asked, trying to contain his laughter as the couple entered Three Broomsticks for a round of Butterbeers. âHe seemed so mad that he hadnât had this idea before you did. Watch him try to sell hundreds of couple mittens next Valentineâs Day.â
âToo bad weâre not here to see it,â Lily snorted. âAlthough, maybe we should stop by just to see if he succeeded.â
âYeah, maybe we should,â James agreed.
âArenât you two just darlings,â Madam Rosmerta, who had arrived to take their order, referred to the mitten they were currently taking off for it was very warm at the inn. âItâs always nice to see some young love aroundâŚâ
âThanks, Ros,â James smirked. âIâm sorry that you have to find out this way that someone else has taken my heart, but thereâs still always a soft spot for you in it.â
Lily slapped his arm with her free hand. âRemember whose hand youâre holding, Potter.â
âBut Lily, you know I only have eyes for you.â He made his best deer eyes at her. âRosie and I simply have a long history.â
Lily rolled her eyes, but James did notice she bit her lip to hide a smile. Everyone knew the Marauders liked to joke around with Rosmerta, mainly to get cheaper drinks, and Lily too had learned to not take the âflirtingâ too seriously.
Madam Rosmerta left to serve other customers. For a while Lily and James simply kept up a light banter, discussing what they had seen so far at Hogsmeade and wondering what the other Marauders were currently doing while sipping their drinks. When they exited the inn, however, they were soon stopped by a small group of Slytherins, Mulciber as their leader.
âJust when I thought you couldnât get any lower, Potter⌠you show us all how whipped you are by a Mudblood⌠Is there anything more pathetic?â
His housemates laughed, but James managed to remain calm as he felt Lily squeezing his hand, meaning âtheyâre not worth itâ. He looked around, trying to come up with an appropriate response. For once the luck was on his side; he spotted none other than Professor Dumbledore himself not too far from them, possibly on his way to enjoy a glass of mead with a couple of his colleagues.
âOi, Professor Dumbledore!â James exclaimed. âFancy seeing you here!â
âJames, Lily,â Dumbledore greeted them. âGood to see my head students here on such a nice day. Are you trying to create a new trend?â He asked warmly, referring to their mitten. âBecause if so, Iâd love to have the pattern to that mitten as well.â
âI can give it to you the next time we give you our monthly report, Professor,â Lily smiled at him. âBy the way, James and I were just wondering⌠would it be a sufficient punishment for someone who uses a slur against another student⌠if we made them wear one of these, but, I donât know, with Peeves or something.â
âGood luck convincing Peeves to participate in that,â Dumbledore chuckled. âBut I will admit, the concept is rather creative. Maybe we need to discuss how to develop it in our next meeting.â The professorâs eyes were twinkling playfully.
âSir, you know just as well as I do that if anyone can convince Peeves to do anything, it's James. Either way, weâll be looking forward to that discussion,â Lily replied, waving at the professor before they turned to leave. From the corner of his eye, James saw Mulciber glaring at them murderously, but he just flashed one final grin at the Slytherinâs direction before leaving the scene.
âWhat an arsehole,â James shook his head once Lily and he were far enough. âIf we hadnât been wearing this,â he raised their mitten, âI might have punched him in the faceâŚâ
âWell, Iâm glad you didnât, in front of Dumbledore and the others,â Lily noted. âBut see, this mitten was pretty useful, after all,â she chuckled then. âI doubt Mulciber will want to use the m-word in front of anyone when thereâs a possibility heâll have to wear it with Peeves.â
âThat was quite genius of you,â James admitted. âAlthough I personally think heâll be missing out⌠I actually have been enjoying wearing this.â
âYeah, you have?â Lily gave him a fond smile. âIn that case, Iâm glad I made it.â
âMe too,â James agreed and with the hand that was entwined with hers, he pulled her closer for a kiss.
@jilymicroficsâ I know this doesnât really fit under any of the prompts, but I hope it still counts!
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PF2E Classes and Dating Dynamics
Episode 1: Bard
Bard + Alchemist: Wedded Weirdoes. Sharing a love for the boundaries of the known world, and even moreso pushing past those boundaries into the unknown. Eclectic, odd, and idiosyncratic, but never out of sync with one another. There is at least 1 mutagenic used in the bedroom nightly.
Bard + Barbarian: The Wolf and its Howl. Barbarian feels numb to the world due to their grueling training, and Bard reminds them the beauty of small, gentle things. Who is protecting whom differs depending on which you ask.
Bard + Bard: Songbirds. Cute little love ballads to each other, coming up with the stupidest rhymes with each other's names. Calling each other pet names like "Muse" and "My Sweet Sonata". Nasty freaky sex.
Bard + Cleric: Would you still love me if I were a Bookworm? They meet in a class discussing the Theological importance behind Likha, The Teller. Both are quiet, so as not to gush, until an obscure bit of trivia leaps from their mouths in unison. They spend the night together in the dorms, but they're far too busy talking to sleep. Two lovable gray ace dorks.
Bard + Champion: Hype and Hyper. Champion slays and kicks ass for their god. Bard thinks that's badass, starts playing some sick trumpet. The excitement is electric, and sparks form between them. They have a sex playlist, and Def Lepperd is on it.
Bard + Druid: The Spider and the Fly. No one understands the Druid quite like the Bard. There is a roughness, a viciousness to love that society has shorn off. Filed the points from our fangs to distance ourselves from beasts. The Bard remembers. The Bard can sing the old songs, just like the Druid can. Stare them in the eye, no matter their shape or size, and refuse to blink. Their love is raw gold in the belly of a forgotten cave, and that's just how they like it.
Bard + Fighter: Knight and Squire. Bard has ballads set aside just to tend to Fighter's wounds. Fighter learned to pick up a shield so that no one hurts their Bard. They lift each other up, holding each other to a fierce, almost competitive standard, only because they believe in each other so much.
Bard + Inventor: Experimental. Societal standards are stupid and identity is what they want it to be. Transhumanists who love each other's ability to ebb and flow. Music, fashion, expression, and even bodily configuration change day by day, and yet their hearts never drift apart.
Bard + Kineticist: Hearts Aflame. A Bard in awe of a dangerous powerhouse of fire. A Kineticist baffled by this Bard's insistence on being around despite constantly getting (slightly) incinerated. Their love is sacrifice and compromise, hard earned and Aloe scented.
Bard + Magus: Battle Buddies! Have you ever noticed how combat is like a dance? These two have! Magic, steel, song, dance, blending together in beautiful harmony. It's no wonder they get along so well, they're like puzzle pieces fit tightly together.
Bard + Monk: Order and Entropy. Sometimes, we must shed blood for peace. Sometimes, our silence must speak loudly for us. The Bard's creativity is tempered by the Monk's discipline. The Monk's form is made flowing by the Bard's song. In life and love, all things must be brought into balance.
Bard + Oracle: Strangers Together. An Oracle's burden is a heavy one. Nightmares wrack their restless nights, and alienation riddles their everyday life. If not for the lullabies of the Bard, they wonder how they would sleep at all. They hold hands, staring together at the Enigma, and for a moment, they feel a little less alone in this weird, wild world.
Bard + Psychic: Dark Side of the Heart. Bard will never forget their first meeting. Psychic will never remember it. The power of a Dark Persona is mesmerizing, like looking into the eye of a storm. Bard has tried and failed a hundred times to capture that feeling into a song. Psychic eventually stops apologizing for its existence... and feels a lot less lonely now that they have someone to confide their darkness into.
Bard + Ranger: Folk Heroes! Any talking that is done in this relationship is very one sided. The Bard will tell you all about how their partner slayed the evil giant with one hand tied behind their back, or pole vaulted across the sea with a single bamboo chute, or lifted a whole town out of the way of a volcanic eruption! The Ranger, smiling quietly, will simply add "That's true, mostly."
Bard + Rogue: Starcrossed Sneakthiefs. They meet in jail, both imprisoned under different circumstances. This isn't either of their first jailbreaks, but its their first one together. They turn robbery into romance, and second story work into soulful serenades. The only thing they need is each other... and everyone else's stuff too.
Bard + Sorcerer: Forbidden Feelings. Who else would understand? The way that society treats us different...the way they cast their looks of shame down upon us. We were born this way! We had no choice! If only they knew just how heavy it was... the burden of being...just so horny for dragons.
Bard + Summoner: Pet People. It's not often you find your true soulmate, or a trusty animal companion that'll stay by your side. Even rarer, the Bard finds both in the Summoner. Eidolons, the truest shape of one's soul, have a kind of "people sense" that cannot be overstated. It is no surprise then that the Summoner's face turns bright red when, for the first time ever, their Eidolon bends its head down to allow the Bard to give the goodest boy some pats.
Bard + Swashbuckler: Theater Dropouts. They met in the detention center of their college. One had switched the prop swords with real ones to show their prowess on stage. The other had cast Sleep on the lead to make them miss their entrance. It isn't their fault that the stage isn't big enough for them, someone ought to build a bigger stage! When they look into each other's eyes, minutes before facing their possible expulsion, they realize it doesn't matter. They'll star in this adventure together, two leads unbound by petty things like direction and criticism.
Bard + Thaumaturge: Hobby Hubbies. Bards, like crows, are known for their love of shiny things. Any Thaumaturge worth their weight in salt has a plethora of trinkets, doodads, and gizmos that have been marinating in hundreds of years of esoteric lore. You know what they say, couples that treasure hunt together stay together.
Bard + Witch: Love Through Spite. Listen, patrons suck. They're flighty, they speak in riddles, they have stupid expectations, and half the time they don't even know what they want. The only difference between ours is that yours is the Spirit of Winter and mine owns a villa in Tian Xia. Let's bitch together until the pain stops.
Bard + Wizard: Bitter Rivals. These two are the absolute bane of any unsuspecting lecture goer's existence. It starts off simply, one will answer a question provided by a teacher, or give some small anecdote. Like volatile chemistry, the other will react with something snide. Snideness turns to rudeness. Rudeness turns to vitriol. Vitriol manifests in nasty spells slung across the lecture hall. With all of the fighting they do, it's a wonder (and a nightmare, really) to all their classmates why they always end up in the same classes. The truly keen are left with an even larger mystery: why has the Wizard been repeatedly spotted leaving the Bard's dorm in the wee hours of the morning? The world may never know.
#theoposting#pathfinder2e#ttrpg#pf2e#rpg#dnd#romance#fantasy#dating#shipping dynamics#shitposting#shitposts that I worked way too hard and long on but whatever it's a writing exercise so like it counts as being productive or something
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Patreon Post: Unwilling Sacrifice (Quincy- Nu Carnival)
content warning: Predator/Prey, Tsundere, Rough Sex
You should be more afraid of a playful predator than an aggressive one. A dog snarling, a lion growling, a snake hissing, show that theyâre afraid, even just a bit. They want you to back up, they want you to leave.
Playful predators have time. Have patience. Have a streak of mischievous delight in watching you. They look down at you.
What you were never told was what to do with a silent predator.
You knew how to handle Kuya. Play along, and he loses interest. Donât rise to the bait. Try to look small. As a yokai, you were already safer than most other people, like humans. Kuya had always been your home, one of his preferred little followers, but he had become⌠Enraptured with the brown haired human that would come by sometimes. You werenât a big fan of Kuyaâs âplayfulâ antics, but it meant things were always interesting.
Maybe the boredom had gotten to you, to the point you absolutely fucked up, to the worst degree.
âBored⌠Are you?â Kuya stood above you, purple robes billowing gently despite there being no wind.
âI-I d-didnât see you there, m-my-â
âGood thing you didnât.â He replied airly, his grin too big for his elegant face. âI would never have learned that my favourite little pet was oh so bored here.â
You tried to deny it all, you were happy, you just missed Kuya, but you could tell nothing you were saying was actually sitting with him. He was just nodding, smiling as you stammered before putting an arm around your shoulders, ushering you away from the others. His hand even drifted down to curl his fingers into the soft fur of your tail.
âI would never want you to be bored~â He murmurs, nosing along your ear. âWhy donât I set you up with a playdate with my friend?â
His friend. The silent predator. Quincy.
Your soft, silky clothes were ripped, filthy as you tried to hide in the underbrush. Your breathing felt far too loud, so much so you doubt you could even hear any branches or leaves cracking underfoot. But you knew it was fruitless. You could feel his eyes no matter where you went.
With a desperate whine, you began to crawl deeper into the foliage, just needing to be able to get out of the forest and back home, thatâs all Kuya wanted from you. Heâd never put you in⌠Direct danger, would he? Maybe in a precarious, embarrassing position, but not⌠Dead? The words he left you with, was that since he wasnât up to parr for your entertainment, why doesnât his lovely friend see to it? You whine to yourself again, worried about what that meant. What good could come from being hunted by a lonely, quiet hunter?
Well, he could tell you⌠Show you⌠If only you poked those cute little ears up again.
Quincy could practically smell you. Scared little thing, your perfume sweet and foreign against the natural, earthy scent of the forest. Heâd never thank Kuya, not for as long as he lives, but he needed this so badly. Saliva pooled on his tongue as he crept through the foliage, blending perfectly in spite of his stocky build. It was cute that you thought that he was going to hurt you. Not you. A little yokai who was stumbling around, getting smacked in the face with low hanging branches and ripping your clothes. But even Quincy wasnât able to properly formulate what he wanted, not even to himself. He could rut into Eiden day after day and still struggle to actually speak his desires⌠Which he usually ignored anyway. But he has a taste now. A taste that curled on his tongue and it tinged the air around him as he made his way towards you.
Scared, quivering little thing.
Quincy had never gotten to get his hands on a yokai like you before. One of Kuyaâs favourite little attendants, and the way you were actually⌠Scared? Of him? Was delicious. Kuya was the maestro of his craft, and you must have picked up some tips from him. You also knew the tricky fox bastard. Yet you were shaking in your little boots because of him?
Whilst pondering this, another thought slipped into Quincyâs mind.
Has Kuya fucked you?
Normally the thought of getting the bastardâs⌠âSloppy Secondsâ as Eiden gleefully called it, he would be pissed. Annoyed. Would throw you back into Kuyaâs face. That image does make Quincyâs lips twitch. But heâs not angry.
Heâd gladly take any chance to taste a Yokai, especially you. Cute little thing.
The sound of a branch breaking has his eyes pinning to your form, trying to trot away as quickly as possible. Pathetic.
You donât even hear him. A harsh force shoving you from behind, sending you tumbling into the leaves and dirt. The massive weight against your back has you gasping, struggling to inhale before it lifted and you were roughly turned onto your back.
âD-Donât hurt me!â You gasped out, before actually looking up at your attacker, stunned. Itâs⌠The hunter.
And the hunter has a hard on.
That hard on was fucking your insides into the shape of his cock. He didnât even say anything. Just desperately started tearing at your clothes and you just gaped at him. Fucked is better than dead. Much better.
Bruises were pressed into your hips, blooming over your skin as you were roughly jerked down, onto his cock over and over again. Bites trailed all up your throat, before Quincy licks into your mouth. He was so selfish with his own pleasure, so it was purely by accident that he had brought you to orgasm thrice over already. Fat, cruel cock, using your hole like one of those fleshlights Eiden had talked about. The hunter made no noises, his harsh breaths loud in your ears.
Something in your gut knew that you were not going to be set free for a long time, but being drained of orgasm after orgasm was worth it.
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