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queerfanfiction · 5 months ago

Note

Request: ghost!Larissa appears to reader as a disembodied head in a crystal ball and gives them comfort?

Ghosting

Prompt is shown above. :) Thank you for being so very patient, @chromium-siren!

word count: 9.6k includes: angst, fluff; cw for death, emotional abuse, and ghosts

AO3 link

Reader POV

The weight of Nevermore’s legacy has pressed heavily on your shoulders from the moment you had accepted the role of principal. Its gothic spires and shadowy halls seem alive with the whispers of generations of outcasts who had walked those corridors before. You sought the position not out of ambition but necessity—to be close to your ailing mother, to spend what little time remains with her. What you hadn’t expected was to find a crystal ball tucked away in the floorboards of the principal’s office…

“Bathe the crystal sphere in sunlight or moonlight.” Hm, but wh- oh. Crystals feed on light, okay. Can do. You read the instructions from the large and dusty textbook that you had found stuck underneath another book in the Nightshades library. It looked like it hadn’t been opened in decades.

You peered out the window of your office, unable to see anything but darkness. Instead, you checked your phone only to find out there was a new moon that night. Just my luck, you thought to yourself. This would have to wait. You knew your current fixation on the crystal ball was excessive. Hells, you didn’t even know much divination magic; it had never been your forté in school. Something had to go your way, though. The past two weeks had been rough, and that was putting it lightly.

It was the end of your first week at Nevermore as the new principal. The students and faculty had been guarded and resistant to your efforts for camaraderie, and you couldn’t say you blamed them. Your stomach had plummeted when you first walked by the handmade memorial for their newly deceased former principal. Larissa, you had mouthed without making any sound. Her name had tasted unfamiliar yet weighty on your lips. You remembered passing her propped-up, framed photo in the hall outside what had once been her office—how her eyes had haunted you, how they had pierced through the glass with a look that had seemed both watchful and expectant. You had felt an inexplicable, magnetic pull toward her picture, as though a thread of fate had tethered you to her the moment you had stepped into her metaphorical shoes.

When you had arrived, the principal’s office had been untouched. Larissa Weems’ belongings had still been scattered throughout the office and living quarters, their placement a silent testament to her presence. Even the air had been filled with her lingering essence—opulent tuberose and jasmine, a scent so vivid it had almost made you falter. You hadn’t been able to decide if it was a comfort or a burden, the way the room had seemed to belong more to her memory than to you. Stepping into her role had felt less like an achievement and more like an act of trespass. Had she felt this way when she had first taken the position, or had her confidence always been unshakable, as it had seemed in every account you read of her? The weight of her legacy pressed heavily on you, and the room had borne it silently, waiting to see what you did next.

Feeling like a strange intruder, you had tiptoed around the rooms during the first day, nervous to upset the preserved and well-loved space. When you had finally tired of living out of your suitcase, you had perused the inherited items curiously. That had been when you had discovered the crystal ball, hidden beneath a wood plank in the floor to the right of the giant Medusa fireplace mantle. Once your hands had touched the heavy, cool quartz, a feeling of comfort had overwhelmed you. Your shoulders had relaxed, and you had felt as if you had slipped underwater. Everything had slowed and gone fuzzy; the hair on your arms had raised, sending echoes of energy along them. With your interest piqued, you had decided to display the crystal ball on a shelf in your office, not wanting to hide it away again.

Somehow, you’ve ended up here, sitting cross-legged on the floor of your office amidst an array of occult and divination books. The faint scent of dust mingles with the aroma of lukewarm IPA—the spoils of your most recent confiscation from a pair of unruly student werewolves. The surreal combination of academic pursuits and personal grief has felt as disjointed as your new reality, but you clung to it, if only to fill the void. You reached for your phone lying on your desk, checking it for any messages from your mother’s hospice nurse or from Alison. Alison—ugh.

You grimaced as you felt pain move through your chest. Heartbreak seems too cliché to deal with at this moment. You thought these kinds of things really only happened in fiction—to Callie and Arizona on Grey’s Anatomy. Ironically, you even remembered watching their breakup over moving to Africa with Alison. At the time, it had seemed too abstract and unbelievable that two people who loved each other couldn’t work it out. How naïve, you considered with a frown. You tried not to think about how Alison hadn’t wanted to stay with you, support you, or comfort you as you take care of your ailing mother.

It has been hard relocating to Vermont. Yes, you were thankful to have an amazing job in such a picturesque area, but it was still hard to get used to. It was hard sleeping alone again. It was hard changing your entire wardrobe due to a different geographic climate. It was hard not having friends to spend time with or a support system to lean on. It was hard transitioning to a smaller town. It was hard seeing someone you care for so deeply—your kind mother—become a shell of herself.

Unwilling to spiral into too much of a pity party, you decided to set up the mysterious crystal ball on the private balcony outside to let it absorb some light. I’ll check on you tomorrow night, you cooed, blowing the inanimate object a kiss. You then shook your head slightly, baffled at your silly behavior. Wow, and this is why I don’t drink beer… you lamented.

Exhausted from the day, you came back the following evening to find no changes in the crystal ball. You heaved a heavy sigh, not really sure what you expected. Carefully, you brought it in and set it back on display in your office. You plopped down on the leather chair by the fireplace with a soft creak, taking a moment to rub at your temples. Your eyes started to sting, indicating the welling up of tears; wetness threatened to spill onto your cheeks. You bite your lip in an effort to halt getting more emotional. Don’t break down, you pleaded with yourself earnestly. It had been a particularly difficult night at your mother’s house; seeing the reality of her health decline made you feel fragile and vulnerable.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and its warm glow danced across the crystal ball that was now perched on your desk instead of the bookshelf. Despite the object’s stillness, you felt as though it was watching you—or perhaps waiting. You shook the thought away, chalking it up to your weariness. You leaned back in the chair and closed your eyes, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the armrest. The soft leather felt comforting under your fingertips, but it hadn’t stopped the ache in your chest.

After those last few weeks, the ache in your chest feels like a companion now—a heavy, unwelcome shadow refusing to leave. Shifting uncomfortably, you pulled at the throw blanket draped over the chair and tucked it around yourself, seeking warmth. The silence of the room pressed down on you. It was a strange thing, the quietness of Nevermore after dark. It wasn’t peaceful so much as it was heavy, filled with the whispers of secrets too old and too dangerous to be forgotten.

You glanced at the crystal ball again, your eyes catching a faint shimmer within its depths. Probably just the reflection of the fire, you told yourself, though the thought did little to ease the odd flutter in your stomach. You tried to take a few deep breaths, but your gaze compulsorily wandered back to your desk.

The crystal ball seemed to gleam brighter then, its surface catching and refracting the light in a way that felt almost alive. A faint, pulsating glow began to emanate from within, soft and rhythmic, like a tiny heartbeat. You squinted to look closer, your breath hitching as the glow intensified, each pulse drawing you further into its strange, mesmerizing allure. You blinked, leaning forward, almost toppling from the chair. This time, you knew the shimmer wasn’t from the fire. You froze, and the hairs on your arms stood on end.

No, it must be a trick of the light, you considered. But the logical part of your brain faltered when the glow sharpened, coalescing into a distinct shape. A face. Pale, elegant, with high cheekbones and red lips pressed into a concerned expression. The eyes, illuminated by the glow, were an arresting blue that you now knew all too well—eyes framed in the tribute photo outside your office. That photo, capturing a poised yet enigmatic Larissa Weems, had always felt like it was watching you. Now, the familiar gaze sent a shiver down your spine, as if the picture itself was coming to life.

Larissa.

Larissa POV

The crystal ball was both a prison and a perch, a paradox that Larissa Weems was still coming to terms with. The inside was surprisingly spacious. Not physically, of course, but in that odd, liminal way one might feel in a dream—weightless yet aware, detached yet painfully tethered. Suspended within its shimmering, otherworldly sphere, she felt every movement of the world around her as faint ripples, like distant echoes of a tide. Larissa had spent an indeterminate amount of time there, waiting to reunite with the world beyond the glass and dark floorboards.

This failsafe is proving to be troublesome, indeed, Larissa thought one day. As if on cue, weight above her seemed to shift as Larissa heard wood creak loudly and scuffle against itself.

Finally! the silver-blonde-haired woman exclaimed to herself. Finally, she was being unearthed from beneath the floorboards. The discovery was almost anticlimactic—a dusty sphere wrapped in an old cloth, its surface dull until warm fingers brushed against it. Larissa felt a jolt then, a spark of recognition and connection. Hope. The warm, agile fingers continued to uncover the crystal ball.

“Oh, at last! Wonderfu—” Larissa paused abruptly, changing her tone from relief and excitement to one of confusion and impatience. She didn’t recognize the woman in front of her. She had been waiting for Wednesday, Enid, Bianca—anyone to decipher the clues showing that Larissa had found a way to temporarily cheat death. “And just who are you?”

Larissa’s question wasn’t met with a response. Rude. Her savior-turned-intruder ignored her. “Excuse me,” the former principal shouted. “Put me down at once!”

However, no matter how much Larissa willed herself to be seen or heard, the strange woman holding her remained blissfully unaware of Larissa’s presence. Instead, the woman tilted her head, examining the crystal globe, but her gaze seemed to pass through Larissa like sunlight through mist.

Over the next few days, Larissa grappled with a mixture of determination and desperation. She tried everything she could think of—whispering, shouting, even attempting to roll the glass ball off the desk in a moment of frantic frustration. Nothing had worked. Her voice was absorbed into the void, leaving her with a deep, aching loneliness she hadn't felt in years. The isolation gnawed at her, a relentless reminder of her severance from the world she had once commanded. Each futile attempt to physically interact with those outside the sphere—resulting in only faint, unnoticed vibrations—tightened the knot of frustration and yearning in her chest. She longed for the tactile sensations of life: the crisp rustle of papers, the smooth glide of a pen, the comforting weight of her tailored blazers. Gods forbid, even Enid’s excited muttering or Wednesday’s deadpan quips. Instead, she floated in silence, a spectator in a world that was moving on without her. She supposed it was poetic justice to be a phantom steward of the very institution she had once ruled with iron grace.

Still, she refused to give in to despair. If there was one thing Larissa Weems excelled at, it was adapting to the impossible.

—

Larissa saw the room, the polished wood of the desk, and the clean but casual order in which the new principal kept her belongings. She saw the woman, pacing with a furrowed brow, her lips moving as she muttered something about an upcoming staff meeting.

In her silent observation, Larissa has come to admire the other woman’s resolve. Taking over as principal of Nevermore Academy was no small feat, particularly in the wake of Larissa’s own tenure. The school has its quirks, its mysteries, its dangers. Yet, this woman seemed to navigate it all with an earnest determination that Larissa found both endearing and exasperating.

“No, no, no,” the woman had muttered once, crossing out a line in her notebook with sharp, deliberate strokes. “That’ll never work. Maybe if I rearrange the seating assignments…” She had flipped back several pages, her pen darting over the paper in quick, decisive motions.

Larissa had tilted her head, amused. “Darling, it’s a staff meeting, not a battlefield,” she had murmured, though she had known the words would not reach the other woman’s ears.

Still, her inability to directly communicate didn’t stop Larissa from meddling. It became a bittersweet outlet for her pent-up emotions. At times, her subtle interference felt like a lifeline, a way to reaffirm her presence in the world she could no longer touch. Other times, it seemed like an exercise in frustration, a poignant reminder of her limitations. Regardless, it gave Larissa a flicker of purpose, and for now, that was enough to keep her going. Her influence was subtle—books falling open to the correct pages, the faintest brush of wind guiding the other woman’s hand away from disastrous decisions. When the new principal stayed late answering emails, Larissa would nudge the clock forward to remind her to go to bed. When she hesitated to discipline unruly students, Larissa would whisper encouragement, even if the words dissipated like vapor.

Once, before becoming fond of the woman, when Larissa had found the new principal poring over the schedule for the upcoming Poe Cup, she hadn’t been able to stand it. “Not that team first, you fool,” Larissa had groaned, watching as the woman placed the Fangs in the first heat. “The Sirens will tear them apart. Have you no sense of strategy?” She had passed her ethereal hand over her face, only to remember—again—that her fingers weren’t solid enough to touch anything.

The air had gone chilly, and the younger woman sitting only feet from Larissa had suddenly frowned, looking up from her work. “Is someone there?” she had uttered, scanning the room. Larissa had frozen and felt oddly sheepish, not daring to breathe—not that she had needed to anymore. When the woman had risen from her seat to close the balcony doors, Larissa had focused all of her energy into pushing forward the Black Cats token instead of the Fangs. When sitting back down to work at the desk again, the woman’s eyebrows had knitted together in confusion. Thankfully, it had only taken a moment for her to place the Black Cats in the first heat instead. During another time, Larissa had even managed to make the crystal ball glow faintly, a soft white radiance that had been dismissed as a reflection coming in from the windows.

These small victories kept Larissa going, even as the days stretched into weeks. She watched as the younger woman slowly made the role of principal her own, balancing the expectations of the staff, the students, and the peculiarities of Nevermore itself. Larissa was particularly proud of the moment the new principal reorganized the curriculum for the history of the supernatural world. She had unknowingly scrapped the rote memorization that Larissa had always despised in favor of practical, interactive learning. “Well done,” Larissa had vocalized, feeling a swell of pride.

There were moments of vulnerability, too. Late at night, when the office was quiet and the weight of the day pressed heavily on the new principal’s shoulders, Larissa felt an almost unbearable urge to reach out to her. To offer comfort, guidance, reassurance… to tell her that she was not alone.

Larissa started to verbalize all her thoughts, taking comfort in knowing others would not hear her. She reflected on her past relationships and leadership, grappling with the contradictions between her rigorous expectations and the rare, fleeting connections she managed to forge. The memories surfaced unbidden—moments of camaraderie tarnished by misunderstandings, and alliances fractured under the weight of her perfectionism. Yet, in this peculiar companionship with the oblivious principal, she found herself revisiting those failures with a bittersweet clarity. Could this enforced proximity be a second chance, not just to guide but to grow? She never thought she could get along with someone long-term, especially living together. If this could even be considered living together, she pondered.

Past attempts at close companionship had always ended in disappointment, usually due to her own exacting standards. Larissa had always preferred the solitude of her own company to the vulnerability that came with sharing her life. And yet, now, as she observed the younger principal with increasing fondness, she wondered if she had been too quick to dismiss the possibility of connection. There was something different here—an inexplicable pull that made her almost relish the forced proximity, even if it was one-sided. Yes, Larissa liked her space, often putting up a wall with others. However, she found herself waiting for the new principal to return from meetings, wishing she could usher her through tough decisions and emotional turmoil.

Larissa’s favorite days were when the other woman placed her crystal ball on the office desk. This gives me time to read important administrative missives, Larissa tried to convince herself. While that may be true, she also found herself closely watching the other woman process information. Larissa began to memorize her facial expressions, like how she pressed her lips together in a line when she was concentrating. Or how her right eyebrow rose when she was suspicious of whether or not she was getting the entire truth from a student.

“You’re doing better than you think,” Larissa had said softly one evening, as the other woman had sat with her head in her hands, the faint glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. “You’re stronger than you realize.”

The words had dissolved into the ether, unheard and unacknowledged. Larissa had spoken them anyway. She had to believe that somehow, in some small way, they make a difference.

And so she waited, tethered to the crystal ball, watching and hoping. One day, Larissa told herself. One day, the woman in front of her would see her. One day, they would speak. Until then, Larissa would be the silent sentinel, the unseen guardian of Nevermore Academy and its newest principal.

Mostly Reader POV

Before you could examine the slight glow from within the crystal ball, the soft chime of your cellphone broke the stillness of the late evening. You cleared your throat briefly and answered, “Hello?” The word hung heavily in the air.

The pause on the other end was just long enough to spark unease in your chest. Then a gentle, wavering voice came through—a familiar voice. It was your mother’s hospice nurse, letting you know that your mother passed away peacefully after you left that evening.

The world tilted. A numbness settled over you, followed by a wave of disbelief so strong it threatened to swallow you whole. You barely manage to whisper, “I appreciate you letting me know” and “Thank you for your dedication to her comfort at the end of her life” before you end the call with trembling hands. Your phone slipped slightly within your grasp as the weight of the news sank in.

You fell to your knees where you were in front of the fireplace, and your breath caught. Tears spilled from your tired eyes before you even realized they were falling. Mom, you repeat over and over in your head. You remember her smile, warm and reassuring, as she had taught you how to braid your hair for the first time. Heard her voice, steady and patient, explaining how to face fear without flinching. You remembered the way her eyes had lit up when she had seen you in your cap and gown, pride radiating from her like sunlight. Each memory sharpened the ache in your chest, but you clung to them desperately, unwilling to let her go completely. The sharp-witted woman who taught you resilience was now silenced forever. The dark mahogany walls of the office seemed to close in. Grief poured out in quiet sobs as you rose and then slumped into the leather chair, your face buried in your hands. You didn’t even notice the faint glimmer in the corner of your vision—an almost imperceptible flicker of light from the crystal ball on the desk behind you.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” a voice called, soft and uncertain, carrying an ethereal echo as if it had been traveling across time and space. The words seemed to float in the air, wrapping around you like a fragile whisper, tinged with a strange warmth that sent flutters through your body.

You froze, your head snapping up. The voice wasn’t your mother’s, but it didn’t feel entirely unfamiliar either. Your eyes darted around the room before landing on the ornate crystal sphere. The smooth surface shimmered, a faint image forming within. A face. Her face.

“Larissa?” you whispered, your voice trembling. Inside the crystal ball, Larissa’s expression was one of concern, with an intensity that made your heart pound. The usually composed demeanor you often saw her depicted in was softened by something you couldn’t quite place.

You stood slowly, disbelief warring with the raw ache in your chest. “This can’t be real. I must be losing my mind.”

“It’s real,” Larissa replied gently. “I wish it weren’t under these circumstances, but it seems your pain has... unlocked something. You were unable to hear me before tonight.” She spoke her initial words of apology not expecting any sort of reaction or response from the other woman. She just couldn’t stand to watch you hunched over in despair. You were not able to hear her over the last few weeks, so she didn’t consider that this time would be any different.

You pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to steady yourself. The surrealism of the moment clashed with the grief still roaring through your veins. “I couldn’t hear y—… You’ve been here this whole time? You—” Your voice faltered, cracking under the weight of disbelief. Your stomach twisted as everything you thought you knew was flipped on its head.

A flood of questions battled for dominance in your mind—Why hadn’t I sensed her before? How much has she seen? What does this connection mean? But the words refused to form, tangling in your throat as a mixture of awe and fear gripped you. Finally, a hoarse whisper escaped: “How… How are you here? You’re—” You stopped short, unwilling to say the word aloud.

“Dead?” Larissa offered, her tone calm and almost matter-of-fact. However, her voice was edged with a faint hesitation, as though acknowledging the weight of the word might shatter the delicate connection forming between you. “Yes. Quite inconvenient, I must admit. But one learns to adapt.” You felt a flicker of unease at her candor but also an odd comfort in her willingness to confront the truth with you.

After a few moments of raw, pregnant silence, Larissa admitted, “I’ve seen you pacing this office, running this school, handling it all with grace—even when you were clearly breaking inside. I wanted to speak to you so badly, but I couldn’t. Not until now.”

The weight of the past weeks—learning the academy, grieving in silence for your mother’s impending death—weighed on you further, and you involuntarily let out a bitter laugh. “And now you can talk to me, just when I have nothing left to give.”

Larissa’s tone grew insistent, more reassuring. “You have so much left. More than you know. I may be trapped in this... cursed glass prison, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help. You’re not alone.”

You stared at the crystal ball, your heart a storm of emotions. Tears began to fall again. Despite the surreal nature of the moment, a sense of unexpected comfort washed over you. It was as if Larissa’s presence, even confined to the crystal, pierced through the isolating fog of your intense grief. Her calm reassurance felt like a lifeline, grounding you when everything else seemed to be spiraling out of control. You sank into your desk chair and let yourself feel it all—grief, disbelief, and that odd, unexpected reassurance in Larissa’s presence. For the first time since stepping into the role of principal, since moving to Vermont, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, your voice breaking again. “I—I don’t know how to do this without her.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Larissa commented softly, her pale blue eyes holding a spark of warmth. “And I’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”

You nodded slowly, your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the crystal ball. The connection between you two felt fragile but real, like a thread binding you to something steady in a world suddenly adrift. The sensation was both comforting and strange, a bittersweet tether in an unmoored reality.

As the sun settled below the horizon, the two women sat together—one confined to a sphere of glass, the other drowning in grief—and for the first time, they began to truly see each other. You found yourself marveling at the unexpected solace Larissa offered, even in her spectral form. Perhaps this connection, however strange, was what you needed to navigate both the weight of your losses and the responsibilities ahead. A flicker of hope ignited within you, fragile yet persistent, as you resolved to face tomorrow with Larissa’s steady voice as your guide.

—

Days passed in a blur of meetings, morose reflecting, and an eagerness to learn more about Larissa. Though she remained confined within the crystal ball, Larissa’s voice became a constant in your life, offering advice, sharp wit, and occasional pep talks. You found yourself relying on her in ways you never expected. And when the question finally formed on your lips, it felt like a whisper of hope. “Is there a way to... free you? To get you out of the crystal?”

Larissa’s image flickered slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps. Magic has its intricacies, but there are always loopholes. I learned of the possibility only briefly before my death. I suspect any true release will require both research and courage—two things you have in abundance.”

Her words sent a subtle thrill through you, a renewed sense of purpose. Late nights that once felt endless and hollow now found you reading over ancient divination texts and arcane tomes, searching for clues. Larissa watched, her ethereal presence a steadying force, offering insights from her time as an educator and leader. Together, you composed fragments of spells, legends, and theories, each discovery bringing you closer to an answer.

But life didn’t pause for mysteries or magic. The academy demanded your attention, and you refused to leave Larissa behind. The crystal ball found a new home in your bag, nestled among your notebooks and pens. You carried her with you almost everywhere—staff meetings, Jericho town halls, disciplinary hearings, even casual strolls through the campus gardens. It felt strangely soothing to have her voice at your side, her sharp observations cutting through the noise of administrative chaos and duties. Though, you often wondered if Larissa could even be stopped from giving her opinion—not that others could hear her.

“You can’t let the vampires out after curfew,” Larissa had tutted one evening, her elegant features shimmering faintly in the glass sphere. “They’ll claim it’s moonlight yoga, but trust me, it’s never just yoga.”

“Really, darling,” she had quipped a different afternoon as you had sat in a budget meeting, the crystal ball resting discreetly on the table beside your laptop. “Doesn’t he realize the importance of investing in the arts? Short-sighted, if you ask me.”

You had stifled a laugh, earning a curious glance from the finance director. “I’ll bring it up,” you had whispered under your breath, your hand brushing the sphere in silent acknowledgment.

Larissa’s presence transformed even the mundane into something meaningful, something you looked forward to. Her advice was invaluable, her perspective a steadying force as you navigated the complexities of Nevermore. And though the weight of grief lingered, the ache felt lighter with her by your side. You found yourself growing around your grief—finding moments of curiosity, camaraderie, and pure laughter with Larissa.

One evening, as you sat in your office with the crystal ball glowing softly on your desk, Larissa’s voice broke the silence. “You know, I never expected to become someone’s... travel companion. But I must admit, it’s been rather enlightening.”

You smiled, the warmth of her words seeping into your chest. “You know you’re more than that, Larissa. I’m not keeping you around for your advice, though it has aided me tremendously. You’ve become... indispensable.”

Her image in the crystal ball seemed to soften, a flicker of emotion crossing her features. “As have you. Now, let’s figure out how to solve this little predicament of mine, shall we?”

The determination and fondness in her voice mirrored your own. Together, you resolved to uncover the secret to her freedom, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing day.

—

The buzzing of your phone jolted you awake later that week. It wasn't the first time that night. The screen lit up again, the harsh glow cutting through the dim warmth of your bedroom. Alison. Her name flashed incessantly, each call and text a relentless assault on the fragile calm you managed to cobble together. Hells, she even emailed your Nevermore work email trying to get ahold of you. Of course, she’d try to get in touch now, after Mom… You didn’t want to finish the thought.

Her messages blurred together in your mind—half-apologies, fragments of accusations, and nostalgic jabs meant to, no doubt, undermine the distance you put between you two. “I just don’t understand why you won’t talk to me.” “I still love you.” “You don’t even care anymore, do you?” The collection of words seeped under your skin, reigniting old wounds you thought had at least scabbed over.

You hurled your phone onto the mattress, its glow fading against the rumpled sheets as you collapsed onto the bed. The walls seemed to close in around you, the muffled sound of students outside offering no comfort. Curling in on yourself, you clutched at the hem of your sweater, the fabric collapsing under your slightly trembling fingers. Your chest heaved, feeling renewed grief, exhaustion, and the sting of Alison’s unrelenting words—until it felt like the air itself was too thick to breathe.

The crystal ball rested on the pillow next to you, movement from within catching your eye. Larissa’s image appeared within the glass, her expression soft yet pensive. “Darling,” she said, her voice low and deliberate, “you’re carrying far too much alone. I’m here for you. Though, I wish I could do more to comfort you.”

You sniffed, swiping irritably at your tears that kept falling. “What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just stop. I can’t—I—” The words choked in your throat as another sob threatened to escape.

Larissa watched you quietly, her ethereal form radiating calm even as you felt like you were experiencing the aftershocks following a disaster. “Come here,” she purred gently. Without thinking, you clutched the crystal ball and pulled it closer, cradling it like a lifeline. The smooth surface felt cool against your hands, settling you and letting you feel in your body.

“You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed,” Larissa stated, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos in your head. “You’re not a machine, and no one expects you to be.”

“I’m just so… tired,” you admitted, the words tumbling out unprompted. “Of all of it. The expectations, the grief, the constant demands. And Alison—she won’t leave me alone.”

Larissa’s image sharpened, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Alison has no right to your peace, especially now. You don’t owe her anything.” Her tone was firm, a protective edge creeping into her voice.

You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you for a few moments. “I know. She says she still loves me, but it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like… control. I mean, who calls someone they love selfish for moving to be closer to a sick family member?”

Larissa hummed thoughtfully, her gaze one of concern and care. “Real love doesn’t bind you or weigh you down. It lifts you, supports you—even when you feel you’ve reached your limit.” Her voice momentarily wavered, a glimmer of vulnerability crossing her features. “And you, my dear, deserve nothing less.”

The words seep into the cracks of your heart, filling spaces you didn’t realize were close to empty. Tears flowed freely from you now, unrestrained and cleansing. You pressed the crystal ball to your chest, as if hoping to absorb Larissa’s warmth through the glass.

“I wish you were here,” you disclosed, your voice barely audible. “Really here.”

Larissa’s smile was faint but achingly tender. “I’m here in every way that matters. And I’m not going anywhere.”

That night you allowed yourself to simply exist—no demands, no expectations, just the quiet relief of Larissa’s presence. As your breathing slowed and the restriction in your chest eased, you found yourself clutching the crystal ball a little tighter, Larissa’s soft glow illuminating the shadows of the room.

—

Over the next few days, you read up on crystals and their ability to hold spirits. In one text you had found in the restricted section of Nevermore’s library, you learned that crystal balls were used for scrying since ancient times. The theory was that crystals had a consciousness, and it was this energy that people connected with when they used them. Apparently, the energy could be used for spirit communication, seeing images from elsewhere, and even healing. Crystal balls were both transmitters and receivers of energy and could store information or be programmed for certain specific purposes.

Hm, does this mean a person could temporarily be stored in one? You pondered to yourself.

Later that night, the buzzing of your phone dragged you from a restless sleep again. Alison. The harsh light of her name on the screen cut through the dim warmth of your bedroom.

With a groan, you reached for the phone and silenced it, sitting it back on the bedside table. You rolled over, trying to ignore the churning in your gut—an uneasy mix of frustration, guilt, and anger. Beside you, the faint shimmer of Larissa’s presence filled the room. Though she didn’t need to sleep, she often offered to keep you company as you drifted off in the quiet hours of the night.

“She’s persistent,” Larissa uttered softly, her tone carefully neutral.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “She always was. Alison doesn’t like loose ends, and apparently, I’m one of them.”

Larissa’s expression shifted subtly, the faintest crease forming between her brows. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“No,” you maintained firmly. “Whatever she wants, it’s not about me. It’s about her. She’s… she’s looking for closure or maybe control. Either way, I’m not giving it to her.”

Larissa nodded, though the tension in her features remained. She did not press the issue, but the unease lingered between you, a silent weight neither of you could entirely shake. However, that tension came to a head the following day.

You were in the middle of a staff meeting when the door to the conference room swung open with a sharp bang. Alison stood in the doorway, her sleek, city-chic outfit and polished demeanor a jarring contrast to the gothic gloom of Nevermore. Her eyes found yours instantly, blazing with determination and expectation.

“We need to talk,” she insisted, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the meeting like a blade.

The room fell silent, every pair of eyes darting between you and the unexpected intruder. Larissa, who had been observing the meeting from her usual spot by your bag, somehow straightened. Her translucent form seemed to tighten with tension, her gaze fixed on Alison with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

You stood slowly, your chair scraping against the floor. “Alison, this is neither the time nor the place.”

“It’s never the time with you,” she shot back, stepping further into the room. “Your mother is gone. There’s nothing keeping you here anymore.”

Larissa’s sharp intake of breath was almost imperceptible, but you felt it like a ripple in the air. Her ghostly form intensified, as if she wanted to step between you and Alison but couldn’t cross the barrier of her incorporeal existence.

“Alison,” you warned, your voice low and firm, “this is inappropriate. We can talk later, outside of—”

“No,” Alison interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t get to brush me off anymore. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited. But this…” Her gaze swept the room, taking in the outcast faculty, the gothic decor, the very essence of Nevermore. “This isn’t you. It’s a phase, a distraction. You belong with me in the life we built together.”

Larissa’s image turned sharp, her usually composed demeanor cracking ever so slightly. She didn’t speak, but the intensity of her gaze conveyed everything. You felt her worry, her jealousy, and beneath it all, her fear. Fear that Alison would be right, that she might succeed in pulling you away.

But Alison was wrong. She has to be.

You squared your shoulders and pulled Alison out of the room. You met her gaze with unwavering resolve. “No,” you announced, your voice steady. “This is my life. I built it after you abandoned me. And I’m not leaving it.”

—

The days after the encounter stretched out like a taut string, each one vibrating with tension and uncertainty, like the lingering hum of a plucked chord. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and the faint scent of lavender from the flowers Alison left behind afterward.

The following evening, Alison’s shadow fell over your doorstep. You didn’t answer the knock. From behind the curtains, you watched her stand there, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her hands clutching another bouquet of flowers.

The evening light filtered through her hair, casting an almost halo-like glow that made you want to laugh bitterly. After a few minutes, she left, the flowers placed carefully on your front mat. You didn’t pick them up. When Larissa asked about it later, her voice calm but probing, you shrugged. “I’m not ready.”

Larissa didn’t press further, but her gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and quiet encouragement. The flowers stayed on the doormat until morning, their colors dulling from the night’s chill. By then, the sight of them felt too overwhelming, and you tossed them into the trash without another glance.

The next morning, Alison’s texts grew more insistent. “Can we talk?” “I’m sorry.” “Please.” You read them but didn’t respond, the words blurring together as guilt and anger wrestled within you. You began avoiding your phone entirely, turning it face-down on the counter and letting its notifications pile up unchecked. Larissa’s voice hummed softly from the crystal ball as you paced in your office. “You don’t have to face her yet,” she cooed. “Or ever. It’s your choice, darling.” Her words were reassuring, but they also felt like a challenge—one that urged you to confront the raw wound Alison’s persistence kept reopening.

By the third day, Alison’s persistence began to wear at you. Each knock, each message, chipped away at the fragile wall you built to protect yourself. Guilt and frustration churned within you, an exhausting cycle that left you pacing your living quarters, unable to focus on anything for more than a few minutes. The pressure of Alison’s determination felt constant, as if she had found a way to exist in the very air around you. She visited again in the early evening, knocking lightly at first, then louder. This time, she did not leave flowers. Instead, her voice drifted through the door, muffled but earnest. “I’m not giving up on us,” she informed the unanswered door. You sat on the floor, your back pressed against the door, listening but saying nothing. You couldn’t decide if her earnestness was true. Her words hung in the silence, and they seemed to echo in your mind long after her footsteps retreated. When Alison had finally left, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the pressure in your chest easing only slightly.

Larissa’s presence was a balm in the quiet that followed. She didn’t speak this time, simply watching you from the crystal ball, her expression unreadable but steady. You met her gaze and felt a wave of strength return. It didn’t last long, though. Messages and memories crept back into your thoughts the moment the room fell silent again. You wondered if it was possible to truly move forward when the past insisted on clawing its way back.

The fourth day dawned with a kind of weary inevitability. Alison’s texts came again, but this time, they were less frantic, more measured. “I’m not giving up… I just hope you’ll hear me out when you’re ready.” The change in tone unsettled you more than her earlier desperation. That evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, Alison showed up once more. Her knock was sharp, more demanding than before. This time, you opened the door, just a crack, enough to see her face. Her pleading exterior from the earlier days seemed to have worn away, revealing a bubbling frustration that she struggled to contain. She fidgeted as she talked, her voice louder than before, her gestures sharper.

“I’m not here to beg,” she expressed firmly. “But I need you to know I’m not the same person who walked away. Let me explain.”

You glanced back at the crystal ball, where Larissa’s image materialized. Her brow arched slightly, her silence urging you to trust yourself. With a deep breath, you opened the door wider. Alison stepped inside, her movements careful.

She set a small, weathered box on your desk. The box, adorned with faint scratches and a delicate floral engraving, seemed as if it held not just objects but fragments of something far more fragile—hope, regret, and longing all pressed into its corners. Inside, you found a collection of mementos—a pressed flower from a long-forgotten date, a concert ticket stub, a handwritten note you had once slipped into her bag. “I’ve kept these,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “They’re pieces of us. Of what I threw away when I let my fear take over.”

You were silent, processing her words and their intentions. “Alison,” you began, but she cut you off gently.

“I know I hurt you,” she admitted, her expression showing a battle between frustration and hurt. “And I’m not asking for forgiveness, not yet. I just want you to know that I’ve been working to be better. To be someone who deserves you.”

Larissa’s voice rang through the tense atmosphere, her tone measured as she asked you, “And what of the burden she placed on you? The hurt she left behind?”

Alison was not able to hear her, but the question lingered in the air, a reminder of the pain you carried. You met Alison’s gaze, searching for sincerity, for proof that her words weren’t just a temporary salve.

“I appreciate what you’re saying,” you said finally, your voice steady but guarded. “But this isn’t something that can be fixed with apologies or memories. It would take time. And I don’t know if I have that time to give.”

Alison’s shoulders slumped momentarily before a renewed irritability dominated her movements. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and her breath became sharp and uneven. “That’s bullshit,” Alison blurted, her voice clipped and tense.

You glanced briefly at Larissa, the shimmering presence within the crystal ball radiating an unspoken concern. Confusion crossed Alison’s face as she followed your gaze, her expression morphing from irritation to something more unsettled. “What are you staring at?” she snapped, eyes darting to the crystal ball with a mix of disdain and confusion.

You stiffened at her tone, your fingers gripping the edge of your office chair. “It’s none of your business, Alison,” you responded evenly, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed your unease.

Alison let out a short, bitter laugh. “Not my business? I’m here trying to fix this,” she gestured between the two of you, her movements growing more erratic. Her frustration was palpable as she continued, a storm of emotions building in the small room. “And you’re just zoning out, staring at a damn crystal ball?”

“It’s not a competition,” you replied defensively. Your gaze shifted involuntarily back to where Larissa’s calm, watchful presence resided. Alison caught the movement and followed your eyes, her frustration igniting into raw anger.

“Look at me,” she demanded, stepping toward the desk. “Look at me!” she huffed again when you didn’t respond immediately or the way she wanted. Without warning, Alison reached out and grabbed the crystal ball, lifting it with force. She brought it to her face, as though to inspect the source of your distraction. Her grip was tight, her knuckles white against the smooth glass.

“Alison, stop!” you said sharply, rising from your seat. Panic coiled in your chest as you took a hurried step forward, reaching out toward the sphere. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

She hesitated, her anger flickering with momentary uncertainty, but the tension in her grip didn’t ease. “What I’m doing?” she echoed menacingly. “I’m trying to get through to you, but all you care about is this… this orb!” Her voice cracked, and for a fleeting second, vulnerability seeped through her fury.

“It’s not just an orb,” you pleaded, your voice softer now but no less urgent. “Just put it down.”

Alison’s eyes darkened, her head shaking in disbelief as she considered your words. “Fine.” Her voice dripped with venom. Just then, with deliberate carelessness, Alison loosened her grip and let the crystal ball slip from her fingers.

Time slowed. You lunged forward, heart hammering in your chest, but it was too late. The sphere tumbled through the air, distorting the dim light of your office in fractured and distorted reflections. And then—

A dull, heavy thud as it struck the wooden floor, rolling a few inches before settling. The sound wasn’t sharp or catastrophic, but as you stepped closer, a dreadful chill crawled up your spine. A thin, jagged crack marred the smooth surface, a single imperfection that felt far worse than if it shattered completely.

You sank to your knees, hands trembling as you reached for it, cradling the cool sphere with cautious reverence. Larissa’s presence within seemed unclear, her expression unreadable. The air around you thickened, weighted with something unseen yet deeply felt. Your breath came in shallow bursts, shock gripping you in place.

Alison scoffed, crossing her arms. “Oh, come on, it didn’t even break.”

Your head snapped up, and for the first time since she walked back into your life, true anger burned behind your eyes. “You don’t get it,” you let out, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried, sharp and unrelenting. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

Alison shifted on her feet, her bravado faltering. “I was trying to get you to listen to me,” she insisted, but her voice lacked its previous certainty.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palm against the damaged crystal as if you could will it whole again. “I was listening,” you voiced simply. Your gaze was piercing, and your eyes flashed a warning to Alison. “But you didn’t like what you heard.”

Before she could attempt to twist the situation further, you rose to your feet, carefully placing the crystal ball back onto its secured stand. Turning to Alison, you straightened your posture. “You need to leave Nevermore’s grounds at once. If necessary, I will have security escort you. And Alison—I don’t think you want to be dragged out by a golem.”

Alison’s eyes widened, startled by your decisiveness. She was not used to this version of you, the one who held firm instead of bending. “Why are you making this such a big deal?”

“Because I’m done,” you said with finality. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you, but I’m grateful I can see clearly now. Goodbye, Alison.” Your footsteps were firm, resolute, as you strode to your desk and pressed the button to summon security. You didn’t watch her leave. You didn’t need to.

Once Alison left, hopefully forever, you turned back to Larissa’s damaged vessel, heart pounding with unspoken dread. What does this mean?

“Larissa, how do you feel? Are you well?” your voice was tender yet tinged with panic.

For a moment, there was silence, and then Larissa’s voice rang out, exasperated yet reassuring. “I could use some red wine right about now,” she murmured. “I’m a little shaken up, but yes, darling. I’m okay.”

Relief flooded through you, but as your fingers traced the crack in the crystal, one thought lingered—what would happen if the fracture grew?

—

The day of the ritual dawned bright and cold, the winter sun glinting off the frosted panes of Nevermore’s windows. You barely slept the night before, poring over the ancient tome you unearthed from the academy’s restricted section. You found an obscure incantation tucked within a dusty tome in the library. The spell was a delicate one—more art than science—and it demanded precision. One misplaced word or faltering syllable, and you might doom Larissa to an eternity in the glass. You knew it was risky, but you needed an answer, something tangible to address Larissa’s crystal ball predicament. You decided you wouldn’t go another day with her sphere cracked, threatening the connection and manifestation holding Larissa to the glass orb.

“Are you certain about this?” Larissa’s voice remained calm, though her expression betrayed a flicker of unease. She sat—or rather hovered—within the crystal sphere, her hands folded in her unseen lap as though she were merely preparing for another faculty meeting.

Your heart clenched at the sight. You reached out, your fingers brushing the cool surface of the sphere. “I’m sure, Larissa,” you said softly. “I’m not letting you stay trapped in there any longer. Especially after Alison almost broke your crystal ball.”

Larissa’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Very well. Just promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”

“Too late for that,” you muttered, earning a soft chuckle from Larissa.

The ritual was set to take place in the privacy of the principal’s office, with wards cast to keep any curious students or staff from interrupting. You meticulously arranged the necessary components: a ring of salt around the sphere, candles placed at cardinal points, and a single drop of your own blood—a symbol of the bond you formed with Larissa over the months.

As the spell began, the room seemed to hold its breath. Your voice was steady, each word of the incantation resonating with an ancient power that thrummed through the air. The candles flickered wildly, their flames leaping about as if caught in a storm. The crystal sphere began to glow, a brilliant light emanating from within, illuminating Larissa’s serene yet expectant face. As you chanted the words, magic crackled in the air, filling the room with an almost unbearable brightness.

And then, the shattering. It wasn’t the loud, explosive sound you anticipated. Instead, it was a soft, almost melodic breaking, like the chime of distant bells. The light intensified, forcing you to shield your eyes, and when it finally dimmed, you blinked rapidly to clear your vision.

Larissa Weems stood before you. The crystal sphere laid shattered on the floor, and standing in its place was Larissa. Her full height—stately, commanding—took up the room in a way you didn’t expect.

She was breathtaking. Her silvery-blonde hair caught the candlelight, and her storm-blue eyes met yours with a mixture of wonder and gratitude. She was tall—so much taller than you imagined—and every inch of her radiated the elegance and authority you came to associate with her voice. Her long, statuesque frame was clad in a white suit that hugged her in all the right places, her presence almost magnetic. Your gaze lingered, your breath hitching as Larissa’s lips parted, a small smile curling at the edges.

“Oh,” you said faintly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Larissa’s lips curved into a warm smile. “Oh?” she echoed, arching a graceful brow while brushing glass dust from her pristine white suit.

“You’re… you’re really tall,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you could stop yourself. You had so many thoughts, and yet, that was the one that escaped.

Larissa laughed, a rich, melodic sound that had filled the room. “And you’re as charming in person as you were through glass.” She took a step forward, and your breath caught in your throat. “Thank you,” Larissa breathed softly, her voice carrying a depth of emotion that made your chest tighten. “For everything.” Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing your cheek with a featherlight touch that threatened to have goosebumps rise over your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to form words. Larissa’s elegance, height, beauty… all of it left you breathless. The warmth of Larissa’s hand lingered, and the faint scent of jasmine and tuberose filled the air once again.

—

Life with Larissa no longer confined to a crystal ball was… an adjustment. For months, you were accustomed to her presence as a voice from your desk or a comforting shimmer of light on an eye-level shelf. Now, she was here—fully, gloriously here—and the height difference was only the first of many things you needed to get used to.

It started with small things—like Larissa reaching up to hand you a book you needed, only for you to realize you couldn’t quite meet her gaze without tilting your head back. This was a fact that Larissa seemed to find endlessly amusing, her eyes always sparkling endearingly. There was the way Larissa filled a room, her presence as impressive in the flesh as it was in the sphere. Or when Larissa leaned over you while you worked, her shadow cast across the desk like a protective canopy.

There were other moments, too—moments that made you realize just how much your dynamic has shifted. Larissa’s proximity was intoxicating, her scent enveloping you and making it hard to focus. All you wanted was to be near her now that you two could finally touch. There was an electricity between you two that neither of you were able to ignore, a magnetic pull that made every brush of fingers or shared glance feel charged.

And then there were the kisses. Oh Gods, the kisses. The first time you gathered the courage to kiss her one evening—emboldened by the soft glow of candlelight—you forgot just how tall Larissa was. You leaned up onto your tiptoes, wobbling slightly as Larissa caught you by the waist and cupped your cheek to steady you, her smile indulgent.

“You’re adorable,” Larissa insisted, tilting her head down to meet you halfway.

“You’re... tall,” you replied mousily and breathless once again.

“You’re just noticing?” Larissa teased. Her lips were soft as silk, and the kiss was slow and lingered. It left you wanting more. So much more. Larissa’s hands slid to your hips, her grip firm but tender, and you found yourself melting into her, your hands fisting in the fabric of her suit to keep steady.

“This would be easier if you were a little shorter,” you remarked against her lips, earning another laugh from Larissa. Mmm, I could get used to this.

“Or if you were a little taller,” she countered, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Larissa’s fingers trailed lightly along your jaw and then neck, her touch sending delicious shivers down your spine.

Over time, you found your own ways to adapt. You learned to stand a little straighter, to reach a little higher, and to embrace the moments when Larissa effortlessly scooped you into her arms with surprising strength. Larissa, for her part, seemed to delight in your determination, often teasing you with a raised brow or a playful smirk.

Beneath the teasing was a deep and abiding affection, a bond forged over months of shared secrets and quiet nights spent working together. Larissa’s freedom from the crystal ball may bring challenges, but it has already brought substantial joy—the kind of joy that made your heart swell every time Larissa’s laughter echoed through the halls of Nevermore.

And if you needed to stretch onto your tiptoes for the occasional kiss? Well, you decided, it’s a small price to pay for the privilege of standing beside Larissa Weems.

#request #requests #ghosting #cw mention of death #cw mentions of emotional abuse #cw ghosts #I don't think there is anything else to tag for content warnings?#fanfiction #fanfic #larissa x reader #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #principal larissa weems #crystal ball

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loz-untold-myths · 5 months ago

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♡ Untold Myths: Light & Time Event [2025] ♡

Day 7 | Light: Light | Time: Time

The Hero of Hope vaulted upward over the flares of gloom to plunged the Master Sword straight into the Dark Beast’s forehead— where the third eye Zelda destroyed three times over once sat. A breeze picked up from the flap of Zelda’s wings behind him. She placed her hands, glowing with gold, just over his. The blade ran with the same color and reflected like the scales of a fairy as she lightly pushed it deeper into the demon’s skull. His ghastly form was reduced to an ache, then the shadow of a man. He hovered above the castle’s central spire, the sword still lodged. The man— the true form of Ganon— still twitched his fingers as if he had the will to fight.

Yet another I couldn't choose colors for... But I like what I managed to do with the transition between Ganon and Ganondorf! The final battle is such a beautiful scene in my head. With a little more time, I would have added the dramatic sky and their placement at the castle roof! I at least got to use the visual of Zelda's "fae" form preparing to seal Ganondorf! And I got to design the Master Sword!!! This one could have been more grandiose, but that's something for another day.

And, with that, the week is over! Thank you to everyone who has participated thus far!! It's actually been the busiest week of my life, but soon, I'll be able to binge through everything thoroughly and reblogs will begin. ^^ What I've seen thus far has been so wonderful, and I am so glad that the prompts were a decent source of inspiration! You'll be receiving comments from me soon. :D

It's not too late to participate if you'd like, even though the week is over! This event isn't strict at all. Find more info here! (And everyone else's entries as they're added)!!

✨️ Event Master Post

✨️ Untold Myths Master Post

༺

REBLOGGING IS ENCOURAGED, BUT DO NOT REPOST.

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cowboyemeritus · 3 months ago

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I dont know if you actually accept requests or if you ever written about him but...

Could you write something about mountain with reader?

Ps: i love your writing style, it's fresh air honestly, read the one of Aether predator and even if it's a already seen prompt i liked reading yours! ✨✨

hey! thanks for the request! i've written one thing for Mountain before (kinda criminal i haven't written more), day 12 for Ghostober 2024. i don't get a lot of requests, so when they do come along, i always try to put something together, even if it takes me a while.

also, i'm so glad you enjoy my writing! sometimes i feel like it lacks sophistication compared to some of the absolutely amazing writers in this community, so it's really nice to hear that. thank you bestie <3

have a silly little blurb about going on a date with Mounty. hope you enjoy!

small cw for marijuana use

“…So the least he can do is replace the ones he chews on, right?” When you fail to respond, Mountain stops and turns, looking back down the trail to find that you’re lagging significantly behind. “You okay, darl?”

“Yeah,” you pant. “Just peachy.” Not paying attention, you step on a loose rock and it wobbles, throwing you off balance. Arms flailing, you let out a strangled cry as you fight to stay upright. The hill is decently steep; a fall could send you tumbling all the way back down. Fortunately, you’re able to remain on two feet, heaving a relieved sigh as you find equilibrium once more. “Fuck, I’m out of shape.”

Mountain laughs, watching as you take a few steadying breaths. In turn, you glare up at him, thinking about how this had been his idea. Still, you can’t be angry with him. He gets so stir-crazy on that damn bus, and with the next tour cycle rapidly approaching, he needs this time to commune with nature… or whatever.

“We’re almost there,” he says, taking your much smaller hand when you finally manage to catch up. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” You force a smile and nod, using every ounce of willpower to not let out the snark. He sees this, and laughs, leaning over to give you a quick peck on the lips. “You’re a real trooper.”

“Anything for you,” you wheeze, heart now fluttering for an entirely different reason.

Mountain is merciful, and you finish the rest of the hike hand-in-hand, at a much slower pace. As you approach the top of the hill the trees thin out, transitioning into a grassy clearing studded with boulders. Tiny wildflowers, the first of the season, speckle the ground in an array of pastel colors. They seem to turn towards the large ghoul as he passes by, as if in acknowledgment. He guides you over to a soft-looking patch of grass, fishes a blanket out of his backpack, and spreads it over the ground. You toss your bag down and go full starfish on the old quilt, letting out a pleasured groan as you finally get to rest your weary legs. Chuckling, Mountain takes a seat next you, gently brushing away a few strands of hair that have adhered to your sweaty forehead.

“Well,” he asks, “what do you think?” It takes some effort, but you’re able to sit up just enough to get a better look around. It’s a completely clear day, the first you’ve had in weeks, and from up here, you have an immaculate view of the forest, stretching for miles in every direction like an evergreen sea. To the east, you can just barely make out the location of the Abbey, the chapel spire poking out between the trees. The woods are alive with the sounds of early spring, birdsong and the breeze, and the sun has warmed the ground just enough that it’s not wet after yesterday’s storm. You may be sweaty and already exhausted, but it really is a perfect day.

“I think,” you say, “that I should be a lizard, and live under a heat lamp.” You stretch back out on the blanket, grunting as the tension in your muscles subsides. “Sometimes I forget the sun is, like, good for you.” Mountain laughs. Still flat on your back, you reach blindly for your pack, grunting with the exertion it takes to lift onto your stomach. The ghoul’s nostrils flare involuntarily as you root around inside.

“I brought treats,” you announce, pulling out a ziplock bag. Mountain’s eyes go wide at the sight, seeing that the plastic pouch contains a few of the cookies Cumulus and Aurora baked last night. “Snagged the last few before the boys got ‘em.”

“Sathanas, you’re amazing.” He leans in for another kiss before turning to his own bag, pulling a mint tin out of a side pocket. “I brought a little something, too.” Cracking it open, he produces a small joint and a lighter. It’s maybe half a gram, but from the smell alone, you can tell it’s going to pack a wallop.

Mountain, at least, will be fine.

You crack into a devious grin. “Ugh, look at us! So in sync!” Mountain rolls his eyes playfully, snickering when you lightly punch him on the shoulder. “You’re the best.” He just smiles, quietly lighting the joint and taking the first few puffs to get it going. When he offers, you accept without hesitation, taking it between two fingers and bringing it to your lips.

You’re well-acquainted with Mountain’s stash by now, but your lungs are tired from the hike. The first breath hits you like a truck, and suddenly you’re hacking and wheezing like you’ve just been water-boarded. Pawing at your bag, you’re able to free your water bottle from the mesh pocket, and you pass the joint to him as you sit up, unscrew the cap, and force yourself not to choke as you take a sip. Mountain takes another few hits once he’s sure you’re not dying, and then passes it back. You quickly fall into a rhythm — puff, puff, pass — and before you know it, only the butt remains. Mountain puts it out on a rock before stowing it away in the tin, while you sit there, blinking.

“Are you alive?” He sounds a little more mellowed-out, but that’s about it. You nod slowly, though his words don’t fully process until you’re done moving.

“Yeah.” You lay back down on the blanket. “Fuck.” The sun has never felt so good on your skin. Everything feels fuzzy, like fleece, and you sigh. “You’re gonna have to carry me back down this hill.” There’s a moment of silence as Mountain tries to determine if you’re actually alright, and then you’re both laughing. It’s a full-bellied, side-splitting kind of laughter, nearly as potent as the joint itself. As the fit ends, the large ghoul flops down on his side next to you, a large hand finding the small of your back and pulling you into him.

“This is great,” you murmur, scooting a few inches closer, so that your noses are touching. “Really life affirming.”

He chuckles again, the skin crinkling at the corners of those deep brown eyes. “I’m glad. Thanks for coming out here with me.”

Ugh, he’s so fucking cute.

“Of course. Wanna spend every last second I can with you.” It’s bittersweet. You swallow, feeling the dryness in your mouth. “Excited to get back out there? What’s the new guy like?”

“He has his quirks, but we said that about Copia, too. Must run in the family.”

“The Bloodline…” You laugh through your nose. A beat passes. “I’ll miss you.”

He sighs. “I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll be back before you know it.” Then he kisses you. It quickly turns into another, and then another, and then another. You hum, his affections causing a warmth to bloom in your chest, your whole body vibrating with bliss. Mountain falls forward, rolling somewhat on top of you. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck and inhales, a contented noise rumbling deep in his chest. His tail swishes happily behind him, thumping against the blanket.

You giggle. “What are you doing?” He licks a stripe up your sweaty skin and you squeal, thrashing beneath him. “Gross!” Soon, though, your cries become soft moans as he kisses the tender flesh, nipping at it with his teeth. Mountain quickly finds that one spot, the good one right on your jugular, and sucks on it, lathing his forked tongue up and down. Combined with the buzz of the high, it’s absolutely diabolical. “Mounty!” He just groans at the taste of you, grinding his hips against your thigh.

By the time he’s done with you, you’re sweatier than before and your legs are shaking like you’ve run a marathon. Your prediction comes to pass, though, and Mountain carries you all the way home, a satisfied grin plastered across his face.

#my writing #the band ghost #the band ghost x reader #mountain ghoul x reader #thanks for the request!#shorts

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bottledpeaches · 9 months ago

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an eye for an eye

SYNOPSIS: what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong?

CHARACTERS: dr ratio

TAGS: major character death, small town horror, murder mystery, 2.6k+ wc

TAGLIST: @tragedy-of-commons, @mitsvriii, @harque, @akutasoda, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore

NOTES: I procrastinated real hard on this and managed to thug it out in the span of like.... four days

written for @/stellaronhvnters’ stellaween festival event! I chose the prompt skeletons

special thanks to my dearest pookie @tragedy-of-commons once again for proofreading this for me so last-minute!

It’s never a good sign when a small town ends up on the map, for one reason or another. Small towns are small for a reason. They keep to themselves, its residents living peaceful, crime-free lives and concern themselves with their own problems.

So when news of skeletons being discovered in people’s yards in a small town that isn’t even listed on the maps makes it onto national television, it takes the entire nation and even the world by storm.

It’s all people can talk about as the case unfolds. Reporters are flooding into the town until they outnumber the residents living there. With the sudden spotlight, it was revealed that the town was so small it had a police force that consisted of a handful of members and a single car. And with a police force that small, a proper forensics department was out of the question.

Hence, where you and your colleague, Veritas Ratio came in. The town council had called in for a detective and forensics team to assist with the investigation. When he saw the state the lab was in, he had sighed louder than you’d ever heard him.

“The absolute disarray of this place! Barely any equipment either! How in the world do they expect me to properly work with this lack of resources?”

You have to pointedly glare at him.

“Veritas, have you forgotten they’re painfully underfunded…? They probably had no need for police and forensics either.”

He merely clicked his tongue and glared back at you.

There’s not much that points toward a bright future for this town. It’s so isolated up in the mountains that the nearest town is an hour drive away. There’s only one stoplight and one stop sign. (Not that there was much traffic to begin with…) The largest store around is the dollar store at the end of the only street running through town. Restaurant options are equally limited. There’s a 24/7 diner that’s staffed by one person, a twitchy-looking waitress, along with some fast-food options here and there. A second-run movie theater is the only option for entertainment around here. A single-track railway with a train that only stops once per day is the only way in or out of here besides car. Coniferous and evergreen trees surround the town like a cage and it’s always foggy. Sunlight rarely peeks through the thick cloud cover and there’s a persistent smell of smoke from something burning elsewhere on the mountain. The most important building is the church located on Main Street. Sometimes, its spire is the only thing visible amidst the heavy fog and smoke.

There’s only one place for lodging- a run-down motel with a flickering neon sign and always vacant. A dingy room quickly becomes your home away from home. It always smells mildly of mold and mildew with a strong floral smell that seemed like an attempt to cover up the neglect, but failed miserably at doing so. The electricity frequently spikes or cuts out, meaning you’ve already fried the motel’s hot water kettle that you relied on for your morning coffee. The room itself looked like a relic from the past, with its yellowing pastel wallpaper, an uncomfortably lumpy mattress that the two of you are forced to share, floral sheets, and threadbare patchwork quilt. The cheap carpet looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since it was installed and the heater hacks and shudders to life like it’s on its last legs. There’s always the distant hum of fluorescent lights and it’s like a persistent itch at the back of your mind that you just can’t scratch and it’s driving you insane.

This town is unwelcoming, and so are its residents. Silence follows you and Veritas wherever you go. Shopkeepers are as rude as they can be without getting a complaint filed. When passing through a neighborhood, mothers rush to get their children inside the house and openly glare at you from their rotting porches. Witnesses were downright uncooperative during questioning, even rude at times.

This town is hiding something, and you don’t like it.

But even with the increased police presence in town and nightly neighborhood watches that have been set up, the cases kept piling up. Every morning a call would come in from a panicked resident about a fresh mound of dirt in their yard that only meant one thing. Someone would head over to dig it up and sure enough, there’d be a skeleton there. Some were yellowed with age, but most of them were new from their glistening ivory hue, Some of them were pristine while others still had bits of flesh and blood clinging to them. Forensic analysis revealed that the skeletons belonged to people of all ages too. No one was seemingly safe.

Some of these victims had been alive the day prior too. Meaning that not only were you dealing with a potential case of illegal exhumation, but also first-degree murder.

A small team of forensic scientists working with Veritas would accompany you, where they’d gather samples before heading back to the lab while you and your partner would spend the rest of the day questioning people.

But while he was in the lab, you had discovered something very interesting during questionings.

“Madam, it would be in your best interests if you would cooperate.”

You fixate the trembling woman before you with a piercing, unblinking gaze. She pointedly avoids your eyes, but you’ve always had a way with extracting information from the most uncooperative of witnesses.

“...”

“F-Fine! I’ll speak! That man was a longtime business rival of ours! He died several years ago of a heart attack, but I have no idea how he ended up in my front yard, I swear!”

So the deceased all had some connection with where- or rather, who- they were found. A victim of a greedy loan shark drowning in interest, a bitter and jealous ex-husband, and so on. It keeps popping up so often that it’s not a coincidence anymore.

Still, there’s one thing that sticks out to you.

“Were all these bodies exhumed? I noticed that cremation is almost unheard of in this town in the coroner’s reports that you sent me, despite the crematorium being conveniently located in the church and a cheaper alternative to a traditional burial,” you say one night as you’re cross-examining testimonies with newspaper clippings. Veritas looks over at you from where he sits on the bed. “Do we have a potential gravedigger on our hands?”

He pauses.

“Perhaps a visit to the town cemetery is in order.”

The next day, the both of you arrive at the cemetery soon after the gates open.

The first thing that stands out to you is how small it is. It’s smaller than the average cemetery, with very few tombstones. The only thing breaking it are the small farms here and there.

“Well, this certainly doesn’t line up with the amount of skeletons that have been discovered as of late,” you grumble as you get out of the car. Ratio nods and shields his eyes from the early morning sun that’s already beating down onto your backs.

The weathered faces of some of the tombstones as you walk by makes you pause. They’re ancient.

You shudder. You try not to think about decomposing bodies inadvertently becoming fertilizer for the farms next door…

Clearly, this town has had a long history. Perhaps it was prospering long ago. But now, it’s on the verge of becoming a ghost town with only spiteful, suspicious people left. And in a place as small as this, history must be traceable for at least several generations back.

As you walk amongst the tombstones, you notice that very few of the graves have had the earth in front of them disturbed.

“So maybe we don’t have a gravedigger after all,” you murmur as you pull out your phone. A quick phone call to the church later and you learn that yes, the church is aware of what’s been happening. No, they did not receive or approve any requests to exhume a body, much less several.

You click your tongue irritatedly after hanging up. There goes that hypothesis. It’s clear that while some bodies have been exhumed, most of them were not.

So now what?

Later that night at the 24/7 diner, you discuss your findings so far while sipping on reheated instant coffee and trying to stomach dry pancakes. The sun has already gone down and the street lights outside flicker weakly to life.

“The biggest discovery my team and I have made is that this all seems to be the work of several different people, but that was at the start of the case. There has not been anything groundbreaking since then.”

You raise an eyebrow. He senses the question in your gaze.

“Forensic testing has revealed that maceration has occurred through several different ways. Bleaching, boiling, and crude hacking are the three most common ones. There have been some attempts at more sophisticated methods, such as enzymatic and chemical maceration, but those have been crude at best. It got the job done, but the bones had severe surface damage and were shrunken. Meanwhile, some were in pristine condition and barely damaged.”

“So they know about the various techniques, but they don’t have the knowledge and experience to carry it out properly?”

He nods. “Precisely. And even within the three most common methods, there were varying degrees of success present.”

“That… certainly doesn’t seem like the work of one person.”

You sip your now-cold coffee and wince at the sour aftertaste before pulling out your findings.

“Here’s what me and my partner have discovered. The biggest thing is that every skeleton seems to have a connection to where they were found.”

“Elaborate.”

“All of them have been found in people’s yards, and it turns out the deceased had some sort of connection with the homeowner while they were alive. A bitter ex-husband, a family feud that has stretched back generations, the sole surviving member of a family that was murdered several years ago…”

You sigh. “The connections are endless. I could go on forever.”

You cast your gaze around the diner. Your nails drum against the red formica tabletops and you tap your foot absentmindedly against the checkered floors that are slightly greasy and sticky. The only other people there are a family of four with shifty eyes and the waitress that’s been here since you arrived. She jolts and looks the other way.

“For a town this small, it sure is harboring a lotta desire for revenge,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. Your gaze lazily drifts around before landing on the lighting fixture above the bar and settles there.

…

Your eyes narrow as your tired mind begins putting the seemingly unrelated pieces together. Veritas’ sharp eyes don’t miss it.

The actions of several different people with varying degrees of success… a collective desire for revenge…

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“This is just a thought but…you don’t think it’s the whole town that’s in on this, right…? I mean-”

He suddenly shushes you as he gets up. It’s only when you return to your room that he gestures for you to continue speaking.

“- I mean, the one thing unifying everything is the desire for revenge, which every resident seems to harbor a bit of,” you continue as you get ready for bed. “Cremation is an unusual option here. Most people are buried instead. But the cemetery is also surprisingly small. But why is that? The answer is that most people are not dying of natural causes. Most people are being murdered out of a desire for revenge with no hope for any sort of burial or funeral. So my earlier gravedigger hypothesis is incorrect now. Did your analysis reveal signs of skeletal trauma on some of them?”

“Many of them,” corrects Veritas.

Despite the late hour, your mind is fully awake as all the pieces finally start falling into place together.

“Relationships are messy and the residents of this town are no exception. The deceased often had multiple conflicts and grudges with other people. What I suspect happened is they were murdered and then dumped into someone’s yard that the deceased also had connections with to pin the blame on them. Which begs the question: where were the police in all of this?”

You pause to catch your breath.

“But the police mean nothing if everyone is in on it, even if unknowingly, correct? This also explains the absolute disrepair the police and forensics department are in as well.”

Veritas meets the knowing glint in your eyes.

“Let’s say that I’m the murderer. I killed you because of a grudge I bore, stripped you of your flesh until only skeletal remains are left, which I then buried in your neighbor’s yard that you also had some conflict with to pin the blame on them. The neighbor then calls the cops, but both they and the cop at the scene have done the same thing before, even though they don’t know of the other’s actions. Someone will be sentenced to jail, but they will inevitably end up getting killed by someone else for another grudge before they’re off to jail and out of reach for good. The body gets hacked away and planted into someone else’s yard and the cycle repeats. Everyone has gotten their hands dirty. There’s no way for this to be closed because everyone has played a part in it. It’s like trying to untangle a never-ending knot.”

The exhaustion of the day is beginning to catch up with you. You climb into bed next to him, shifting to avoid the lumps in the mattress that’ll give you a backache tomorrow morning.

“Revenge is a scary thing. They’ll wipe themselves out at this point,” you sleepily murmur.

Veritas doesn’t meet your gaze. You can see the gears rapidly spinning in his mind before arriving at the same conclusion.

“... It’s best if we leave as soon as possible,” is all he says.

The next morning, you authorize a search warrant on every household in town. There, they find incriminating evidence. A butcher knife and cutting board with dried human blood seeping into its cracks. A stock pot with bleach still in it. Scissors, knives, and scalpels with hardened chunks of human flesh still stuck to them. Guns, knives, and other weapons of murder.

A mass arrest is carried out to the flashing cameras and interest of the nation. You and Veritas are congratulated on your work and rewarded with a shiny promotion. You’re finally able to head home, much to your joy. You’re eager to leave that unsettling place behind for good. The case is closed and it’s time to relax before moving onto your next assignment.

At least, that’s what you had anticipated.

The town’s residents wiped themselves off the map. It’s now a ghost town. Cars rust from the assault of the elements and ivy begins to overtake the brick buildings. Shops and houses are broken into and pilfered. In a matter of weeks, the town is forgotten by the few that still remember it. The only people its shattered windows see now are curious urban explorers.

But nothing stays buried for long. Bodies, grudges, secrets. They stay buried for a reason though, until an unfortunate soul decides to wander along and unearth them to satiate their burning curiosity.

And who said grudges were confined to one region only?

So is it really that surprising when your body ends up in his yard, neatly diced up and packaged into a box, miles away from that cursed town?

An eye for an eye. That’s the town’s motto. Nothing stays buried for long.

He stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have seen. Now, they took something equally valuable from him in return.

enjoyed my work? the taglist is open!

@ bottledpeaches, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

#stwf : pumpkin patch!#victoria.writes #dr ratio x reader #hsr x reader #dr ratio #dr ratio x y/n #dr ratio x you #hsr x y/n #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr dr ratio #hsr fanfic

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silvanshadow · 3 months ago

Text

Galladrabbles: Keeper

Hi everyone! Thanks to @lupeloto for this week's @galladrabbles prompt: Keeper.

Continuing my Fantasy AU.

----

The Sellsword and the Mage, Part 76:

Ian could never forget his first sight of the Tower of Enchanters. His seven-year-old stomach clenched in awe and more than a little fear at the gleaming white stone spire rising from its island base in the center of Frostfire Lake. A curtain wall of that same blinding stone surrounding both tower and lake. And the bustling town that had grown to support it. A little kingdom without a king.

Mickey had grown fidgety as they navigated to the curtain wall and the Keeper of the Gates.

“Are you okay?” Ian asked.

Mickey nodded tersely. “Wanna get this over with.”

#galladrabbles #No174 #The Sellsword and the Mage #Gallavich #gallavich fan fiction #gallavich fan fic

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songofamazon · 5 months ago

Note

13 for the Rook stories prompts if you want :)

Thanks for your patience! This is also for @hyperions-light, who asked for the same thing.

13. Rook visiting a place they love.

So, have some Rookanis angst/comfort fluff:

The gentle burbling of swirling cascades of water. The whisper of leaf against leaf in the breeze. The gentle, nearly imperceptible rocking of her fragmented ruin in the treetops. The ever-present tickle of magic. The musty smell—of home.

Vel leaned against what remained of a gilded, now moss-covered wall, watching the sun set over Arlathan forest. This had all been something grand before: the height of Elvhen glory. Now, it was just her floating ‘tree house,’ her retreat away from prying eyes and prying ears.

The setting sun cast crimson across the pale ruins and golden canopies of Arlathan. Instead of the awe it usually inspired in her, all Vel could see was blood and dread.

Her throat felt sour and thick; she had already sobbed herself dry. And vomited into the bushes even before she could climb to her sanctuary.

She’d done something right, and yet everything was wrong elsewhere. How was she supposed to fight two gods—her gods—the rogue Antaam, cultists, and the Blight. How was she supposed to lead these people? They looked to her, and the first time it counted—no the first time was when she accidentally freed those gods—the second time it counted, she abandoned her friend’s city to ruin and slaughter.

Stars emerged into the inky purple sky and a silver moon glided overhead. Her tiny lantern cast only a faint blue shimmer on her floating alcove and the leaves overhead.

There was a sudden rustle of leaves below and the scraping of boots against bark.

Vel grasped her staff but was too soul weary to do more than pivot onto her knees, watching. Wary.

More scraping and rustling as boughs bounced as a shadowed figure ascended the tree next to Vel’s floating sanctuary.

“Who’s there?” she demanded. And how did they find her? The lantern?

“Rook?” Lucanis called from a sturdy Y in the tree. “Thank goodness.”

“Lucanis,” she croaked, squinting at the lithe yet stocky silhouette in the moonlight. “What are you doing here?”

“Bringing you dinner. What else does it look like?” he offered pleasantly, stepping deftly out onto the broad limb towards her.

“Skulking, maybe?” she laughed, but her voice cracked, hoarse.

“Call it a habit, I guess. I am a Crow, after all.” He coiled and leaped off the branch.

Vel’s heart lunged. It was too soon. Had he underestimated the distance in the dark? “Lucani—!”

Violet skeletal wings unfurled from his back and caught the air, swooping him across the distance between them and onto the fractured stone platform.

Vel caught his hands in hers, somehow on her feed to catch him. Her staff clattered to the side, mercifully still nearby.

“Lucanis, you—“ she panted, her mind blank save for the terror she felt a moment earlier.

“Know how to arrive in style?” he chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, Rook. As I said, I’m an Antivan Crow. I can handle myself up high. Though, if you like high places like this, I really should show you some of the views from the spires in Treviso.”

His hands were calloused yet warm, anchoring. He made no move to pull away, even as she stared wide-eyed at him.

Lucanis frowned sharply. “Spite, could you not—no. Really? Mierda.” He rolled his eyes then met hers again with a crooked smile. “Demons, no?”

The gravity of it all slammed into her: Lucanis. Here. With dinner. Under the moonlight. And holding her hands. Shit.

Her face blazed with heat and she released his hands as if they burned the same. Turning away, she shuffled back towards her mossy corner. “How did you—“ she coughed away the soreness in her throat to little avail, “find me here?”

He followed, but at a careful distance. The space was big enough for two people, comfortably, but not much more. “When you didn’t show up for dinner, Bellara told me you had ‘needed some time in the forest’ after returning from Minrathous, and then Strife gave me the rest.”

Shakily, she slid back down the wall onto the ground. She grumbled, “Figures he knew where this place was. Have a seat, since you came all this way.” He obliged her with a limber grace she could never hope to aspire to. “This has been my private retreat almost since I first joined the Veil Jumpers.”

“Strife said as much,” Lucanis nodded. He swung a pack off his back and began unloading onto the mosaicked stone floor. The tiles glittered in the moonlight.

Vel rolled her eyes. Strife had known the whole time then. Could have a woman truly have any privacy? If the picnic Lucanis was spreading out gave any indication, then, no.

“I was—we were worried about you when you didn’t come back so late,” Lucanis explained. “Davrin said Minrathous had been…difficult for you.”

A sigh escaped her as she rest her head back against the stone wall. “It was awful, Lucanis,” her voice cracked, barely above a whisper,

“Bodies piled high on carts, stinking in the sun. Public hangings in every square. Blood and rot. Everywhere. I couldn’t—“ Curing onto herself, Vel choked back bile that threatened to rise in her throat.

Lucanis’ warm, strong hand rubbed slow circles on her back. “Death is my calling. Yours is exploring all this,” he said with a soft, steely edge. “You should not have had to face all that. If I could have protected—well, I brought some tea,” warmth returned to his voice as she handed her an insulated bottle, “With honey. It should help with your throat.”

Taking it, warmth radiated up her arms and tickled at her chest. Tears blurred her vision again. “Thanks,” she hiccuped, “Lucanis. You didn’t have to do this. Besides, I’m not sure my stomach can handle anything, after today.”

“Which is why I brought espinacs amb panses i pinyons,” he uncovered a lightly steaming tin of greens topped with nuts,

“Something easy on the stomach. It’s a long way down. You never want to get dizzy while climbing.”

“Lucanis, I—“ the sobs threatened to well up again.

“Shh,” he interrupted, “Eat. There’s some brioche col tuppo if you can get that down.” Sniffing back the horror unbalanced against Lucanis’ gentleness, drank deeply from the tea then set into the greens.

Lucanis watched her for a moment, then gazed out over the trees where stars twinkled in the sky and shimmered on the lake. The moon cast an alabaster glow about his face.

“You say I didn’t have to do this,” he started again, “I did. You saved Treviso, my home, when you could have left to to burn and to Blight. That decision could not have been easy.”

Vel’s stomach turned, but she swallowed down the spinach, willing it to settle. “I’m still not sure it was the right one,” her voice came at only a whisper.

“Nor am I.” Deep brown eyes illuminated by the moon carried a heavier sadness than Vel had ever seen in him before. “Still, I owe you my thanks. Bringing you dinner is the least I could do.”

She broke his enchanting gaze and forced a laugh. “I thought we hired an assassin, not a chef!”

“Cooking is a hobby,” he matched her forced lightness, “It’s how I cool down.”

“Huh,” she murmured through a mouth full of nutty spinach. Each bite was as rejuvenating as promised.

A silence fell between them as Vel alternatively munched and slurped her tea and dinner.

“There’s a beautiful bright moon out tonight,” Lucanis observed distantly.

Something tugged at her chest. “That’s me, ‘Bright Moon.’”

“Hm?” he turned back to her, focus returning to his eyes.

“I was born on a clear night like this,” Vel’s gaze traced the moon’s rippling reflection on lake to where it hung above. “My mother named me Velmithra: Bright Moon.”

“Beautiful…” he murmured, then startled, “Wait—Rook is not your real name?”

Vel laughed, the spell of the moment already broken. “Nah,” she explained, “It was a nickname Varric gave me when we traveled together chasing Solas. He said it was because I tend to think in straight, forceful lines.”

Lucanis chuckled. “That you do.” He paused, adding more hesitantly, “Then what should I call you? Rook or Velmithra?”

The way her name slid over his tongue sent chills down her spine. “Either is fine,” she said too quickly, her voice trembling, “Or just ‘Vel.’ That’s what most people called me before all this.”

“Vel, hm?”

Another hot chill. His Antivan lilt was too much.

“Yeah,” her voice shook.

A shadow of concern passed over his face. “I hope we—Spite and I—haven’t disturbed your peace here.”

“N—no,” she stammered, staring down at what remained of the steamed spinach, “I’m glad you came. I was starting to get lost in my own thoughts up here.”

“Not very healthy.”

“No,” she laughed.

“Nor is skipping dinner,” he teased.

“Thank you,” she met his eyes again, “Lucanis.”

“Any time, Rook,” he smiled, dazzling as the stars, “Or should I say, Vel.”

Her insides seized up near bursting. Lucanis was too—too everything! And yet, she was grateful for it.

Breathing hard against a pounding heart, she leaned back against her wall again.

“Will you have room for sweet rolls?”

At least one thing was right: the people on this impossible quest with her. The ‘Mage Killer’ could have been any other hardened assassin. Instead, he was…this. Lucanis.

“You already know my sweet tooth,” she laughed, giddy, “Yes please!”

“As you wish, Vel,” his eyes twinkled at her name, as if he enjoyed the sound of it as much as she did, after so long. “And then I’m escorting you back to the lighthouse, before you fall asleep and Spite and I have to carry you.”

“I used to sleep here a lot, when camp got too noisy.”

“But not without a blanket,” he said with the stern concern of a grandmother that most certainly wasn’t Catarina, “you would catch cold!”

“Fine,” she laughed again, “But only because you say so.”

“And I do!”

She’d be okay.

#dragon age #datv spoilers #veilguard #Rook Aldwir #Velmithra Aldwir #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis x rook #Rookanis #rook #Arlathan Forest #Ask Game #Veil Jumpers #Veil Jumper Rook #Fanfic #My Fanfic

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nusaran · 1 month ago

Note

How about #1 ("Glory is among the guises of oblivion") off the prompt list, your choice of what to do with it?

omg thank you so much for the ask <3 Took me a bit work with it but then it just flowed and I admit I got heavily carried away.

I interpreted it as a warning to someone seeking glory/fame for themselves and either not seeing the risks and dangers or even willingly accept it.

Glory is among the guises of Oblivion (~ 1,7k words.)

Commorragh’s dank and dark pits robbed any sparks of hope the air they needed to breathe and survive. For a good while, Helena had held it close to her chest, feeding it with the little she still had. Buried underneath a mountain of corpses it was what had her claw her way out, grab what and who she could. Knife held between teeth she had climbed the spiked metal chains evading drukhari patrols uncaring when their sharp edges tore her feet and hands apart. In the shadows she crawled and waited living off mouldy rations and the dirty water that flowed in the spire’s grooves.

However, it fizzled when she found herself in the arena on the heels of betrayal. When Heinrix’s blind eyes roamed around not seeing her but still seeking before toppling over, it had sputtered out. If Abelard had not been there, he would have cracked his skull wide open.

Now she knelt before him while his hands gently cradled hers, hidden between crates in the more secluded area of the Pit. An ember, an echo of its former strength, peeked out from the ashes. Around her was the chill his powers brought and the sensation of tingling spread from where his thumbs glid over her bloodied knuckles. Open skin, torn muscle and frayed tendons knit together as his brows furrowed and eyes were squeezed shut under the strain.

Not a moment later, he let out a choked gasp as he had expended most if not all of his energy. The chill dissipated and Helena surged forward and into his waiting arms again. Still rapidly breathing from the exertion, he pressed his nose into her tangled and matted hair and drew her tightly into him. Closing her eyes, Helena pushed her nose into the crook of his neck wishing to be as close as she could be.

“Helena…,” he murmured as he slowly drew her away despite the noise of protest that escaped her.

Bewildered Helena stared at him. The cold seeped back in threatening to stifle the ember before it had the chance to properly rekindle when he gently pried her arms from his neck.

“Heinrix, don’t –“

A knot in her throat cut her off as tears began to well up in her eyes when he firmly pushed her back so she was kneeling between his outstretched legs. After everything they had shared not hours ago… The touches of disbelief that they were real, alive and in the other’s embrace, the relieved kisses hungering for more and her coaxing the barbarism done to him by man and xenos out of him, she had thought –

“No... Please, don’t cry.” He reached out to cradle her face between his palms, thumbs wiping away the tears. “Helena, please….” He kissed her nose. “I need you to listen. Listen carefully. And I need you to understand. Promise me?”

Numb Helena nodded and grasped at his wrists to anchor herself to him. His skin was still clammy, but the pulse under her fingertips was steady and strong. A stark contrast to the erratic flutter when he had first stumbled out of the tank. He was mending and right now it was all that mattered to her.

“I did not answer you when you asked about an escape from here,” he began quietly. “I… didn’t know what to say. More glad to have you alive before me, it clouded all rational thought. Yet… I cannot lie and say we stand a considerable chance. Remember, no one ever returns from Commorragh. Our chances are dwindling slim if miniscule. While you did indeed draw the attention of those who would see us succeed, they are not interested in our survival nor an escape. As soon as our use runs out, they will forsake us.”

Helena closed her eyes. The mysterious masked figure always spinning rhymes and theatrics had ensured her survival, while Yrliet had been the reason why she even was able to hold Heinrix here and now. It rankled her still she had needed them. If she had been able to, she would have refused. But Edelthrad had decided that they needed them in the end. Commorragh made for the strangest bed fellows.

“Helena, look at me. Don’t close your eyes to this reality,” Heinrix pleaded. When she opened her eyes again, she saw how his eyes had darkened that they were almost the same shade in dim light. “I realise…” – he dragged in a ragged breath through his nose visibly fighting with himself –“I understand why we might need their help. This is not about them. Even with their help, our chances are still so low that it would count as miraculous if we got out. Yet… despite all that… all the uncertainty, the calculations I have done, I will do everything that is within my power… I will ensure that we….” He faltered and a wet sheen fell over his eyes. “That you will escape.”

He fell silent. Yet she knew he was not yet done with his piece. She saw it in the way his jaw clenched and unclenched, the way his mouth drew into a thin line as an invisible battle was fought. In the end, he wrestled down whatever had him stop.

“If it comes to it,” he spoke quickly pulling her further to him so he could stare her directly into her eyes as that their foreheads touched. “If… if it comes down to it. If it gives you even the tiniest amount of chance that you will get to live and escape, I will lay down my life for you.”

Suddenly the world tilted around Helena as the floor, merciless under her knees, was pulled out from under her. Her grip on him faltered and she felt herself sway and would have fallen if not for him keeping her upright. Blood rushed in her ears as a despair she had not felt since first time she saw him die in those visions took hold of her. She began to shake her head, his face blurred to the new onslaught of tears.

“And I will do it gladly.”

A fury, one she had never felt before, flooded the hole despair left and filled it with a shaking rage. Her hands shot to the collar of his tattered uniform, the dulled golden seams screamed mockingly up at her. She gripped it so tightly, her joints creaked, and then shoved.

“No,” she snarled. “I refuse!”

His eyes widened and he fell back under the sheer force of her push.

“Helena?” he whispered completely caught off guard.

His hands hovered around her shoulders unsure what to do with them as she loomed over him.

“No. You will not,” she hissed shifting further up to him on her knees until she was right in his face. “I see you now, Heinrix van Calox.”

A flash of hurt passed over his face, but Helena did not care for he needed to hear this lest he made this foolish motion into reality.

“You, a noble scion of Guisorn III, still cling to the notion that you are a knight only born and bred to protect and defend those in your charge. But never close to them… never touching.”

She leaned forward until her lips barely brushed his. In turn he had grown stock still under her, only the puff of cold breath hit her face now interspersed with brief falters. The workings of a choked sob he still desperately tried to get under control. A control that was fraying.

“That is all you see yourself worth for. Someone only meant to sacrifice themselves piece by piece until nothing is left of them. Because you think yourself so wretched and undeserving of love, of compassion, that you rather die doing what you think is the only way to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Imperium than accept you are deserving of all that and more.”

His breath hitched and now it was him trying to evade her gaze. Unable to face her, a glint caught in the green light glaring down on them. Once again he hid himself away from her, not wishing her to see him shatter. Her hands slid up from his collar to his cheeks and gently held his head in place. Making him face her, unable to hide. Along his eyelashes clung a tear, stubbornly refusing to fall.

“And the only way you know how is to be the knight you always dreamed to be and still do. Always honourable, always strong and unwavering in devotion. Yet, so utterly untouchable when all you wish for is to be touched and to touch. That is what you want more than anything. And you still deny it to yourself! You push it down until all you are is what everyone else wants to see: a man made of ice incapable of feeling. But in truth you feel so deeply and selflessly. You care and yet you hate yourself for it for they told you to do so.”

His body started to tremble, his shoulders drooped despite the tension in his body tightening. The hands that hovered above her shoulders settled around her, curling around her shoulder blades. Not pushing her away, just holding her in place.

“And I do not wish this fate for you, Heinrix.” She caressed his cheek as gently and softly as she could muster. “I want you to live.” She took his hand and placed it over her chest where her heart was hammering against her ribs. “For me. You are and always will be my knight. And you can only be that if you live, my love.”

The bare threads of his control snapped. And the tear fell, accompanied by many others as he sank back against the crate he was leaning on. His arms drew her to him until she was nestled against his chest with his face buried into her hair where he cried and sobbed clutching her to him as if she’d disappear into thin air if he were let go.

“Thank you,” he breathed into her hair. “Forgive me…”

#heinrix van calox #rogue trader #warhammer 40k #heinrix x von valancius #my writing #heavy angst #hurt/comfort #a very emotionally charged conversation about a vow Heinrix makes #oc: Helena von Valancius #Heinrix is a fool for his lady

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tanzdoesthings · 1 year ago

Text

Birthdays

for the Ancient AU. Five Pebbles and Seven Red Suns celebrates a birthday.

a gift for @ardienothesieno !

“I thought you didn’t do birth-cycles?” Pebbles said as he tilted his head and looked to Suns. His cup clinked against the smooth table, drink sloshing a bit, letting the ice clink against the straw. The room was filled with the low hum of conversation, casual and yet refined. Suns fit in better than Pebbles ever did.

They sipped their drink, as poised as the cycle they met, embodying a silent holiness that Pebbles could never dream of achieving. “No, it is not my usual style,” they reply, “but it seemed valuable to celebrate.”

Void below. What is he supposed to say to… this? All of this! Seven Red Suns taking time out of their busy schedule just to take him out to lunch? He’s an artist and lab tech, for wyrm’s sake, and yet they continue to meet, discussing anything under the sun, and then lower as well. Religion, philosophy, paintings, life, their work on the lifeblood of their civilization. Turning Spires is activating soon, and they’re here. Celebrating his birthcycle.

“Pebbles?” they prompt, bringing him back to the moment. “Is everything alright?”

He nods, taking another sip of his drink. “Just thinking about all that’s happened.”

They raise their glass in agreement, tipping it towards him and then taking another sip. “It’s incredible, really. We always wonder if the cycle has us trapped, and here we are, celebrating it.”

“Tradition, I suppose,” he contemplates, holding the cup on the table.

Suns seems to have noticed the oddities, to his dismay. “We don’t have to celebrate here, you know. I thought it would be nice to take you up here, but you seem… uncomfortable.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, Suns,” he bites back, harder than he really meant to.

Smoothly, always elegantly, in a single motion, Suns sets their cup on the table, taking Pebbles by the arm and pulling. He almost falls, but manages to keep step with his friend. They travel down the elevator, out onto the street, moving between the flowing crowd.

It takes until they are standing in front of the rolling door to Pebble’s workshop that he realizes what Suns is doing. “Hey- I thought you said no work today!”

Suns unlocks the door. They’ve known the code for many cycles now. “Where do you keep your paints? And an apron, preferably.”

Little Pebbles, standing in the doorway where he was left, stares. “You want to paint?”

“It’s your birthday, yes? You enjoy doing this. I want you to show me.”

It takes another moment before Pebbles snaps back into action, collecting two aprons and moving to hang his mask on the hook- until he remembered Suns was also there. Should he take off his mask-? It would be more difficult to paint with it on- would it be weird?

Maybe it would, except Suns had moved behind him, taking an apron in one hand and holding their own mask in the other, hanging it. Oh. He tries to stop thinking, pulling off his own mask and hanging it side by side. They are smiling at him- have they always been? Their eyes are so vibrant- focus. Paint. Cans are pulled from the cabinet, nozzles fitted and set in front of a blank wall in the workshop.

“It will take some getting used to,” he says, picking up a red can and shaking. “Keep your hand moving, or else the paint will pool and drip.” A piece of paper is handed to Suns, and they reach down to pick up another can. Purple.

They shake it as well, trying a few sprays across the paper. The first two drip, but the third is relatively even. Pebbles watches, and void below is it different having Suns in this workshop. They’re tall, he’s always known this, but even without the mask Suns towers over him. He nods at the test sprays, pointing to the wall.

“We start with a sketch. This will get covered up later, but it’s good reference.” He takes a deep breath, stepping up to the wall. Scholar symbol. That will do. It’s bubbly and big, and Suns moves to add some pearls in around the character.

“Is this good?”

He’s always painted alone, this is so different. It’s good. “Yes, very. I like the way it frames the subject.”

Five Pebbles gets into the rhythm of painting. Shake-shake-shake, spray. Step back, see the big picture. Next color. Repeat. Suns works on the pearls, and they almost glow on the wall, colors weaving together. They’re picking this up well.

“You’re quick,” Suns observes, adding gold to one of the pearls.

“I’ve done this for a long time,” he replies.

More painting. Outlines are added, highlights giving emphasis to the shapes. Suns steps back at this point, letting their friend finish the work.

He steps back, dropping the near-empty canister on the ground. “Well. We did it.”

“Thank you Pebbles.”

“Oh-“ He really had needed to get something on this wall, this had just been a good excuse to-

Suns puts their hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

He nods. It was still so surreal to see Suns without their mask, but there they went, picking the cans up off his floor. He hastily followed, putting caps back on and throwing out the empty ones. It all cleaned up quickly, and they both returned to the cabinet to put away the cans and aprons.

“It’s a shame we must wear these bulky masks and not be able to properly appreciate all the artwork on the walls.” Suns states as they pick up their mask, inspecting it before putting it back on.

“Yeah.”

Suns glances to Pebbles. “Let’s get home. It’s been a long day. Oh- send Moon my regards! I’m still writing a response to her last message,” they laugh, standing and walking to the door.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure she knows.” He follows suit, closing the door behind the two and locking it.

Many cycles later, when he’s running for his life, he’s going to come in this workshop, looking for supplies. He’s going to see the mural, made with the one who set him up to fail. The burns on his hands, his face, all from the void fluid that Suns gave him. And he is going to swallow his despair, and run.

Run far away.

#rain world #rw ancients au #five pebbles #seven red suns #rw five pebbles #rw seven red suns #rw sunstone #five pebbles x seven red suns #rw shipping #tanz talks #i have said this before. i’m not a maassive shipper but this is fun to explore #tanz art #writings #if i need to tag this let me know

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nirikeehan · 1 month ago

Note

HI NIRI I'm here to demand I mean... request Samson x Thalia in your You take the dread wolf setting.

Optional prompt from the sleep token five word prompt list if you want to use it:

[the summoning] divine, taste, edge, sign, body

HI LIBRI THANK YOU!! Definitely wanted to figure out what Samson was up to in this AU and... well, I think I have my answer. Please enjoy the hideousness.

My first prompt fill for @thedasweekend!

WC: 2263

---

The Summoning.

Samson is summoned from his cell in the White Spire one fine spring morning. He can see the trees blooming from the tiny barred window: life returning to Val Royeaux once more. He can also see the rooftops of a few buildings and thin sliver of the harbor. It’s a better view than the Gallows, all things considered. Better too than the wet, windowless dungeon of Skyhold. He made peace with living out his days here, long ago. Nearing seven years now. Not that he’s counting.

No one comes to see him. He left no family and no friends to speak of, when Corypheus fell. He chatted with the other high value prisoners in the Skyhold dungeons when they came by, but they were few and far between. Lady Thalia Trevelyan was big on mercy, they said, repurposing her enemies to fight for the cause. Samson himself lent a hand, sending smug missives to Cullen about his former boss’s movements. Even had an in-person meeting a few times, still in fetters.

None of that lasted, of course. With the war done and the Inquisition disbanded, Skyhold closed down. The few prisoners that remained were remanded to other jurisdictions. Samson was certain Kirkwall would take him and fit him for a noose, but apparently they’d put that dwarven wordsmith in charge and Tethras hadn’t wanted to deal with him. Finally it was decided that the White Spire, once home to the most notorious mage prison on the continent (except maybe the Aeonar, but we don’t speak of that place) was fit to hold Red Templars and other aberrations befitting their ilk. Sort of a poetic justice to the Inquisitor, he’s sure.

No one comes to see him.

Except today.

Did he ever think Lady Thalia was divine? Hard to say. Samson decided the Maker had forsaken them all long ago. He had been willing, after all, to throw in with a madman who had aspirations of his own godhood. It sort of doesn’t matter what’s true, in the long run. It matters what people believe, and you make your own truth from there.

Lady Thalia looks changed. Several years have passed since he spied her last. Her long auburn hair is shorn down to short waves that curl around her ears. She brushes one from her cheek. The tattoo of the Ostwick Circle is still there, something she’ll carry for life. Samson reckons, however, the amount of people who know what it means dwindles with each passing day. Such is the world she built.

She still sits daintily, on the other side of the table in the visitor’s room. The guard duty has doubled, standing in every corner and on both sides of the door. Samson, for his part, is chained wrists and ankles, through he finds that a bit excessive. He breezed past fifty a few years back, finds himself frail and shaky without access to the red. Even the tiny bits of blue they afford him to keep from keeling over don’t do much.

“Mages guard templars now — ain’t that a sight?” he says. They’re the only ones who have demonstrated resistance to red lyrium. The others go insane in a matter of months, sometimes weeks.

“I’m not here for small talk,” Thalia says coolly. She always looked young, and still does — he wouldn’t put her a day over twenty-five, though the history books he’s perused in the intervening years claim she’s now thirty-three. This is the dichotomy that intrigued him: so young, innocent, unassuming, but with a regal presence and the steel nerves of a true leader. Say what you like about how Thedas changed after, but Thalia Trevelyan held onto the courage of her convictions. Dealing with her has been like oiling a well-sharpened blade: powerful, when wielded correctly, but hold her wrong and you’ll be bleeding like a pig.

“Then what are you here for, milady?” Samson angles his head in curiosity. “Certainly not to see what I’m doing. How’s the Commander, by the way?”

He knows this isn’t Cullen’s title anymore, but it always amused him, how high Cullen climbed. Commander of the Inquisition, war hero, husband to the Herald of Andraste. Some men have all the luck.

“Cullen is none of your concern,” Thalia says sharply, and Samson grins. Trouble in paradise? Or just wishful thinking? Samson always wondered how Cullen would fare, shackling himself to a mage, even one as nubile as Thalia. She’s hardly a seductress, but there is a certain charm to her. He’s wondered plenty what sort of sounds she might make, trapped and writhing beneath his body.

“Then do spare me the suspense, milady. What makes you come to see me, an old done man — and dare I say one of the most hated men in Thedas who still draws breath?”

He’s puffing himself up a little there. He’s certain most people have forgotten him entirely by now. Such is the way of things.

Thalia straightens and leans forward. Her shawl slips, and Samson sees her left arm, which once held the anchor — the bane and desire of Corypheus’s existence — is bulky and metallic. So the arm was lost, he thinks. He’s heard rumors, but no facts, and the history books suspiciously left out the part that their beloved Herald is now a cripple for life.

“I want you,” Thalia says, “to tell me everything you know about an elf called Solas.”

He may have a taste of freedom here, if he plays his cards right. Samson laughs out loud. Perhaps not the best opening move, but he needed that laugh. She says it with such gravitas; he can’t help it.

“Who, milady?” The name sticks after he works it through his brain a few times. It turned up in All This Shit is Weird, though mentions were few and far between. “The strange bloke? Who helped the Inquisition with Fade nonsense?”

“We have decent intelligence that you met him, when he was working for Corypheus.” Thalia keeps her gaze steadily on him, searching for any sign of deception. But the truth is Samson has no idea what she’s talking about.

“Not a Dalish elf.” She hopes desperately to jog his memory, he can see that. “Bald. He would have helped Corypheus procure the orb that contained the anchor.”

Ah. So there it is. Samson rubs the stubble on his chin, chains clinking from his wrist. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember him. Name weren’t Solas, though.”

Thalia’s eyebrows lift. Her blue eyes are deep crystal pools. Samson would love to dive in and take a drink. “Oh? What was his name?”

“Went by… shite. Nero, I think.” As the name escapes his lips, he’s laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” Thalia asks, that cute little crease appearing between her brows. He saw it the entire time she held judgment over him, back at Skyhold.

“Think this elf is playing ya, whoever he is.” Samson opens his arms wide. “You don’t get it? Look at a map of Tevinter, and maybe you’ll notice.”

Thalia sits back in her seat, expression gone sour. “Son of a bitch.”

The profanity from her lips is enough to set Samson laughing again. This morning has taken an interesting turn. Day and night Corypheus stood vigil by a map of his precious Tevinter. So convinced it would rise to its former glory, if he just poured enough magic and human resources into his goal. Almost a decade in his grave now, like all the tyrants before him.

“Neromenian. Solas. Both Tevinter cities,” Samson says, though clearly she’s worked it out.

“Solas means ‘pride,’” Thalia snaps. “In the Elven.”

“Well, ain’t that special. Doubt either of them are his actual names, though.”

Thalia lets out a sigh of frustration. Samson leans back in his seat, studying her. She expected something different from him. He’s not sure what, but perhaps he can leverage it to his advantage.

“This elf — he’s obviously deceived us both, hasn’t he?” Samson only met him the one time, truth be told. Didn’t say much. Seemed extremely deferential to Corypheus, though Samson thought he caught a spark of revulsion in his eyes. It’s always the quiet ones. “So what’s got you so riled up about him?”

Thalia transforms before his eyes — before now, she was holding something in. Holding something back. He’d thought, wrongly, that she was a hero retired, resting on her laurels. Trying, perhaps, to settle some old scores. Now, she comes alive. There’s a hunger in her, palpable on his skin. She nearly glows with it.

“I think,” she says, a smirk cresting on her lips, “he’s trying to destroy the world.”

Samson stands on the edge of a precipice. He can feel it. There’s a tingling of anticipation in his limbs he thought he would never experience again. He remembers sweltering Kirkwall nights as a young man, high off successful raids on dens of apostates. The shoulder clap and quiet praise of his old Knight-Commander, Guylian. And again, when he knelt before Corypheus and swore fealty to him and the red. He was important again. He had a purpose.

He can feel the same energy in Lady Thalia. If not for the chains and table and guards between them, he’d reach for her, pull her into his lap. He’ll think about this moment later, alone again in his cell. Replay it in his mind a few too many times. If only, if only.

“And you need my help,” he guesses, correctly.

“You’re the only one left,” Thalia says. “Who remembers.”

How many times had he prayed to the Maker for a sign? Crawled on his belly in the gutter, the dirt in his mouth. Hands shaking from too many days without a fix. Samson decided then that there was no point believing in god, at least not in one he couldn’t see. Corypheus claimed to be capable, and why not? At least then, in the aftermath, Samson would be closer to divinity than he’d ever been in the Templar Order.

“Cullen’s not going to like this,” Samson says. He aims for scolding, but in his tone there’s a touch of conspiratorial glee.

“I don’t answer to Cullen,” Thalia says blithely. “I answer to Divine Victoria, and she thinks this avenue is worth pursuing.”

Andraste preserve the former Inquisitor, who saw it fit to raise her spymaster to the highest spiritual position in the land. Samson pictures long nights with a tallow candle burning between them, pouring over paperwork that might give a clue as to the whereabouts of this wily elf, bent on succeeding where Corypheus had failed.

“You’ll have to earn your keep,” Thalia says, as if she can hear his thoughts. “Nothing comes for free.”

“Never did. Not for me.” He doesn’t mind. He’ll scrub floors. He’ll peel potatoes. He’ll rub her feet, if she let him. She probably won’t, but a man can dream.

“How good do you think you’d be at teaching?” Thalia asks, and his fantasies skitter to a halt.

“Teaching?” Samson repeats, incredulous.

“We’re assembling a force, you understand,” Thalia explains. “A clandestine one. We can’t let Solas know we’re organized, not yet. Some Inquisition veterans have already pledged to the cause, but so many years have passed… a lot are offering their children in their stead. And it’s been so long. Someone has to train them.”

Samson wants to thank her for the flattery, to think that he’s in any position to teach swordcraft to recruits in the prime of their life. But then Thalia adds, “And many of them will have heard of red lyrium only in stories and songs.”

Samson blinks. “You want me to teach kids about the red? As what— some sort of cautionary tale?”

Thalia grins. “I can think of no method more effective. Can you?”

A truth lost on the young: you only get one body. Even Samson didn’t properly understand, until his began to fail on him. The lyrium enhanced, and then it began to seduce him. He fed his habit and nothing else for years. And then, the red seemed the solution to all his problems. Made him better, faster, stronger. He thought it could save them all — until, too soon, too obviously, it drove the others mad. Quickly. Brutally. Until vermilion crystals overtook their bodies, transformed them from men to monsters.

Now he’s supposed to tell a bunch of green children — whose mothers he might’ve fucked in their prime — how bad the stuff is?

“When do we get to track down your elf?” Samson asks, wondering what exactly he’s got himself into here.

“He’s not my elf,” Thalia says, calm and collected once more. “And we’ll all have our parts to play, when the time comes.”

“I thought the time was now,” grumbles Samson.

“Patience,” Thalia chides. “It’s a chess game. I’m just gathering my pieces.”

So it would seem. Well, the good thing about chess: two can play. She’s opened the door to the cage and beckoned him out. Samson may be held on a lead, but it’s better than nothing.

“In that case, milady — I await your orders.”

She likes that, he can tell. The old deference works for her, as if she was still the Inquisitor sitting atop her throne. She misses that power, and how can he blame her? He misses it himself.

We’ll get on, he thinks as Thalia gathers herself to leave. We’ve too much in common not to.

Time is what he’ll need, as Thalia herself said.

And ain’t that lucky? Time’s the one thing Samson has in spades.

#and then Samson became the Aviary's DARE officer #i GUESS???#lmaooooo #thalia trevelyan #raleigh samson #thalia x samson #i'm normal about samson #thedas weekend #you take the dread wolf au

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