#the collective unconscious seeps into you and all of us

[2003hondacivic]

[lumiconic]

“ i’ll call you home ”

✧  diluc, thoma, zhongli, eula, mona, lumine, kazuha, yoimiya ; domestic fluff

✧  recently i’ve been really into two hearts by nzca lines :3

… diluc brings flowers home every single day. soft curls of light purple honeysuckle and padisarah that tickles your nose with its sugary scent. strings of primrose that he weaves into dainty crowns with surprising tenderness. exotic and bright hibiscus and glaze lilies, bouquets of bright yellow forget me nots, and a stunning arrangement of apple blossoms, white clover, and dahlia. every blossom has eons of meaning behind it, the academic kind of which you could barely begin to fathom; but his gentle smile when he presents you with a freshly picked red rose is enough, you think, to understand it all.

… thoma takes care of every chore around the house, with the kind of speed and skill that makes you look amateurish in comparison. though he’s an expert at every chore, your favorite will always be when he does the laundry, because no matter how much sweet-smelling soap he uses, he is always wreathed in the sharp scent of smoke that seeps into the fabric itself. maybe he doesn’t notice because it’s so constant, but you do, and you love it. you can close your eyes, press your nose to your favorite shirt and take a deep breath and imagine that he is right there, wrapping you in a warm embrace.

… zhongli remembers how you take your tea, whether you prefer sharp mint or sweet black or bitter matcha. he always makes sure to choose the most perfectly decorated pot, studded with gemstones in your favorite color or swirled with elaborately opulent metal shavings. when you arrive home, the moment you close the door behind you, he’s there holding a freshly brewed pot and all the honey or sugar you could want, and the curls of steam rising into the air from the ornately carved lip of the teapot frame his understanding and calm look as he asks how was your day?

… eula is always practicing her dancing, whether in the tiny, unconsciously imperial tapping of one heel against the floor, or a real performance where she throws her lithe frame into each move with all the force she can muster. in the privacy of her own home, she enjoys music, and loudly. the kind of thumping volume that brings a grin to your face. because, no matter what room you’re in you can hear the sound of it pulsing through the floor and follow the noise to find her, performing for an imaginary audience with her eyes closed tight and a beautiful smile spread across her icy, regal features.

… mona knows her apartment is small and desolate, can feel it in the cramped edges of her bedroom where dust collects quicker than she can wash it away. but she is prideful, and refuses to have the person she loves living with her in a place that feels empty or ugly. she throws herself into decorating, exchanging star readings for vases of fresh cecelias, taking money saved from her astrology column to purchase cheap tapestries that she adorns herself with hand woven tassels and specks of glimmering stone, and making it hers. making it yours. in the end, it looks as beautiful as any regal palace.

… lumine’s true home is among the stars, but for now she resides in an enchanted teapot, with you as her most special tenant. with a wave of her hand, she summons anything you could possibly want; a game of popping balloons, a bed with pillows as soft as clouds, entire hot springs. you would ask her to slow down, to stop exerting herself on extravagances like this just for you, but she looks so excited, blushing bright red and smiling shyly, whenever she presents you with a new gift, and there’s something flatteringly magical about how she offers you these things crafted with nothing but love.

… kazuha has had no desire for a physical house, because every gathering stormcloud, glimmering dewdrop, whisper of wind that gusts through his hair is home to him, the expanse of beauty that can be found in every inch of teyvat. so if he were to show you his home, it would be from underneath a silk umbrella he traded a hand written poem for, holding a melon he sliced with his iron sword, sweeping his fingertips out over the plains of inazuma with a serene smile on his face as he awaits your response to his eager joy at showing you, the person he loves the most, the things he considers the most beautiful.

… yoimiya loves the bliss of waking up every morning to find you beside her. she loves that you are a permanent fixture of her life now, someone who’s there whenever she needs. if she could make you a holiday, an official cause to celebrate and roar her favorite songs over the hills and set off fireworks in the sky every single day, she would. maybe she can’t officially, but no one can stop her from celebrating on her own; baking lopsided cakes and carving your likeness out of wood and whispering your name into the wind with a giggle and cupping your face in her hands and planting kisses on your forehead and cheeks every night before you go to sleep.

© lumiconic ; please reblog and follow if enjoyed

[sagesolsticewrites]

In My Arms

Sometimes your husband just needs to be held. (lots and lots of fluff)

Cowritten with @winniemaywebber! Also shoutout to Winnie for making yet another incredible playlist for this fic!

Warnings: mentions of cheating (but not really bc there was a war on come on y’all), definitely some historical inaccuracies in here, and plenty of tooth-rotting fluff with a touch of Emotions™️

Word count: 1k (short n sweet!)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Masterlist

In the months since Harry Crosby had returned home, your husband hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you.

He’d always been like that in your more… private moments, of course, but now it seemed to be seeping into your daily lives.

You’d be walking past him to the kitchen and he’d trail his fingers along your arm, inhaling the sweet scent of your perfume as it lingered in the air.

He’d wrap his arms around you, hugging you from behind as you were bustling around on a cleaning day.

He’d pepper kisses over every bit of skin he could reach every chance he got.

It wasn’t that you minded— on the contrary, you loved it. But you were curious as to where the behavior had come from.

“Honey?” You ask softly one rainy afternoon as Harry has you tucked under his arm, his fingers trailing over every inch of you he can reach.

“Hm?” He hums contentedly, “What is it, love bug?”

“I’ve noticed that… well, since you’ve been home..” You fumble over your words, trying to find the right thing to say, “You’ve been… touching me, a lot? More than you used to before you left, at least. Not that it’s a bad thing,” you scramble to add, “It’s wonderful, and I’ve missed it so, so much, but… is there a reason for it?”

Harry sighs deeply, seemingly collecting his thoughts before he answers.

“When I was… away…” he begins carefully, “there were lots of things the men used to distract themselves from the anxiety and… well, our day to day lives over there. Physical affection was one of them.” He glances at you nervously, ensuring you understand his meaning before he continues, “I did partake in that once or twice, when it got really bad, but truly aside from that, all of my thoughts and wants were directed towards you.”

“I know, honey, I understand,” you assure him, eyes soft, “There was a war on, you— you did what you had to do to keep yourself sane.”

He relaxes, a weight you hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying since he’d returned suddenly lifted off his shoulders.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he breathes, brushing a kiss to your forehead before continuing.

“There wasn’t a lot of… softness, on the base. We took affection where we could find it on weekend passes, but if you didn’t do that, then it was just a bunch of claps on the back from your fellow airmen, maybe a dance or two with a WAC girl at the Officer’s Club, and not much else.”

You reach up to stroke through his soft curls as he speaks, and he unconsciously leans into your touch as he continues.

“So being home, being with you again…” he sighs, continuing softly “Having someone to touch me again… it’s almost like I have to make up for everything I missed out on. Everything that war made me miss.”

“Oh, my love,” you breathe, hyperaware of every inch of his skin touching yours.

It made sense. Surrounded by other men— soldiers, no less— of course they wouldn’t get the amount of physical affection they were used to, especially if they had wives or sweethearts, and to be stuck there for a year as your Bing had…

Harry lets out a soft sound of surprise as you move into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. You nuzzle into his neck, pressing every inch of your body against him as your fingertips return to raking through his hair.

He melts, his head nosing at the crook of your neck, eyes closed, even as he asks, “Darling?”

“Shhh,” you breathe, “Just let me hold you.”

You feel him sigh against your neck as his hands come up to squeeze you closer, even as he protests, “But didn’t we have things to do—”

“That can wait,” you assure him softly.

The only sound for several long moments is the soft sighs of your heavy breathing, until you speak up again.

“When you got back,” you whisper, “I was so, so happy. So ready for things to go back to normal, to be us again, that I skipped the part where I just let it sink in that you were home, and here.” You lift your head to press a kiss to his temple, “And I’m sorry, my love. I promise I’ll do better.”

You feel your husband shake his head against you, lifting his face to meet your gaze as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb gently stroking along your cheek.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, sweet girl,” he murmurs, “I’ve got all the time in the world to hold you, now.”

He pulls you in for a sweet kiss as the two of you melt into each other, a soft bubble of sunlight amidst a dark and gloomy day.

You keep holding him for what feels like an eternity. You start to hear him whimper into you, his whole body tense and shaking. You feel wetness from his eyes drop on to your shoulder and you pull away, concern all over your face. 

“My love,” you say, your voice slightly strained. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Oh, darling,” he sniffs, wiping the tears as quickly as they come, obviously embarrassed at showing this emotion. “I'm just–just so happy to be home with you.” You reach a hand out to touch his face, your eyes also filling with the same emotion. You swipe your thumb under his darling puppy eyes, your heart beginning to swell. 

“I'm so–” You struggle to formulate the words, your throat closing around all the swallowed emotion. “I'm so happy to have you home, too. I don't want us to ever be apart again, honey.”

“We won't be,” he replies, holding you close and kissing your temple, clinging to one another until your tears are spent. 

“I love you, Bing,” you breathe into his ear, fingers toying with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“I love you too, darling,” is his soft response, mumbled against your neck as he squeezes you tighter, and you know that you won’t let each other go again for a long while.

[neonovember]

Do they know you’re with me?

pairings: battinson x fem!reader

summary: this city always found a way to take another part of bruce, until all that was left of him was Batman. But taking you? Now that was just downright stupid.

warnings: very graphic displays of violence, feral!bruce wayne, misogyny, assault, fluff, angst, literal murder

word count: 4.9k

a/n: watched batman for the second time and decided to dip my feet into the seeping black oil spill that is bruce wayne and his fucked up morals. + you end up driving the fucking batMOBILE

You don’t remember how you found yourself sprawled on the floor of a rotting warehouse 20 miles from the inner city streets of Gotham, all you can do is feel the brick stones beneath the weight of your body, scratchy and old, crumbling beneath the grip of your fingers.

The slits of sunlight that cast shadows across the floor look like mirages. The fuzzy edges of your vision not quite clearing despite your desperate blinks. You want Bruce, you want him now.

You scrawl to the bordered-off windows, stuffing fingers into the space between the pieces of bordered wood, trying to pry them open, you’re exhausted, you don’t know why, your entire body is just aching, your limbs limp and feeble, sore from an exertion you have no memory of. The thought makes you shudder unconsciously, why is it so hard to remember?

Your mind is a collection of big black oil spills, they spread, when you try harder to think back to hours before. You don’t like this, god, everything fucking hurts

You continue this limp pathetic excuse of an escape, eyes burning with tears as the wood refuses to budge, the flashes of Bruce teaching you self-defence engulf your mind.The smell of old rubber, your complaining and his gruff condescension clambering on the gym floor as he taught you a left hook, how to twist under an assailant, how to fight smart instead of hard, how to knock a 200lb man unconscious- it all falls flat now, settles on the floor amongst the rotting moss and burrowed insects, what a fucking joke.

You can’t help but feel the discerning glare on Bruce’s face at this moment, watching you stifle as if you hadn’t spent weeks together preparing for this exact moment.

You’re pathetic, he’s wasted air and time on you. The image of his face pulls the tears on your waterline down your cheeks, and you collapse against the warehouse walls as you crumble. You relish the burn of your nails digging into your palm, letting the burn radiate through your hand as you roughly hit your head against the moist rotting stone.

This was it, the last of your name left to rot next to wet hay and dust, all you’ve worked for, all you’ve done, swept away and taken with the autumn wind. You know it’s horrible but isn’t this such a pathetic way to die? Not in combat, the blood and dirt of your struggle signifying your sacrifice, but because you were weak, brittle and foolish like your father had always said.

You stuff a fist into your mouth, reprimanding yourself, you will die, you will get your head spilt on this floor if you don’t get up, right fucking now. Forcing back the guttural groan back into the ribs of your chest, you survey the damp warehouse for any way out, and your eyes catch the glint sparkling against the rays of the rising sun.

Metal, something hard, something you can use to pry open blanks. It might be oxidising into rusted dust in the seconds that pass but it’s something, and that’s good.

Staggering towards it, you hold your weight against the warehouse walls, practically hopping with your one good foot towards the sledgehammer. You grasp the metal into your weak fist, and relief washes over you as the weight of it reassures some real damage.

Your eyes catch the bordered wooden door, secured with a padlock drilled into the metal bars, this warehouse is left to its mere skeleton, the metal rotting as peaks of asbestos break free.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, you shuffle your body towards the door, crouching closer to inspect the latch, your ears catch rambunctious laughter and the crash of bottles far to the right of the rotting warehouse. Your assumed assailants celebrating your capture perhaps, you shudder as you recall your unconsciousness moments ago. What else had they done to you?

Bringing the heavy hammer down into the padlock, the dust from the door flutters to the floor. You pause as you await the sounds of boots running to ensure your capture again, but it does not come. The laughter and boom of their festivities conceal your escape.

Giving the padlock two more hits, it finally gives way, cracking through the metal as you rip it from the door handle. You breathe through your nose as you take a tentative step forward, slipping through the gap you’ve forced open.

It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the pitch-black darkness that surrounds you, and soon you realise the warehouse is much bigger than you thought. Rows of brimstone columns hold up the rows of metal fixtures, slits of moonlight filter through the expansive window roof, the stench of old machinery and dye hinting to a possibly old fabric factory. You don’t want to consider how those big machines could be used against you, the idea pushed back down in your mind.

Shuffling forward, you catch the shadowy burst of light coming from your right, licks of orange and yellow crawling up the decrepit walls. A fire of some sort, surrounded by your assailants casts shadowy figures that seem huge and monstrous.

You begin searching for an escape, a latched window you could force open, some hole in the wall, anything. You come up empty, the towering walls looking down on you almost sealing your fate. You’re at the hands of these men to do as they would like, and for a moment you’d wish you’d listen to Bruce and let him attach that tracking device on your watch, violating or not.

You press your fingertips to your eyes as you try to think, the only plausible chance of escape is to move closer to the right wing of the warehouse and slip past their drunken state whilst their guard is let down.

Pressing your back to the wall, you venture forth, pressing forward with the tips of your toes as your sneakers squeak against the dirt floor. Making a turn your feet crash into a wayward liquor bottle, the glass chattering beneath your feet. You wince as you hear the men stop their guffawing at the sound, ears picking up your mistake. 

“What the fuck was that?” You hear the gruff throaty sound of someone yelling.

“No idea, ya sure you kept our girl locked and tied??” Another replies, you have to keep from retching at the sound of them referring to you as “their girl”. The way their slimy mouths wrapped around the word had you sick.

“Don’t fucking tell me you forgot rookie, or else you’ll fuckin join her ass” The man from before argues, anger riddling his tone.

“Hey! Relax aight? He padlocked that shit, there ain’t no way she’s getting through it. So sit the fuck back down Daroll, it’s probably some fuckin’ rat. You know how this city is, with all its fucking filth clogging the streets, turning those animals into the size of goddamn cats” The man replies, in a calm tone. He seems to be the ring leader of sorts, the rest of the men falling in line and replying in unison.

“At least now we’ve got Bruce Wayne’s girl tied back there, this time we’ll get our goddamn compensation from this city. I’ll make sure of it” The man replies.

You shiver as they refer to you as some sort of bargaining chip like Bruce would send millions in a briefcase in return for your safety. You don’t doubt that he would, but the thought scares you to no end. If this played out how they wished for it, what would stop any common thief from snagging you off the streets of Gotham in return for their “reparations”?

Bruce had to set an example, and you don’t doubt the events that would follow would be a bloody mess of fists and broken bones. You can’t help it, but something deep within you preens at the thought, Bruce, clad in his dark element, falling over the assailants like a spreading darkness.

But the fear of being left to rot in some warehouse on the docks of Bleak island is still there, and who’s to say Bruce would even find you? Your body, left in an unmarked grave once they got what they wanted, or better yet, thrown into the city’s river to be used as fish bate.

“Bruce fucking Wayne, man if there’s one name I hate in this goddamn city. Shit, you can barely escape it from the way they’ve plastered his face on every inch of Gotham” A man says

“Ya know the news outlets, always love a fucking sob story, actin’ as if families don’t get massacred by us daily” The man laughs, and they soon join him, falling back into the harmony of throwing back beer bottles and throwing knives at rats scurrying away.

Once you feel their ears aren’t catching every tiny sound, you continue your venture through the warehouse, the grip of the sledgehammer is firm in your grasp and it tethers you to the ground. If they did find you, at least you wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Catching the view of the group of men, huddled around a large bonfire, they each wear the same worn dirtied clothes, maroon jackets and washed-out plaid shirts that peek through. Beer cans and stunted cigarettes litter the ground, chests full of what you assumed would be weapons and drugs strewn about.

From the way their expansive shoulder stretch the material, you grapple with the fact that these men weren’t your typical scrawny thugs looking for a fix. They had decent muscle, the kind that could crush your neck within their grasps. And you were in their very own lion's den.

Gulping down the fear radiating down your back, you catch the stream of moonlight peeking from a cracked open door. A hope stirs within you, and you force yourself to swallow your fear as you calculate the very short steps you would need to make before finally escaping.

Stepping forward, your eyes are strained on the group of men, never letting your eyes leave them as you slip past from the shadows of the warehouse walls.

You’re so close, the door practically at arms reach before you are yanked hard by an invading hand, your neck rag dolls back as the mysterious man shoves you against him.

“No!!” You scream, as he leans into your neck, the faint smell of tobacco and beer causing you to wretch your face away.

“Looks like I found our very own little lady tryna escape” The man yells towards the huddled group at the centre of the warehouse. You thrash against him with all your might, limbs flying with little control as you try and rip yourself from his grip.

His chest is like a wall, laughing down at your frail body thrashing against his own, he presses your backside into his own as he grinds from the side of your eye.

“If you want it rough ya could’ve just said that doll” The man snarks, hand reaching down to grip your chest before you bite down on it, hard.

“You fucking bitch!!” He rips his hand from your mouth before his fist is colliding with your face. Your brain takes a minute to register the pain, almost blinded by the force of it, before you groan loudly. The white-hot pain spreads across your face and down your neck, throbbing with an intensity you’ve never felt before.

Your neck lies limp across his chest and he drags you towards the men looking on in amusement. Throwing you to the ground, your eyes meet scuffed boots that press against your bruising cheek.

You try and get yourself up before the boot is pressing onto your back, imprisoning you to the floor.

“Seems like you got in a little tussle huh?” The man you’ve recognised as the leader of the pack speaks down at you.

“You see, we wanted to make this as painless as possible for you, but now you had to go and try and escape didn’t you?” The man pulls you from the floor, dropping you onto a plastic chair that presses onto your back.

You don’t dare to look up to the man, he’s got a good foot on you and he looks at you like a formidable statue.

“Look at me when I speak to you” The man roars suddenly, pressing a dirty finger to your chin, forcing your chin to meet his thundering blues.

Forced to look up at him, you take notice of the features that make up his face. Blond hair dirtied with blood and dust falling over his face, the scratching scrawl of a yellow stubble that spreads across his jaw and neck. Brooding dark brows hang over his deep silver-blue eyes. His features are conventional in the way a Prince Charming or cover model would be, but the snark and deep hatred that seeps into every one of his features cast an malevolent shadow, and sets your heart to pound against your chest.

“Don’t you see? My men wouldn’t have hurt you if you’d- if you’d just listened. Why can’t anyone fucking listen, huh? Do you think I want to do this?” He screams at you, hands flying arms they press at his chest in some sort of act. His features morphed into a facade of anguish as if he had no choice but to chain you in a rotting cell.

You bite your tongue to stop your sharp mouth from scoffing in his face, the taste of copper is one you swallow regretfully. You eye his erratic behaviour, the way his body moves around like his a life wire, it’s one you’ve seen before.

Some unmarked drug that had taken over the streets of Gotham, one the GCPD has been scrambling to find out but coming up with loose ends. Bruce himself had warned you of its destruction on mostly unassuming teenagers and drop heads, the way the high would go on forever, before descending into a madness fuelled by the user's deepest fears. Sending you into a psychotic breakdown you can’t escape without throwing yourself from a building or shoving a pistol down your throat.

He seemed to be at the peak of it, relishing in the euphoria and grandiosity it granted him.

Your eyes catch the shadow of a winged cape, up high and cloaked in the darkness of the ceiling, and you have to press your fingers into your thighs to stop your face from showcasing the relief that washes over.

Bout damn time.

Your eyes focus on the man again but glancing from the corner of your eye as you catch your winged saviour perched on the ceiling's metal columns. He raises a gloved finger to his lips, mouthing one single word.

Distract.

You blink twice to show you understand, before diverting your eyes back to the erratic man who’s begun to sneer at you in disgust.

“What do you think you’ll get out of this?” You mutter, and he reels back at you in shock, before a smile pulls at the slit of his lips, eyes blazing with a fury that sets you on edge.

“I always knew he liked em’ mouthy” The man replies, before stepping forward.

“Bruce isn’t going to sacrifice the security of his name just to give you all some fucking pocket change. You think he’s that stupid?” You reply in a voice you hope is every bit steady and confident as you think.

That man narrows his eyes at you, as the rest of the men look on in eagerness. Ready to watch you get ripped to shreds by their beloved leader, salivating at the thought of you bloody and bruised by their fists.

“Bruce is too soft for this city, spending all his damn time boarded up in that manor, all that money just left to gather dust.” The man begins, resting his body against a barbed-wrapped bat.

“For years, Gotham had griefed that man, reconciling that The Bruce Wayne was no longer a symbol of hope for this city”

“But then there was you, that sweet little thing that forced him out of his fucking cave. And boy did the media love you, how couldn’t they? A precious doll that got Gotham’s billionaire to open his manor gates again” The man replies in disgust, spitting next to your shoes.

“And then he was back to being the public’s favourite rich, billionaires boy. All we’ve worked for, everything we’d done to prove he was like the filth that crawled through these streets out the fucking window”.

“Whilst people like me, like us, good hard working people, were left to get drowned by the muck and filth of this city. The swamp that sludges and clings to the streets. Now I’m not that religious, but how the fuck is that fair?”

“I know you aren’t stupid, different from the other woman he’s plastered to his side, anyone with two fucking eyeballs can see that. Which makes it all the more reason that we’ll get what we need no matter what”. The man smiles at you fondly, as if he hadn’t just threatened your life mere moments ago.

His eyes light up at the look of disgust you throw at him,

“Oh don’t look at me like that baby, It’s just business. Brucey will give us our well-deserved money, and we’ll give him back the one thing he cares about.” The man replies, before raising his bat to press gently into your chest.

“You.”

Your ears catch the swift swoop of air before your eyes register the enveloping black armour that glides across the warehouse.

It happens quickly, one moment the self-proclaimed leader is chanting, murmuring Bruce’s fate before he is knocked down by a batted creature

“The fuck?! Is that Batman-“. You hear the murmur of confusion litter the men, as they catch glimpses of a swallowing darkness descend into their safe haven.

The rest of the men don’t get a second to reach for their weapons before he's taking them down with his bare hands, picking them off, one by one like fleas.

You watch on as Bruce collides a man's face into another, smashing their skulls until their faceless and bloody. One brave thug throws a wooden crate at him, and he catches it swiftly, throwing it into another’s back.

The sound of splitting skin and the crunch of bone seems to go on forever, the grunts of Bruce’s voice the only sound he makes as he throws limp bodies like rag dolls across the dirt floor.

The rest of the thugs scurry like ants, escaping through the side door and jumping into rusting pickup trucks as they watch through the review mirror in heaving horror.

Batman has left one men in particular behind, wanting to take his time with them, the ferocity of his unneeded rage doesn’t escape him, his fists are practically dumb as they are split and bleeding from colliding with bone.

He’s shaking with it, the fear and malevolence that seems to drip from him like blood. His head is screaming, white noise blocking the outside world since the moment he found you missing. He knows at that moment that the deep dark part of his night city creature is rearing its head, he wants to destroy every single fucking thug that has ever even aided in your capture, preens with a burning desire to eradicate and burn their entire existence off the face of Gotham itself.

He hears the sound of your soft whimper, and he tears his eyes away from the groaning man at his feet. And for the first time since his fist collided with that fucking, he’s eyes glide over your frame hunched in the chair.

Jaw tight as he naughs his teeth, a growl escaped his chest at the sight of you, his baby, dried blood seeping down your neck as your left eye is swollen shut from the force of the punch.

Bruce steps towards you, tearing his gloves off to press his cold fingers towards your cheek, soothing and brushing the tears that streamed down your face.

“It hurts Bruce, it hurts so bad” You sob, and the sound retches at Bruce’s heart, his eyes set on the outline of a fist pressed into your perfect skin.

“I know baby, I know, I’ll make it better okay? I’ll make it better” Bruce replies softly, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

The evidence of another man, daring to put he’s hands on you sends that same unchecked rage to burn through his chest, and Bruce turns swiftly at the man responsible.

He’s crawling away pathetically, his leg twisted at the awkward angle as he sobs in pain loudly. Bruce boots steps towards him, the towering expansive figure of what you could only describe as a brick fucking wall moving with ease as he watches on at him pathetically.

Reaching down, he reaches with a gigantic hand to drag him back towards Bruce’s feet. Pressing a foot to the broken bone, the man howls in pain as Bruce brutalising his wounds. It isn’t enough, the cries and screams of your attacker do nothing to satiate the flames of anger unfurling in him.

He wants him silenced.

Gripping his neck, Bruce roughly licks him up, dragging his limb body towards you. Picking up his face by his dark strands, Bruce forces him to stare at his work shaking him to emphasis what he had done to you.

“You did this no? You like beating women?? You dare put your goddamn filthy hands on her and you try to run away?” Bruce roars, pulling tight against the man’s hair as he gains enough energy to howl loudly.

“I think it’s only fair to apologise, it’s the least you could do” Bruce growls into his air before throwing him to the floor. The man looks back at Bruce in confusion, blooding spitting out of his nose.

“APOLOGISE” Bruce roars, it bursts through his belly like a caved creature and the man quickly complies, shaking in fear as he fold himself onto his knees, looking up at you behind clasped hands.

There is a gurgle as you look down, like he’s trying to speak the words but there is too much blood flogged in his lungs. It fills you with a concerning pleasure to see your attacker like this, shaking knees as he looks up at you, coughing and heaving, mouthing the words before restarting.

“I’m not sure she hears you, how about you say it abit louder” Bruce yells from behind, causing the man to flinch.

Finally regaining speech, the man fights through the tearing and failing of his voice cords, and screams out in sobbing chants.

“I’m sorry? ‘m sorry ‘m so sorry’ please!”

It’s all it takes before Bruce is picking him up by his collar, colliding a ginormous fist across his face, the wheezed scream leaving his barely intact throat as he beats him to the ground, hands coming down again, and again and again. Blood spraying across his unmasked face, a deranged look taking over that saw only one purpose.

The man begins to crawl away on his knees, a wheezing wet exhale leaving his chest every few seconds, a line of sludge blood follows him, circled him like a tail, he sputters as his lungs begins to fill with liquid, before upruptly shooting up and collapsing limp onto the dirt floor covered in shit, piss and blood.

Bruce turns to you, his footsteps hurrying to crouch down as he cradled your head in his strong arms. He shushes you gently as he rocks you back and forth, caressing you with the bloody hands that avenged you.

“Oh Bruce, I should’ve listen to you, if I hadn’t-I I had just, if I would’ve just listened-“ You strain, voice wobblying as the fear and anger burning through finally caught up. The adrenaline and numbing you felt moments ago now replaced by the reality of the situation you had found yourself in.

Bruce raises your face to meet his own, shaking his head as he wipes away tears

“Hey, hey, none of that, you being connected to me? It would’ve happened sooner or later. I just thought I could protect you from that-this” Bruce gestures to the mangled corpse surrounding you two “Just for a little longer. You held your own today, and god you looked beautiful doing it”. Bruce replies, a haze cast over his eyes as they bore into your own.

“I’m proud of you, and l’m just thankful your alive, alright?” Bruce shakes your shoulder gently to emphasis his point, causing you to let out a laugh that sends knifes down your lungs.

You grip him closer to you, your hands trailing againts the thick metal and fabric of his suit that seemed to stretch endlessly. Reaching further, your hand comes into contact with a wet lukewarm spot that seems to stream between your fingers. Looking down, your eyes bludge as you take notice of the deep jaggered gash stretching across Bruce’s midsection.

“Oh my god, Bruce you’re bleeding” You whisper, pressing a hand towards the bleeding wound spreading its wetness further and further.

And as if he hadn’t even noticed before, Bruce takes his eyes off of you for the first time, looking down at the wound on his stomach. Ripping through skin and muslce so fiercely, lol or a lighting bolt only thicker and redder with blood.

“It’s fine, just a little scratch” Bruce replies, however he doubles over you anyway, hunched figure holding onto your shoulders as the pain rocks through him.

“You’re going to bleed out, we have to get you to a hospital” You cry, tears burning your eyes at the thought of losing him. You had just got him back, it isn’t fair.

“No, no, no hospital, take me to Alfred” Bruce erases our, copper spilling out of his mouth as he coughs violently.

“How? Bruce I can’t, you won’t make it if I walk you or-or get a cab-”

“Honey, honey I need you to listen to me, you have to take the Batmobile, it’s the only way” Bruce replies, as you haul him up gently onto his feet, resting his arm around you.

“What? You can’t possibly think I’ll be able to drive that” You mourn, the Batmobile was another thing entirely, a second extension of Batman himself. You don’t even know if it was suited for anyone else to drive without you know, hurting them.

“I’ve got about 10 minutes before the entire contents of my bloodstream is emptied between those fingers” Bruce replies wincing, as he angles himself so that he is resting his body weight on his good foot.

“You’ve got to do this, I know you can do this” He groans out, a wave of nauseous pain takes over him and he topples over, retching.

You have no choice, despite the spine tingling fear of driving Bruce’s most prized position, your man needed you, and if you didn’t step up, you would lose him right between your fingers.

“Okay, okay” You huff out, breathing air from your mouth as you shuffle towards the exit of the warehouse, Gotham twinkles in the depths of the night, the crumbling infested towers and roads of filth alive even now.

The Batmobile comes into view, in all its indestructible and formidable glory, and you gulp as you approach the mass of a vehicle.

You slide Bruce into the passenger seat, before walking around the car into the drivers compartment, the cool ventilated air of the Batmobile does little to ease the anxiety jittering your bones.

Bruce rips a rug in half, holding it between his teeth before wrapping it around his stomach, forcing the wound to soak up the cotton. He reached for a latch in the batmobiles left console, ripping open a syringe filled with some sort of golden liquid, handing it to you, he nods againts your wide eyes, towards his naked arm.

“What??” You reply ghastly

“Just some pain killer hun, ain’t nothing different than an IV”

Shaking, you brace his arm, before driving the needle into his arm, pressing down the contraption as you watch the liquid golden seep into his bloodstream.

Bruce winces before letting out a huffed breathe of releif, blowing out some strands across his face before leaning back.

You gawk at the millions of contraptions and buttons of the center console, parts you notice belonging to any normal car while others seemed intergalactic. You know Bruce had a knack for inventing even the most daring gadgets, technology that veered on science fiction. But this was something else entirely.

As if sensing your trepidation, Bruce walks you through the powering switch, before pressing a button from his sleeve that promoted a holographic figure of Alfred.

“Master Bruce? Y/N? Is that you?” Alfred replied in shock, the brisket white hairs of his eyebrows pulled tight.

“Alfred, god, Bruce has been hit, badly, he’s just- he was saving me and now- now” You hastily reply, a half sob crawling up your throat as your forced to recount the prior evidence.

“Jesus Christ, Bruce always over estimated himself in all the years I’ve known him, but taking down a whole sector with no back up??”

“It’s just a scratch Alfred, you-” wheeze- “you need to relax” Bruce replies coughing loudly

Alfred peers down at him in disapproval

“It’s save to say, I’ll be prepping the operating room and phoning in Dr Proctor” Sighs Alfred, the turbulence of caring for such a man, for two men, aging him.

The holographic projector of Alfred shuts down, as Bruce shifts his face to look at you, beads of sweat has formed across his forehead, a thin sheen coating his face.

“Now it’s all you baby, get us home” Bruce replies softly, you reach towards his face to brush away the dark wet strands falling across his face.

Pressing a hard kiss againts his forehead, Bruce quickly reachers for your cheek, pulling you down to press his soft lips against your own, swallowing the pain and anguish whispered between the both of you.

You can’t help but let the tears stream down your face, and as Bruce glides his tongue along your bottom lip in a strangled moan, he licks them away quickly.

Shuddering with squeezed eyes, you peer at Bruce’s figure, layed across the passenger seat, heavy breaths wheezing through his chest.

You turn back to the wheel of the Batmobile, your hands grip the wheel until the leather squeaks under your fingers. Everything from this terrrifying ordeal falls away, the men, Bruce’s final victim, that room..it’s muffled by the thick air of the Batmobile interior. You are Bruce’s, and you will fight teeth and bone to ensure he doesn’t die saving you, after all his done, after everything that had happened.

Most of your life, you’ve never been able to know exactly what you want, or what to do, until Bruce had swooped into your life, cape and all. And now you have one purposes at this moment, and it comes to you clear as day. Deep as bone, beyond flesh and blood.

You get him home.

divider by @firefly-graphics !

🏷️ Just send an ask to me a part of my Taglist!

[12pt-times-new-roman]

c3e85

They pull the bodies into the portable hole, and plan to lie to the approaching Vanguard members that FCG is a piece of malfunctioning farm equipment that caused the fireball and subsequent stampede. But among them is Evon Hytroga, the museum curator whose collection Hexum hired them to "rob." Imogen successfully convinces him that the Bells Hells also joined the Vanguard -- "what, are you surprised you had such good taste?"

Hydroga is desperately homesick, and Imogen takes advantage of that to convince him to allow the Bells Hells to join the caravan. She also manages to convince Hydroga's party -- against a 25 DC-- that the Willmaster was last seen running away from the stampede.

Meanwhile, they open up the portable hole where they'd put all the unconscious bodies, and Ashton immediately gets dominated by the reiloran and takes a round of attacks against Imogen. But since everyone in the hole is still very injured, they knock them out and bind them pretty easily.

They decide to use Ludinus' syphon on the Willmaster. Orym wears it, and they put the Willmaster's hand against it for a minute -- not enough to destroy her, but enough to take away her powers for 24 hours so they can question her.

As soon as the Willmaster touches the syphon, the runes light up, and Orym feels an icy-hot sensation. He can't move, the syphon is locking him and the Willmaster in place -- he is bound to the process as energy seeps from the Willmaster's form into the funnel and then into Orym. After a minute, they have to pull the Willmaster away from the syphon, and Orym gains the ability to cast dominate person once. (It's implied that if they had let the hour-long process complete, Orym would've gained the spell permanently as a once-per-long-rest feature.)

The interrogation begins: (Orym holds dominate person for the first few questions)

[What do you aim to do with the One Who Sleeps?] "To wake it." [What do you intend Predathos to do?] "Predathos is the heart of our people. Predathos is what has made us into what we are. We are its children, and it wants to be awake. It wants to feast, and when the gods are gone, the world the Blue Promise, will be ours." [What do you intend for those who live there now?] "Well, there are not many of us, and there are many of them. Some would like to live in harmony. Others know the nature of violence that they carry. We are not all that different. So perhaps we carve a place that is ours, and then we talk." [Why are you waiting for Predathos?] "So much of the strength of your world lies in its divinity, and the power granted by the deities. If they are gone, the playground becomes more even." [What are you waiting for, what do you need?] (Orym's dominate person fades here.) "Wait and see." [Do you know what Imogen is?] "You are one of the exaltants, yes. You walk the path as intended. You will know, in time. You want to know. But I am done talking. My lips are dry, and I hate your words in my mouth."

They pull the new exaltant out of the hole, and close it with the Willmaster still in there. He's young, no older than sixteen, and very scared -- he has a Dynasty-adjacent accent.

He started having dreams, like part of him was being called to Marquet; he thought he was following his destiny, when he was brought to the bridge and taken over it as part of the caravan. He was to be brought to the Weave-mind for "exaltation," so they could teach him how to control his powers. He -- Petrov Godo -- was travelling under the Willmaster's protection, but Imogen convinces him that the Bells Hells are members of the Vanguard rooting out the Willmaster's corruption; they tell Petrov he'll be under their protection as they travel with the caravan, as long as he sticks to the story that the Willmaster ran away in the stampede.

Chetney, still in the hole with the other two prisoners, uses grim psychometry on Ludinus' harness: "You can see Ludinus wearing it, you're no longer in the hole but in a tower, a chamber, this massive, beautiful chamber. The harness is on you, you see chains pulled down from the ceiling, and the faintly glowing, beautiful, struggling fey creature with beautiful butterfly wings and long hair, like some kind of air nymph that is bound and held there. It tries to scream, but no sound emerges, its eyes fearful. You see yourself pour through a book, servants running around, conversation. You feel a sense of hunger. You approach and turn around, step back, and feel the runes light up, warm. The torso vibrates with energy, and you can feel the screams of the creature as its life-force is plucked from it. Like a charlie-horsed muscle, you can feel a lump at the base of the neck where the harness meets skin, and it thrums with power."

Petrov goes back in the hole and they bring out the half-orc, Verdo. They plan to use the same ruse on him: that the Willmaster was traitorous, and the Bells Hells were sent by Liliana to root her and her corruption out. He believes this, and goes along with them, but Imogen notices that he is not Ruidusborn; it seems that while Ruidusborn and exaltants are loyal to Predathos specifically, non-Ruidusborn members of the Vanguard are loyal to Ludinus.

They send Verdo and Petrov back to the caravan with the knowledge that the Willmaster disappeared in the stampede. Fearne and FCG accompany them, while the rest of the group stays behind to deal with the Willmaster. As they arrive at the caravan, they find Otohan there, though she hasn't seen them yet.

Nevermind, she sees them immediately, and it just so happens that the Bells Hells have sent the two most recognizable people to the caravan.

FCG takes the only route that gets them out of a death sentence: "We've been sent here by the one you want, Imogen, to arrange a meeting." It fails.

Otohan has a +6 initiative and 3 legendary resistances. She decides that she can't harm Fearne or Imogen by virtue of them being Ruidusborn, but FCG they can do without.

Fearne convinces Otohan that Imogen is gone from them, in Krevaris already.

FCG tries to banish Otohan at 6th level. She fails, but uses a legendary resistance. However, at 6th level, FCG can target 2 other creatures: themself and Fearne. They are drifting in a grayish space, together -- and they start transforming into clouds. Banishment lasts for a minute, and turning into clouds takes a minute. FCG got a telepathic message out, and the rest of the party starts turning into clouds in response -- but before that happens, Laudna uses hunger of the shadow on the Willmaster. She was at one hit point, so it kills her instantly -- Laudna hears the creaking of branches, the shadowed memory of a dead tree crawls past her shoulders as she feels the welcoming cold of Delilah fill her spirit. So much stronger than Laudna's pity is her hunger, and the Willmaster's reddish flesh turns to ash gray, the eyes go snow-blind. Before she fades, Laudna says, "your power should've been mine, not the halfling's." Delilah responds: "Very good. Very, very good, my dear. Now, on to the next."

""the halfling"" I swear to god--

They turn into clouds. Just as the banishment ends, FCG and Fearne transform, and there's already a search party scattered -- they both take a bit of damage, but they fly away, FCG barely standing -- and their 300ft speed outpaces Otohan, even though she tries to catch them with a massive leap that brought her 90 feet in the air. They're safe, reconvening with everyone else as mist -- for now.

It's not that Otohan can track Imogen, it's that something she did -- likely reaching out to Predathos -- sent up a ping to the Ruidusborn network.

They decide to head toward the city, but to make contact with the Volition outside of it rather than actually entering it like Otohan expects them to.

And now we're traveling, rolling for travel encounters while the cleric is out of spell slots. It's only a storm, though, and they take shelter. In a canyon/crevice, they find a river that barely crests the surface as it spirals underground. They follow the cave it carves into a chamber almost 300 feet down, where water is pooling; and beneath it, a submerged cave. (well, somebody read Underland.)

Fearne prepared water breathing! Excellent. So they all de-cloud, cast water breathing, and proceed to cave-dive.

As they enter the cave, its smells are familiar to Chetney -- less like Ruidus and more like Exandria. As they emerge in an open-air cavern beyond the subterranean caves, they see buildings, carved, man-made -- above them, what appears to be a temple, crumbled, embedded in the rock. It's of elven make, but very, very old -- pre-Calamity, at least.

They climb, and they can see greenery. Unique sections of enchanted gardens, giving off gentle glows from magical orbs. There's no sunlight here, there's not a lot of air, but something about the enchantments have provided everything necessary for growth.

There's no evidence of animal movement here, but there are bones: fossilized, embedded in the stone, not traumatic but as if they were transported along with the city, locked in a moment of time. The architecture here is prototypical of contemporary elvish buildings.

Chetney uses grim psychometry on the bones, but it fails -- "it's like grasping for a fleeting memory that's just beyond reach. You see images, flashes of a blue sky that goes red. Fear, acceptance, but nothing beyond feelings and emotions. The rest just slips away, too old or too alien for you to grasp."

They continue to explore deeper, going along the cave, and come upon a garden with berries remaining on the bush. To the right, there is a delicate, faintly-painted, well-crafted doll. Elven features, gentle eyes, long ears, golden hair, a disheveled blouse -- a child's toy. Laudna picks it up and takes it with her. (something something about Laudna assigning the role of a child to other people because she refuses to assign it to herself, yada yada)

An investigation check reveals that there is either some volcanic activity here, causing the creation of glass, or the sheer amount of heat generated by Ruidus' formation caused parts of this structure to fuse when it was sheared from Exandria.

(also, all the berries are goodberries! they collect them all to restore some hitpoints.)

There is no rainfall on Ruidus as far as they've seen, so this water must be coming from somewhere, and Orym thinks that the spring of this river -- just upstream from them -- is the portal to Exandria that produces the spring.

Fearne transforms into a salmon to swim upstream, and eventually gets there: 80 feet up-stream, she breaks into still water, with light above -- and breaching the surface, she sees cloudy gray day, in a space she doesn't recognize, in a forest with snow falling in the distance -- Exandria.

[inkykeiji]

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, drugs, sucking waka off through his undies, lots of cum + cum swallowing, clear hints of a toxic relationship, fem!reader 

words: 1.3k

anyway this was supposed to be like a three hundred word drabble but it grew way out of proportion and now here we are. he’s so icky and yummy hehe c: inspired by that photo of his bedroom where he’s just chilling in his undies

Thinking about Waka in his undies :( lounging around in his tight black briefs :( thinking about lazing around with him, draped over his lap maybe, in your own undies :( a cute matching set of delicate lace and satin ribbons that clings almost tenderly to all of your curves and edges, something much too pretty to be hidden away beneath layers of clothing—or, at least, that’s what Wakasa had sworn to you.

Thinking about getting high with Waka in your undies :( straddling his lap with your palms pressed to his stomach and your giggles wafting across his face, using your tongues to shove smiley-stamped pills into each other’s waiting mouths, licking at the edges of teeth and chapped lips as they retreat. 

Thinking about the manufactured bliss gushing through your veins in thick torrents nearly half an hour later, that sweet, sharp, telltale gasp he loves so much spilling from your lips as it hits all at once—eyes wide, mouth wider, lungs swelling with a heavy intake of air—one of those leery, lazy smirks smeared across his face.

Everything is heightened; smells and sensations, the scent of sugar twined with his breath as his mumbled words melt on your tongue, cascading down your throat in warm, tingling streams.

You can taste his voice, you swear you can, though he laughs when you tell him so, violet eyes lidded and heavy as fingers follow the line of your hair, the curve of your cheek, the edge of your jaw.

You’re so cute when you’re fucked up, he tells you, compliment shimmering in the air. It’s precious how low your tolerance is. 

But he has to be careful, he’s mumbling to himself, almost as if making a personal note aloud, voice scrawling it in the air, eyes rolled up to the ceiling, forehead scrunched in serious concentration. If he isn't careful, he’s gonna ruin it, and then you’ll be no fun at all. 

He needs to cherish this, to savour this, to indulge himself only sparingly in a effort to keep your tolerance from climbing too high. He doesn’t want to waste more drugs on you than he needs to. 

You don’t really understand, but you suppose it doesn’t really matter either way—not when he’s here, and he’s so pretty, made of amethyst and gold and glittering in the setting sun pouring through the grimy front windows of his apartment.

It’s impossible to keep your hands off of him, desperate to feel his bare flesh against your own—the smooth, sleek planes of his abdomen, the bony bumps and ridges of his ribs, the soft curves and dips of his biceps—and, it seems, he feels the exact same way about you.

Time drips by in slow, stringy dollops as you both knead and fondle and caress and grope, marvelled by each other’s skin alone, by the sensation of each other below your palms, between your fingers, beneath your nails, hands gliding over one another until his cock is hard and flushed and leaking, constant dribbles of precum seeping through the straining black fabric. 

It looks cute, you think, yearning for your touch, your tongue, and you trace it with an index finger, collecting the gluey mixture on the pad and giggling at the way his head flops back against the couch and his cock jumps, a groan rumbling behind his sternum.

Your cunt is soaked, too—he can feel it, drenched lace tacky against his bare thigh as your hips rock in tiny uneven movements. You don’t seem too concerned about it, though, despite the unconscious little rutting against his leg, more interested in his drooling cock. 

His precum is thicker than anything you’ve ever seen before, messily oozing through the material of his briefs like sticky syrup, viscous, glassy cords keeping your fingertips conjoined as you idly tap them together, and you wonder aloud if it tastes as sweet as it looks. 

Why don’t you lick it up and see for yourself? he says, hips nudging up just a little in indication, in anticipation. 

That sounds like a wonderful idea, the best idea he’s ever had, you’re absolutely sure of it, you’re babbling with cute enthusiastic little nods of your head as your body slides down his own, knees sinking into his scratchy carpet, torso wedged between his spread thighs.

Holding his bleary gaze, your tongue unfurls from your mouth, tip flattening against the clothed head and giving one slow, hard lap, thoroughly sopping up the substance. Another fat glob instantly weeps through the drenched fabric, eager to replace what’s been lost.

It doesn’t taste as sweet as it looks, you’re astonished to discover, bitter and putrid like his favourite brand of cheap cigarettes, but you keep lapping away at it despite the taste, quick, firm laves of your tongue diligently blotting up the endless trickle. 

Because you just can’t get enough of him; can’t get enough of the throaty whines and shards of curses you keep yanking from his mouth, splintered to bits by those sharp intakes of breath, can’t get enough of the way his hips jerk up in twitchy little motions with each roll of your tongue against his slit, his blunt nails scraping against the polyester couch cushions, his thighs flexing.

It has you drawing the whole head into your mouth, tongue curling around the underside and suckling on the tip, then rubbing over the head in faster, stronger strokes as your lips pucker around it, the cotton of his briefs beginning to chafe your tastebuds, each drag across his cock sprouting burning little tingles in its wake. 

It has him cumming within mere minutes, hot and gooey and so, so much, soiling the inside of his boxers and staining your tongue with his taste. It bleeds through the fabric in steady surges, decorating his lap in pretty pearlescent piping, thick stripes of cream that have saliva pooling beneath your tongue.

You can’t help but lap them up, acrid and tart and burning your throat, a cruel trick your foggy brain, pumped full and drowning in artificial euphoria, has played on you yet again; looks like icing, is most definitely not icing, a notion you’ve discovered many times in situations exactly like this, a notion that refuses to stick.

Because it’s so pretty, way too pretty to be left to dry, hard and crusted and glazed, on a pair of cheap underwear, and you swallow all of it, not a single drop gone to waste, mopping him clean with your eager tongue until his briefs shine with your spit.

He cums so easily when he’s rolling, you’re giggling into his soggy cock, nuzzling your cheek into his lap, another weak spurt of cum melting through the material.  

You collapse against his thigh, tongue dabbing at your lips, sopping up any remnants of him and humming softly. 

You could stay here forever, you think, you drool out dreamily into his skin, tangled in threads of spit. He wouldn’t mind if you did, he admits quietly, a palm cupping the crown of your head, thumb moving in rhythmic caresses across your sweaty hair. 

But then the grinding starts, jaw flexing and clenching against his bare thigh as your molars scrape together, and he’s sloppily hoisting you up with his thumbs hooked beneath your arms, cradling you in his lap. 

Calloused fingertips, gone hard and numb from cigarette ash, massage soothing little circles into the hinges of your jaw—one of his many (failed) precautionary measures, to lessen the pain when the grinding and clenching starts. 

“S’any better?” he questions and you shake your head, a small frown marring his face in response. 

Reaching around your body, he fiddles in a small glass bowl, plastic crunching and candy tinkering, until his fingers find what they were searching for. 

“Here,” he’s saying as he unwraps one of his favourite lollipops—half chocolate, half vanilla, fingers extra careful as they peel the candy from its casing—and holds the sweet to your lips, urging them to open. “This will help, I promise.” 

[labselkie]

Day 3 | Blood

general cw for blood, this is just after the fight with r/o (i will never stop censoring her name it’s funny to me)

edit. 10 pm the night before posting. jesus christ

edit edit just before posting this. this might not be canon anymore. i don’t know

That was no witch, that was a beast, barely even a woman. Rio tore through Agatha’s home, leaving nothing in her path untouched- Especially not Marie.

It took Agatha a moment to collect herself, she barely survived after all. Her heart is still hammering, her hands shake and her head spins, is this what mortality is? Blood trickles from her collar, the deep gash in her palm pulses with pain. She wasn’t used to that. She glances around, to the teenager in the closet to the hole in the doorway. Everything would change from now on.

But her eyes snap to one thing in particular, a weeping, writhing form on the floor in her kitchen. Marie was covered with her wings, finally waking up from her short bout of unconsciousness. Rio took her out like it was nothing, and that terrified Agatha. If anything, Marie did give her the time to find her words and talk herself out of it, but the damage was done. A few small, shaking breaths can be heard under the trembling mass of feathers.

“Marie…” Agatha falters, stepping up slowly with her eyes on the ground. Marie brings her left wing closer, peeking out from below it with nothing but terror in her eyes.

“I’m-“ The mutant stammers, her voice shaking as much as her right wing. She’s laid in her own puddle of blood, the light lace of her dress now stained forever. She looks directly up at Agatha like an animal pleading for help. “I’m sorry…”

“Oh, god-“ Agatha breathes out, rushing to her side and stepping over the discarded feathers. The would was gnarly, the shafts of some feathers were in half, others were torn right out, but so much was missing. “Marie, what the hell were you thinking?” Agatha’s voice was uncharacteristically small, almost weak in its simplicity.

Marie attempts to shuffle and sit up, pulling her knees up as she tries to rise into a kneel. Her breaths are labored, and her movements take quite a bit of work. The injured wing doesn’t lift at all like the other, and Agatha reaches out. She falters, though, pulling back and reaching out in short succession as she worries about how to react. Finally, Agatha kneels right by Marie’s head. Her silk robe laps up the blood she kneels in, but her mind is too focused on the poor mutant. She reaches her hands out, holding right under Marie’s arms and hooking them around to hug her. The blood from her palm seeps into Marie’s dress, but she only pulls her closer.

Agatha had an excuse to hug her, she could just say she was studying the wound. But her body hurt, she couldn’t imagine the pain Marie was in, but even Agatha’s less prominent wounds shook her to her core.

Marie was grounded, she would never fly again, let alone recover normally. She lets out a small whimper, pulling herself closer to Agatha and crumbling into her arms.

“I should be sorry…” Agatha whispers, tugging Marie so close they were practically one, “She was after me, she knows me, you shouldn’t have-“ She sniffles faintly, her breath catching.

Marie finally lifts her head, properly kneeling even with her shaking.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I never did… Not like this.”

[illyrian-dreamer]

Changing Shadows (Part 20)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: You and Azriel set off on a mission in the Illyrian camps. But what happens when your past gets the better of you?

Lot’s of fluff and angst in this mission/fighting based chapter, I think the reader and Az work so well as a team! Hope you enjoy 💕

Image by koike9023

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5* | Part 6* | Part 7* | Part 8 | Part 9* | Part 10 | Part 11* | Part 12* | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15* | Part 16* | Part 17* | Part 18*| Part 19*

Warnings: Violence, PTSD, swearing, blood

Word count: 1,588

Part 20:

∇

Cold air wrapped around you as you gripped firmly to an icy branch.

You were waiting for Azriel’s signal from the tall trees that backed the Illyrian war camps. Scanning the paths below you, you saw a few males walking about, fires dimming as they made their way to and from their tents.

You kept a close eye on the lieutenant’s office, an old brick building at the centre of the camp. That was where the records were, and where Azriel was currently getting rid of security one by one, his stealth making him untraceable.

One signal was all you needed, and you would winnow inside the building to infiltrate the records room. And not a moment later, you saw dark shadows seep from the hollow windows, beckoning you.

That was it. You stood on the branch, taking a deep breath before willing yourself inside.

You felt Azriel’s strong hands on your shoulders before the rest of the room fell into place. He held you firmly, facing you down a long corridor.

“Two from the east, and I’ve got two from the west.” he whispered in your ear. A shiver ran down your spine at his instruction.

Nodding, you braced yourself for a fight. Sure enough, two Illyrian males reached the corridor, spotting you and withdrawing their blades. You ran at them, not giving them a chance to gain on you.

You spun gracefully around their attacks, using your night magic to throw their weapons against the wall. Their eyes went wide when they realised your strength, but they didn’t give up. 

A fist came careening towards your face, but years of training to counter Illyrian style fighting meant you knew it was coming. You held out a strong arm in defence, kicking out the males legs and using the palm of your hand to push his nose from the bottom up with all your strength.

You heard a crack as the male cried out, his face pouring with blood. You had definitely broken his nose. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

Your eye caught Azriel fighting the other two males near the entrance to the records room. You couldn’t help but admire him. He was a smart fighter, always more collected than his opponents.

The other male reached from behind you, pulling two strong arms around your body and squeezing tight. You gritted your teeth, calling your night magic to enter his body. The male roared in pain, but did not let go. Stubborn bastard.

The male continued to thrash, his grip tightening before he did the unspeakable and bit into your wing. He sunk his teeth into the bone and membrane as hard as he could, and you screamed in pain. It was the most savage move an Illyrian could make to another.

Something in you snapped. Anger so dark, so deep that it wasn’t red that you saw, it was black. Magic pierced from you, releasing his grip as you spun around, the male now whimpering on his knees.

“H-High Fae b-bitch,” he stuttered, jerking in pain.

Your face was one of pure disgust as your ears rang, unable to see or hear anything but the pathetic male in front of you. You would end him now, end any male you dared harm your wings again. This was for the young girl in you, who couldn’t save herself at the time.

You felt magic and anger boil inside you, black night filling your eyes as you raised your palm at the Illyrian on the floor. Your skin crawled with heat as magic encompassed you, unable to feel anything but the pure hatred for the male and his kind.

Magic banked at your palm, building into a dark sphere. But before you could let go, a cool voice cut through the roaring in your head.

“Y/N,” Azriel said calmly from behind you. You blinked, your arm still raised at the male as you snapped your head to him, eyes still black.

“You don’t have to do this.” Azriel looked at you, eyes pleading. You saw the two males he had fought unconscious on the floor behind him.

You blinked again, as if trying to find some light in the darkness that swirled in your head. Your mission was not to kill, Rhys’s orders had been clear. You could feel the violet returning to your eyes as you took a shaky breath.

“That’s it,” Azriel encouraged, a hand now gently placed on your back.

The magic in you simmered as you lowered your arm. 

The male on the floor panted, pain easing as your magic levelled. “I’d rather you killed me, you soul-sucking bi-,”

You did not need to raise your arm to shoot a burst of night magic at him, rendering him unconscious alongside his counterparts. You knew it wouldn’t kill him, but would take many days of rest to recover from.

You turned back to Azriel, collecting yourself with another quick breath. His face was relieved.

You tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Azriel grabbed your shoulders again, levelling a calm look at you. “Let’s get those records.”

The rest of the mission went smoothly, thank the Cauldron.

You located the records quickly as Azriel kept watch. Once you had the book, you both winnowed to an agreed location – a less frequented clearing in the outskirts of the camps. From there you would fly, unable to winnow all the way back to Velaris.  

As you landed in the clearing, a set of four guards broke through the tents, charging at you.

Azriel smirked, elbowing you as he nodded to the group of males. “You seem like you could blow off some steam.”

You grinned at the challenge. The open air of the clearing meant you could fly, it would be easy work. “Yes please,” you practically growled.

Az held his smirk as he asked “You sure I can’t help?”

“They’re mine,” you joked, playfully shoving him aside.

Azriel laughed as he flexed his wings. “I’ll be watching,” he said, before winnowing to a silent place to enjoy the show.

You spun to a great height before tackling one of the males to the ground. You launched yourself in the air again, the other three males leaping to the skies to catch you in a race they could not win. Az watched as each of them dropped from the sky, one by one, before winnowing to meet you in the air.

You soared silently together for a few minutes, panting from your victory against the Illyrians and allowing mind catching up on the adrenaline. But you knew you needed to address what had happened to you in that corridor.

“Azriel, I-“

“Don’t.” He cut you short, knowing exactly what you were going to say. “Don’t apologise. You were amazing.”

You blinked. “What?” you asked, shock written on your face.

“You would have killed that male in seconds, and anything else in a twenty-foot radius for that matter.”

You gulped. That’s what you were afraid of.

“It was incredibly impressive,” he chuckled, flying closer and reaching for your hand.

You reached back, fingers lacing together. Azriel looked at you in admiration.

“You’ve become so strong Y/N. I am always impressed by your work, but tonight you reminded me why Velaris is in the safest of hands.”

You blinked at him, shocked at his words. You had always tried to show Azriel that you were not a waste of his efforts, tried to show him his years of personal coaching and training and support had been worth it. 

Your eyes brimmed with the tears, the wind drying them faster than they could spill. “It’s all thanks to you,” you said softly.

Azriel shook his head. “Not a chance, Y/N. That was all you. You are so strong, it makes me fear for my own safety.”

You laughed loudly. What a ridiculous thought, that a Shadowsinger could fear your power.

“I’m being truthful,” Azriel said, smiling back at you. You let go of his hand, giving him a playful shove. He went to shove you back, which you skilfully dogged.

Soaring ahead, you did a playful loop around Azriel as he chuckled. 

You glowed at his words, at the strength he saw in you. You had waited years to hear something like that, and you hadn't even known it.

Azriel’s smile was broad, as if he himself glowed at your happiness, at how far you had come.

He reached for your hands again, wings flapping as he spun you both around and around, your laugh filling the night sky.

“I have never heard or seen anything more beautiful,” he said softly, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked deep into your eyes.

Your heart fluttered, blushing at his words. Oh, this male. You could die right here.

“You, Azriel, are the most truehearted male I know,” you said, thumbs rubbing his hands as he held yours. You could have sworn he blushed.

But it had to end, you had to get the book to Rhys. And your heart hurt at the thought of you losing this connection the moment you walked through those doors. So you closed your eyes, willing yourself to forever remember the moment in the skies with Azriel, the moment he made you feel so complete.

--------

Part 21 >>>

AN: I hope you liked the character development for our reader in this chapter!! Plenty more angst to come tbh, so hold on tight :) <3 Comment to join the tag list!

Tags: @slvtherinseeker @judig92 @kennedy-brooke @hyacinthoideshispanica @brekkershadowsinger @its-me-meg @acotar-thirst @5moremin @honeyrydernot @azzydaddy @lucyysthings @highladyofillyria @paasrin @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @littleshopofwhoress @blurredlamplight @hanasakr @bookish-dream @fall-myriad @aistheamazing @jazmin2211​

[caesarinsalata]

*Ahem*

Uh... So....how about a Part 2?

(I literally accidentally just shat out the next part in the same day 🤣💦)

PART 2

A few days later

“He should be awake by now…”

“Just give him time. Losing a limb is a lot of stress for a small kid.”

“We could only do so much using alchemy, so we'll just have to see when he wakes up.”

“I think I saw him move!”

Edward’s body was so heavy like something was sitting on his chest. His eyes fluttered open as he groaned and made an attempt at sitting up.

“Ed don't move!”

Too late. The moment his muscles strained against his weight, a shockwave of sharp stabbing quickly struck from his stump up through his hip. A yelp caught in his throat as his upper body slammed back down onto the mattress.

“He's going to need more herbs… go transmute some more numbing agent.”

His breathing was shaky. Before he could reach for his wrapped limb, someone grabbed his wrist to stop him. Another stab of pain followed by a deep pulsing sensation assaulted him before he could look to see who it was.

“Who-?”

“You mustn't touch it.”

“Wha-?” Opting to attempt just lifting his head this time, Ed craned his neck to look down at his lower half.

“My….my leg…”. A hitched hiccuping sound came out of Ed's mouth as his eyes grew wide again. He thought it was all a sick trick of the mind or nightmare of some kind. This can't be real! It's gone! Where is it??

“Where is my leg?!” Whipping his head back, Ed shouted and threw a tantrum, the pain getting unbearable as he tossed his limbs around. Blood seeping through the dressings.

“Edward! Ed, stop! You're hurting yourself!”

“Give it back, damn it! My leg! Where is it?!”

Everyone in the room had to hold him down. Unfortunately someone had to put pressure on his upper thigh to stop the wounded limb from being damaged further. The pressure shot another, more intense, bold of pain through him and he wailed.

Shortly after he ran out of air to scream with, the pain became too much and he passed out again. Everyone sighed.

“It's better if he stays asleep for now…”

“I've got the medicine!”

“Hurry and bring it over, we might have to reseal his wound. He threw a fit and about gave himself a head injury.”

Inspecting and redressing his stump, they gave him the numbing agent that should also help with keeping him asleep for a few more hours.

“Why can't we see him!”

“Kids, please, I know it may seem unfair, but he needs to rest. Any more stress and it'll never heal.”

“But brother is all alone in there! He needs someone there when he wakes up!”

“The alchemists that specialize in healing abilities are doing what they can. You have to be patient. You'll just be in the way. I'm sorry…”

Hohenheim was doing everything in his power to keep Al and Winry from barging into Ed's room. It was the boys’ room, but they needed a solitary area for Ed's recovery. Al was moved into Winry's room, when she visited, mainly for moral support.

The kids pouted and were about to cry for the fifth time today and that wasn’t counting the amount of fluids they collectively lost on the day of the incident.

They didn't know what to make of the sounds heard from the throne room. First it was just yelling. The most jarring part of the whole thing was a moment of silence then all they could hear was the scream of pure agony bouncing off the stone walls. Before they could escape the library/play room to even see what it was, Trisha, Ed and Al’s mother, came running in to check on them, not knowing where the scream was coming from.

She had held them as they all shook at the sound of what they believed was Hohenheim letting out a cry and then running by the archway. The curtain in the doorway fluttered at his speed and all the three of them could see was an adult man carrying someone and nothing but blood following after him. An unnerving copious amount of it. Al and Winry didn't register who or what it was until Trisha gasped. In that split second, she could make out an unconscious Ed in Hohenheim's arms.

“Edward…?”

Then it began to make sense to them. Who else could that scream have come from? And Hohenheim looking out of his mind and frantic only meant one thing. Edward was hurt. Bad. Trisha didn't want the kids to see anything so she held onto them as she closed her eyes. Al and Winry couldn't help but stare at the stream of blood creeping in from under the curtain between the stone floor seams.

Needless to say, everyone was traumatized that day, but they didn't appreciate not being able to see Ed to make sure he was actually alive. The only thing they could go on was the kicking and screaming from Ed's room a minute ago. But it was quiet now.

“I hope my brother is okay…”

“He'll be okay, Al… He's too stubborn to die.”

They both looked at each other ready to cry again.

[defectivevillain]

by your side

pairing: percival graves x reader

reader’s pronouns: unspecified but masc-intended

warnings: mentions of blood and injury, fainting

You’re starting to suspect that Director Graves thinks you to be incompetent.

It all starts in the halls of MACUSA’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement [as most things do]. You’re minding your own business, filling out some paperwork, when a sudden crash sounds. You quickly get up from your desk and run out to the hallway, only mildly surprised to see several Aurors. They evidently just Apparated back from their mission. Admittedly, they look to be in a pretty bad state. 

“We need backup,” one of the Aurors manages to say, as they lead another Auror down the hall with their arm slung around their shoulder. There’s blood seeping from their robes, tinting their skin red. You’re quick to get the details from another Auror before Apparating there yourself. From what you’d heard, some Grindelwald sympathizers are fighting back against the initial group of Aurors.

The moment you appear, you have to dodge spellfire. There’s nothing but chaos. You cast a few haphazard shields and look around for any of the other Aurors. There are a few scattered about, but they look outnumbered. 

As you fight, you make sure not to use lethal spells—despite your knowledge that the wizards casting at you definitely are. You take a deep breath and spin around, just barely dodging a curse that hurtles at you. Despite your speed, you’re beginning to be surrounded. You try your best to defend yourself, but it’s nearly impossible to do so with the opposition of several different people. A wayward curse barrels towards you and you’re not fast enough to dodge it. Pain shoots through you and you fall to the ground. Shadows creep across your vision and you blearily look up to the sky. Eventually, you succumb to the rather powerful exhaustion that pulls at your core.

You dazedly register someone leaning over you. Their face is entirely blurry and all you can make out are deep brown eyes and dark hair. The person brings a hand to your cheek and their lips move, but you can’t hear what they’re saying. Your ears are ringing and your eyelids sting with the exertion of staying awake. You’re shaken a bit roughly by the shoulders, but by then, your eyes are closed and you’re unconscious. 

The next time you wake, there are pins and needles shooting through your arm. You try to lift your arm, only to find that it’s weighed down. You squint in confusion. It takes a moment for you to process what’s happening. It seems that you’re in St. Mungo’s. Your arms are bandaged and your entire body feels incredibly stiff. It’s only then that you realize why your arm is hurting. Director Graves is draped over your arm, his head rested on his arms as he.... well, you’re not quite sure what he’s doing here. You tap him on the shoulder and he jolts awake, looking incredibly startled until he meets your eyes. 

“You’re awake,” the director remarks, a strange sense of relief almost invading his voice. You squint at him in confusion. You must be dreaming. That’s the only explanation for why the Director of Magical Law Enforcement is sitting next to your hospital bed. 

“Why-” You try to say, only for a cough to crawl out of your dry throat. Graves is quick to get you a glass of water, which you drink greedily. It takes you a moment to collect your thoughts, before you start again. “Why are you here?”

“How are you feeling?” the director asks. You level him with an unimpressed gaze. Graves doesn’t react. You shake your head in disbelief, fully aware that he didn’t even bother to answer the question. 

“I’m fine,” you reply habitually. Your entire body is aching and stiff, but it’s not an unbearable pain. You've regained control of your right arm too, thankfully. You try to push yourself up to a sitting position, but your arms are too shaky to provide much support. Graves levels you with an accusatory glare that you promptly ignore. 

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the director remarks. You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you remain silent. Evidently, there’s something else the director wants to say, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead, Graves sighs and crosses one leg over the other. He makes no move to leave. Your heart starts to race. 

“Now, rest,” the director commands. “That’s a direct order from your commanding officer.” You roll your eyes and fall into the pillow at your back. You stare up at the ceiling resolutely, not wanting to go to sleep. The universe seems to have other plans for you, however. The last thing you register is the brief press of lips to your forehead before you’re drifting off. 

The rest of your hospital stay isn’t nearly as... intriguing. You don’t get any more visitors—least of all Director Graves—and you’re discharged within two days. The nurse firmly orders you to stay out of the field for a week and you sigh. 

During the ensuing days, you’re incredibly bored. You still go to work, but you’re confined to your desk and a seemingly infinite stack of paperwork. The week passes and, on the eighth day, you’re extremely excited to return to normal work. Safe to say, you aren’t anticipating the continued influx of paperwork. 

At first, you think it must be coincidence. You’ve always been assigned paperwork sporadically throughout the year. However, as the days pass and you continue to be assigned paperwork and nothing else, you start to suspect that something’s wrong. Ultimately, it takes another week of zero fieldwork for you to lose patience and walk over to Graves’s office. 

Before you know it, you’re knocking on the door to his office. “Director Graves, can I speak with you?” You hear a voice allowing you in and you open the door. Tina Goldstein stands at the director’s side. The two of them turn to look at you the moment you enter the room. 

“Goldstein, we’ll continue this later,” Graves says. Goldstein’s gaze flits between the two of you and a mischievous smile appears on her face. You’re quick to push her out of the space and dissuade her from any deluded fantasies. The moment you return, your impatience gets the best of you. 

“Why are you keeping me from the field?” You blurt out. The director doesn’t seem surprised by the question. If anything, it seems as if he was expecting it. That sends off some red flags in your head. Did he mean for you to be assigned to paperwork this whole time? Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to him.

“You need rest,” the director replies, rather predictably. Graves taps his fingers against the surface of his desk. You’re unable to keep your irritation at bay anymore. 

“Yes, for one week, not two,” you snap, quickly regretting doing so when you see the blank expression on the director’s face. Graves stands up and ambles over to you. Your heart is racing in your chest, but you grit your teeth and stand your ground. He’s nearly looming over you now. Merlin, I’m going to die, you can’t help but think. 

“I... apologize,” is just about the last thing you’re expecting to hear. Your surprise must show on your face, because Graves chuckles. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was just... worried.” Why would he be worried? You frown. 

“I can explain,” the director starts. You raise an eyebrow and he doesn’t make a move to explain. “Perhaps... over coffee?” You’re certain your jaw is wide open now. Is he... asking you out? You look at him for a moment longer, trying to find any hint of emotion on his face. His expression is surprisingly blank. Well, fuck it, you think to yourself. There’s nothing to lose, really.

“Sure,” you respond. Somehow, it seems as if Graves hadn’t expected you to agree because his eyebrows rise high on his forehead. The display isn’t for more than a mere fraction of a second, yet it’s somewhat refreshing to know that the director isn’t as robotic as you thought him to be. 

“It’s a date,” the man says, a hint of a smile creeping up on his face. You nod and dismiss yourself, walking out into the hall. It doesn’t take long for you to bury your head in your hands in simultaneous embarrassment and excitement.

y’all i had such a moral dilemma about how to write this... cause percival’s the head of the aurors and the reader is an auror so there are obvious power dynamics there.... thus the lack of explicit romance and emphasis on moving to an alternate location without work labels... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

[saturdaynightghostclub]

Highway Hypnosis

Chapter 6: Moss

There’s a collection of massive rocks along the riverbank, upstream from the driftwood masterpiece I scaled before. They’re that kind of blue-gray you only find in the upper left-hand corner of the country, half shaded with spots of golden sunlight filtering through the canopy above. I climb without thinking, without questioning, searching for the highest point at which I can comfortably sit. The surface is rough and sun-warmed, radiating heat as if from the inside out. I stretch my legs out before me, letting every exposed inch of my skin press into it and imagining that the warm golden light of the sun is seeping into me from above and below. Jasper follows close behind, positioning himself beside me so that we’re looking out over the river together.

For a moment we’re silent. There’s a stillness that comes with age, a willingness however reluctant to just sit, to watch, to exist in your own skin without the incessant need to be more than exactly what you are. I think sometimes I could be a child again; I could slide off this rock right now and splash around in the river and throw things and get dirty just because I had the energy to. But then, I wonder if it would feel the same as it once did. If I’m too old, too tired and jaded, if I’d feel like the grown woman I am squeezing into the too-tight trappings of a life long since past.

“I don’t know how to say this exactly,” Jasper says, his voice soft with caution rather than nerves, “but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Not just recently, I mean. Since you left.”

I nod, processing his words unconsciously before they land in the front of my mind. “And?” I ask, mostly because I don’t know what else to say.

“And I’m sorry,” he says, “and I can explain.”

Now I’m truly at a loss. Who apologizes for something that happened eleven years ago—what grown man apologizes for the behavior of his adolescent self? What grown woman expects him to? “Okay,” I reply.

Jasper exhales, like this was the response he was hoping for. “You probably could have figured this out,” he says, “but it was a crush. I don’t think I saw it for what it was at the time—I just knew that I felt funny whenever you came to town. It freaked me out, you know? And there was my dumbass brother and his friends, right? And they were on to me, teasing me, and I didn’t know what to do. So I let you go. I’ll never stop being sorry for that.”

“I know,” I offer him a small smile for his vulnerability, “just one of those stupid things kids do. No harm, no foul.”

“Right, but then you didn’t come back,” he says, and I can sense that this won’t be the end of the conversation. “I mean, I have no way of knowing if it was my fault, but the only thing that changed was me. So, you know, what was I supposed to think?”

I’m tempted to ask him to stop—it’s stressing him out, which is plain to see, but he seems to be gathering his courage to continue. “It wasn’t because of you,” I extend in the interim.

Jasper nods absently in acknowledgement. “I, um. I don’t know if Josh told you, but I ran away when I was seventeen. I felt completely out of place, I couldn’t get close to anyone. Who lives in a town of a thousand people and manages to be a pariah?”

“You’re asking the wrong girl.”

“I wanted to find my people, you know?” He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “I wanted to fall in love or something, I don’t know. But I didn’t. I made it all the way to Portland and never felt anything for anyone. I thought there was something wrong with me, I caught a ride back here on my eighteenth birthday and just cried the whole time. Forced myself to cry, you know, because it meant I wasn’t completely tuned out. Anyway, I ended up at Len’s place and he sort of took me in.”

“Is that when you started using the library?” I ask, physically straining against the urge to touch him in some way—to press my shoulder against his maybe, or to take his hand. I don’t know if I could bear it, were he to flinch away from me.

Jasper nods, his gaze fixed on an indeterminate point across the water. “He talked about you all the time, Andie.”

My breath catches in my throat. “He stopped calling.”

“So did you.”

“I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You should.”

I glance over to see that he’s looking at me. There’s not a hint of malice in his gaze; he’s completely earnest. The purity of it is terrifying and intense, and it occurs to me that I’ve never met a single other person who possesses this uncanny ability to express exactly what they’re feeling without shame or resentment. It’s concentrated, the beam of its focus trained entirely on me. “I know,” I begin carefully, “no use beating myself up over it now that he’s gone.”

“Len was proud of you until the day he died, Andie,” Jasper says, “he didn’t see it the same way you did, I don’t think. He told me once that you were figuring things out for yourself, that he just knew you were carving your own path—I think he saw it as more of an inevitability.”

“Oh my god,” I say, my voice strained and hoarse in anticipation of the tears pooling across my line of vision, “Jasper, I can’t—,” can’t believe I never knew, can’t imagine he actually thought that, can’t talk about it without crying.

Jasper’s no stranger to my tears, but he’s never been comfortable with them. His desperation to fix whatever was wrong always led him to bouts of helpless frustration, or worse yet, depressed resignation. It appears that the latter, at least, is a trait he’s maintained. “Oh, you know it kills me when you cry,” he says softly, surprising me with a brush of his knuckles across my cheek where tears have yet to fall.

“I’m fine,” I say around a shaking breath, “it’s just a little bit much, you know?”

“I know,” he says, “you can let it out if you need to, I’m—I’m here,” his delivery is a bit awkward, but the sentiment is sweet. I won’t subject him to another breakdown, though.

I shake my head, tilting my face to the sky and taking a deep, deep breath. “No, I’m really okay,” I insist, promising myself a good cry when I get home tonight. Desperate to change the subject, I turn the spotlight around on Jasper. “So. No luck with the ladies?”

Jasper lays his palm on my knee, letting his long fingers fall to the inside of my leg. He’s not looking at me anymore. “No luck with anybody,” he says, “I tried for a while. It was the trying that killed me.”

“It’s like selling yourself,” I say, “it’s exhausting.”

“Exactly,” Jasper breathes, “I want love, like I can’t tell you. I just want it to be completely transparent, I think that’s the hard part.”

He’s right. “I always end up with crushes on my friends,” I confess, “I guess it’s because they already know me, you know? They know everything that’s wrong with me. And they like me in spite of that.” I’ve incriminated myself here, and I know that. It seems like we’re going for radical honesty, though, so I might as well play along. It’s the truth; I’d like to believe I’m just a girl’s girl, and maybe I am, but the fact is that there’s something wildly, insanely attractive to me about a man around whom I have been my full, flawed self under the assumption that he has no intention of taking me to bed, and who chooses to be around me anyway. I’m no better than a man in that way.

Jasper’s fingers, which had been idly tracing circles on the inside of my knee, still. There’s nothing in his profile to give away a change in his mood, though, so I don’t say anything one way or the other. For a moment, there’s a terrible silence. It swells in me, the fact that I said too much, an avalanche of overjustification threatening to burst forth and change everything. Then:

“Are you feeling better today?”

I turn my head, silently pleading with him to look at me. Look at me, look at me. You’re already touching me, just see me. He doesn’t. “Yeah,” I say, “I think it was a fluke.”

The people refer to Jasper as Moss. Slow to grow on you, sure. Once it’s uprooted, it takes forever to grow back. It only really thrives on its own terms. He’s moss, definitely, but he’s also ivy and dandelions and an avalanche. He’s unnatural in that he is so completely of the world; he’s more plant than animal, an act of God sent to screw me up in all sorts of little human ways. There’s no subverting him; why would I want to? Jasper Stevens is my inevitable conclusion.

[tinycoded360]

In the darkness, I could use a little company: Chapter 2: Who are you?

(I'm reposting my story, so I can try to make a masterlist post. Don't mind me)

Will Mackenzie hunched over the fireplace, fingers trembling as they struck a match against the rough stone. The cabin's shadows flickered and danced as the flame caught, licking eagerly at the kindling he'd arranged with care. Outside, the wind howled with renewed ferocity, a banshee crying out into the night, heralding the blizzard's wrath. Snow pelted the windows with relentless force, sealing him within this wooden refuge.

He couldn't leave, not now, not with the four-inch mystery in his coat pocket—a tiny being whose existence tugged at the edges of his reality. Was he losing his mind? Will's calloused hand brushed the fabric covering his chest, feeling the minute weight within. A soft outline pressed back against his probing fingers. Warmth. She was real, alive.

He hoped she would awaken soon, for the isolation was enough to drive anyone mad, and he yearned for even the smallest sign of companionship, however bizarre its form. And he hoped she was ok. It concerned him greatly that the tiny girl had not woken up.

As the heat from the fire began to seep into his bones, Will decided it was time to rest. He unrolled his sleeping bag with care, laying it out on the floor close to the hearth. The bed upstairs offered solitude, but tonight, it would be warmer to stay near the flickering flames.

With a tenderness that belied his rugged exterior, Will reached into his pocket and gently extracted the unconscious child. Her limbs were lax, her tiny form motionless but for the subtle rise and fall of her chest.

Her blond hair peeked out from under the hoodie, he found her rather adorable. Will's brow furrowed as he noticed bruising and a slight bump on her head; the evidence of some unknown trauma before he had stumbled upon her.

"Head injuries are no joke," he whispered, his voice carrying a hint of concern that gnawed at his gut. Astrid could have assessed the injury in a heartbeat, her medical expertise as instinctual as his piloting. But Will was alone, and his knowledge of first aid felt woefully inadequate under the circumstances.

He watched her breathing, rhythmically and without strain, and allowed himself a moment's relief. Maybe when she woke, she'd speak. Maybe she'd share her name, and her story, and perhaps provide some answers to his many questions. For now, though, all he could do was hope and wait for dawn.

Will rummaged through his belongings, a collection of odds and ends that had become survival tools in this unforgiving landscape. He had learned to make do with what the wilderness offered, repurposing odds and ends into necessities. His fingers closed around a spare mitten—the woolen kind that promised warmth, one of many he’d found and kept.

Carefully, he plucked the tiny girl from where she lay on his rough palm, her slight weight barely perceptible, as he slipped her into the cavernous mitten. He placed her gently on the ground next to his sleeping bag, the firelight casting warm shadows over them both. Mackenzie studied the tiny girl's minuscule features in the firelight. She was no bigger than his thumb, her body slender and delicate. He marveled at how perfectly formed she was, despite her Lilliputian size.

He adjusted the cuff around her, tucking it in just so, ensuring the soft walls would cocoon her through the night. Settling into his own sleeping bag Will's mind wandered. Thoughts of Astrid and the miniature girl filtered through his mind.

As the flames danced and crackled, a lulling warmth spread over him, seeping into his weary bones. His eyelids grew heavy, each blink longer than the last. The storm's fury seemed to soften, its roar fading to a distant murmur. In the quiet space between wakefulness and dreams, Will surrendered to sleep.

****

Will's eyes snapped open as a cold draft slithered through the cabin, a stark contrast to the previous night’s warmth. He cursed under his breath, rubbing at his arms as he sat up; the fire had died, and nothing but a few smoldering embers remained. A hush had settled over the world outside, the blizzard had finally stopped. This would be a good time to leave and continue his search for Astrid.

Will turned his gaze to the mitten beside him, its woolen fibers a makeshift cradle. The child within was still a motionless figure, lost in a deep slumber. He reached out with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his calloused hands and lifted her gently from her cozy nest. Not even a stir greeted his careful touch.

The mitten, holding the faintest trace of her warmth, was carefully folded, and stowed away in his pack, nestled among the other essentials he’d scavenged. He then held the tiny girl, in the hollow of his palm, observing her with a furrowed brow.

He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle, the cool liquid a brief respite against his parched throat. His mind churned with concern for the girl. No other bruises marred her delicate form, no cuts or scrapes—only the ominous bump upon her head served as evidence of her ordeal. But then, as if sensing his worry, she shifted slightly—a minute movement, but enough to ignite a spark of hope within him.

Will's fingers worked deftly, tearing a strip from an old flannel rag he'd been using to patch up his worn clothing. The cloth, frayed at the edges but clean, was soon soaked as he dipped it into the cold water from his bottle. With gentle precision, he brought the wet tip of the fabric to the miniature girl's mouth.

"Come on, little one," he murmured under his breath. He watched as a drop of water soaked into her tiny lips, and another followed, disappearing between them like a whisper of life. His heart lurched in relief when the smallest of swallows indicated she took some in, the fear of dehydration momentarily abated.

Satisfied that he had done what he could for now, Will cradled the small child once again. She seemed even more delicate in the light of day. He slid her back into the warmth of his coat pocket, the heavy fabric forming a protective cocoon around her.

With a last glance at the place where they had both sought refuge from the storm, Will shouldered his pack. It was time to venture back into the wilderness, to continue the search for Astrid.

Stepping outside, he squinted against the brightness of the snow-covered landscape. A biting wind attempted to claw through his layers, and instinctively, Will covered his pocket with a hand, sheltering the tiny being from the icy gusts.

[erabundus]

@al-hazen &&. said... For the Scribe to be nervous (well, maybe not outwardly) was likely rarer than a blue moon. And, for once, Al-Haytham wasn't there to simply be present in passing. One of his arms cradled something he was determined to at least keep partially hidden, alive and fuzzy and a little squirmy-- "Ah, there you are. Considering what day it is, well..." With a slight smile, he revealed a very adorably indignant black kitten with cornflower blue eyes that seemed born grumpy, like a certain someone. While he was certainly close enough to hand the kitten off, Al-Haytham's expression seemed to grow a little serious, pensive.

"Ren... are you free? There's something I wanted to discuss with you."

movement  is  the  first  thing  to  catch  ren's  attention;  he's  tucked  himself  away,  lurking  in  some  quiet  (  isolated  )  corner  as  he's  wont  to  do  —  this  time  with  a  book  in  hand  to  keep  himself  occupied.  it's  a  dusty  old  thing  he  picked  up  at  one  point  or  another  during  his  TRAVELS.  a  collection  of  historical  accounts  detailing  some  peculiar  battle  wherein  espionage  and  careful  tactics  turned  the  tides  where  mere  strength  could  not  prevail.  ren's  taste  in  reading  material  could  be  considered  somewhat  eclectic,  for  all  that  it  varies  —  he  devours  information  (  indiscriminately, ravenously  )  out  of  necessity,  lest  the  existential  dread  inherent  in  an  unending  lifespan  threaten  to  seep  through  the  CRACKS in his head.

he  looks up with a blink  at  the  scribe's  approach,  yet  any  sharp-tongued  comments  the  wanderer  may  impart  are  halted  by  the  unusual  sight.  he  is  holding  something  —  though  at  this  angle,  ren  cannot  quite  see  WHAT  it  is.  in  either  case,  he  closes  the  book;  it's  brought  to  his  chest,  then  disappears  in  the  flash  of  electro-tinged  light  associated  with  his  inner  realm.  hands  raise,  palms  tilted  towards  the  sky  as  if  to  silently  prompt  the  other  to  PROCEED.  he's  allowing  al-haytham  the  luxury  of  his  undivided  attention;  few  people  are  privy  to  such  an  HONOR. to be honest, ren isn't entirely sure what he's expecting. yet if it has anything to do with lesser lord kusanali, he knows he's no choice but to acquiesce immediately.

... thankfully, it soon becomes apparent  the  issue  at  hand  seems  to  have  little  to  do  with  the  dendro  archon.  however,  that  somehow  still  fails to  make  it  any  less  CONFUSING.

❝  what  day  it  is?  ❞  the  wanderer  echoes,  nose  wrinkling  a  bit  as  he  tries  to  THINK.  he's  given  barely  more  than  a  moment  before  something  else  manages  to  capture  his  attention  —  namely,  the  tiny  (  furry  )  bundle  cradled  in  the  scribe's  arm.  his  eyes  widen;  unconsciously,  ren  leans  a  bit  closer  before  he  manages  to  catch  himself.  he  doesn't  seem  to  notice  the  myriad  of  similarities  between  himself  and  the  unruly  little  feline  —  or  if  he  does,  he  REFUSES  to  acknowledge  them.  yet  despite  the  wanderer's  frequent  efforts  to  put  on  a  façade  as  indifferent-seeming  as  possible,  even  he  can't  prevent  FASCINATION  from  lighting  up  indigo  gaze.  thankfully,  he  still  maintains  enough  sense  not  to  do  anything  too  embarrassing  otherwise.

❝  something  to  discuss ...  ❞   he  raises  a  hand  to  his  chin  and  puts  on  a  show  of  carefully  considering  the  REQUEST.  a  slow  nod.  then,   ❝  will  the  cat  also  be  joining  us?  ❞

[fleshinsomniac]

humans live and die by their myths,

we think of power as something solid - bills signed into law, executive orders stamped with authority, concrete barriers erected at borders. we imagine change happens in marbled halls and wood-paneled rooms, through the shuffling of papers and the banging of gavels. but this is actually just theatre; a shadow play on the cave wall.

the true nature of political power is not solid; it flows like water, invisible yet pervasive, seeping into the crevices of our shared imagination. when a figure rises to prominence - whether through the ballot box or the burning barricade - their real impact isn't measured in legislation or policy. it’s their allegorical presence that sends ripples through the collective conscience, disturbing the carefully maintained artifice of "the way things are."

think of how certain phrases enter our lexicon, sneakily spreading like spores on the wind. they nest in our psyche, sprouting new ways of seeing. "i have a dream" doesn't derive its power from any law King helped pass, but from how it reorganized our relationship with possibility. 

the phrase became a symbol in and of itself; it transformed into an archetypal pattern, joining the ancient symbols of the prophet-voice that Jung identified throughout human mythology - Moses parting the seas, Cassandra crying out her visions, the Oracle of Delphi speaking truth to power. In this way, King's words weren't just politically effective; they activated something primordial in our shared unconscious, calling forth the universal human longing for liberation that lies dormant in what Jung termed our "psychic inheritance."

you could, argue that it’s permanence in our lexicon is purely, rotely memetic; it has been inked in children’s history books and recited in schools and on televisions for decades. still; how can any meme endure, if not through the successful articulation of untapped needs or desires present in our shared psychological framework? 

when I close my eyes, and dive deep, deep down into the waters of what i truly consider to be the actual root of power for a figure-head like "The President”, i return to the surface only with metaphors - nothing tangible. their ability to enact legitimate, imminent physical change seems naive at best, comical at worst. what seems more plausible is the change that springs forth from the cultural conversations surrounding them (and any ensuing actions that may occur organically through this group-reframe). the concepts they unlock through their very existence. the fragment of the universe they are representing, but on a large enough scale to catch all of our attention. their purpose is directional: where is the Great Eye of Humanity gazing today? what is it dreaming of?

figures like these distract us with promises of action and policy and change, but are actually living symbols, nothing more - a north star in the mutual sky by which to navigate our moral universe. they are mercury poured onto the mirror of our collective shadow, forcing us to face what we've hidden from ourselves. their true legislation is written on the walls of our inner identities.

when a political figure trends on social media, when their face becomes a meme, when their catchphrases enter our daily speech - this is the real work of change happening. the hive mind is being rewired, synapse by synapse. 

what we call "political change" is really the story we tell ourselves about who we are, and who we might become. if we are moved, angered, or incited in any way through the words or actions of “The President”, by the time any bill is signed or law is passed, the real change has already occurred - in the electric charge of millions of minds shifting in tandem, and in the subtle reorganization of our shared mythology.

this is why those who seek to maintain power focus so heavily on controlling narrative, and shaping the stories we tell. they understand intuitively what Jung articulated explicitly - that humans live and die by their myths, that we navigate reality through symbol and archetype. which is why the most successful political figures aren't those who master parliamentary procedure, but those who successfully insert themselves into our collective dreamspace, who become main-characters in our shared story.

still, the media, with all its narrative might, is not the true leader, either. the true seat of power is not in Washington, but - to put it plainly - our minds. we each play a role. laws follow consciousness, not the other way around. 

this is both empowering and terrifying. It means change is always possible, but true abstinence is impossible. even with careful removal from perceived responsibility (for example, choosing not to vote), we can never, actually, be mere observers. we are all legislators in the parliament of consciousness. every thought, every word, every story we choose to believe or reject casts a vote in this invisible assembly.

regardless of any affiliations or beliefs, completely agnostic of whether or not this President is good or bad (including whether you care or dont care about them) - something profound about humanity’s current state is revealed through their inauguration.

this is what Jung meant when he spoke of individuation on a collective scale - the process by which a society comes to terms with its shadow, integrates its disparate parts, and emerges into a new level of being. political figures are merely the visible symbols of this process, the hopes and fears our collective psyche uses to speak to itself about what it is becoming. 

the future is continuously being dreamed into being.

[roy-dcm2]

Gilgamesh - The Thousand Arms

Here's a fanfiction I wrote a long time ago that I felt never got a fair shot at getting attention. Maybe here someone would enjoy it.

The concept was going to be Gilgamesh in this universe hopping, action / comedy as he travels to the different worlds of Final Fantasy and starts collecting weapons / treasure. I came up with it before Dissidia was a thing.

The story starts below.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The great stone tower was burning; black smoke seeped into the cold night air. Around town, the news spread: the reign of the Thousand Arms was dead. The barbarians had met their end. Half the town was cheering, while riders returned from north Saronia carrying the wounded in need of dress. Ingus, an able Knight, pulled on the reigns of his stallion with one hand, the beast nayed, while the other held a son of Saronia unconscious to his chest. A throng folk crowded around him plucking the youth from his grip then whisking the prince to the home of a healer.

Several hours passed, the night gave birth to daylight, and as the first glittering beams of light peeked in from the east, the heir of Saronia awoke in a muddled daze. He sat up in a place he didn't recognize. His dreams were racked with the visions of what had transpired.

***********************************************

His name is Prince Alus Restor, son of King Gorn of the Kingdom of Saronia, ruler of the land behind the Great Wall, and home of the fastest airships in the world. The kingdom was mighty and strong until a civil war split the country. The internal strife ended when the belligerent King died and Prince Alus assumed the throne. In their fervor, the rebels had decimated Saronia's airship yards, and in the peaceful years that followed many swords had been traded for plowshares.

At the moment of their weakness, a new enemy struck. Barbarians from the mountains razed the land, and with a blast of powerful magic, demolished the western side of the Great Wall. Almost instantly, the town was overrun with invaders, by day's end the berserker king stood in the throne room of Saronia Castle.

"I am the swordsman of legend," the berserker king declared.

Prince Alus had heard the tale, like any other small boy from his world would have heard storied about the wandering swordsman. A long time ago, a Knight of Saronia, or Falgabard, or Sasune, or it was a plucky bard from Duster depending where you hear the tale, was lost in the mountains. At its center, the Knight, or bard, found the den of the Dragon King. The Dragon King confessed to eat the explorer and they did fight.

Using all his skill and might, he slit the dragon's belly from end to end, and cleaved its head from its neck. Or, he told the mightiest joke, and the hate filled drake did die when its heart knew laughter. Either or, the victor fashioned armor from its scaly hide and discovered a sword in the monster's belly. When he placed the monster's skull as his helmet, a dark power surged throughout his body. Possessed by the dragon's angry ghost, he stalked the mountains, slaying whatever crossed their path.

It is said that the cursed soul wandered aimlessly in the mountains until he wandered into another unnamed wanderer dressed in red. The stories call him, "The Thousand Arms," a master swordsman and collector of legendary relics. The cursed dragon knight and the mystery man battled mightily, until the man in red, flayed him from his armor, and claimed the cursed sword.

"And this is the legendary sword," the berserker king unsheathed the blood soaked sword he carried. "And these are my Thousand Arms!" he called his gang of vandals.

The highest house of Saronia would have fallen that day, but destiny would not allow it. Prince Alus escaped with the help of the four Warriors of Light, who rushed to his aid.

*************************************************

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the prince slipped out of bed intending to go outside and view what remained of Saronia. But when he threw on his cape, he heard a tiny clatter from his bedside table. Curiously, he lifted the upturned tea cup and underneath a tiny girl yelped, "Eep!"

A gnome! Prince Alus had heard of them, too, but he'd never met one in person. A tiny girl with a dress made out of a cloth napkin. The young gnome shied from his sight. "Who are you?" the boy prince asked, he didn't know gnomes lived in Saronia.

Daisy was her name, she told him. All her life, Daisy had lived in Agyrem, the sacred city of gnomes. It had thrived in secret, away from the big people, and safe from monsters behind a protective bubble. The barbarians stumbled onto their hidden city and trampled dozens under their feet. And when that no longer held their interest, they set the city ablaze.

The little folk who escaped the carnage were scatted by the winds, so to speak. And little Daisy had nested in Saronia since.

The young prince and the gnome shared a common plight. With his new friend perched on his shoulder, Alus stepped into the foggy dawn and found the southeastern town of Saronia littered with trash. On the curb, he found a man on the floor, not a corpse but a man snoozing from too much celebrating, reeking of ale and tobacco.

"Prince Alus!" a familiar voiced called, rushing right over. It was the Prince close friend Arc of the Light Warriors. The young prince owed so much to the destined heroes. They had saved his kingdom twice now he remembered.

*****************************************************

The children of destiny were visiting Saronia when the walls came tumbling down. Luneth and Ingus, brave warriors, distracted the berserker king's band. The other two Light Warriors readied the Nautilus and the five of them escaped the doomed kingdom.

From the Kingdom of Sasune, the Prince beseeched their king for aid. The King of Sasune granted him soldiers, and the Prince allied himself with the Vikings and Dwarves. Two smaller airships were built, and the Light Warriors agreed to help Prince Alus reclaim his land. In short order, they swept across the kingdom with dwarves and soldiers and tamed beasts, destroying the barbarians stronghold, the Dragoon Spire.

*****************************************************

Arc, the orphan from the village of Ur, was surprised to see the prince awake at the first sign of light. Last night the barbarians answered the threat to their power with the most underhanded of tools, bombs of poison gas. The young prince inhaled a lungful, before falling to the ground; burning pain seemed to spread from his nose, throat, and chest. The healers and chemist had done their jobs correctly. Alus tried to hide it, but the poison had left him weak as a kitten. Although formidable with a sword and spells, right now the prince would not be able to defend the gnome perched on his shoulder, let alone his kingdom.

Arc shared his mage's staff with the young prince as a walking stick and they toured the town. The northern part of Saronia had suffered the most. The barbarians sacked the western town, conquered the castle, and made a fortress out of Dragoon Spire. The people in the southern part of the kingdom were made servants, made to pay tribute to the berserker king, or have their town razed.

The prince, Arc, and Daisy wandered the early morning streets of Saronia. It was quiet compared to the night before. The rush of battle, the aftermath, and the sudden spontaneous celebration, all blurred together in the Light Warrior's mind, but now the townsfolk were resting, redressing the wounded, or regretting a gallon of ale and three pounds of roasted boar. Because when can you find boar for less than 17 Gil per pound?

The trio spotted Refia, another Warrior of Light, and a Monster Tamer. Controlling wild beasts is a dangerous job, so it's no surprise the destined woman would not shy away from the task. To reclaim the kingdom of Saronia, they used Gigas, giant man-beasts, to relentlessly pursue the barbarians. Gigas are strong and simple, so long as they're not hungry, they won't cause trouble.

One Gigas was strewn about the floor like the drunk Prince Alus had seen earlier. It snored loudly and often, with the rhythm of a saw cutting a tree. It ignored Refia's kicking, rolling over to continue sleeping and snoring louder.

Arc knew this beast.

On their way to Saronia, Arc passed by the hold of the ship where the gigas were held. The other beasts were asleep, but not this infuriating one. The pathetic giant poked its fingers from behind the steel bars. "That's a pretty ring you've got there," it spoke. Certain monsters can speak, but a Gigas won't say much besides "I'm hungry," or "I want that." "Give me it," it said.

The Light Warrior declined, but it persisted. "You see, that ring belongs to my mother," it tried, "I'll grant you three wishes for that ring."

It was a terrible liar. With a wave of a wand, Arc put the giant to sleep for the remainder of the trip.

Knowing this beast, with the wave of his wand, the skilled wizard of the Light Warriors convoked a blast of fire. The flames dissipated as they crashed against the giant's skin, like spells often do, but it hit the beast with a force to jar it from its slumber.

It awoke with both arms swinging, and the Light Warriors and their companions leapt back instinctively. Refia cracked her whip at the beast, and after a moment its anger subsided. The gigas eyes darted back and forth, recognizing where it was. It spotted Refia, whip at the ready, and emptied its gullet in front of her, almost intentionally it would seem. Almost a barrel's worth of ale poured out from behind the giant's masked face. Because when can you find ale for less than 2 Gil a pint?

As the monster's puddle of sick steamed in the morning air, Arc finally got a good look at this one. Unlike a normal gigas, this one had great horns growing out the sides of its head and its skin was a chalky red color. Then, behind the red scarf covering its head, Arc could swear it was smiling, happy with what it had done.

The beast's eyes stared hungrily at the rod clutched in Arc's hand, "Won't you give me that ring?" it asked.

"Quiet, you!" the Monster Tamer cracked her whip.

Out of the morning fog, the clip-clop of horse's hooves steadily approached.

A blonde warrior graced its saddle, Ingus, Knight of Sasune and Warrior of Light, had rode down from the north with troubling news. Much of northeastern Saronia had been destroyed in the fire of Dragoon Spire while the last of the barbarians had been chased out. Part of the castle had been destroyed, he informed them, and a field of bodies was slaughtered not far from the castle gates.

"I saw it! I saw it!" Daisy chirped. The Light Warriors turned to the gnome perched on Alus shoulder as she recanted what she saw last night.

****************************************************

An average person might think of a gnome like a tiny human, but gnomes have one skill above the big people. To survive in the wild world, where a house cat can be as mighty as a dragon, and a girl like her can be crushed underfoot, the gnomes learned to commune with the animals. When it seemed the town was once again a war zone, Daisy fled her home, the walls of the healer's house, on the back of a crow she had befriended.

They flew towards the castle. No one would disturb her on the northern wall of Saronia, the land adjacent was too small and flat to plant an army on. It came at the price of terrible loneliness and hardship, though, with not another person around to steal a crumb or grain of wheat, except in the cavernous castle packed with barbarians.

As they neared the castle, the gates flew open, and a swarm of warriors spilled out. The attack on Dragoon Spire had prompted the Berserker King to send out his Thousands Arms. With the young prince's forces pinched between the Thousand Arms and the barbarians of the fortress, the Berserker King would wipe the Restor bloodline from history. From on high, the tiny girl watched the unrelenting horde pile on top of the monsters in their paths and dismembers them as efficiently as a swarm of ants dissect a beetle. Until a lone giant stood against the wave of murderers.

The horned gigas rubbed the ruby buckle he kept hidden in his trousers, and with a flash of light, it stood transformed in a strange red garb with eight arms and a weapon in each hand. The gnome could not believe her tiny eyes. Then, with one hand, the mysterious giant wielded a strange, curved sword as large as a man, and with one swings a powerful gale blasted across the battlefield ripping warriors to pieces. From one moment to the next, the field was covered in a carpet of blood, and the red garbed giant strode towards the castle.

******************************************************

While a shock washed over the Light Warriors, the crafty giant snatched up the young prince of Saronia. Indeed this was the massacrer of men, clutching Alus with one arm and holding his mouth shut with a second, and palming the talkative gnome in another. "Give me that ring, and I'll grant you three wishes," it extended its fourth hand.

With their weapons drawn, the two Light Warriors didn't believe it, while Arc considered its offer. They had vanquished monsters from the edge of creation, yet they shouldn't risk coming this far to have the prince suffer needlessly. Arc pulled the ring off his finger, dangling it before the giant.

"I killed the false king, killed his army," he slowly lowered his captive, "and I'll return the prince to you."

Prince Alus scurried from the giant's side, while the multi-armed warrior plucked the ring from the Light Warrior's hand. "Hazzah!" it cried over the glittering thing, and before Ingus could take a crack at its head with his sword, the red garbed giant vanished like a puff of smoke in the morning air.

*****************************************************

He reappeared in the plains north of Saronia. The mysterious giant stared at his new treasure. A human ring could never fit his fingers, instead he added another bead to the chain of them hanging from his neck. He had taken so many rings from heroes that he'd forgotten what value he placed in them, and started snatching them from habit.

"Jotun! Jotun!" the tiny girl cried. The stranger had forgotten his second captive. If for a man, a gnome is the size of a mouse, in the giant's grip, Daisy appeared to be smaller than an acorn. Despite their different sizes, the wanderer's honed senses could still catch her desperate cries, "Jotun! Lift me up!"

The stranger lifted his hand close to his face, while Daisy climbed from his palm and on to the tip of his finger. From her point of view, his was like the face of the moon, gigantic, no matter how far away.

"King of Beasts," she pleaded, "why did you involve yourself with the problems of mankind?"

The red garb concealed most of its face, save a gap for his eyes and splotches of red and white warpaint she could spot surrounding them. Its eyes were blank and white with no irises in them, so a being such as it seemed to stare at everything that fell in its gaze. The gnomes revered and worshiped these Kings of Beasts who embodied the power of nature: living floods, sentient blizzards, and before her eyes, a God of Swords.

"That tyrant was using my name," the giant responded. "He could have sullied my reputation." The mysterious giant pulled a blade from his invisible arsenal, "I'm the Thousands Arms, and this is the sword of legend," he lifted an immaculate sword with a bronze-rimmed hand guard, and the shape of a dragon's head at the end of the handle. "Tatsumasa," it was called. "So, I dethroned him. For my own sake. And the sake of the Light Warriors."

Daisy was in awe of the giant. He had dispatched the usurper on a whim, and painted the ground with blood with a stroke of his sword. Certainly, it's the benevolence of a god, where even heroes of destiny do not compare. "Your worship, please, have mercy." She pleaded, "Spare me from being grime between your fingers."

"Eh?" the red garbed titan stared puzzled at the tip of his finger.

"All my life I prayed to the altar of the King of Beasts. Show me your mercy, and I'll be your humble servant."

The horned giant with chalky red skin couldn't comprehend the tiny girl's worship. He had wandered across worlds, been an ally, an enemy, a guardian, and many things in between, but nothing he had done merited the adoration. Still, the life of a wanderer is a solitary one, and he had learned, a life of solitary wandering is best when accompanied by others.

"Fair enough," the giant answered, and from under his magic robes, he pulled a locket the size of a grown man's fist. Its insides were lined with flower petals, and made a fitting seat for his tiny companion. A hole in the amulet's front let Daisy peek out her face from behind the tightly clamped door. The giant placed the locket around his neck to have her close by.

For the ordinary folk, giving yourself up to a giant might seem like a strange thing to do. But for Daisy, she didn't see a monster; she saw one of her God staring down at her. He had spared her life, and she was ascending to where the gods walk. "My name is Daisy, your worshipfulness. Priestess of Agyrem. Until it was destroyed by the barbarians. Who you soundly smote."

"Smote him?" the mysterious giant could almost laugh at calling the grisly nature of what he did a lofty word like "Smote." After dismembering the band of barbarians the false king had sent, the legendary swordsman impaled the pretender on the true sword of the Dragon King. As the berserker king bleed out, the true warrior recounted the tale of the cursed knight.

***************************************************

At time before the great walls of Saronia, Reznor, youngest son of his town's chieftain, was source of the villa's collected woe. Saronia was not yet united, and the people lived in warring city-states. Where in his own villa, they sang of Reznor's valor, the other future states of Saronia spoke of his barbarism. But as the age progressed, the accumulated scars of battle weighed heavily on all of Saronia. An era of peace would follow, and from those seeds of peace, a nation would be born.

Reznor, arrogant warrior, spiteful of peace, determined to never let his sword go to rust, vowed to slay the Dragon King, so that his name might be remembered throughout the ages. Exiling himself, the warrior headed into the mountains. High up in the snow covered hills, where no man ought to trod, he found a nest of dragon eggs. Mercilessly, the exiled swordsman destroyed the nest, then hid in its rubble.

When the Dragon King returned and found his young in pieces, Reznor leapt from his hiding place, and severed its head without warning. The angry ghost of Bahamut cursed the warrior and trapped him in a nightmarish armor made from the dragon's bones. For ten years, Reznor was damned to wander the mountain domain of the Dragon King, and each time he happened upon a man he could not resist to kill him. So, the cursed warrior's infamy grew.

Until the day the mysterious giant crossed his path. With care, the red giant tore the armor from the weary wanderer's body. At last free from Bahamut's curse, Reznor fell to his knees before the giant and thanked him for his benevolence. Reznor returned to Saronia a changed man. Infamy had garnered for the warrior nothing more than a trail of corpses. His isolation in the mountains taught him the value of his fellow man. Reznor would discover that a person's deeds need not be of conquest to be remembered, as certain as he would not forget his savior.

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"I go by many names," the giant finally spoke, "But where I'm from, I'm named Gilgamesh, little one."

"Lord Gilgamesh, I exist on your mercy, oh, worshipful one." The gnome continued to praise him. She couldn't see from the pendant where she rested, but the tiny girl's adoration brought a smile behind the wanderer's red garb.

The ancient man of mystery plucked another sword from his invisible armory, the strange curved sword with the wide blade. With a twist of his wrist, he cut a hole in the air.

Daisy peered into the empty blackness, where the gods walk, she assumed. And the God of Swords wandered out of the world leaving Saronia behind.

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When the red garbed giant freed the cursed warrior, the spirit of the Dragon King rose up and spoke, "Thank you for freeing me. I placed all my hate into that curse that I became trapped myself along with that detestable human. No amount of wrath can bring back my hatchlings. I understand that now."

Bahamut towered over the God of Swords, "I'll thank you again, Gilgamesh. You had no reason to come to my aid. You are one of us. But you are not like us. You cannot exist across the multiple planes like we do. I hear you are on a voyage home. So, it's only fair to warn you, ExDeath has returned. If you still wish to journey home, in the coming battle, you can count me on your side."

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I wrote this right after I had finished FF3 on the DS. Because it wasn't one of the popular games it didn't attract many readers. Plus, I had listed it under Crossovers and it got LESS views like that. (What are the chances that you liked FF3 and every Final Fantasy game, enough that you'll read stories about a minor character doing minor character things)

I was trying to write shorter stories, but still build up a clash between the normal Espers and the Espers from Ivalice.

[ltnsingh]

@nebulaties asked: what do you make of it? - ortegas

" They're feeding, " was all La'an could muster, the thin thread of dread in her voice carried by certainty, by what she carried with her — a collective of horrors that'd made their mark on her, inside and out; Months of fractured, half - repressed memories that had begun to emerge from the swathes of shadow cast low in the squalid belly of the Gorn ship's hull.

Despite the sharp cinch of a cuff chaining her to the brig's grated walkway, a stride too far from Sam to shake him out of unconsciousness or reach Erica's bindings, her hands neglected to shake with the exact same fear, weakness, malnutrition that'd seeped into her bones as a helpless child. And yet everything about the gruesome inside of the hunting vessel felt so sickeningly familiar. Smelled so familiar.

Like death.

The least La'an could offer was what she'd learned. Anything that might give their surviving crew and the Cayuga's remaining stragglers some shred of an advantage.

" They won't pick us off all at once, " she supplied. Not immediately. Not the more intelligent, fully grown amongst their horde, at least. The fact that any of them were still standing without Gorn hatchlings burrowing through their insides could only mean the ship itself wasn't where their torturous subjection ended. And their captors, tameless as they seemed, still needed sustenance in order to dominate. " Or start their breeding cycle until we reach one of their nurseries. "