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toodelusionalforreality · 1 month

Text

Shadow

Azriel x Reader(N)

Summary: With his mate at risk, Azriel is not the only one determined to uncover the truth behind the unknown danger.

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. This is a half-baked version which I may edit later. This was supposed to be two separate chapters which I compiled into one. So the style difference may come off a bit strong, my apologies.

Word count: ~6k

Warning: None

Previous Chapter: Bastards

The gelding, as dark as midnight sky, stood with an unearthly stillness under the shade of the stable. Its beady eyes followed Mor as she circled the building for the second time. Grateful for the boots she exchanged her sandals for, she stepped along the edge of the bank. Soil crumbled under her feet setting off ripples in the shallow waters. Pushing the hair out of her face, she peered around. Her fingertips trailed along the stone wall allowing the ragged surface to chip at her skin. No trace of magic. No hint of a hidden room. Not an inch of window on either side.

Sensing its unwavering stare on her back, Mor turned to the horse with narrowed eyes. She teased the ends of her braid between her fingers. ‘You wouldn’t know of a secret room back there, would you?’

The beast didn’t even breathe in response.

Mor let out a long sigh. The meadow stretched for miles in every direction with nothing in sight except for the smithy. Gentle breeze chilled the sweat coating her neck. Thunder clapped at a distance and the scent of impending rain sweetened the air. A single droplet fell on her cheek and she looked up at the darkening skies. Maybe a summer drizzle would be a blessing. It would save her the effort to cloak what she had been up to before N returned.

As she walked back, Mor studied the closed doors again. Painted in blue, as bright as the ocean in the west, the carvings seemed to blend and merge into waves, chaotic and restless, as though the rustle of Sidra poured life into them. The longer she stared, the harder it was to break her gaze.

Then she felt it—a quiet call beckoning her forward, promising her. . .something she couldn’t name.

In that moment, Mor knew only one thing. She had to own it.

She inched ahead, and a low grunt warned her. The waves froze. So did Mor’s breath. The horse now stood at the doorstep. She hadn’t seen it move.

‘Hey,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘I don’t want to do this either.’

Her cousin’s smile vanished as soon as Feyre left the room. Alone in his study, Rhys finally turned to Mor. Ever since the three brothers returned from Mother knew where a week ago, none had been the same. Only when Rhys found his mate in front of a fire cradling their babe in her arms that night, his love for them chased the darkness away from his eyes. Creases marked his tunic and his usually impeccable hair was dishevelled.

Az didn’t enter past the foyer while Cass stood guarding the door after him. The two stared at each other. Az waited for another minute before he stepped to his brother and hissed under his breath. Shadows wreathed around him. But Mor caught glimpses of his leathers ruined with dirt and splattered blood.

‘It doesn’t feel right, Rhys.’ Mor found his eyes devoid of any emotion.

Perched on a simple leather chair, Rhys radiated the power of a High Lord making a throne for himself no matter where he was. He fixed her with one of his rare stares that left no room for argument. ‘We don’t have the luxury to discuss what’s right.’

Mor didn’t need a reminder of what entailed when Az wanted something. She had seen it for five centuries—the ruthlessness behind those kind eyes, the raging fire behind the cool facade.

‘Do you think she’s dangerous?’

Rhys paused. ‘I don’t know.’

Mor couldn’t tell if he meant the mystery woman or N. Perhaps, both. ‘Let’s wait a couple of days. See what happens.’

There had been no news of a missing fae or attack anywhere in the city. Somehow it didn’t offer comfort to either man as she expected.

‘Would I be asking this if we could sit and wait?’ His shoulders drooped as he heaved a heavy breath. ‘I can barely hold him off from tearing Hewn City apart.’

‘Then let him,’ Mor shrugged. ‘He’d be doing us a favour anyway.’

She would have done it herself, she should have done it herself centuries ago. But she was a coward. The thought of going back to that place even to reduce it to rubble and dust made her blood run cold.

Rhys dismissed her. ‘She was intent on making a bargain. Sounds like an awful trouble for a simple bladesmith, don’t you think?’

Mor gaped at him. He never ignored her whenever that hell was involved. Never. Not only did he speak the city’s name with carelessness, but his eyes lacked the softness they always held when he approached her on its matters.

She squared her shoulders. Her cousin had a point, though she wouldn’t admit it yet. ‘We shouldn’t be making assumptions. It could be nothing.’

But Rhys pressed on, ‘We were in the next room. She wanted the fae. She hurt N.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m not willing to gamble with their lives.’

Mor hated that Az was caught up in it. She hated it more that she was dragged into it. Az hadn’t been himself the past few days. Damn, he hadn’t been himself for the past few months.

At first, Cass and Mor bet how long his affair with N would last. Az rarely ever shared more than a night with one woman. A few hours at her place, but at the end of the night, he always returned home. N was supposed to be one of his blow-off-the-steam flings. Mor claimed it so, a phase. But Cass was sure it was a mild attraction. I’d never seen Az smile like that at a woman who drew blood from a man, he had said.

Then he returned to the bar again and again. It was a jolt to both of them—at least Cass ended up five gold marks richer. If N had such a hold over Az, if she had meant anything to him, one expected him to tell his friends about his budding feelings. But he kept his escapades a secret, kept her a secret.

Ever since the night, Az had been more distant, more aloof. When everyone went out, as far as going to N’s bar for his sake, he wished to stay home. When everyone stayed the night in River House, he preferred his room in House of Wind. No amount of coaxing convinced him to stay longer than dinner. Nothing satisfied him anymore.

Since he wished to be anywhere but Velaris, Cass and Mor had planned a whole weekend in the mountain cabin. Yet, Az declared he was going to Day Court on a mission, and Rhys refused them the specifics.

That was before the bond snapped for him. Mor didn't blame N. Still, she couldn’t stop the resentment festering in her heart either. The man she knew all her life, her friend who saved her and brought her back home, was being ripped away from them. Slowly and steadily. She wanted him to be happy. But what if the price was to lose him to a woman they barely knew, to someone who stood to break their family apart? Or worse, break his heart? One day with her had left Az a wreck. What would a lifetime with her do to him? It almost happened once. Except Cass and Nesta were one thing.

This was Az.

Getting up from the chair, Mor turned away from Rhys and his hard stare. ‘Didn’t you say the wards are ancient magic?’ Her fingers tugged at the gold chain around her wrist, ‘And N can fight. It will be fine.’

She couldn’t go down that road, not even for Az. Let him deal with N and the danger surrounding her. If the worst came to pass, she couldn’t bear to watch it destroy him. She couldn’t get in the middle of his love affairs. But it wasn’t an affair, was it? No, this was his mate. His one true match.

‘Mor,’ called Rhys, kind and gentle that it stopped her pacing. ‘He’s waited long enough. He deserves better.’

There it was, the jab she had been waiting for. Mor kept her breath and voice steady. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means we look out for our friend.’

A lie. A pathetic one at that. She knew what he meant. They blamed her for breaking Az’s heart. They believed N couldn’t do worse than what she did to him. It wasn’t her fault Az held onto hope. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t love him the way he wanted her to.

‘It’s a mating bond,’ she stated calmly, ‘We shouldn’t be meddling.’ Maybe rationality would earn a sway with Rhys. He always put reason first anyway. ‘Besides, Az wouldn’t appreciate you scheming behind his back.’

‘It’s for him I’m asking.’

‘I only need a peek inside,’ Mor said.

She revealed her open palms to the black guardian in a peace offering. But it stood unmoved. She took a careful step towards the door—that unknown magic summoning her again. Another grunt, and she halted.

Damn you, Rhys!

A gentle murmur closed in on them and Mor looked over her shoulder. She had lingered for too long.

‘Don’t tell on me,’ she whispered to the beast and hurried to the stable.

N wore a ridiculously large shirt that swallowed her frame. The fabric swayed in the breeze and clung to her toned thigh and the graceful swell of her hip. Every inch of her body—except for her face and hands—was hidden. She lovingly looked at the mare limping beside her. As it slowed, N grazed her fingers along its neck and followed its gaze. Her pretty, serene smile faded.

Daylight did her justice, unlike the dim glow at the bar. N was attractive, criminally so. But she wasn’t Az’s type—so simple and. . .forgettable. She was beautiful, and yet her face barely left a mark on one’s mind. As if she merged with the very air surrounding them, invisible and intangible. Unless one knew what they were looking for, they wouldn’t spare N a glance.

The night they found Az in the bar alone—Ares or Larus, all Mor remembered was the ugly creature and her incessant knitting—none of them suspected his reason to be a woman, let alone her.

One had no say in how Mother chose their mate. Still, N was a far cry. Az instead liked women who were. . .Mor frowned. She realised she didn’t know. Her friend was lucrative about his partners, especially with her. Did Rhys or Cass know of his preferences? Something worse dawned on her. Would he have told her about his mate if Cass hadn’t blabbered in his drunken haze?

Without breaking her stride, N walked past the blonde ignoring her friendly wave and smile. She smelled sweet—like cardamom and something strange.

The gelding finally moved from its spot and approached her as she reached the stable. It stood by the entrance even when its companion sought the shade inside, its beady eyes only on Mor.

‘You need anything?’ N peeked at her visitor before crouching by the door. Lustrous strands slipped loose from the messy knot at the nape of her neck. She brushed it away with the back of her hand and reached inside a bucket on the ground. She tossed something at Mor, ‘It’s clean.’

Mor caught it before it hit her in the face. Rude!

It was firm and cool and. . .red. She threw an apple at her.

The mare trudged back to N, looking down over her shoulder. A leather brace encased its right forelimb, winding up from hoof to knee. When Mor moved closer, drawn by its beauty, it whipped its head away and backed into the shade.

N got to her feet with a dancer’s fluidity, an apple in her hand. ‘I got you. You’re safe now,’ she cooed. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’

She hushed softly. The mare stilled under her touch. She brushed her fingers through its mane, the hair shifting like spun silver. As she breathed, the horse breathed with her.

‘What happened to her?’

Mor couldn’t take her eyes off them. Over the centuries, she had witnessed many fae and humans alike attempt to tame a beast and waste years to earn its trust. She had never seen anyone so in tune with a creature before. Or rather, a creature in tune with a fae.

‘Her owners weren’t kind to her,’ N held the fruit out. The mare caught a sniff before sinking its teeth into its flesh. ‘When she couldn’t breed anymore, they worked her until her leg gave out. They ignored when she started showing signs. She was in much pain.’

The creature shuffled closer, eager for her touch and words.

N smiled, ‘But that’s in the past. She’s making a recovery now. Brave girl, aren’t you?’

Something deep inside Mor cracked and ached. She swallowed, turning to the male horse. It bore no sign of illness or injury. ‘What about him?’

The silver one wearily made its way to a corner hiding from the stranger. But the darkness couldn’t hide the glow in its watchful blue eyes.

N cared neither about Mor nor the threat her horses seemed to sense. She inspected two more apples between her slender fingers as she carried them to the gelding. ‘You’re not here to discuss horses with me. I know who you are, Morrigan.’

A chill went down her spine. No one called her that anymore, at least not in Velaris. She was Mor—Mor who escaped her father and her fate. Mor who freed herself from the darkness from which she was born.

She opened her mouth, unable to resist the urge to correct the woman in front of her. Distant thunder rumbled above the mountains like a warning. A reminder from Mother herself to speak true. Her words halted. It wasn’t the name that unsteadied her. But the way N spoke it, the quiet command in it.

Mor mustered the smile she reserved for the courtiers and nobles. ‘Then I guess it makes this less awkward. Tell me about the fae.’

‘What fae?’ N petted the dark coat of the horse. It shimmered like starry smoke under her fingers, and Mor longed to feel its softness on her skin.

‘The one you’re hiding in a secret room back there,’ Mor pointed at the smithy, though N didn’t bother to look at her, unlike her horses who wouldn’t take their eyes away from her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Seriously?’ Mor snorted, ‘Is this what you want to lie about? Rhys was inside that room.’

‘There’s a room, but it’s no secret.’

Mor rolled her eyes. She regretted not asking Rhys about her first. ‘Fine. Why don’t you tell me about this not-a-secret room and the child you’re harbouring?’

‘She’s not your concern.’

‘Of course, she is. She lives in this court.’

‘No, she’s not.’ She smiled, a twitch of her lips in mockery. ‘Despite what your High Lord believes he heard, that child was never in danger. Regardless, she can protect herself.’

‘Mine?’ N’s chin dipped ever-so-slightly, her gaze shifting. Mor pressed, ‘You said my High Lord.’

‘I’m not mistaken.’

‘Where are you from?’

N stayed silent. Mor studied her—took in her every feature. Her body showed no hints of other court’s blood. Right when she was about to press again, a cool calmness that was the essence of her cousin nudged her mind.

He’s home.

Keep him busy, she told him. If Rhys were to be believed, Az clung to a delicate thread of restraint from shadowing N day and night. And when that snapped, she wanted to be as far away as possible.

Mor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘So, Rhys says you’re a weaponsmith.’

N pursed her lips, resisting a smile. She petted her gelding, running her nails over its glossy coat, and coaxed it to accept her offering. It hung its head low, careening into her hand.

Mor sucked in a breath. ‘You’re going to ignore me?’

‘It’s pointless to state the obvious when you came here knowing who I am. And,’ N drawled, ‘you’re standing in front of a forge.’

Mor snapped her mouth shut at the sound of her cousin’s chuckle in her mind. She had forgotten he was witnessing her trial. What did you do to her that day?

I can’t take credit for this. It’s all her. His amusement was loud and clear. Did you get anything yet?

Mor looked down at her hands. She gave me an apple. Does that count? He laughed again.

‘I understand why you won’t work for other courts. But why refuse your own High Lord?’

N shrugged, ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

Mor tugged at the bracelet around her wrist, almost as tight as the words in her throat. ‘Would it hurt you to give me one straight answer?’

N didn’t utter a word. Her gaze drifted to the mare at the tone only for a minute.

Even as a courtier, it’s been a while since Mor had to strain every nerve for a simple conversation. Why would Az lose his mind over her? He wouldn’t want her without the bloody bond. For a moment, she felt pity for her friend. He waited centuries only for Mother to bind his fate with this infuriating woman.

Then she remembered her thoughts weren’t secure. She took a breath, ‘Hate Rhys all you want. Why do you hate me?’

‘I don’t have a reason to hate you or your High Lord.’

I tried, Mor sighed.

Try harder. Rhys’s response was instant.

Get down here and do it yourself.

Mor, he warned, his power radiating even through their minds. Then his voice was gone, and so was his commanding presence. Mor inhaled deeply at the emptiness, as if her cousin had taken her thoughts along with him. Come home. I think he’s onto us.

You think? She surveyed their surroundings. Lush plains stretched in every direction, providing no cover for a particular shadowsinger if he chose to stake out. Give me another minute.

When she turned around, she met the coal-like eyes of the gelding that peered into the depths of her soul. It watched her as though it sensed what she had been up to, that Rhys was watching it back.

Mor knew such beasts well. So she matched its stare. Tiny drops of rain hit her skin, but she refused to bow down. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the mare edging close to the entrance. Its steps were as quiet as the one challenging her. Neither made a sound with N around, only their breaths a sign of their attention when she spoke to them.

‘I know you’re hungry,’ said N twirling the apple between her fingers. ‘We’ll go for a ride later if you take one bite.’ The beast nuzzled against N’s neck, but it didn’t relent. She tipped her head and a thin veil of her hair blocked its view. ‘For me?’

Mor shifted her weight to her right foot, and it whinnied out a hoarse breath. Its forelimb twitched, muscles pulling taut along its length, warning her of what it wouldn’t hesitate to do if she made one wrong move.

The Truth-Teller strapped to Az’s thigh flashed in her mind. Or was it Rhys?

N spoke softly, ‘I won’t let anyone touch you. You’re safe.’ She smoothed her palm between its eyes, down its neck, through its mane. ‘Easy now.’

The horse blinked. N repeated her affirmations. It slowly turned, leaning into her hand, an eye watching its foe. The crunch of the ripe flesh between its teeth echoed in the air.

Mor shuddered. Yet, she couldn’t mask the smile on her lips or her thoughts. Tell me you're seeing this.

N rewarded the gelding with a kiss between its eyes. ‘Good boy,’ she held out the other apple. But the beast pressed its forehead to her cheek and nuzzled, backing her towards the stone building, away from the stranger. N chuckled as she steadied herself. ‘Come now. Don’t be rude.’

Mor ached to winnow back and tease her friend about his mate and her territorial pet. It wasn’t just her who felt that.

Does Az know his mate already has a shadow?

Oh, he won’t appreciate this competition. Rhys laughed.

Mor snorted. The beast stilled, its ears perked up. She cleared her throat, ‘He’s adorable. What’s his name?’

A minute passed and another. Well, Rhys would have to find some other way to get his answers.

Mor sighed, though a little of the guilt and doubt in her chest had dampened. ‘If you ever need help, you can come to me.’

To her surprise, N looked at her and nodded.

Seven days. Two cities. One woman.

Some spy he was. For five centuries, Azriel hunted men and women across lands. Never had he felt as useless as he did in those seven days.

He scoured every inch of Velaris for the woman who hurt N. Day and night he searched every inn, listened to whispers in the streets, and sent his wraiths to gather news about foreigners. He searched for her in expensive bars and restaurants, to the theatres and landmarks. He went as far as to look into the seedy taverns on the other side of the city, just to be certain. If she had known they were inside the room while she threatened N, she should have been smart enough to keep to the shadows. Even Hewn City wasn’t spared. He spied every courtier who set foot inside the mountain city in the past two weeks to ensure none of them knew of N’s existence.

He found nothing. It wasn’t a question of how but who stumped him. All his efforts were futile, for what did he know of this mysterious enemy?

Azriel played the events of that day in his mind over and over again. His instincts had set in the instant he walked out of the hidden room. His shadows crept along the floor and writhed at his feet like serpents waking from each step. There was no trace of that woman—not her magic, not her scent. The only sign of the ordeal lay red on N’s tender neck. He combed through every spoken word, every moment to find one clue that could lead him to her. A name. A court. But all it yielded was the churning rage in his gut at the voice that rang in his ears—her mockery, her threats, her laughter.

I don’t work for any court, N had said.

His brother wasn't beyond sending someone to test N, but taking him to the smithy on the same day? He could be cunning, but he was no fool. The woman didn’t belong to Night. But she knew where to find the city. She walked past the wards unhindered. She recognised them from their scents alone. She had met them before, at the least, been close enough. Why did she want N? Was it to spite him? No, she mentioned Rhys only when she was denied what she came for. She wanted N. And the girl.

Azriel found only a mild comfort in all this—if she knew them, they knew her.

From the constant fussing and wary glances between the two, he knew his brothers sensed his desperation. So he went to work and pretended to be past it. He employed every spy of his all over the court, but he kept the details to himself. Every crossing past the borders of the two cities and the court was reported to him irrespective of who and why. It was tedious work and inappropriate use of resources for his personal reasons. He had never done that before.

And yet, it didn’t feel wrong.

Fourteen days. Three brothers. One woman.

Azriel needed answers. But he had no leads. Not true, he had three—none willing to help.

Confronting N would be easier than chasing a phantom around the court. She refused to make weapons for her High Lord—fine, Azriel didn’t care. But as citizens of Night Court, she and her friends were their responsibility despite what she thought. If one of them was in danger or involved with other courts, he had the right to demand answers from her. She wouldn’t have a choice but to comply.

Mother above, he sounded like Rhys!

N hated him. Azriel remembered the way she stepped back from the threshold when he reached for her. Her hand remained on the doorknob, but her back pressed into the stone wall with each step he took. Her breath stilled in her lungs as though she couldn’t bear to breathe the very air that touched him. Once he and his brothers were a few good feet away, she released a breath, and it was enough to crush his heart.

Her naked observation when she had him pinned to the floor was lost as soon as she realised who they were. Emotions flickered in her eyes—something deep and haunting. They were nothing more than a threat, worse than the woman who almost killed her.

His brothers promised to protect N. They reassured N’s feelings would change with time. But Azriel wanted to disappear and never to return. He might as well do that. Leave her alone and never intrude into her life, even if the bond killed him.

After he found the woman and skinned her alive.

Each wasted day chipped at his sanity. The horrid mark on her flesh was seared into his memory. Branded on his soul—a reminder of his incompetence, how he had failed to protect his mate. Not with his sheer Illyrian power, not with his shadows.

It was hard not to imagine, not to see so clearly. Shock and panic flooding her eyes before the fear settled in. Or her fingers clawing at the hand to savour one more gasp of air. Or her legs scuffing on the floor as she fought to level herself. Or her head hitting the wood hard to rattle the wards within, her eyes pinching shut at the impact. Every rasp of hers, every strained breath echoed in his ears—the little choke escaping her lips as the hand enclosed around her neck.

There was no escape, not for him. Not when he had witnessed many in that position—put many in that position.

It was a twisted joke Mother played on him. A fitting punishment for what he had done over his lifetime for his friend and brother, for his High Lord. A punishment for who he was. To stand helpless and hear her endure what he had inflicted upon many without mercy.

She was his mate. She was so close. She was scared and confused.

And he couldn’t help her.

Twenty-one days. One shadowsinger. One woman.

Stop.

His shadows hissed as Azriel stared at the worn-out door from across the street. He couldn’t bear to face her again, but he couldn’t stand failing her more. One conversation, he told himself, just one.

He wasn’t afraid. He longed to see her face. He longed to hear her voice. Maybe even a touch, if he was lucky. Yet his body wouldn’t move.

Home.

The one time he wanted assurance from his shadows, they disagreed with him. Azriel balled his fists and turned away, only to meet the very eyes he had been running away from.

N looked at him, the bar, and then back at him. A mere second. That’s how long it took for her to decide to ignore him like he meant nothing to her. She walked past, opening the lid of a brown box she carried in her hand.

‘Wait,’ Azriel said. When she didn’t stop, he called her name.

He hadn’t spoken it out loud before. Not with Uri, not with his brothers, not in the privacy of his room. It had always been her. And now that he had spoken it, it’s the only word he ever wanted to utter. The only word that held any meaning.

She came to a slow halt and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Azriel held his breath waiting for her to return to him. Instead, she walked to the side of the building and leaned a shoulder against the wall facing him.

For an alley, it was too clean, even in the dark. Behind her stood an iron door leading directly to the office inside. The only shred of light poured down from the streets. And the faelight next to the inscribed plaque of the bar cast an iridescent glow on part of her face.

The usual sternness she carried herself with was replaced with a casual ease. Her legs crossed at the ankles. Her hip jutted out, revealing that sensuous curve of her waist through that large shirt. Locks of hair that never seemed to stay held in her braid spilled around her face. Her neck was hidden by the high collar. Azriel knew he would only find her flawless skin underneath. Still, he ached to pull her shirt down and see for himself.

The golden rings on her bracelet glinted under the faelight as N reached into the box. Her fingers hovered over the crisp layers of the pastries that sat inside. Scratches and cuts littered her knuckles. If the flex of her fingers were any indication, she was in pain.

One made his breath catch in his throat. One too deep that it split the skin open between and around her knuckles.

‘Those are new,’ he said quietly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dried blood. What did she do? Did that woman return? Did N have to fight her alone?

‘Yes,’ she hesitated, ‘I just bought them.’

Azriel looked at her. As confused as he was, she was staring down the street where she came from, at the bakery she went to every week. The worry that nagged at him day and night lost its hold in a heartbeat. He bit the inside of his cheeks and tapped the back of his hand with his fingers, suppressing his urge to hold her hand and inspect it himself.

The little frown between her brows disappeared. She nodded at his face—his broken nose. ‘So is that.’

Courtesy of his brother during their morning training when he was so distracted that he practically threw himself into the punch.

But she wasn’t interested in it. N picked up a pastry. The sweet fragrance of chocolate and butter filled the air between them. Better than her scent, for he needed to think straight if he intended to find simple words around her. Her hand froze, close to her lips, as she held out the box to him.

Azriel’s heart stopped. He was sure of it. Did she know what it meant? Did she know how she was tormenting him?

He gawked at the flaky shell of the dessert. He could do it—take a bite, make her his.

No!

The weight of his shadow curled around his hands and pulled him back. He shook his head, smiling.

‘Let’s hear it then.’ She returned the pastry with a sigh.

‘And,’ he started carefully, ‘what is that?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Who is the child? Where is she? Why are you hiding her?’

Voices floated towards them. A band of faeries headed for the bar, giggling and stumbling before they caught the sight of him. Their pale skin shifted and glimmered like fish scales under the faelight. Glancing between his wings and his face, they blushed and whispered to each other. Until his shadows wound around his shoulders and chest. And they hushed into silence. N watched them rush through the door.

‘Are you safe?’ The words left his lips in a whisper.

Her eyes snapped to his face. The calm ones, yet so terrifying in the way they unravelled him every time she looked at him. Slowly, she graced him with a smile. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I know you were holding back that day.’ He took a step closer, drawn in by her gaze. ‘You could’ve stopped her. Why didn’t you fight?’

‘There was no reason to.’ She shrugged a shoulder, her shirt shifting over her breast with the movement. ‘She can’t hurt me.’

‘But you let her.’

‘She wasn’t there for me.’

‘Hamra’. N hesitated at the young fae’s name, still nodded. Azriel asked, ‘Why does she want her?’

‘It’s not my story to share, shadowsinger.’

With one simple statement, she quashed the only excuse for a conversation he had. They stared at each other. One more minute of silence and she would walk through that door. One more minute of silence and she would leave him. Azriel couldn’t find any words. But then, he didn’t have to.

‘You need to stop harassing her,’ she said.

Azriel narrowed his eyes. ‘I met with her once. That’s far from harassing.’

‘So you’re telling me,’ she arched a brow, ‘the shadows following her around is not you? Hmm, must be another shadowsinger I’m not aware of.’

It was his turn to shrug. ‘Who knows? That one seems to attract a lot of trouble.’

‘And how would you know that?’ She clicked her tongue, ‘You only met with her once.’

Azriel chuckled, and her eyes flicked to his lips. ‘How much do you know?’

‘Your brother came by the shop exactly when I was away. You’ve been asking Uri about my whereabouts. And Hamra threatened to stab you if she saw you again.’ She missed nothing. She continued, ignoring the dark gleam in his eyes, ‘Those are loyal to me, you know? What made you think they would tell you anything?’

If only she knew loyalty had nothing over pain and the will to live.

Uri was prone to talk, but he swore to secrecy as N's safety was concerned. Orvin was fiercely defensive to let N know the High Lord she despised and his brothers took an interest in her. Azriel only worried about Hamra, but he trusted her to be smart, especially after his warning veiled as a lecture. He sensed wrong.

‘We believed they cared about you. Besides,’ he crossed his arms across his chest, ‘I can be. . .persuasive.’

Idiot.

His shadows flittered over his shoulders. They were right. What was he trying to do—scare her away?

She watched him in silence. His eyes, his lips, his face. His crossed arms, his body. And finally, she stopped at the knife strapped to his thigh before she met his gaze. She leaned her head against the wall and smirked, ‘Not enough.’

Gods, what did she think of him? Nothing good, he knew.

Her eyes burned with challenge, daring him to hurt the ones close to her. She had lived in the city long enough to have heard of the rumours about the shadowsinger—Night Court’s torturer. They weren’t rumours if they were true.

‘I don’t intend to harm them.’ Azriel tried to salvage his dignity, ‘I was trying to find some truth.’

‘Is this your High Lord’s way of protecting his civilians?’

Closer.

Azriel wanted it too. But he stayed still.

‘It’s not him,’ he said quietly.

Her smile faltered.

Silence stretched long and tense. His shadows swirled over his arms drawing her attention. When she blinked at them, they skittered between them, daring to reach for her. Azriel took a sharp breath, and they withdrew.

‘Next time, shadowsinger,’ she pushed off the wall holding his gaze, ‘I find any of you following one of us, I will hand over a dagger to Hamra myself and she will keep her promise.’

With that, she left. And Azriel stared at the closed backdoor with a grin on his face.

Someone tell me Azriel came off as a drama queen.

#azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #a court of thorns and roses #acotar series #acotar x reader #god's game

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zzznnnq · 4 months

Text

Garden Of Lies

pairing: jang wonyoung x fem!reader

genre: angst, strangers to friends(?)

———————��————————————————————

The sky was painted in shades of gray as it was heavily raining. The clouds were dancing around each other like lovers avoiding the truth. The droplets kept falling, forming puddles on the pavement. I was sitting in a shelter, in this familiar garden.

Looking over my shoulder, my eyes fell on a girl. She was sitting alone around the corner, wearing sadness in her eyes. Her soul was as dark as the afternoon sky. I couldn’t tell if she was crying because her tears would have blended in with the rain. I’d met her a few times before; heck, I even remembered her name.

“If he missed you, he’d find a way to be by your side. And if he loves you, then why are you always so sad?” I slowly asked her, trying to break the silence that hung between us. My voice was steady and slow, but it still startled her. She looked up at me, her eyes red and puffy. She made oceans with her tears, hoping to sail far away from everyone who hurt her.

“We’ve broken up… I learned that holding on to the wrong person would only prevent me from finding the right person,” she replied, along with a soft sigh. Her voice was kind of shaky, but it was still soothing for me to hear. “I think I laughed then cried. There was both good and bad, but not good enough to make me want to stay with him,” she added with a small laugh. She wore loneliness in her smile, hiding the sadness with her laughter. But isn't she too young for love?

“That’s good. Stop making the wrong person feel special. No matter how hard you try, they’ll never be right for you, Wonyoung,” I exclaimed, looking at her a little longer. She had a smile on her face as the wind slowly blew her hair away. I couldn’t help but return her lovely smile. She looked better this time. She will learn from the moon to shine through the darkness.

“You know, Y/n… I think everything is weird in the world right now. I mean, I know your name but I don’t really know you, yet I feel like I know you deeply. Isn’t it weird?” she asked me with a confused tone. I let out a chuckle, which made her mutter a small "why." Her eyes were searching for mine as I looked anywhere but at her. Her beautiful brown eyes were too mesmerizing for me to stare at. I found myself nervous whenever we stole glances, but I did understand what she meant. “Some souls just recognize each other, even though they’re strangers to one another. I also feel the same about you,” I stated cockily as she let out a laugh. She was such a lovely girl, an angel walking on earth. Why would she let some man destroy her? She deserves so much better.

“I like it when you are here somehow. Things seem better when we’re together. And thank you for not judging me. It’s kind of embarrassing to let you know how stupid I am for a man.”

“I won’t judge you or criticize you for what you’ve done. I only wish you saw what I see when I look at you. I only wish you wished for more than what you’ve settled for,” I softly stated, turning my head away from her. I was standing here the whole time; why can’t she see me through?

The rain looked like it would stop anytime soon, and my time with her would be cut short too. There was never a right time to say goodbye. Not when she looked at me with all that misery in her eyes. But I couldn’t keep up with my own feelings; it’s better if I walked away before it was too late. I stood up and looked at her as a soft sigh left my mouth.

“I hope your flowers will bloom through the rain, Wonyoung,”

#jang wonyoung x fem reader #jang wonyoung #ive #angst #wonyoung x reader #wonyoung

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the-three-pure-souls · 6 months

Note

Do you have any headcanons for J.D/Vandal? If so, what are they?

Thank you so much for asking about him! :D He's one of my favorites! I have a bunch of little hcs for him so I had to pick which ones I wanted to put here ^^' Sorry it took me so long to actually write them ^^' I love this silly little guy and I, uh, made them much longer than the previous ones for Stumbler and Wulf, and accidently made them depressing and also mini shortish stories for some reason ;w; Maybe I'll turn the second one into an actual fanfic one shot! ^^ Tw for the second and third one, as the second one is related to Connor. The third one, albeit the shortest is about his trauma from his time in the Studiogrounds lab. ;w; I'm still figuring out the colors I'm gonna use for Vandal and Husk, but for now I think I'll use blue for both J.D and Stumbler and I'll use orange for Husk!

Feel free to ask about my other hcs too!!! :D I don't really have very many for characters like Husk atm but I do have quite a few for some of the other characters like Rex! ^^ Now onto the boy:

J.D/Vandal

J.D doesn't actually have a name for himself, simply going by whatever people start calling him next. People start calling him 'the Studiogrounds Vandal' when he starts writing stuff on the walls around Studiogrounds to try to get the truth out there? That's his name then. Sounds pretty ominous so he's sure they won't mind him just simply shortening it to 'Vandal'! He's on the loose and people start calling him 'John Doe'? Well, he might as well have some fun with this one! It probably stems from his strange relationship with his own identity, who he is. For all his life he's been dehumanized, treated like an object, an animal. It felt so weird to him, the first time someone used both He and It to refer to him. It may have felt weird to it..but it also felt right somehow. This got him to start thinking about things.. For so long he was simply a scientific mishap..a mistake. Some thing Broadside used to experiment on before he and his twin, Husk, split. Something which still haunts him to this day.. Maybe, though..he can almost be..a..person? He might not be a human per say, but he can act like one! Right..? This was how he discovered he enjoys painting. Art. Both that and recording videos, editing them! Despite this though, he still has a lot of issues involving around who he is. Maybe that can change one day.

He only showed up on the island some while ago, and when I mean show up, he just..appeared. No boat. Nothing for him to have come from the water. He also acted like the island was his home. To say this freaked out the wolves is an understatement. This random..creature just showed up one day who very much acted not similar at all to any being any of the wolves had ever seen before. He walks just like the characters from the various Broadside cartoons that they have in the theater. It was uncanny. Wulf and Stumbler who had learned of Layer 3 before this had their suspicions of what he was. Though, as long as he didn't harm anyone, the wolves were alright with him staying there. That being said, they didn't really warm up to him either. J.D should be used to this! It's been alone it's whole life! ..Well..no..no, that isn't true. There once was a time..he did have someone else..and before that he had Husk, his twin! But still..even despite the pain he already is in..why does it hurt so much that Chief Wulf in particular is avoiding him too..? Why did he remind it so much..of..him..? It hurts to think of back then. It hurts. It hurts. He doesn’t want that, it doesn’t want to hurt. Back then he finally had a friend..why did Husk..? What did Husk say to him that day..? He tries not to think. Think about the body on the ground. Think about him standing on the balcony. Think about how he didn't say goodbye.. The world is a blur now, everything a blend of colors..black tar going down his face. Ha..ha..he really is the worse half, isn’t he..? No matter how much he wants too..and no matter how much he meant to it..He couldn’t save Connor..

Medical and lab supplies along with closed dark spaces that aren't the Stitchcaves bring back memories he’d rather forget. If he’s trapped in a room he can’t get out of, suddenly the room feels too tight he suddenly can't breathe and the next thing knows, he's huddled in a corner whimpering uncontrollably. He isn’t able to stop shaking when that happens. In that place they felt so much desperation and helplessness, terror and pain. He doesn't want to go there again. He would rather die than go back to that hell again.

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loftylockjaw · 13 days

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: Xóchitl's home PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw), Mateo (@fearhims3lf), & Xóchitl (@vanishingreyes) SUMMARY: Wyatt and Mateo decide it's time to tell Xóchitl the truth about what they are. CONTENT WARNINGS: Child death (past mentions), vomiting (no detail)

—

He’d been unreachable for a few days again. His friends might as well start getting used to that, he thought—Wyatt just dropping off the radar for days at a time. It seemed like no matter what he did, it was always the wrong thing. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep himself together. He was unraveling, bit by bit, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

There were only a few things that could make him feel better, and even those paled in comparison to the one thing he knew he wanted, but should not want. It didn’t stop him, though. Kieran had been a saving fucking grace through most of this, offering a peace of mind that didn’t require any legwork on Wyatt’s part. No difficult conversations, no ‘coming to terms’ with one’s predicament, no dealing with the aching sadness that was shackled around his ankles. With Kieran, or more specifically, Kieran’s special blend of magical influence, it was easy. As easy as breathing. When he needed to, he could just… forget for a while. Feel good for a while. Enjoy himself and ignore the cloud that followed him around and the shadow that kept trying to strangle him.

But now he had Xóchitl and Mateo, didn’t he? What had started to develop with them was new and exciting, and even though it wasn’t quite so effortless as the situation he had with Kieran, he found himself wanting to try. Wanting to do better, to be better, maybe just to prove that he could. God, he just wanted someone to be proud of him, and if anyone was going to, he thought it might be them. But there was something standing in the way. Something big—something he and Mateo both needed to discuss with Xóchitl. At first, he’d been thinking about just telling her himself, but now that he knew Mateo’s truth, it didn’t feel right to open that can of worms without the mare at his side. Maybe together, they could make this easier for her. He hoped so.

As it seemed to have become their custom, Wyatt helped Mateo prepare some food for the three of them that evening with a stiffness in his spine that wasn’t normally there, but managed to persist all throughout dinner and the first round of drinks. They’d discussed how best to bring this up, how to explain it and how to make sure it didn’t freak her out, but Wyatt was nervous. He’d been rejected so many times in recent memory, he wasn’t sure if he could handle Xóchitl turning away from him, too. From either of them, or both of them. Fuck. He ran a hand through his hair, throwing a glance toward the couch where Xó was currently sitting alone, waiting for them to rejoin her with fresh beverages.

The worry was clear in his expression, eyes betraying the lurking fear. “I dunno,” he said in a low whisper, careful to not be heard over the sound of the television. “Maybe tonight ain’t the night for it.”

—

There was a lot that could be said about the last few months of her life, and a lot of that which could be not so great, but some of it was really good. Xóchitl didn’t like to be overly excitable – after all, that usually ended in disappointment. But she had people who wanted her, and though that itself wasn’t necessarily new (she’d used people wanting her too much throughout her life to distract herself from any number of other trains of thought), it still felt different, somehow. Miraculously. She very much enjoyed the attention, and the addition of Wyatt into whatever was going on felt near-seamless. Like it was meant to be. What had started as casual remarks had turned out to be far more real, and she needed this. Needed the stability that both Mateo and Wyatt provided her. The safety and security.

She wasn’t stupid enough to believe that this was all sunshine and rainbows. That version of her had died on that same April day that she lost her best friend, her other half, the sunlight to her shadow (that much had been thought of in a particularly angsty middle school mood). What was more accurate was probably that Mackenzie herself was a shadow. Xóchitl’s shadow, more specifically. Something she’d never be rid of, something that was a part of her, that she couldn’t carve off even if she wanted to.

Not that she wanted to, but sometimes she’d wondered what it would be like without the ghost (figurative, obviously) of her best friend over her shoulder her entire life. She had a good feeling that was a good portion of the reason why she was so certain she’d be an awful mother. She already had a child she was watching over (two, if you counted her inner child or whatever bullshit one of her therapists had come up with), and she was doing a pretty crummy job of that.

Mateo and Wyatt were both over tonight, and yeah, maybe Xóchitl had bought a new dress that she knew every part of her looked extra good in, and the two of them were off in the kitchen making something that she knew would be every bit of delightful, and she sat on the couch. Dinner had already been wonderful, and she couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the kitchen, wondering if she should go and offer to help, but ultimately deciding to fidget instead with her glass. She pulled out her phone and looked at the photo-of-a-photo of her and Mackenzie. Tongues sticking out, both bright blue, eyes squeezed as shut as they could make them, arms effortlessly wrapped around each other. “I’m gonna make things right for you, you know?” She whispered at the screen, and then, in Spanish, “I promise. On my life and on every single ice cream sundae you never got to have.”

—

Sticking around in one place wasn’t supposed to happen, let alone growing attached to people. Two, specifically. Doing that was dangerous, the amount of reasons a little overwhelming and mounting. The ones from Mateo’s job alone should’ve deterred him from doing such a thing.

And yet…

He scrubbed at the dishes while Wyatt topped off the drinks, bobbing his head absentmindedly to the song quietly playing from the speakers on the counter, while something played just a little louder on the television.

The drums, the bass, and the rhythm kept his brain occupied for the merest of moments, sending them back to the days he felt were so simple. Afternoons after a carne asada at his tías house, all his cousins and his brother congregated at the special club house they made. It was just a detached set of stairs from a thrown out mobile home, but it was theirs. They could sit on it and jump on it and play pretend while their parents talked into the night, playing lotería to top it all off. The memories were so vivid that the dishes in Mateo’s hands turned into playing cards, and the music was just Junior shouting for him to freeze during freeze tag, and the knife—it wasn’t supposed to be there. It wasn’t supposed to—His brother—

“Fuck.” He whispered to himself, skin on his thumb sliced. Glitter collected in the wound and the mare grumbled just before hearing Wyatt’s hesitancy. Quickly, Mateo pressed a clean rag against his wound in a fist while his other hand urged Wyatt’s chin to turn to him. His expression was as soft and calm as he could make it, reflecting gently on his voice. “If not tonight, then when? We’ll only keep putting it off.” Mateo leaned in slowly, meeting Wyatt’s lips in a soft kiss. Pulling away, he adjusted his red shades and tilted his head down to reveal his glowing eyes with a smirk. “Can’t keep looking like a douche with sunglasses inside, okay?” Checking his thumb, Mateo was happy to see that the bleeding was done, and he patted his hands against his pants before getting himself ready to head to the living room.

“Now get the orange peel garnish onto those drinks. They’ll take off the edge.”

—

The fingertips on his jaw as his head was turned to face Mateo drew a soft groan from him, one that was born both of anxiety and the ever-present need to be touched. His steely blue gaze dropped to the other’s hand, having registered the quiet exclamation and spotting the rag in the hand. “I know, but…” The thought went unfinished as he was offered a kiss instead, which did manage to help calm his nerves a little. But only a little. The following joke chipped away another nugget of fear, making Wyatt chuckle breathily. Mateo was right, of course. This wasn’t sustainable at all, for a lot of reasons. One of which included the injuries that Xóchitl would undoubtedly start noticing, now that he had fewer excuses to keep himself away from her while he healed after a fight. He was… he was going to tell her all of it. He had to. He couldn’t handle the pressure of keeping secrets from her anymore, and he didn’t want to have to. He just hoped that she’d be able to find it in herself to understand.

“Okay, okay,” he agreed, picking up an orange from the fruit bowl sitting on the counter, rummaging around in the drawers for a moment before finding the peeler and getting to work making the garnishes. Twisting them into spirals, making sure the vapors landed in the drinks, Wyatt plopped them where they belonged and picked up two glasses, leaving the third for Mateo to grab. “Your finger okay?” he asked as they began to walk into the living room again, hesitating on the threshold for only a moment before entering the space and handing Xóchitl her new drink once he was close enough. He sat on one side of her, Mateo taking up his post on the opposite side, and he could feel his heart racing. How did you even… start this conversation? He glanced apprehensively at Mateo again, clearing his throat and taking a sip of the cocktail before setting it aside and reaching for the remote to mute what they’d been watching. The music still played softly from the kitchen, and he was glad that it wasn’t dead silent.

“Hey, so… there’s somethin’... we wanna, uh, talk to you about.” He stumbled through the sentence, smiling awkwardly for the briefest of moments to at least indicate to her that it wasn’t bad… at least not in any way that Xóchitl might have been anticipating. Wyatt paused, leaning forward to prop an elbow on his knee, pushing his fingers over his mouth in a thoughtful gesture. He sucked in a sharp breath, but nothing was coming to him. I’m not human. It was that simple, but it wasn’t fucking simple at all, actually. His gaze jumped from the random spot on the floor he’d been staring at to instead find Mateo’s gaze, begging silently for help.

—

She had to admit, all the attention was even better than she’d imagined. Xóchitl was also fairly pleased with herself and with the fact that she didn’t feel jealous about whatever Mateo and Wyatt got up to on their own. She’d wondered if she might, but that was the beauty of this, wasn’t it? They could pair off and do whatever they wanted to with each other, or they could do things all three of them. It left many options open, and she appreciated each one.

Xóchitl could practically feel herself brighten as the two of them entered the room. Taking the drink from him and an immediate sip, she looked between the two men, posture going tight when Wyatt muted the television and didn’t just turn it off. It probably meant nothing, but ever since coming back from Ireland, she had been more easily spooked, and unfortunately and apparently that even included by some of the people she trusted most. She loathed psychoanalyzing herself (she’d hated it enough when people had been paid to do it), and much preferred to just let herself be. Or not be, a lot of the time. Drinking helped with that. She didn’t know if this drink was strong enough, but she wasn’t going to complain.

She often only complained if it brought her some sort of pleasure, and putting down Wyatt or Mateo wouldn’t do that. Besides, the drink was probably plenty strong. She just had a weirdly high tolerance for these things. If weirdly high was what they were calling it these days. Which, of course, they weren’t, but she wasn’t exactly about to go around naming exactly what it was. It was obvious enough, Xóchitl figured, and she was at least usually careful enough for it not to be any real worry.

Something they wanted to talk to her about. Xóchitl took a deep breath and another giant gulp of her drink, before she set it on the table. “If you two want to just be a duo, that’s… fine.” Xóchitl looked between the two of them, though her poker face wasn’t as well-kept as usual. She knew it said but what about me? And Xóchitl didn’t mean for it to, because she was usually a jealous person, but she liked to think that she was at least seventy percent of the reason why any of this had happened in the first place, and she wasn’t exactly keen to lose either of them. She looked between the two of them. Looked down at her hands. Rubbed her fingers against her eyes in some half-formed attempt to see better, or distract herself, or something. “What’s the matter?”

—

Ah, shit.

The mare scrubbed at his stubble while the conversation quickly went the absolute wrong direction. “Okay.” Mateo said pointedly, clapping his hands together and seating himself next to Wyatt with a pat to his knee. He reached for one of the drinks and took a giant gulp before lightly slamming it back to the table. “That’s not where this is going, ma. Not at all. So, let’s jot that down real quick before spiraling.” He reassured as best he could with his usual humor and lax flair, but he wasn’t sure if that was the right call. Xóchitl usually appreciated it.

Usually.

“There’s a few things we’re trying to air out—like…like things that are important for you to know. Nothing about breaking up. No, uh, nothing like that. It’s just…” Mateo sighed deeply, frustrated with himself at being unable to just say the truth. He felt ridiculous, really. Confidence was something he never had to struggle with, but the truth? Well, Mateo ran from it, constantly. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he was even honest with himself. He knew the answer, somewhere deep down, but that didn’t really matter right then. He needed to focus, and after a squeeze to Wyatt’s thigh, Mateo decided to rip off the bandaid. Or rather, his shades, revealing his glowing red eyes.

“It’s this.” He gestured to his eyes, swiping his drink and downing the rest of it. “We’re different.”

—

Wyatt looked taken aback at her reaction, not having expected that. At worst, he’d thought maybe she figured he was going to tell her that this situationship wasn’t something he could do, or… any number of other things, but them walking away from her together? He didn’t know what to say, gaze darting over to Mateo when he (thank fuck) grabbed onto the reins to try and stop this runaway horse. (He was a mare. There was a joke in there somewhere, but the punchline got lost in Wyatt’s anxiety.)

Okay, so maybe Mateo wasn’t having the easiest time with this, either. How did you just tell someone ‘hey, by the way, I’m not human!’ when they were, and they so clearly didn’t believe in that kind of thing? She was going to think they were crazy, or… or something, he didn’t know what, he just knew it wouldn’t be good. He knew it was going to upset this amazing thing they had, he just hoped it wouldn’t be forever.

“Yeah, it’s not—definitely not that,” Wyatt agreed quickly, hoping that if he picked up where Mateo had left off, the words would come.

They did not.

Mateo squeezed his leg and he gave him a worried glance, brows raising when he saw him just… take off his glasses. The lamia stared for a few seconds in a stunned silence, then figured… yeah. Showing was way easier than telling. “... yeah. Different,” he parroted the other, dragging his gaze back to face Xóchitl, blinking away his blue eyes to instead reveal his natural yellow ones, complete with vertical slits for pupils. “We just… thought that you should know. And we want to…” his gaze darted briefly over to Mateo, then back again, “...explain it. We’re still… us.” Fuck’s sake, he sounded like a dork. He needed to shut up and let her just have a moment to react.

—

She didn’t know what, exactly, she was expecting them to say.

“Okay.” It wasn’t about breaking up. Which she’d sort of figured out already. She didn’t like to think of herself as self centered, but Xóchitl also knew that except for once, she’d never been let go out of any sort of situation she’d found herself in. She’d made sure of that. Xóchtil wasn’t going to be the one left again. Not ever. It had happened once, and she was going to do everything in her power to be a leaver, rather than someone left. Ideally neither, but she was stupid or naive enough to think that nobody ever left anybody else.

She wasn’t a child. She didn’t know when she’d last really been one.

It wasn’t the time to think about that right now, not when it made her feel sick and she very much wanted to be as level-headed as possible.

Which was becoming hard when both of their eyes changed and Xóchitl couldn’t help but let out at least the start of a scream before biting down so hard on her tongue she was nearly positive it would bleed. “I – what?” She shot up from the couch, side-stepping both of them until she was around the coffee table. “I – what?” She repeated, then in Spanish, “what is happening? What the hell is going on? This doesn’t make any sense.” Back to English, “what – I’ve never seen eyes that do that. Has it been checked by a doctor? Are you – what?”

—

Okay, so she didn’t scream, not exactly. Which had to be good. She didn’t run when she stood, but the fact that she placed distance between them and herself, albeit small, still managed to sting. After months of being what he thought was at least a decent boyfriend, Mateo was still likely now a monster in her eyes. It shouldn’t have hurt because he had lied to her the entire time, but it did.

Regardless of that though, Mateo stood up and made a ‘calm down’ motion with his hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay, cariña. Doctors can’t check them.” When Xóchitl switched her tongue, so did Mateo. “No one we don’t know or trust can check them or know that we’re different.” He kept his voice as calm as possible, extending a hand to Xóchitl, palm faced up.

“That’s why you get to know though. We trust you and want to still be…” Gesturing to himself and the other two with his free hand, Mateo worried his lip, only continuing after a breath. “Us. If you wanna hear us explain, it would mean a lot. And-and we’ll answer any questions you have.” He swallowed thickly, exhaling shakily as his eyes met Xóchitl’s and spoke in their native tongue. A small gesture only she was allowed to hear, like a language between lovers. Because it was. “I love you. I know it’s scary, but I needed to show you the truth. Couldn’t hide it from someone I love anymore.”

—

Wyatt wasn’t sure why he’d hoped that she’d be surprised but okay. His anxiety over having this conversation came from a place of truer understanding that it wouldn’t be okay, but still he had foolishly hoped… but she was drawing away from them, fear in her eyes and a tremble in her voice. It was expected. It was, but…

The lamia stayed put on the couch even after Mateo stood, running a hand through his hair. He kept his gaze focused down on the floor, trying to follow the parts of conversation that switched to Spanish, but his comprehension was pretty lacking. That damn Duo owl hadn’t exactly gone over the ins and outs of having a conversation about coming out as supernatural. He felt suddenly out of place in the room and had to fight the urge to get up and leave, bouncing his leg nervously where he sat and wringing his hands. Would she kick them out? Would she never speak to them again? It was her choice, of course, and it wasn’t one Wyatt could really fault her for, even if it would hurt like hell.

Honestly? He worried more for Mateo than he did himself. Wyatt had grown used to the rejection over the last decade and a half, he had already resigned himself to being the worst option for anyone who showed an interest in him. And while that’d always been in the back of his mind even with these two, it had been a particularly blissful blanket of ignorance that he’d wrapped himself in every time they were all together. He knew that their future almost certainly had no room for him, but now he worried that it didn’t have room for Mateo, either. This had been a joint decision between the two men, but he still felt responsible, somehow. Like his mere presence had necessitated this conversation that was forming a rift. He didn’t want to do that to them.

But… he also wasn’t going to abandon Mateo in this, so he stayed put, trying not to draw attention to himself.

—

Her whole body was still tense. She didn’t like it. It was an uncomfortable feeling and not one that she was used to having around the two men who were sitting across the room from her. With either or both of them she usually felt safe, incredibly so. It was something she took for granted – that much she was well aware of – but she hadn’t figured the alternative was something like this. Xóchitl tugged on the ends of her hair in some falsified way of trying to ground herself. It was, at least, a better alternative than collapsing onto the couch.

Mateo was speaking to her in Spanish and that, at least, helped her focus, just a bit. She reached out, put her hand in his, her chest rising and falling with desperate, quick breaths. Mateo and Wyatt could usually calm her down easily. Wyatt had dealt with panic attacks that she’d had ten-odd years ago, in clubs or even when they went out for burgers and she saw a family with a little blonde girl. “But it’s — we’re – us?” She bit the edge of her tongue as hard as she could, forced herself to think at least a bit before she spoke.

She looked up, looked at the two people who she was completely in love with and she felt herself burst into tears, tearing her hand away from Mateo’s. “I – but what are you? What is…?” Xóchitl thought to her conversation with Emilio, to how much she still didn’t understand and still didn’t really believe. Except now was it anything other than willful ignorance? Emilio didn’t lie, Emilio knew about this stuff, and yet… her thoughts kept bouncing around, entirely out of control. “Not – I – you’re…” she shook her head. “Not – you’re not whats. Did you – do – Mackenzie – she –” This time, Xóchitl did collapse onto the floor. “She – I – she – ” she dug her nails into her thighs. “I – she was – something killed her. Not r-rocks. Not– something – something evil.”

—

It felt wrong. Everything about what was happening felt like the axis of Mateo's world had been skewed entirely too far. For the first time in a long time, the mare felt like he needed to breathe, dust rolling off his lungs as something disturbed the space and constricted uncomfortably tight in his chest. Mateo choked on air at how strange it was to not have the relief release him from his panic, and the world twisted as hard as his lungs did.

“I…” Mateo fell back into the couch behind him, accidentally pulling Xóchitl along with him as he braced himself on Wyatt's thigh. He looked back at the man, and then back at Xóchitl, until he decided he preferred to look at the floor instead when he heard the name of a girl that never got to grow up. Killed by something evil, and Mateo didn't know how to feel about that fact now that he was airing out his truth.

He killed all the time, and that was bad, but there was a difference to what he did. Right? There was a code to follow, morals to adhere to. Mateo would never hurt a child. Hell, he killed people that did. So there was a difference. That's what he told himself when he looked back at Xóchitl and squeezed Wyatt's thigh for reassurance.

“I'm something called a mare-not like a horse. Like…nightmare.” His posture stiffened, “I make people have nightmares and take that energy. It's-it's why you're able to sleep through the night. I can make people sleep.” A trembled sigh stuttered past his lips, and Mateo squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars and focused. “Can be evil, but I'd never hurt a kid. I…I actually go after people who do, but, uh, yeah. I'll let Wyatt say his piece.”

—

Wyatt wasn't sure what to say. He couldn’t sit here and pretend like he adhered to a strict moral code. If Xóchitl was worried about them being evil like whatever had killed her friend… he wasn't the perfect antithesis to that. Mateo might be, under a certain lens, but Wyatt?

He sucked in a long breath, frustrated to find that yet again, he could not be his true, authentic self. But that was okay. He was used to being a pretender. At least he'd spilled every last bean to Caleb. At least he had that. Whatever they were… they were honest. And he wanted to be honest with Xóchitl too, but… how could he? How could he, when she was so fucking scared? She had every right to be. Every reason. Things like Wyatt didn't deserve innocent girls like her. It wasn't fair to her. It wasn't right. He should walk away.

But instead, true to his own selfish nature, he stayed. He put a hand over the top of the one on his thigh, fingers curling beneath Mateo’s palm to give it a quick return squeeze.

“There's a lot of evil things out there, cher. The best way you can make sure you're safe from ‘em is to.. to know ‘em. Learn about ‘em. Accept what you never thought was possible as bein’ true.” He paused before continuing, his attention drifting somewhere into the middle distance. “I was born different. Hell, I weren't even born like either of you.” Saying out loud that he'd hatched from an egg felt like too much right now, so he just left it at that. “I'm a… shapeshifter.” The obvious example to make to help her understand was, of course, a werewolf, but he was nothing like a werewolf. “A lamia. I don't really got any cool abilities like Doctor Sleep over here, but… I'm scrappy. Hard to kill. And it's a bit on the nose what with the bayou redneck of it all, but… I look somethin’ like a big alligator.” He dropped his chin, thinking about how he'd been lying to her all these years. “That’s… who I really am. This is…” he looked down at his human form and shrugged, “Well, this helps me fit in. I'm sorry I never said nothin’ before. Didn't know how. Still don't.”

—

In all her panic, Xóchitl realized that she hadn’t entirely taken into account their reactions. Which was unlike her – she wanted people to be happy, especially those she loved, and she did love them both. Deeply. In ways that, on a clichéd level, she didn’t think possible. But she was always meant to lose those close to her, wasn’t she? It wasn’t death, but there was no way that she could handle this, could she? Even she wasn’t sure that she could, because this was all too much.

Xóchitl wasn’t even sure that she could process what the both of them were saying. Mare-not-horse and giant alligator. Which weren’t real, but Emilio had told her things about shape-shifters and stuff like that and Emilio wouldn’t lie and she didn’t really see a reason why either Mateo or Wyatt would, either.

She was going to be sick. That much she knew. So she shook her head, darted toward the bathroom and let herself be sick into the toilet, three times over. Then she washed her mouth out with mouthwash and made her way back into the living room. “I– sorry.” She didn’t know exactly why she was apologizing, but it was all she could manage to get out.

“You – you’ve always been that, then?” She looked directly at Wyatt. “Back in Boston, too? What’s – who – Doctor Sleep?” Her brow furrowed in deep confusion. “You made me sleep? But you’re – how is that possible? How are you,” she turned back to Wyatt, “an alligator? You look like – well, you know – you look like you. This you. Is it some sort of mirage?”

—

Wyatt was talking, but the mare didn't really hear anything while anxiety crept over him. Having to explain the nitty gritty details felt uncomfortable, which was strange to Mateo because he rarely felt that way. He liked who he was, he enjoyed his abilities and the possibilities that came with them. Not aging was pretty baller, but explaining it all came with a dread Mateo had been avoiding since he died. Regardless of how much he wanted to be a mare, he had to accept the horrors that came with that decision. What it meant to die terrified.

His own brother killed him.

His brother killed him, saw the deepest and darkest fears that he tucked away for no one to find, and killed him. And Mateo let him do it–begged him to because he wanted the life he was currently living. He could do without some parts, but those feelings were tucked away now too. Only this time, no one would be able to find them. Mateo hoped he wouldn't either. He didn't like looking within often, and it felt like hours before Xóchitl came back after getting sick. Sitting there with a grip he didn't realize was tightening while too in thought. Mateo let out a shaky breath and cleared his throat, removing his hand reluctantly to give Wyatt's thigh a break.

Mateo blinked and stared through Xóchitl, pausing way too long after not realizing there was a question pointed to him. His mouth opened and closed several times before something finally cracked its way through. He swallowed, “Uh, yeah. I don't sleep so I just keep an eye on you and when you, uh…” Mateo nodded his head side to side, trying to broach the next part of what he was. “When you get restless and start to wake up, I just touch your arm and you usually calm down. I mean, I don't just watch you all night either. I get up and dick around for a while and slide back in before your alarm goes off.” His voice lowered, saying the final part with fear weighing his voice. “‘Cause undead don't sleep.”

—

“Yeah.” It was said quickly, Wyatt’s voice laden heavy with guilt. “Back in Boston, too.” He was quiet while Mateo explained his own part of this a little further, leaning back on the couch and running both hands up through his hair. This sucked. This sucked a lot.

“I mean… this is me, I guess. It ain't a trick, just… not how I was born. Not how I grew up. I learned how to change my appearance, how to look human. But I ain't ever really been human.” Dropping his hands back to his sides, he finally forced himself to meet Xóchitl’s gaze. “I know… I know this changes a lot for you. I get that. It’s weird n’ scary, n’ I get that. We both do. But…” He glanced at Mateo, his expression pained. “But it don’t change anythin’ for us, you know? We still feel the same. And we… we wanted to tell you ‘cuz we felt you deserved to know.” Clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward to rest his forearms onto his knees, the shifter dropped his gaze to the floor again. “But if it’s too much, we understand. We were ready for that. Just didn’t feel right keepin’ it all a secret no more. If it’s too much, we can leave you be.”

—

“Undead. Right. Shapeshifter…” The more she repeated the words didn’t help to make them make any more sense. “Right.” If anything, it was like when she said or wrote a word so many times that it seemed to become totally fake. Except both of those were things that Emilio had brought up, and didn’t he kill the undead? Did that mean that Mateo was in danger? Was she supposed to panic about the two men in front of her being in danger, when they were bad – because all of that sort of thing was. Except they were people and the things – the leprechauns – that had killed Mackenzie weren’t. That didn’t mean that Xóchitl was any less uneasy.

“Okay.” Xóchitl moved to go sit on the edge of the couch. Not ready to go and sit in her usual spot, in between the two of them, somewhere where she had found such an intense sense of comfort she would’ve called magic (even though it wasn’t real) but now she felt shaky, and she felt like she was going to break, nearly. She’d made it her goal to not become close to people – because she could lose them – they could die, so easily, but somehow this almost felt worse than if they’d died – which wasn’t fair to say, considering her grief hadn’t truly gotten better in twenty-two years – and she wasn’t sure how she’d deal with directly watching other people she loved die.

Her head was spinning again.

“Why now?” She picked at her nails, not caring what sort of damage came to her cuticles. Or anything. Hardly even paying attention that she was causing any sort of damage. “This is – it’s so much.” Was it too much? Probably.

—

The mare nodded absentmindedly while Wyatt spoke, and he took the opportunity to sit back on the couch. Every now and then, Mateo's gaze would drift to Xóchitl, and they would hover over every one of her features. He was memorizing the curve of her jaw, the rise and fall of her breath, how her nose led to her brow, and the way he missed her eyes the moment she blinked.

It felt ridiculous to feel that way, but love wasn't exactly logical, was it? That's why he was taking the risk of telling Xóchitl everything. Logic had flown out the window, and Mateo put love first. That meant being honest, even if it was at a cost. “Because if we're going to be serious, and really do this, it wouldn't have been right to not say something.” He sighed blearily, scrubbing his face. “It was the right thing to do, and like Wyatt said, we knew the risk. We just felt like you were worth that, regardless of it.”

—

Where his counterpart was taking her in, memorizing her features in case he wouldn’t be allowed to see them anymore, Wyatt was pushing himself away from the crack in their foundation, being careful not to let himself be swallowed by it. It was a familiar struggle, one he’d been through several times already, even here, in this fucking town. He remembered that night at Caleb’s, and how he’d pushed back the moment he was met with resistance. With lack of understanding. It hadn’t been Caleb, but he didn’t know that at the time, and it was just a familiar role for him to fall into. He’d stepped back, he’d let the walls rise up again and cut them off from each other. He’d grown cold and angry.

He didn’t want that now, but it was hard to stop himself from returning to old habits. He wasn’t mad, but frustrated and anxious, and he couldn’t sit still any longer. The shifter rose swiftly to his feet, moving away from the couch to instead pace at the other side of the room. His eyes scanned their surroundings, finding the front door and lingering there. Something screamed at him to bolt, but he bit down on his tongue and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, back and forth, back and forth.

This conversation was so much easier when the person he was coming clean to was also non-human. Like with Mateo — it’d been, what, five minutes of discussion? Some surprise, and that was it? This was miserable. He hated making Xó feel so conflicted. Wouldn’t it be kinder to just leave?

“You don’t gotta figure this out now,” he blurted, coming to a halt to face them again and crossing his arms over his chest. “You can — if you need time to figure out how you feel, that’s okay.”

—

She’d been so angry for so long.

She wasn’t sure why she wasn’t reacting with the anger she would’ve expected, the anger that was so tightly wound up inside of her that sometimes she wasn’t distinguishable from her sorrow.

Wyatt got up and her mouth opened to tell him to sit back down, but no words came out.

It wouldn’t have been right to not say something, Mateo said, and Xóchitl’s head spun. Maybe so, but it was also terrible to have said something. They’d decided not to lie to her any more, but she wasn’t sure if this was any better.

Her breath was unsteady and all she really wanted was for someone to hug her and squeeze her so tight that she didn’t have to think about anything else. Except she wasn’t sure she wanted either Wyatt or Mateo to touch her right now. She needed some sort of human contact – which, she supposed, they weren’t. She wanted them to be. She wanted everyone to be, and for that to make Mackenzie alive again.

“I – ” Xóchitl began. Slid off of the couch and onto the floor. “It’s so much.”

—

Wyatt rose unexpectedly, and Mateo flinched, for whatever reason. He could see the lamia eyeing the door, and for the first time in a long time, Mateo wanted to cry. There was a very real chance he'd end up alone again. It was probably for the best, if he were honest with himself. He always dragged down the people he loved, and who knows what would happen next if Mateo were to tell either of them about his even bigger secret?

He decided to not dwell on it too much, keeping his mouth shut to not beg Wyatt to stay. To take him into consideration, despite rarely giving others a chance. Mateo knew he deserved to be alone, but god, he was also selfish. He always had been, his father made that clear. “Yeah,” He said deflatedly, moving his gaze back to the floor, “It's a lot. We don't have to stay here if you don't wanna. I wouldn't hate you for that.”

—

This wasn’t getting anywhere. They seemed to have all hit a wall, and it was making Wyatt’s anxiety spike higher and higher.

There was a reason he was never able to maintain a romantic relationship. This was it. At the first sign of conflict, his gut reaction was to flee. Fight or flight, that was all he knew. There was little room for compromise, for bargaining, for patience and understanding. He needed people to understand him first, because he was incapable of rising above his base instincts and making time and room for someone else to decide whether or not they still liked him. Any time they showed doubt, he left. He wasn’t going to beg for love, for affection. As desperately as he wanted it, he wasn’t going to beg.

And that’s where he always went wrong. Still, Wyatt managed to keep his feet rooted in place, but his heart was pounding in his chest and he felt lightheaded. He looked to Mateo, unable to observe Xó as her world fell apart around her any longer, unable to put his own selfish needs aside for one more second. So he focused on Mateo, and what he saw on the mare’s face didn’t make him feel any fucking better. He looked close to tears.

He couldn’t take this anymore.

“What do you want?” he asked Xóchitl pointedly. There wasn’t malice in his voice, not exactly, but it was clear that he was stressed to hell and just wanted to get out of there if nothing of value was going to be said. “What do you want us to do?”

—

“Then leave.” She said, a whisper at first.

“Leave!” The shouting came abruptly and too quickly in succession. “Get out.” Back to a nearly monotone voice.

Xóchitl had never had many friends, but that had always been by choice. She’d even been somewhat popular back in high school – and middle school too. She supposed being able to shop at Limited Too as much as she wanted and get one of those Coach wristlets everybody had wanted. Basic-as-fuck white girl shit, and it had somewhat been because Mackenzie had never had the chance to do that, but all the same. She’d been popular, but she’d never tried to hold on to friends.

But now she’d had people and she was going to be all alone again.

She’d had love, twice over, even, and now she was going to be alone.

“I –” Xóchitl did her best to steady her voice. “Don’t want to see either of you. I need you to get out. I – you can’t be this. I don’t…” there went her goal to keep her voice steady. “I don’t know how to puzzle this all together. I don’t know if I can, right now. So just go. Leave your keys.”

—

Mateo's world shattered with two simple words, and in his nature, he had to act out. Quietly or loudly, it didn't matter. He stood up quickly, forcing himself to not shed a tear as he finagled with his key ring to place the key to her place on the table. It slammed softly, and scraped against the wood as it slid across. Without another word, he left in a blink, disappearing without a trace. Back to where he belonged. Alone.

—

Wyatt sighed. He wasn’t surprised, this was the end result he’d expected, but it hurt more watching Mateo flee like that. And flee he sure had. The anxiety that’d had him ready to bolt for the door leveled out pretty quickly once he had his answer, once there wasn’t any more fear of the unknown. She was done with them. He didn’t know if that meant Mateo was done with him too, but he’d figure that out later.

With an unbothered nod, he tried not to let his anger seep through. She didn’t deserve anger, he just had too much of it inside of him, always springing at any opportunity to be let loose. His hands worked to free the key from its carabiner clip, fished from his pocket. He tossed it onto the table beside Mateo’s, then turned and left without another word, gathering his jacket near the front door and shrugging it on before stepping out into the cool night.

Without much thought, as he started to walk out toward the road, he pulled out his phone and went to find Caleb’s name in his list of contacts.

“... hey, you busy tonight?”

—

They both left, and it had been just what she’d asked them to do, and so then why did it feel so wrong and hollow once they were gone? It was another loss, and she’d directly brought this one on herself, but that didn’t mean that Xóchitl had to like it at all.

Their keys reflected her living room lights and she pushed them off, suddenly – off of the coffee table and onto the floor. She made her way over to the kitchen, to a fresh bottle of something – when she finally cared to look, the bottle said whiskey. She drank it all, holding onto it once again like a life preserver. Didn’t bother making it to her bed, spent a good amount of the night scrolling on her phone, wondering if maybe they would text her back. But they wouldn’t, she’d told them to leave her alone, and they were doing that.

It was better this way, wasn’t it? It had to be.

She sent an email to her work, saying she’d be out the next week, personal reasons. She had enough days banked.

#. thread ;#. with ; mateo lara #. with ; xochitl reyes #. pretenders ;#child death tw #vomiting tw

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mareenavee · 1 year

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The World on Our Shoulders | 29: Something Broken About This

10th of Sun’s Dawn 4E 202

Teldryn leaned his back against the wall in the kitchens as he watched Talvas and Varona argue over Neloth’s tea. Both of them looked about as exhausted as he felt. The days had begun to blend together, leaving the semblance of any kind of order in shambles. Not that anything around here made sense at a glance, but it had become comfortable, as it always did whenever he spent too long in these Godsforsaken towers. He could almost tell the time of day just by listening for Neloth’s shouting.

It was rare to see the old bastard set aside everything for one person — especially for someone who could, for all he cared, have been anyone, a nobody. Nyenna was powerful, though. Any mage could tell. Neloth had said something similar. The old wizard would respect that, even if he never directly acknowledged her skill or talent. And Teldryn knew her strength now, more than most, and likely would never be allowed to forget. He cleared his throat, disquiet settling over him before he had a chance to shove the thought away.

The Healing spell had been far too taxing. Each attempt they’d made to pull Nyenna out of her state drained everyone involved down to the dregs. Neloth had been at this game a long time — that he had struggled still sat sideways. What was it about the situation that pulled him out of his routine? Was it the challenge of fixing a problem he’d never encountered before? Teldryn wasn’t sure, and didn’t have the words to ask. Especially after the events of the past half hour. Everything ached worse than it had in the last two weeks.

He rubbed a sore spot just left of his sternum. A Stalhrim scar crossed there, raised and angry. He’d taken that, and would again, for her. To save her. But she wouldn’t have needed —

Focus, you s’wit, he thought. You can’t afford to dwell.

He shook his head with a sigh. She was already at the front his mind, and that wasn’t changing, no matter how he berated himself for it. She might have blamed herself for everything that happened, but the truth was he should have known better than to reach. He wasn’t thinking of anything at all during the fight. His mind had been a blank slate; the only goal was to get out of the situation in one piece. Her voice had pierced through the silence, somehow, as pervasive as all that had been. It was all he could hear. All he wanted to hear, if he was being honest. And it still was, regardless of his better judgment and wiser advice.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the mushroom wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Not that magic was useless, exactly, but he’d never been so aware of it before. After he put in the work to get a spell down, it became second nature. He knew a few good ones, and that had always been enough for him. And now — this. This fucking echo. He could feel where she was, like he was bits of rusted iron and she was a lodestone. She clearly did not expect or want this, but — where would he go, really, where he would not be drawn back to her side?

He let out a long sigh and unfolded from the wall. The arguments had ceased and Talvas had ended up pouring the tea. Varona had left, likely to steal more sleep before Neloth realized they’d not taken to his new schedule easily. Disarray brought out the worst in him once his focus became less all-consuming. Teldryn sighed and waved Talvas away. He needed the distraction of something menial to do, and he’d centuries more experience putting up with Neloth’s attitude, anyway.

“I’ve got this,” he said. “You’d be wise to take a few minutes to yourself while you still can. Nyenna and I are heading out as soon as we’re able.” -> Read the rest on AO3.

#MareenaWrites #The World on Our Shoulders #Nyenna #Teldryn #Neloth #Talvas #Varona #LDB/Teldryn Sero #Teldryn Sero #Nerevarine Teldryn #Nerevarine Teldryn Sero #Nerevarine #Dragonborn and Far-Star Marked #tes #tesblr #elder scrolls #fanficblr #writblr #writeblr

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acacia-may · 6 months

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Hi Acacia! 14 and 24 for the writing game pls

Hello hello, friend! I'm always so excited to see you in my inbox, and I hope you are doing wonderfully! 😊

Thank you so much for your ask and for playing the writing excerpt ask game. I'd be happy to answer these for you and will be sure to choose excerpts from my OMORI stories since it's our shared fandom (and I'm really going to try very hard to get creative and not choose any Kelbrey excerpts for you too though there are several that fit both of these categories)! ^^

Everything is under the cut because of MAJOR OMORI spoilers! One snippet has its own set of additional warnings so please be mindful of that as well.

14. An excerpt of my writing that was out of my comfort zone

Do you mean any time I try to write romance ever? Because goodness that makes me so nervous and stressed out! I've been trying to practice a little by writing about ships I feel very passionately about and/or really, really like, but even then, it's a major struggle for me and I feel like it ends up leaning very ambiguous (i.e. it could be romantic or it could be platonic. The readers can choose their own adventure!) or blending into a background of several other plotlines going on. Sitting down to write a purely romance story is just not my thing, and I honestly don't think it's my strong suit. Therefore, for the sake of honesty, I feel compelled to give a major shoutout to "There Is Happiness" (which is about functional post-bad ending Kelbrey, sorry) because it was an entire story outside of my comfort zone but especially the dancing sequence. I still can't believe I wrote that (which I guess fits your other question too lol), but I won't subject you to an excerpt of that, friend! Instead here's some swoony HeroMari from my college, everyone lives AU one shot "Some Things Are Meant To Be":

Mari sighed. The truth was she was glad she had to stop at this point on the tour because she likely would have stopped anyway—too stunned by the swooning, swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach whenever a particular culinary arts student smiled. She had never spoken to him before—had never had the opportunity to properly introduce herself, but she supposed that might be for the best. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d even be able to muddle her way through a coherent introduction if they did have the chance to meet. After all, on the few occasions he had met her eyes through the glass, staring at her with such gentleness that she could have sworn her heart had skipped a beat, her mind had completely emptied and she couldn’t even think of the tour script her roommate often, somewhat playfully, accused her of reciting in her sleep. Knowing herself, she’d probably forget her own name if he so much as said “hello” to her, so they’d both likely graduate before they got to share anything more than a few somewhat shy waves at each other whenever she passed by his class on her tours. Halfway through her little speech about the state of the art kitchen equipment they had available to students, Mari reached the line she both adored and dreaded which prompted the tour group to look through the window to see the future chefs of the world cooking and baking. When Mari turned to glance into the classroom herself, she somehow always managed to find him immediately in the crowd. Today was no different. Just as he was taking what appeared to be a souffle out of the oven, he happened to turn at the exact moment she did. Their eyes met. Time stopped. Mari’s heart raced. He smiled, and her heart ached. All of her thoughts disappeared, except one: Oh… He was beautiful. That was not in her tour script.

And also, just for you, I'll include this excerpt of Hero admitting he's ready to find love again a decade after the good-ending from the final chapter of "But I Always Thought That I'd See You Again" (which is Aubrey and Hero's platonic friendship centric even though it also includes some background Kelbrey). I'm including it because it was another story out of my comfort zone, especially this particular scene (and I did a ton of research for it) and because I purposely wrote the story in such a way that the identity of Hero's love interest could be anybody you wanted who fit the ambiguous descriptors (I'm really sharing because I hope it'll resolve that "I need Hero and Zoey to realize their feelings" sentiment you mentioned in your comment on "Under the Weather" or maybe just add more Hero/Brandi to the world. It's written in such a way he could be talking about either of them or neither...choose your own adventure!)

“I think you’re a much stronger person than me, Hero. If someone deserves to be broken up about it, it’s you, and you should take as much time as you need. No one would blame you if you just…never moved on.” Hero took a long, shaky breath then pressed his lips together. “That’s…that’s the thing, Aubrey. I…” His voice was so quiet she could barely hear him. He stared intently at his hands—twisting them together, refusing to look at her. It was almost like he couldn’t. “I had actually been thinking…”—he swallowed hard—“That is I…I actually wondered if maybe…I might be…ready…to...um...” Aubrey tried her best to stifle a gasp. Of all the things she could’ve expected…she would have never even entertained this as a possibility. Hero had never expressed any interest in pursuing a relationship with anyone after Mari. They all respected it and never pried, just quietly resigned themselves to the fact that Hero might never love again, so to hear that he was actually, seriously considering moving on... She just couldn’t hold back the smile that tugged at her mouth as her eyes started to grow misty. “Really?” Hero blushed, and Aubrey’s breath caught in her throat. The expression on his face was so flustered but so warm, so affectionate—she never thought she’d ever see him make that face again. “Yeah…uh…I was actually…kind of thinking that I might ask someone out.” Aubrey’s jaw fell slack. Here she had been worried that Hero was listening to sad music and still pining after Mari when actually he was thinking about moving on. A flabbergasted but excited chuckle escaped her lips, and she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him—center console be damned. “Hero, that’s wonderful! I…you have no idea how excited everyone is going to be to hear that, especially Kel.” “Just…Just for coffee…” he stumbled quickly, awkwardly patting her on the back. “Nothing too big or dramatic or anything…” “This is big, Hero,” said Aubrey pulling away from him with a wide, bright smile. “You…you’ve met someone…” It wasn’t really a question. His blush deepened. “I think it’s more like I finally saw someone who had been there for a long time.” “So it’s someone you know well?” Aubrey repeated wracking her brain trying to think of Hero’s closest friends and who this could possibly be. She supposed it was really none of her business, but she was curious. Hero nodded and hummed. “For a long time. We became close friends in college and we’re in this wedding together now so we’ve been seeing a lot of each other and…I guess I’ve just been thinking…realizing that…when I’m with her, I—I don’t know, Aubrey—I…feel things that I didn’t know I could feel anymore…” His voice trailed—quiet, distant as if he had forgotten himself, but his cheeks flushed a bright red. Aubrey’s eyes widened, but she could only blink at him in shock. Was Hero…? Was he really… in love? The question felt somewhat silly and juvenile, especially seeing as he had never even been on a date with this woman, but…Aubrey couldn’t help but wonder. There was something so incredibly gentle and sincere in his face—something so warm and wistful, almost pining in his dark eyes as he sighed with a certain love-struck helplessness that Aubrey honestly didn’t think she would ever see from him again. “Honestly,” he shyly admitted. “I…I think I’ve felt this way for a long time but…I just…wasn’t ready to see it.”

24. An excerpt of my writing that makes me go "huh...i wrote that?!"

In a good way or a bad way? 😅😂 If it's in a really good "I can't believe that I was capable of writing this" kind of way, then I think pretty much all of 2AM would fit in that category. I wrote that fic for a request, and it recounts how Hero, Kel, and Aubrey discovered and reacted to the aftermath of Sunny and Basil's fight on the night of One Day Left. It's another story that was completely out of my comfort zone because it was so heavy and dark (definitely not one I would have ever thought to write on my own), but I'm very proud of it so here's a snippet.

(Warnings for Injuries (Non-graphically depicted), Blood, Aftermath of Canon-Typical Violence (Non-graphically depicted). Fear. Emotional Hurt. Heavy and Dark Themes and Subject Matter. Heavy ANGST. MAJOR SPOILERS FOR OMORI)

“Hero, help Sunny!” He managed to catch Polly’s instructions amidst the chaos and dropped to his knees beside Sunny’s crumpled figure. With trembling fingers, he grabbed Sunny’s wrist—limp and clammy—desperately searching for a pulse. His chest ached as he found one—weak but still beating. Hero swallowed hard—watching the blood seep between his fingers as they held Sunny’s wrist. He searched for injuries. Where had Sunny been cut? His hands and arms seemed clear of wounds, so he must have used to them to try to stop the bleeding wherever he had been… Hero stopped abruptly. He finally saw it. That gash across Sunny’s right eye. Frantically, he wracked his brain for his emergency first aid training. It was empty—useless in an actual crisis. His instructor’s words were garbled in his memories, almost as if she had been speaking underwater. Triage. Assess. Predict. Respond. And… Hero’s head whirled. He couldn’t remember and was too distracted by the sound of something clattering to the floor. Basil had finally dropped the weapon in his hands. He fell to his knees—caught by Polly and Kel. A pair of bloodied pruning sheers skid along the floor leaving streaks of red on the wood grain. Basil screamed again, but Hero’s vision blurred—blinded by the sudden burst of overhead light as Aubrey returned and flipped the switch. but she stopped, frozen in the doorway as she caught sight of Sunny on the ground. Hero blinked rapidly, but as his vision came into focus, bile burned the back of his throat. That slash across Sunny’s eye—deep and bloody in the light. Hero’s head ached. Jumbled memories playing in rapid succession. A diagram in an Anatomy and Physiology textbook. His professor holding up a model of the eye. The distant, garbled words: corneal laceration… Most serious of all eye injuries… High Risk…Permanent loss of vision… Hero’s stomach churned. As a streak of red trickled across Sunny’s cheek, he leaned forward with trembling hands, frantically searching for something to use as a compress to stop the bleeding. But he stopped himself. Hearing the warning as clear as day: Never, ever put pressure on a cut to the eye.

If it's in a "Why the hell did I write this?" kind of way literally anything from Safety Net (No, I'm not linking it. I didn't even put it on Tumblr because I have nothing to say for myself...) If it's more in a "I can't believe I wrote this, but I think it's okay(?)" kind of way, there is this incredibly mushy excerpt from my HeroMari fic "More Than Words":

Mari was his best friend, but even that title wasn’t enough for everything she meant to him. She was someone he could always rely on—someone he could talk to for hours until he completely lost track of the time. Someone he could share anything with—who he wanted to share everything with. She knew him better than anyone else—knew he wasn’t as perfect as everyone seemed to think and knew how hard he tried to be, but she still believed in him—saw something in him that he couldn’t even see in himself. She was the kindest person he had ever known and so beautiful that his soul ached whenever he looked at her. He cared for her more than he had the words in his young and inexperienced fifteen-year-old mind to express or really to even fully understand. All he knew was that he had never been happier than when she smiled at him—so bright and warm that he would have sworn the sun shined brighter. He couldn’t imagine a world without her in it, and he would give her the world in an instant if he could—would give anything to make her happy, to protect her, to care for her, and to in some small way repay her for being part of his life. But all she ever asked for was his friendship which he readily offered with as much loyalty and devotion as he could manage. Somehow even after all this time, she had never asked for his heart. Hero sometimes wondered if it was because they were still so young and she knew she had all the time in the world to ask for it. Perhaps she was waiting for the day he would be older and wouldn’t get so sheepish or tongue-tied whenever he tried to express his feelings. If Hero was being honest, he was looking forward to that day too…but he supposed it was more likely that Mari had never asked him for his heart because she knew she didn’t need to ask. It had always belonged to her. He knew Mari knew that. She had to know that. What he couldn’t say in words he practically screamed with offers to help with her chores or errands, with late night study sessions for the exams she stressed over or with hours spent cooking her favorite foods for her and carefully packing them into a basket for a picnic that, Hero was sorry to say, had just gotten rained out.

That was a lot of ramblings... Sorry about that. Thanks again for the ask. I hope you'll enjoy these snippets! Cheers! 💕

#there's a lot of heroxmari ones in here! 💙💜#which I don't think ever made it to my main blog actually 😅#omori fic snippets #writing excerpts ask game #thank you for the ask and for playing #omori spoilers

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chaoticgoodlawyerwrites · 8 months

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I've held off due to the general strike but now here's the tumblr preview for the final chapter of HSY! (Yes, last chapter because I thought this concluded the story better than what I had originally planned.) This chapter is under 7k words, so the next update will be the full chapter.

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Don’t get him wrong; he was happy to be married and that Binghe was happy and in love with him and… he really wanted to sleep.

He had rallied for their wedding night, anxious over his own appearance and wanting Binghe for himself in any case. But the night was certainly abbreviated by his own limitations. While Luo Binghe did his best to pamper and care for him, nothing he could have done would help Shen Qingqiu.

And thus he did his best to hide it from him.

While he missed his husbands, Shen Qingqiu slept like a rock the night before in Shang Qinghua’s preparation chambers, not even aware of Bingdi attempting to talk to him if he had tried. Somehow, the exhaustion was decreased but still there as Shen Qingqiu carefully painted Mobei-Jun’s huadian on Shang Qinghua’s forehead in wedding red, though he had charmed this particular blend to turn to blue with spiritual energy.

“Bro, you good?” Shang Qinghua asked, tone subdued.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Well, you’re quiet. And you haven’t even attempted to insult me in like twenty-four hours. I’m kinda worried about you?”

Shen Qingqiu paused in his careful work and looked at his friend. Shang Qinghua was chewing at his lip (thankfully only the inner part because if he had stained his teeth red so help him…!!!) and wringing his hands. His friend really was concerned when Shen Qingqiu was the last thing Shang Qinghua should be thinking about.

He sighed and cut his eyes to the side of the room where an imperial guard was standing sentry. “I’ve had a tiring few days,” he said.

SQQ: bro I’m 2 months pregnant. I’m tired and trying not to act like it.

SQH: ooooohhhhh my bad

SQQ: don’t worry about it

“If you say so,” Shang Qinghua said aloud. “Do you think everything is well out there?”

“I do. I also think it doesn’t matter if there’s a hiccup because Mobei-Jun is marrying you no matter what today. You’ve both waited long enough.”

“Haha, yeah. I guess we have.” Shang Qinghua looked off to the side and that made Shen Qingqiu hesitate in returning to their preparations.

They were running out of time for this, but they would wait for the bride. Not sure how long, in Mobei-Jun’s case, but everyone else would sit tight.

“You okay?”

“Yes! I’m very happy! Just…” Shang Qinghua sighed. “You know, before? I never thought I would get married and now I’m. I’m lucky my King loves me so.”

“Are you worried he’s going to change his mind with the Original?” Shen Qingqiu asked in English, getting to the point.

“No, but I worry that he should, you know?” Shang Qinghua responded. “He’s been hurt, so hurt, but understanding. We’ve been talking as much as he can stand, really. I’m doing my best to reassure him, but the reality won’t ever not be the truth. I’m marrying another version of him and it’s not like my arm is being twisted, is it? I just think he deserves better, but he chooses me and I’m so grateful that he does.”

“I get it,” Shen Qingqiu reassured him, because fuck, how could he not. “But guilt is useless and you both made your choices. Don’t let your guilt get in the way of your happiness, especially not when it compromises his happiness as well.”

Shang Qinghua narrowed his eyes at him. “And where was this attitude, oh, a year ago?”

Shen Qingqiu sighed, “Mu-shidi works hard. Once I was able to be completely honest with him, that was pretty much the first thing he told me. I’m working on believing that myself, but just because it’s difficult doesn’t make it true.”

His friend stared for a minute then gave a long, low whistle. “I know he doesn’t get paid like elsewhere, but give that man a raise.”

“He does deserve a sabbatical.”

“Not like he’ll take it for like. A while.” Shang Qinghua flicked his eyes down to Shen Qingqiu’s stomach and back up. Shen Qingqiu had no response but to sigh and finish touching up the makeup. “Hey, do you think he takes couples?”

“I think he would need to start prescribing himself if he did,” Shen Qingqiu said dryly and Shang Qinghua couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t move, dumbass.”

“Gods, can you imagine? He has his hands full with you. I think a peek into your husband’s mind would have the man running away screaming.”

“He’s not an actual psychologist, you know,” Shen Qingqiu said, not denying the idea. It was a miracle that either Luo Binghe was functional and relatively sane. “I was kinda taken on by necessity.”

“Necessity, he says. Bro, we’re remembering things differently.”

“Whatever. Stop deflecting and stay still so I can put this veil on you.”

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prouvaireafterdark · 2 years

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armand leaving louis or vice versa is also a contradiction btwn the books though. iwtv says armand left but in tvl he goes to lestat saying that louis is the one who's leaving him, plus whether armand made lestat believe louis was dead vs in iwtv the scene does not read like lestat thought louis was dead this whole time. again, a lot of this stuff is going to have to be sorted out by the show cause i really think it would make for bad tv to give one version and then retcon it later. for the books its understandable cause AR just hadn't figured she was planning to write a big series yet.

I'm sure they'll give us something that allows both versions to coexist somehow/is a blend of them so neither version is 100% right but both contain important truths that Daniel can have fun untangling

#interview with the vampire

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observeme · 6 months

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3/17

The vibes have been increasingly hostile these days. The vibe is a crowded train and you feel a little tug at your bag. The vibe is a scratchy sweater that's made of wool blended in with sweat. The vibe is coming home wine drunk with Athena about to crack out of your skull. The vibe is your friend's smile at the end of the night and her makeup is running. I often forget that I am on an ascension, that I too need a respite from it all.

My mind is racing with vigorous intellect and creativity. I think it's a bit overwhelming and hard to keep up with sometimes, I shut down and stare at my phone the entire day. My creative outlet has been writing here lately, I'm trying to keep it constant. My house has been smelling like menthol cigarettes. The bathroom is the worst.

I'm fascinated by death. I wonder where and how our ancestors started to believe the journey past death, an odyssey, another life to reach paradise and descent. I often decode the ambiguity from literature, I can sense the pain and struggle and the words flowing out of it. I try to tie it back to life. I often wonder how I would deal with the feeling of loss around me, I've been spoiled and was shielded by my parents from the pain and struggle of death and love. I've never attended any funerals, I'm scared of whose will be my first. I'm mostly scared it'll be my dad's.

I won't say much about my parents, especially not my dad. I don't know him well enough, but I can read straight through him somehow, he is a sad person. He's a heavy smoker. He likes nature. He likes to hike and go on long walks. I like joining him sometimes, and we talk about things that don't matter in this world. We talked about how he grew up frugal and I can still see the sadness of a 5 year old boy who deserved so much more. I think that's why he tries to give so much. I dare not tell him I understand.

I want to believe that there is meaning to it all. I also want to thrash out and cry and scream from this obsessive search for a deeper connection. Maybe I've been looking at the wrong direction, though. You just know the night is over when you're alone with an old man in the train and you guys are both painfully drunk and sad, and you sit next to him. He falls asleep on your shoulder and you fall asleep too. I think there's some truths I can learn from that. You see your stop and you get up. You give him a sad smile of farewell and march into nothingness. I feel eyes burning a hole into me and I hear my heels too loud, my hands smell like berry cigarettes and I'm longing for a home. A crisp night and the jitters come back. A soft voice whispering for me to look forward. I listen.

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washingmachinegirly · 1 year

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Love and War

All he ever wanted was to get the girl… and he got the girl alright. The boy slung her over his shoulder, carrying her in the field, to the big hole that he had dug up earlier. But it isn’t his fault, he swears! She was crazy, he had to.

Alex had met Monica 3 months ago and fell deeply in love with her, love at first sight some may say. Monica was the new girl in town and she embodied the popular girl-next-door persona. She had long, strawberry blonde hair and a smile that could light up the room. Every guy fell for Monica, and Alex was not an exception. He’d watch her from afar, always a few steps behind her. He’d linger in the corner, watching her talk to her friends, studying in the library, and running laps in gym class. Watching Monica during gym class was always his favorite activity.

But after a while, watching her was not enough. Alex wanted more. He NEEDED more. While Monica was in gym class, Alex would sneak into the girls’ locker room and find Monica’s school uniform. He’d lift the uniform up to his nose and sniff deeply. She smelled of sweet roses and peaches. After this, Alex couldn’t stop himself. He started following her to her house, memorizing the route she’d take home. Alex had always been sure to be careful. He thought of himself as fairly sneaky. He’d always stay a ways away from Monica and would always try to blend in with his surroundings. Despite all these precautions, Alex was still caught one day.

Following Monica as always, Alex stayed a couple of feet behind her. She looked as gorgeous as always, and Alex longed to smell her sweet perfume. Daringly, he got closer to her, hoping for the wind to blow the aroma towards him. They were close to Monica’s house, and if he were caught, it’d be quite obvious he was following her. He was so entranced by her that he didn’t even notice the jagged edges of the sidewalk. Unknowingly, he took a step forward and fell flat on his face. Much too embarrassed to feel the pain, Alex looked up and saw Monica staring at him with curiosity.

“...Hi.” Alex spoke with a cheeky, but nervous smile. Monica stared at him, raising an eyebrow before smiling.

“You’re cute,” She stated bluntly. “I think I’ve seen you in school before. Alex, right?”

Alex was dumbfounded. Was it not obvious he was following her? He stood up and brushed down his school uniform. Somehow unknowing, Monica continued their conversation, relating to Alex about how they’re both in the same anatomy class.

Unintentionally, this meetup led to Monica and Alex dating 3 months later. Although the couple seemed unlikely, they seemed to be madly in love. They would walk to class together, eat lunch together, almost sitting on top of each other, and in general would never leave each other alone. Half their peers thought the couple was adorable, while others agreed their display of affection was disgusting and odd. The lovebird’s relationship was unalike behind closed doors. In the beginning, both Alex and Monica were head-over-heels for each other, but 6 months later, one of them did not feel the same.

Alex wanted to fall in love with Monica, he really did. For a while, he thought he had. But he had mistaken his obsession as love. Months into the relationship, he had realized how much he didn’t like Monica. She was boring, basic, and needy. It was like her only personality trait was having a boyfriend. He was tired of always having her wrapped around his neck and knew he had to break this relationship up before she choked the truth out of him.

He couldn’t just break the relationship up by telling the truth though. He definitely couldn’t do that. He hadn’t seen it before, but looking at Monica now, he could see the glimmer of obsession and crazy in her eyes. He’s never seen Monica act like that, but he definitely doesn’t risk it now. Alex has spent far too much time concocting a plan, and he couldn’t wait it out any longer.

He had invited Monica over for another movie night at his house, which is very common for the couple. Before she had arrived, Alex had dug a hole in his backyard. Though odd, he swore there was logic to it. Expecting Monica to have an outburst, he wanted to have an area to dispose of anything she might break, so his parents would not be angry over broken matters. Monica had arrived half an hour ago and the couple had laid down on Alex’s bed, watching a movie from his TV. Alex swallowed his spit nervously as he rubbed his hands on pants. He had to do it now. He HAD to.

“…I think we should break up.”

So much for being cautious.

“ …What? …What are you talking about?” Monica asked while looking at him as if he had burned her.

“You can’t do that…! We’re perfect for each other!”

“I know Monica, but I’m falling behind in school and I don’t want you to feel like I’ve prioritized you below school.” He lied, leaning away from Monica.

“But babe! We can study together and I can help you! Don’t you want to be with me?”

Alex and Monica continued to argue amongst themselves, with Alex continuously lying while making his way downstairs, hoping to get Monica outside before any major outbursts. Slowly, they made it to the kitchen, Monica becoming more erratic.

“Don’t you love more anymore? You said you loved me. YOU LOVE ME RIGHT?” She screamed.

“NO. I DON’T. AND I DON’T THINK I EVER DID.”

The two teenagers stared at each other, both out of breath and wide-eyed. Alex looked at Monica and analyzed her. Her hair seemed rugged and her once sweet blue eyes seemed deranged. Her once sweet smile was turned into a small frown, before quickly twisting into a smile as her eyes looked off to the side. Before he could react, the girl grabbed a kitchen knife and pointed it towards him.

“You aren’t going to leave me Alex. You can’t. You’re mine Alex, and nobody else can have you. NO ONE.” She said as she slowly inched closer to him.

Okay. This was a little bit more than he had expected. Alex glanced around. There was no weapon to help him. He’d have to be strategic about this.

“O-of course babe… I love you!” He spoke, slowly inching towards Monica.

As he approached her, she slowly let her guard down, smiling at him. When he finally reached her, he held her hands, looked into her eyes, and pulled her into a hug. What Monica hadn’t noticed, was that he had taken the knife out of her hand and now had it held up to her back. Squeezing her tightly, he stabbed Monica in the back. She squirmed relentlessly, but he refused to let go until her body went limp. He let go of her and watched her body drop to the floor. He looked at the bloody knife in his hand, and his girlfriend’s lifeless body. Despite never liking Monica, Alex felt a certain bit of pride and arrogance wash over him as he thought,

“You’ll always be mine, Monica. Forever.”

#creative writing #drabble #creativewriting #yandere #tw yandere #tw #tw gore #tw death #tw violence #trigger warning

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alyjojo · 1 year

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The Current Karmic ☣️ Connection In Your Life - June 2023 - Libra

Who are they: The Lovers & 9 Pentacles

Your relationship with them: 3 Pentacles

What you’re learning from them: Page of Pentacles

What they’re learning from you: 10 Swords & Temperance

Future potential: 9 Wands

Overall energy: Page of Swords

Either way, this is an ex. I just can’t tell if this was a main person, or a side person. Not everyone has a cheating story, but for those that do, you’re the one being blamed for that. Some are separated for other reasons, which you’re being blamed for, because whatever situation it was caused 10 Swords in this other person’s back, and they are extremely wary and defensive of you. They do talk to you, maybe you’ve stayed friends, Page of Swords is gossip, chatting, back and forth conversation where truth is expressed. You know how stressed out they are, because they’ve told you. 9 Swords is mental anguish, worrying, ruminating, over and over again in someone’s mind. In both areas describing them are painful swords with Temperance, showing they’ve been deeply hurt by you and do not want to resurrect this connection. Temperance is patience, blending two opposite things or people in a harmonious way, this has been severed between you and they do not think it’s able to be fixed…showing that’s something you may be trying for, because it stresses them out, they can’t.

The Lovers & 9 Pentacles shows you both feeling an intense romantic bond, you know you’re meant to be in each others lives and initially that was romantic, but you’re separate now due to either cheating or deceptive things that led to an intense heartbreak & betrayal. Uranus being the planet here may show this was something sudden and unexpected, but it ended this connection forever as far as they’re concerned. You are working together though, cooperating, you could literally work together. Maybe have kids together. Or you’re just talking, and trying to cooperate, but in doing so, you’re holding back the things you’re defensive about that irritate you, because they’re the ones with this deep betrayal and heartbreak, so it’s like their side is more painful and you have to swallow yours. That’s not fair either, you have a side.

What you’re learning from them…how to apologize instead of continuing a toxic cycle of holding back your feelings and just waiting for people to “get over it” or heal without you confronting the issue somehow. You’re learning that doesn’t work, you have to be accountable, honor their feelings whether you agree or not and apologize. What they’re learning is 10 Swords & Temperance, they’ve already learned their lesson with you, it was a very painful one where they felt stabbed in the back and they have no intention of reuniting with you romantically. Though they do talk to you, 3rd House is communication, Page of Swords shows back and forth friendly communication, especially if you work together or have friends in common. So they’re nice, and also done. If other people were involved, for that story, that’s why. Otherwise it’s whatever betrayal happened between you, there’s no mending it. The future potential of this is 9 Wands, feeling cautious and guarded, but persevering towards an end. If you’re married, 6 Pentacles with Justice can be dividing assets & divorce. Both of these cards are fair, balanced, and equal, so whatever happened will end that way. This doesn’t feel like someone that wants to screw you over, but they will do things in the most fair way for everyone. Still talking to you, maybe about arrangements, separation, finances, custody, or just reaffirming their boundaries on this being done, which isn’t easy for them either, but the thought of reconciling and giving this another chance is out of the question with 9 & 10 Swords.

Zodiac messages:

URANUS - LEO - 3RD HOUSE

- An unusual example of self-confidence of create your ideas

- A different way of looking at taking a chance on short-term thinking and trips

- An unexpected change resulting from the impressiveness of who and what is around you

Possible signs:

Gemini 💯 Libra, Scorpio, Capricorn, Leo, Sagittarius & Virgo

#karmic does not mean bad #it means they come with a lesson #and so do you #karmic #relationship #karmic connection #libra tarot reading #June 2023 #Libra #tarot #tarotblr

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nickgerlich · 1 year

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Start Me Up

One of the most powerful forces in the world is music. It is something that shapes our lives, to the extent that Daniel Levitin wrote of it in 2006 in “This Is Your Brain On Music.” In it he explained how the music of our pubescent youth—you read that right—becomes the music that defines the rest of our years. It is my music, and when I hear those tunes from the magical music years of my life, I am instantly swept away to a different place.

It explains why restaurants and stores use music as part of their atmospherics. I swear that the Walmart near me plays music over the PA that best matches the demographics of those people likely to be shopping in certain time slots. I tend to visit there around 3pm most days, and I hear an upbeat blend of classic rock, from the Beatles to CCR. It gets people humming and singing along. And—here’s the best part—in the mood to spend.

Movies and TV shows are also guilty of licensing songs, the hooks that sink deeply into viewers and help them relate better to what is on the screen. Of course, it’s all about your target audience, because you probably don’t want to be spinning G-Eazy when your aging Boomer target craves some Journey.

And then there is the music that somehow manages to transcend time. The Rolling Stones are one of only a handful of artists whose music is still just as hot today as it was—wait for it—61 years ago. They have a lot in common with successful marketers, giving people exactly what they want.

I laughed out loud when I read of the new partnership between Keurig and the Stones for a limited edition iced coffee kit. The machine is emblazoned with the Stones’ familiar Hot Lips logo. Oh, and what music, you ask?   “Start Me Up,” of course, their 1981 hit from the Tattoo You album.

But but but…didn’t the Stones also license that song to another marketer many years ago? You would be right if you said “Yes.” Back in 1995, when Microsoft was readying the launch of Windows 95, they licensed the same song. I suppose the Keurig people were thinking that if it could help sell an operating system, surely it could help sell an iced coffee maker.

The Stones were accused of being sell-outs, though. This was long before artists who have recently been selling their entire catalog of music and lyrics to publishing houses to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars. I guess we’ve just accepted the fact that these artists can do whatever they darn well please. And maybe they really are going to take it with them when they die.

As for the Stones, though, these guys are so old they’re not even Baby Boomers. Both Mick Jagger and Keith Richards will turn 80 this year. Here’s the crazy part: While we have witnessed that the life expectancy of a hard-rocking musician is somewhere between 65 and maybe 72, Mick and Keith are proving that means are just the calculated average of an array of numbers, some big and some small.

These guys are still crushing it, too, and Keurig was wise to partner with the Stones, just in time for Father’s Day. It is marketing gold meets marketing gold, Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig on the same team. Keurig redefined how we drink coffee at home, in the office, and in hotels. Never mind the inconvenient truth about all that K-Cup trash, it’s just a heck of a lot easier to make your coffee a cup at a time. And the Stones are just so good that, well, I think the Super Bowl better hire them one more time for a halt-time appearance while they still can.

If you’re looking for a gift for the old man, this might just be the ticket. It’s $140. Maybe I should send this blog to my daughters, and if you are a family man, feel free to do likewise. Because you sure don’t want to hear any of us old guys singing about how we can’t get no satisfaction.

Dr “I Try And I Try And I Try” Gerlich

Audio Blog

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bluesboozeandbooks · 2 years

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This is my wife, Sarah. In so many ways, our paths crossing was both divinely inspired and a complete accident.

In the summer of 2017 I was on an Amtrak train heading back from Pittsburgh visiting my sister. Picture it. A 7:30am departure; me in traveling clothes, doo rag and a fedora. I stumble into a seat behind a woman talking into her cell phone. Right before I passed out I heard “Dad…I think I left my wallet in your car.”

“Sucks to be her,” I thought as sleep claimed me.

I woke up some time later, mouth and chin glistening with drool and caught her standing up to retrieve something from the overhead compartment. We caught eyes. She smiled at me. I smiled back. “Ohhhh she’s gorgeous,” I remember thinking. The train was moving again. Back to my nap.

The next time I opened my eyes she was gone. Kinda bummed but not fully awake, I didn’t think much of it. Moments later as the train approached the midway point of the journey, I felt someone plop into the seat next to me. It was her.

Let me admit right here and now that I have no game whatsoever. None. Imagine me wracking my tired brain for something clever to say that didn’t make me sound like a total nerd or a complete stalker. So I went with the most ancient conversation-starter of all time.

“Man, the weather outside is beautiful. Pretty arctic in here though”. I felt like an idiot. To my surprise she turned to me with that same smile from before and…. four hours later when we finally pulled into the station, the conversation was still going.

I gave her every phone number and email address I had before we got off that train. Somehow that 4-hour long conversation awoke something in me. I couldn’t get enough. We met up for a date the next day and the rest, as they say, is history…

Our journey together has been a wild ride. We have a blended family. Teenagers. Jobs. Goals and dreams both individual and collective. So there’s never a dull moment in the Reeves family…. and always lessons to be learned. Here’s the top two this journey with Sarah has taught me.

- Do the work: On yourself, and the relationship. Forget the butterflies. The flowers and chocolate covered strawberries. The pheromones. True love (not the puffed up kind they write into movies) is a choice you make every day to show up, be present and do what is necessary. Hollywood only shows the fun part. I get it. The fun part sells movies. But the truth is love is fucking difficult. It’s beautiful, mesmerizing, heart warming and all those things. It is also work. No way around it.

- Listen to your spouse: Women in particular have a scarily accurate intuition and wisdom that is far too often ignored, to our detriment and peril. If you are blessed to have a good partner by your side, listen to him/her. Read that again.

Our story is living proof of what’s possible when two people open their hearts to each other regardless of what life dishes out. It’s the kind of love we all seek and very few of us ever find.

In May of this year, Sarah and I got married.

#married life #love #summer2022

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piraticalwit · 2 years

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Why is Killian so obsessed with Christmas jumpers?

you know what, if asked this question he'd say that christmas jumpers remind him of when he was a lad in Ireland. He slides one on, all scratchy cotton and horrendous pictures, and suddenly he's back on that threadbare couch, blue eyes alight with the multicolored bulbs that decorate their tree. Sometimes its real, prickly spines of green that leave sticky remnants of sap whenever he runs his fingers across from them, other times its a craft his mum puts together with different items she has around the house, averting her gaze when his father stumbles home, smelling of the local pub and docks, greeting hours of work with a snide comment and a roll of his eyes. Those pesky jumpers and that annoying hat that sits crooked on a head of brown hair bring forth a laugh for the first few years of his life that's genuine, the promise of magic and things to come enough to chase away the ghosts that lurk just outside. One day, it stops. No more trees, the ornaments Killian worked so hard on stay packed inside a closet until their corners peel and the paper fades with age and the smell of pine is replaced with dust and cobwebs that gather in the corners and his jumpers become too small for his growing frame until they stop fitting altogether, no matter how he tugs on the hems. When he finally leaves his childhood home behind, he's past the hope that tales of Christmas had offered, but he breathes life into his mother's traditions, hoping that somewhere she watches and smiles.

The truth? He hears people say things annoy them and he just legitimately cannot move past it. christmas jumpers seem to be a huge one. also he's kind of a nerd so he does have a good time collecting absolutely crazy fandom ones. the final stage in his getting James into a jumper plan is a genius one honestly. The setting: one of their regular pub visits. Nothing out of the oridnary. Christmas is approaching and Killian throws in a sigh every now and then, little crooked grins that speak of some buried emotional upheaval. James gets a slight bit concerned (interested?), yeah? Killian faced owing the russian mafia with far more enthusiasm and after a few drinks he spins the tale I said above and lets out a heavy sigh. It ends with something along the lines of "Sorry, mate. I just .. bloody hell. I guess I was just tired of feeling so alone. But that's on me, not on you. Forgive me?" and James fucking caves right there and they make plans to wear the jumpers to work on the same day and the day comes and Killian doesn't. Merry christmas, mate !!

#headcanon. the man is not wholly evil he has a thesaurus in his cabin.#JDHFJH THIS FIRST PART HAD ME I'M NOT GONNA LIE #me despite the fact i know its a crock of crap: this poor traumatized bastard #though the truth i think is somehow a blend of both.

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tired-reader-writer · 2 years

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Shapur didn't think today could've gotten any stranger, truth be told.

One moment he'd just found out Isfan and his mother had been cast out into the mountain, the next he rode out alone to go fetch them, only to find them both surrounded by wolves and Isfan held in a young man's arms.

The man's face, indulgent and gentle towards the toddler, hardened the moment he laid his eyes on Shapur, then drew a blade and pointed it at him.

“Have you come to finish them off?” he asked, wolves growling behind him.

Shapur looks at him now, digging a grave under a large, dark tree adorned in bone-white snow. The same shade of white as his hair, he notes somewhat absently, a warm bowl in his hand. The soup poured from the waterskin is still somehow warm even in this cold weather— how strange. It couldn't have been a short trip, or else he would've made it in time to save Golnar as well.

And the wolves...

Isfan is cooing at one, reaching out a small hand to touch the nose. The wolf moves closer, allowing the boy to touch it. It licks Isfan with a rough tongue, making the boy laugh.

The man turns to meet his eyes, face much kinder than it was mere moments before. “Did you know her name?”

“Golnar,” he answers readily, and his heart does a little leap at how the man's eyes lit with approval.

“Golnar,” he echoes. “Thank you.”

Shapur looks at her, wrapped in a pale shroud. The man's cloak, that he gave up without complaint.

His heart aches for Isfan, for both of them. She didn't deserve to die like this, and Isfan doesn't deserve to lose his mother at such a young age.

If only he'd done more for them, if only he could've protected them, if only, if only...

He is brought out of his thoughts when the man sings, a voice soft yet strong, resonating in cold crisp air as if he sings to the mountains themselves and the mountains sing back, soft-packed earth and sunlit snow and naked branches. As if there's a thousand singers, thousand and one, overlapping and saturating the air like ocean waves, but there is only one singer and none other.

With deep-dark soil and half-melted snow still on his hands the man has the heel of his palms pressed together, one up and one down... It's a gesture Shapur has never seen before, just like he's never heard the song either. He knows none of the words too— a foreign language, he realizes. But they're still in Pars, in the Elburz mountains of the north. This should feel wrong, this should feel out of place, nothing is familiar.

And yet, and yet...

And yet Shapur feels at ease. It's comforting, even, though he doesn't know why. The song has made a home in his bones and warmed him from within, the wintry winds won't reach them here.

He listens, in silence, closing his eyes and adding a Parsian prayer in his thoughts. He may not be able to follow along a foreign song, but this he can do.

The man's prayers blend with his, and the wolves start to sing too. A mournful, restless howl— their voices join the chorus and his own thoughts, together making the song full and complete.

After they'd lowered her into the grave, he belatedly realizes that he hadn't asked the man his name. He takes a deep breath, uttering the question though his voice comes out shakier than he'd have liked.

“What is your name, kind stranger?”

The man looks up from where he kneels, smoothing the earth with his hands, as if startled. A heartbeat passes, and he answers, softly, “Ayunnen.”

“Ayunnen...” He tastes the name on his lips. What an unusual name. “I am named Shapur. And this boy... Isfan. My half-brother.”

“Yes, so you told me.” He smiles.

Daylight dwindles above them, the sun's rays fading behind soft grey clouds, taking with them what little warmth they had before this point.

“You best head back now, if you hope to make it home by night. Dusk is coming, and soon it will be nightfall.”

“Come with me,” Shapur says suddenly, clutching the now asleep child in his arms. “Come work for me. You will be rewarded, and provided for. Gorgan could use someone like you.”

“I cannot,” the young man replies, fondness in his eyes. “I will not.”

“Why?”

“Things I must do, people I must protect.” Ayunnen turns to stare deep into the woods. Does his home lie there? What does he see that I don't? “People like Isfan,” he says, and then looks at the fresh grave before them. “People like her.”

He stares at the grave, a sharp pang of pain stabbing through his chest. Like her, like them. Has he had experience with this? Is that why he was so ready to cross blades with Shapur, so sure that he was a hunter sent to finish them off? Tears cloud his vision, unbidden, and there's something lodged in his chest.

He almost jolts out of his skin when a gentle hand cups his cheek. “I can't come with you,” Ayunnen says. “This is for the both of us. Please understand.”

He cannot answer.

Neither of them acknowledge the tears shed silently.

That was their first meeting.

It was not the last.

---

The next time he sees Ayunnen, it's a year later, almost two— when the leaves turn gold and trees have begun to shed them for the coming winter.

He would oft ride up the mountains all alone, in search of the kind stranger that would not leave his mind—

I've finally found you again. I've been searching all this time.

There he is, seated underneath a hornbeam tree, birds nesting in its foliage and singing alongside his own song. The song has a light, airy sort of quality to it, the sound of strings filling the air with sweetness.

The wolves were nowhere to be seen, though, which he finds odd.

Ayunnen's face blooms into a gentle smile when he sees Shapur. “It's you,” he says. “Where is your little one?”

“Home,” he says, “My parents aren't there, and my men will keep him safe.”

Ayunnen pats the spot next to him. “Come sit.”

They talk.

They talk about Isfan, about their days, about mundane things, anything and everything at all. He wed a girl he's loved since childhood. Isfan's growing healthy and strong. There's a small group of bandits seeking to cause trouble. Did you know that the wolves belonged to my wife, actually?

Their conversation is more than words. It's the smiles, the gentle shrugs and the light in their eyes. The content of the conversation itself ceases to matter anymore, only that they're here, next to each other.

They fall silent afterwards, as silent as they can be with birdsong and music in the air, as silent as can be with the rustling of leaves and the whisper of the wind... Even without words this feels comfortable.

He stares at Ayunnen, his gentle hands and gentler voice, humming softly as he idly played his oud.

“Come with me,” Shapur asks again. “Come with me to Gorgan.”

Ayunnen looks at him, fingers halting on the strings. He shakes his head. “You know I cannot, Shapur.”

“They will be protected too,” he pleads. “Gorgan will care for them.”

He will make certain that it shall be the case. Ayunnen, his wife, and whoever's up there that he's sheltered and provided for. He swears it, in the deeps of his mind. They will be safe. They will be.

“You know it can never be. You can't put Gorgan in conflict with the entirety of Pars, can you?”

“That's—”

“It's more than just sheltering a handful of people, Shapur. These are escaped slaves, victims of cruelty and abuse— and Pars was the one who wounded them. Taking us in will put you at odds with the country itself.”

Shapur's words die in his throat. There it is, the truth he hadn't been able to face. His father's lack of care and his mother's cruelty, they were not things unique to only them, or one-off events— no, the problem runs deeper and deeper still, the country he loves from his core hurting its own people.

People like Isfan. People like her, Ayunnen had said back then. People I must protect.

How many more? How many people like them are out there? How many had been saved, and how many had not been? He feels a hand in his hair, tucking away the frayed edges of his mind, grounding him in a way he's never been before.

“Ayunnen, who's that?”

Shapur's head snaps up. It's a boy, younger than them— fifteen at most, cat-like eyes squinting warily at Shapur. When did he get here? He didn't hear anything— The boy's arms bear winding patterns of bright bold colours, not unlike the fallen leaves of this season. He spots the design of a leaping cat. Painted on? Tattoos, perhaps?

“Where's your sister, Kazai?” he says, smiling. “And he's my friend. I met him two winters ago.”

“The one with the little brother?”

“The one with the little brother. Kaz—”

“Oh!” the boy— Kazai— brightens. “So it's you! How's your little one? I was so surprised to hear Ayunnen didn't bring him home, y'know? That's never happened before.”

“Uh... He is well—”

“Why are you up here, by the way? Chasing another brother up these slopes? What about your brother? Will he be alright?”

“I came here to look for Ayunnen, actually,” he says, barely processing the sudden onslaught of conversation. “I wanted to thank him.”

“Ah, Ayu shoulda told you there's no need. It's our job and all that.”

“Your job?”

“You didn't know? We look after these parts. Somebody always winds up—”

“Kazai, where is Kashi?” Ayunnen interjects, with the practiced patience of someone who's used to dealing with him a hundred times or more.

“Hm? Oh yeah. She was moping around, like usual, y'know? Then she suddenly got up and hopped into the woods. She said she wanted honey.”

“Oh dear.” He doesn't even look the slightest bit surprised.

“You know how she is, Ayu. She probably had the epiphany of her life or something.”

Kashi. Ayunnen mentioned her. His wife, and the master of the wolves. Whenever Ayunnen mentioned her his voice was full of warmth. She has blue eyes, he said, deep and dark as the midnight sky. Her head is always full of thoughts, and her hands are strong. This boy must be her brother. Ayunnen said he was bit like a whirlwind, that one, and Shapur can't say he disagrees.

He watches them talk, not sure when he should say anything but also not wanting to anyways. It's a warm sight, and soft. He'd like to watch this forever if he could. Which...

“Oh Araya's boots— I'm gonna be a man next year, y'know?”

“No, Kazai.” Ayunnen flicks his forehead, evidently stifling a laugh. “You'll always be our precious boy.”

“Why must you be like thi—”

Shapur takes a deep breath. “Will you not consider my offer?” He sends Ayunnen a look, hoping it conveys his sincerity enough.

“My answer will not change, Shapur,” Ayunnen says, sadness in his brown eyes. “Why don't we head back now? You too, Shapur. Surely your little one must miss you.”

“Is there really nothing you will accept from me?”

“I wouldn't say so, no.”

“Then what can I give you that you won't refuse?” What will he ask for? They don't seem like people who'd ask for riches and rewards, and he awaits the answer with bated breath.

“The promise to nurture your brother, safe and sound.”

He can't help but wilt. “Is that all?”

“And I'd like to be your friend.” Ayunnen gives him a warm smile. “You are a good fellow.”

Shapur blinks. “Will we meet again?” To become friends... surely they will, right? And maybe finally he'd be able to do something for them when they are friends.

“If you wish. Only, don't wander in blindly, it's easy to lose your way in these woods.”

He feels his cheeks warm a little. “You knew?”

“I had a feeling. Oh, and try not to come too often. We'd like to avoid... prying eyes, so to speak.”

And his heart's back to being heavy again. Anger roils, deep beneath the surface— oh, not at him, never at them, but at the whole situation itself, and his own helplessness.

If only I can do more...

“I understand,” he makes himself say. They'll be safe if they're by his side, he is sure of it. He just needs to make them see it. “Then... I shall see you again.”

---

They continue meeting like this.

Their meetings aren't planned, and they often miss each other, but that just makes the times they actually run into each other all the more precious. The hornbeam tree becomes the first place he goes to find them, and often he does find them there— though sometimes they'd run into each other elsewhere.

Like today, for instance.

“Hah, when will those guys learn?”

“They need ta stop tryna invade our turf. That's just rude.”

“Well at least the fight's done and over with today. Ahhh, the noise probably chased our game away, damn the jerks.”

“Oy, Kashi, ya ain't coming?”

“You lot go on ahead. I'll catch up later.”

The blood-red blooms of poppies and tulips have begun to wane, as spring goes by and summer approaches. Under the dappled sunlight among the boughs and bright green leaves, he rode up in hopes of finding them today, only to run into a skirmish between Kashi's people and a group of bandits— a cacophony of battle-cries and metal-on-metal and the cries of crows.

“Well, if yer sure.” The man gives Shapur an uncertain glance before walking away, his friends in tow.

He stepped in to help, but really they didn't need it. Under Kashi's lead the group fought bravely, and the bandits had been soundly defeated, even as the bandits outnumbered the hunters and they were fighting on difficult terrain.

The crows certainly helped, in any case, swooping down and taking eyes.

Kashi's strength was nothing to scoff at, either. If only she were born a man, outside these mountains and in a good enough household, she might've become a marzban.

They're both seated on a log, Kashi pouring something into a small wooden bowl, intricately carved. She's in her armor, as she always is, worn over dark long-sleeves.

“Here.” She hands the bowl to him. The scent of tea hits his nose.

“Thank you.”

They fall into a comfortable silence. The crows are probably up in the canopy above— He may not see them but he hears them. Ayunnen's crows, as the wolves are Kashi's. Summer light dances on them, on the earth under their feet. Kashi's chewing on some nuts, eyes staring somewhere faraway. No doubt her mind is wandering elsewhere.

“Is this a regular occurrence?”

“Hm?” She blinks and turns to him. “Want some nuts?”

“No, thank you,” he says. “The bandits, I meant. Do they come often?” He will have to dispatch some men to help deal with it, if that's the case.

“Sometimes. They were quieter before but I think they're getting restless. They want control over these parts.”

“I see...” He supposes it makes sense— In the southern parts of Pars the Zott clan reigns stronger than the rest, but one would be hard-pressed to find a clan like that here up north. The clans are smaller, more scattered— it's no surprise that one of them may try to claim supremacy. He ought to do something about it.

“It's a mess. The other night we found a wreck of a caravan. Only a kid lived.”

“Only the child?” His stomach churns at the thought. “How are they now?”

“Only one. We were looking for other survivors, if there are any— No such luck yet, sadly,” she says, gulping down a mouthful of tea. “In shock, that poor soul. Ayunnen has him, he'll settle down soon enough. Oh, that kid. He's about the same age as your boy, actually.”

Shapur blinks. “He is?”

“Probably. Looks like five or six at most. He was shaking and hiding, and he thought me a bandit too.”

He imagines Isfan in that boy's position, alone and scared in the dark of the night, and feels bile rising up. No. He will not allow it to happen. Never. He doesn't even want to entertain the mere idea of it.

He decides to divert his mind instead. “How are they?”

“Kazai and Ayunnen?”

“Who else?”

Kashi snorts. “Well, that's my bad,” she says, “Ayunnen's working on new weaves. Sehara and Tulnokhi started moulting, you see.” She pops more nuts in her mouth. “Kazai's back home too. I left him there to take care of Ayunnen and Gieve— that's the boy we found the other night, by the way— and well, the usual. Climbing everything that can be climbed, making mischief.”

“The boy is in good hands.”

“He is.” Kashi smiles fondly. “How are things on your end? You look tired.”

“That's...” He sighs, looking ahead, into the deep green woods. “I am the lord of the castle now.”

He can't see her, but he can imagine her eyebrows going up. “Truly?”

“Yes. My father passed.”

Kashi sucks in a sharp breath. He looks at her. She isn't looking at him, only ahead, somewhere beyond these woods.

After a long silence, she says, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

She says no more.

His father... When Shapur was a boy, he looked up to his father like any little boy would. He thought his father strong and just, the pinnacle of what he should strive to be, but... it turned out to be untrue. The older he grew the further the gap between them became... Until his father sired Isfan and refused to do anything for his little brother.

Things were irreparable by that point.

He still doesn't know what he should feel, truth be told. The man was callous and uncaring, but his father all the same.

“Won't you come with me?” He is the lord of Gorgan now, with more authority than he had before as the heir. They've always steadily rejected his offers, but maybe now...

“Have you gone mad? You'll only earn enemies if we do.”

“That is untrue,” he insists. “My name shall protect you. You shall be safe, as well as your people. You will have resources and safety more than ever. Why do you not see it?”

“Listen here, Shapur. You can't lift an entire village and drop it in your castle. You're a young lord, new to the scene. This will just cause unnecessary conflict and headaches for you.”

“You can leave the village. I will make sure it is looked after, I swear it. Surely the three— no, four of you can come to Gorgan?”

The gaze she gives him is stern and harsh. “We're watchers of the mountains, the mountains sheltered us in our time of need and we serve it in turn, and take in people like us too. We swore it, an oath before the Heart Tree.”

He bristles. “I am saying you need not confine yourself to this remote place— your oath can still be fulfilled from within the castle too. You will have easier access to resources, even!”

“At what cost? A target will be placed on your back, larger and bolder than any other. You're already shouldering many a responsibility, ruling a castle and protecting your brother. Adding more would only make you trip and fall.”

“I can handle it.”

“Can you? What will you do when some lord or slaver inevitably kicks up a fuss about the escaped slaves, branded or otherwise, under your protection? They will be in no less danger than before, and you and your brother will be placed in more trials to boot. Protecting one person is different from... from this, you ought to know.”

He cannot say anything. What would he do? He racks his brain for a solution, anything that might convince her, but there is only darkness and silence.

“Shapur.”

He has nothing to say. How can he meet her eyes?

“Hey.” He voice quiets. Softens. “I know you're just trying to help. All three of us do.”

“But Shapur.” She lays her hand on his thigh. “You ought to know that some things... they're out of our reach. Trust me, I've thought of saving everyone. Dreamt of it. Wept for it.”

“You have?” His voice is hoarse.

“I have. I learnt it, the hard way. That sometimes there's truly nothing you can do. You don't go out and wave your sword at a storm.”

“...What happened?”

She looks up at the sky, an indescribable look in her eyes. Haunted, gaze even farther and more faraway than usual. “I don't want to talk about it,” she whispers. “Not now. Not today. Maybe someday, I'll tell you, but...” She shakes her head. “Those guys must be wondering where I am.” She stands up. “What I was saying is, don't beat yourself up for not being able to do more for us. The situation is well out of your hand, well out of our hands. Being friends, like this... That's enough. So don't ask again. We want you safe too.”

He stands up too. What does he say to this? The heaviness in his heart, the feeling of helplessness, the clawing edge of wanting to do more, none of that has gone away. They still churn, they still burn, bright and hot and sharp.

“...I understand,” he says instead. The words taste like ash on his tongue.

“I'll get going. You should too.”

“Alright.”

He watches her retreating back with a heavy heart.

It is his duty to protect his people— the people of Pars— and they're counted among them too. Or they should be, they should. And yet there's not a thing he can do...

He stands there, for a long time, even after she's nowhere in sight anymore.

What can I do? a small voice inside him cries. Why won't you let me help?

But Shapur, Kashi's voice resounds in his head.

You ought to know

That some things...

They're out of our reach.

The skies darken and the world turns grey— rain is coming, and he needs to head home.

He sighs, turning around to where his horse stands in wait.

“I'm sorry for making you wait,” he murmurs softly. “Let's go home.”

#Winds of Wolfsong #Wolfpack AU #Shapur #Ayunnen (OC)#Kashi (OC)#Kazai (OC)#arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #heroic legend of arslan #rotten egg's shitty writing #how long is this I don't even know #the mood kinda got derailed my bad #Kashi's part...#oops

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