#with the physiological features | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mahalachives · 22 days ago

Text

Part 2: The Reluctant Villain

TW: Mention of suicide

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Morning came with amber light filtering through stained glass, painting warm patterns across your skin.

Your dreams had been filled with burning hands and screaming servants, but beneath the horror lurked memories of your real life—white hospital walls and the antiseptic smell of disinfectant.

"Rise and shine, my lady," Briar chirped, pulling back heavy curtains. Golden light flooded the chamber, making dust motes dance like tiny faeries. "Lord Eris sent word that the Night Court delegation arrives by midday."

You groaned softly into silk pillows scented with cinnamon and smoke. "Already?" The pillowcase felt impossibly soft against your cheek—another reminder of how different this world was from yours.

"Indeed! And he's arranged weapons training to help restore your... equilibrium." Briar's fingers trembled slightly as she laid out your clothing, though less so than yesterday.

Weapons training.

Exactly what every nursing student needed—instructions on how to efficiently disembowel magical beings. You thought of your anatomy textbooks and wondered if Fae physiology was similar enough for your knowledge to be useful. At least in a way that didn't involve killing.

"Can't I claim I'm still unwell?" you asked, your voice gentle despite your reluctance.

Briar's silence spoke volumes. When you looked up, her face was horrified, eyes wide with genuine fear.

"My lady," she whispered, glancing nervously at the door as if afraid someone might be listening, "never let Lord Beron hear you suggest weakness. Not after Lord Tallan."

You felt a chill despite the warm morning. "What happened to Lord Tallan?"

Briar shook her head minutely. "It is not spoken of. But the screaming lasted three days."

Right. The mysterious Lord Tallan. Probably set on fire for sneezing incorrectly. You made a mental note to never, ever show weakness around Beron.

"Of course not," you sighed, your lips curving into a small, wry smile. "How foolish of me."

"Lord Eris also said appearances must be maintained." Briar emphasized these words carefully, as if reciting them exactly as they had been told to her.

You noticed her fingers trembled less than yesterday as she helped you dress in supple leather training clothes that felt like a second skin. The craftsmanship was exquisite—another reminder that whatever else this world might be, its beauty was undeniable.

"What exactly happens when the Night Court arrives?" you asked, pulling on boots that laced halfway up your calves.

Briar's expression lightened slightly. "Oh, the usual diplomatic theatre. Thinly veiled threats, ancestral grudges aired like cherished heirlooms, and enough alcohol to make it slightly less excruciating."

You laughed softly, the sound surprisingly melodic in this body's throat. "You're funny."

Briar froze, her eyes widening in alarm. "I—I didn't mean—"

"Relax," you said gently, touching her shoulder with instinctive compassion. The same way you'd reassure a nervous patient. "I'm not going to hurt you for being honest. Ever."

Her expression cycled through confusion, suspicion, and cautious relief. She studied your face carefully, as if trying to read a language she only half-understood.

"You really are different," she murmured.

"Perhaps I am," you admitted. "But it'll be our secret. Otherwise..." You cast about for something appropriately menacing. "I'll turn your toes into... roasted chestnuts?"

Briar's lips twitched despite her obvious effort to remain solemn. "Not your best, my lady, but I appreciate the seasonal theme."

When her fingers brushed yours as she handed you a leather band for your hair, she didn't flinch.

Progress.

You caught your reflection in a mirror as you prepared to leave— Beautiful, but with a predatory edge that felt foreign to your gentle nature. No wonder poor Briar had been terrified of you.

The eastern courtyard blazed with autumn colors. Trees with impossibly vibrant foliage surrounded a training area of packed earth. The air smelled of woodsmoke and fallen leaves, crisp and invigorating.

Eris stood waiting, magnificent in training leathers that emphasized his lean, powerful frame. Unlike Beron's cold malevolence, Eris carried himself with calculating precision—a blade rather than a bludgeon.

"Ah, sister," he called, amber eyes assessing you with the same careful scrutiny as yesterday. "Ready to remember who you are?"

There was a double meaning in his words—a warning, perhaps, or a genuine question.

You wondered, not for the first time, how much he suspected.

"Always," you replied, approaching with graceful steps, surprising yourself with how natural it felt in this body. Your borrowed muscles moved with fluid ease, as if simply walking was a form of lethal dance.

Eris gestured to a weapon rack displaying an assortment of blades that gleamed in the autumn sunlight. "Choose."

As your eyes scanned the deadly array, one name echoed strangely in your mind.

Azriel.

An inexplicable warmth bloomed in your chest, like the golden hour of sunset captured in feeling. The sensation was so unexpected that you almost missed a step.

You selected the smallest dagger with a golden-leafed hilt, its weight unfamiliar but somehow right in your palm.

Eris raised an eyebrow. "The ceremonial dagger? Not your usual battleaxe?"

You tried not to show your alarm at the revelation that your body's previous occupant favored something as brutish as a battleaxe. It seemed fitting with everything else you'd learned about her.

"I'm focusing on precision today," you improvised, your voice soft but steady. "Sometimes the smallest wounds cut deepest."

Something flickered in Eris's eyes—not quite approval, but perhaps reassessment. "Indeed," he murmured.

Without warning, he lunged forward, his movement a blur of deadly grace.

Your body moved before your mind caught up, sidestepping with inhuman speed. The dagger felt suddenly right, an extension of your arm rather than a foreign object. Muscle memory, you realized. This body remembered what your mind did not.

For several moments, you let that memory guide you through an intricate dance of blades. Eris pushed harder, faster, and remarkably, you kept pace—until your human consciousness asserted itself, wondering at the physical impossibility of what you were doing.

The moment's hesitation cost you. You landed hard on your back, Eris's blade at your throat.

"Sloppy," he commented, though genuine confusion flickered in his amber eyes. "Your form was perfect until you... what? Forgot how to walk?"

"Momentary distraction," you murmured, accepting his outstretched hand. His grip was firm but not cruel—another small difference from what you might have expected.

"Distraction gets you killed," he replied sharply. "Especially with the Night Court. Their shadowsinger could slit your throat before you even sensed him."

Shadowsinger. The term sent another peculiar flutter through your chest, like butterfly wings against your ribs. A fleeting image flashed behind your eyes—hazel eyes flecked with gold, shadows coiling like smoke.

"Their shadowsinger," you repeated, trying for casual but hearing a note of interest in your voice. "Azriel, right?"

Eris gave you an odd look, his head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Since when do you struggle to remember the name of the male you once tried to burn alive?"

Your stomach dropped like a stone. "I—I did what?"

"During the war. You caught him alone near our borders." Eris's voice was matter-of-fact, as if recounting something unremarkable. "His wings still bear the scars where your flames touched them before Cassian intervened." He studied you, something calculating in his gaze. "You bragged about it for months. Said it was the sweetest sound you'd ever heard, his wings crackling."

Horror flooded through you, though you managed to keep your expression neutral with effort. What kind of monster had occupied this body? Your natural compassion recoiled at the thought of such deliberate cruelty.

"I just like to hear how others tell the story," you lied softly, fighting the urge to apologize for something you hadn't done.

Eris watched you for a moment longer, then stepped back into fighting stance. "Again," he commanded.

This time, you consciously surrendered to the body's instincts, letting your mind drift slightly. The result was immediate—your movements flowed like water, precise and deadly. Each strike perfectly balanced, each block timed with inhuman precision.

A small crowd of servants had gathered at a safe distance, their expressions ranging from fear to fascination. You noticed Briar among them, watching with wide eyes.

"Better," Eris conceded after a particularly complex exchange left you breathless but exhilarated. "Now, let's add fire."

His dagger erupted in golden flame that somehow didn't melt the metal or burn his hand. The heat washed over you like a physical caress, reminding you that elemental magic was as natural as breathing to these beings.

You stared at your own blade, willing flame to ignite.

Come on, fire. Burning. Heat. Nothing happened.

"Problem, sister?" Eris's voice carried an edge, but beneath it—concern?

"Just... conserving energy for the Night Court," you improvised quickly.

"Since when do you conserve anything?" Eris scoffed, though his eyes remained watchful. "You once set an entire forest ablaze because a deer startled you."

You suppressed a wince. An environmental disaster in addition to everything else. Lovely.

Closing your eyes, you searched for that wellspring of power you'd glimpsed yesterday. There—a warm current beneath your consciousness, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. But unlike yesterday, when fear had guided you, you focused on healing, on warmth that restored rather than destroyed.

Heat tingled down your arm like liquid sunlight.

When you opened your eyes, your dagger was encased in... pink fire.

Eris stared at the rosy flames as if you'd suddenly sprouted a second head. "Pink? PINK?"

"It's... hotter than regular fire," you improvised, smiling sweetly. "More efficient."

The flames seemed to respond to your amusement, reshaping themselves into a small, hopping rabbit with impossibly delicate ears and a fluffy tail. It pranced along the blade before hopping onto your wrist, leaving no burns despite its fiery nature.

A serving girl giggled, then clapped her hand over her mouth in horror at her own temerity. You beamed at her, making her eyes widen with shock. The pink bunny responded to your playfulness, performing a little somersault in the air.

"That's it," Eris declared, his own flames vanishing with a wave of his hand. "Training over. Go... meditate or whatever you need to do to remember how to be terrifying."

As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "Father would burn that creature from existence if he saw it," he warned, with strange protectiveness. "And then he'd wonder why his daughter was creating something so... whimsical."

You recognized the warning for what it was—perhaps the closest thing to brotherly concern Eris allowed himself to show. "I understand."

The pink bunny hopped up your arm to nuzzle against your neck before dissolving into sparks that drifted away like embers.

By midday, the Autumn Court was in frenzy. Hearths roared hotter, servants scurried with silver trays and decanters of amber liquid, and guards in burnished copper armor took up positions at every doorway. The air thrummed with tension and ancient power.

You paced your chambers, memorizing Briar's briefing about the Night Court while she wove actual flame into your hair—tiny tongues of fire that danced among your strands without burning.

"High Lord Rhysand," you recited for the dozenth time. "Most powerful High Lord in history. Married to Feyre, a former human."

"Excellent," Briar nodded, her fingers working with surprising confidence given that she was literally playing with fire inches from your scalp. "And his Inner Circle?"

"Cassian and Azriel—Illyrian warriors with battle wings." That flutter in your chest again at the shadowsinger's name, like recognition of something you'd never seen.

"Yes, my lady. The shadowsinger hears whispers from the shadows themselves. Some say he can step through darkness as others walk through doorways." Briar's voice had taken on a storyteller's cadence. "They say he was kept chained in darkness for the first years of his life."

Your expression softened, compassion rising unbidden. "That's horrible." No wonder you'd felt that strange pull—your nursing instinct responding to past trauma.

Briar glanced at you, surprised by your empathy. "Perhaps that's why he's so... reserved." She added softly, as she adjusted the ember-orange gown that made your skin glow like firelight, "You've always been especially hostile toward him."

"Why?" You couldn't imagine deliberately targeting someone who had already suffered so much.

"You never said. But there was an incident during the war..."

"I tried to burn his wings," you finished quietly, the words ashen in your mouth.

A horn blasted from the walls, its deep tone reverberating through stone and bone alike.

"They're here," Briar whispered, making final adjustments to your appearance. Sparks trailed behind you like a comet's tail when you moved, a dramatic effect that suited the intimidating persona you needed to project.

"How do I look?" you asked, studying your reflection. The female who gazed back was undeniably beautiful, but with a predatory edge that seemed at odds with the gentleness you felt inside.

"Terrifying, my lady," Briar assured you. After a hesitation, she added, "But... different. There's something in your eyes that wasn't there before. Something..."

"Good?" you suggested hopefully.

"Softer," she replied carefully. "Which may not serve you well today."

"What if I just... don't set anyone on fire today?" you suggested with a small smile.

Briar's eyes widened as if you'd suggested flying to the moon. "That would be... unprecedented."

"Maybe unprecedented is good."

"Lord Beron expects cruelty from you," she replied carefully. "The last time someone in this court changed unexpectedly, he had them examined by the Bone Carver for possession. And then... eliminated the problem."

Your blood ran cold. "Possessed? As in..."

"A different soul inhabiting a body." Briar's eyes searched yours with unsettling perception. "My lady, are you... are you still you?"

Before you could respond, the door swung open.

Eris entered, resplendent in formal attire of deepest burgundy that complemented his auburn hair. His gaze swept over you critically.

"It's time," he announced.

The Great Hall throbbed with ancient magic that made the very air shimmer with power. Tapestries depicting autumn hunts and conquests hung between tall windows of amber glass. Lord Beron sat on a throne that appeared to be made of living flame, your mother beside him, beautiful but tense. The tight set of her shoulders and the way her fingers gripped her armrest betrayed her anxiety.

Courtiers lined the hall in their finery, a riot of autumn colors—russet, gold, deep orange, and blood red. The anticipation was palpable, a current of nervous energy that made the flames in the massive hearths dance higher.

Eris guided you to stand at Beron's right—a position of obvious importance. You could feel your "father's" gaze on you like a physical weight, assessing and suspicious.

The enormous doors swung open with theatrical slowness. A wave of power—cool night air and starlight—washed over the assembly, so different from the fiery magic that permeated the Autumn Court.

The Night Court had arrived.

They entered like living shadows, bringing the night sky with them despite the midday hour. The very atmosphere seemed to shift in their presence, as if darkness itself had taken form and walked among you. At their head, a male of such breathtaking beauty that several courtiers gasped audibly. His power rippled before him like heat from pavement, midnight and stars and ancient secrets.

Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court.

Beside him, a female of extraordinary loveliness moved with lethal grace, her eyes scanning the hall with the assessment of a predator sizing up potential threats—Feyre, his High Lady.

Behind them came the Inner Circle—two enormous warriors with folded wings shadowing their broad shoulders, and a tiny female whose delicate appearance was belied by eyes of ancient silver.

But it was one of the winged warriors who caught and held your attention like a hook through your heart. Unlike the others whose expressions ranged from diplomatic neutrality to barely concealed disgust, his face was an impassive mask. Shadows seemed to bend toward him like faithful pets, writhing around his shoulders in constant motion.

Azriel, the shadowsinger. The name echoed in your mind with peculiar resonance.

When his hazel eyes finally swept across the Autumn Court assembly, they paused imperceptibly on you. The gold flecks in them caught the firelight like tiny stars.

For a heartbeat, you felt... seen. Truly seen, beyond the body you inhabited. The connection left you breathless, a moment of recognition that made no logical sense yet felt undeniably real.

"Night Court," Beron intoned, his voice betraying no emotion despite the flames at his fingertips that betrayed his agitation. "Welcome to the Autumn Court."

"Lord Beron," Rhysand replied, his voice cultured and smooth as dark chocolate. "How gracious of you to host us. Particularly given our... colorful history."

"History written in blood rarely fades," Beron responded, malice wrapped in silk. "The Night Court has cost the Autumn Court dearly over the centuries. Or have you forgotten the Massacre at Kharos Ridge?"

Tension crackled like lightning about to strike. Every member of both courts was poised on a knife's edge of diplomatic civility, centuries of grudges barely contained beneath polite veneers.

"Ancient history," Rhysand replied with a smile that didn't reach his star-flecked eyes. "Much like your claims to the northern forests."

Small flames licked between Beron's knuckles—the only indication that the verbal barb had landed.

"We have prepared refreshments," your mother spoke, her voice surprisingly gentle—a cool stream in a burning forest. "Perhaps we might proceed to more comfortable surroundings? The treaties of old demand hospitality, regardless of... past disagreements."

"A lovely suggestion, Lady," Feyre replied, though her eyes remained watchful as a hawk's. "We come in peace, after all. At least for today."

As the assembly moved toward the adjacent dining hall, your gaze was repeatedly drawn to the shadowsinger like a magnet finding true north. He moved with predatory grace, yet there was something contained about him—tightly controlled, as if holding himself apart from everything around him. His shadows occasionally formed shapes before dissolving again, like messages written in smoke.

You couldn't help but wonder about the child who had been chained in darkness, and how he had survived to become this warrior of shadow and steel. The thought made your heart ache with a tenderness that was entirely your own, not borrowed from this body.

In the dining hall, you found yourself seated between Eris and another brother, directly across from the larger of the two winged warriors—Cassian, with his brutal grin and assessing eyes—with Azriel seated silently beside him.

The shadowsinger kept his gaze carefully averted from yours, but you couldn't help noticing how the shadows around him coiled more agitatedly whenever your eyes strayed his way.

The elaborate feast was a masterpiece of autumn bounty—roasted game glistening with honey glaze, jewel-toned fruits arranged in spirals of artful decadence, pastries that steamed with cinnamon and nutmeg. Wine flowed freely from decanters that never seemed to empty, though you noticed the Night Court members barely touched theirs.

Conversation moved like a complex dance, pleasantries exchanged with the precision of blade work, double meanings layered beneath every comment.

"I must say," Amren remarked, as she reached for her goblet, "the Autumn Court is particularly vibrant this season. Almost as if the trees themselves are putting on a show for us."

"Nature recognizes power," Beron replied coolly. "As do we all."

"Speaking of recognition," Rhysand cut in, his voice deceptively casual though his eyes missed nothing, "we've heard reports of unusual magical fluctuations from this region. Any insights you care to share, Lord Beron?"

Every head turned toward the high lord, whose expression remained impassive despite the flames that flickered brighter in the nearest hearth.

"Nothing unusual," he replied. "Just my daughter's continued explorations of her considerable gifts."

Suddenly, all attention shifted to you.

Feyre's gaze was particularly keen, as if she could see beneath your skin to the human soul residing there.

"Is that so?" she asked, one perfect eyebrow arched. "What manner of explorations, if I might ask?"

The scrutiny of so many powerful beings made your heart race, though you managed to keep your expression serene. The unfairness of your situation—trapped in a body not your own, forced to pretend to be someone terrible—suddenly felt overwhelming.

"I've been studying the relationship between elemental fire and emotional resonance," you explained, your voice soft but clear. "Intent matters as much as power."

To demonstrate, you raised your palm, concentrating on the hollow ache of homesickness in your chest. A small flame appeared, dancing above your hand—not the violent inferno your body's previous occupant might have conjured, but a gentle, wavering light tinged slightly blue around the edges.

The room fell silent, all eyes fixed on your small, melancholy flame.

"How... unexpectedly poetic," Rhysand commented, genuine surprise in his violet eyes.

"And unlike you," Cassian added bluntly, suspicion evident in the set of his shoulders.

You managed a small, enigmatic smile in response, though your heart raced beneath your calm exterior. "Perhaps we all contain unexpected depths."

"Forgive my sister's sentimentality," Eris interjected smoothly. "Her recent... incident has left her somewhat philosophical."

Your eyes accidentally locked with Azriel's across the table. His hazel gaze had been studying you with subtle intensity, shadows writhing around his shoulders, reaching toward you before pulling back like waves uncertain of the shore.

Then it happened.

A golden cord snapped into place between you—a connection so powerful it physically rocked you backward in your chair. A rush of sensation flooded through you—warmth, recognition, belonging—followed immediately by confusion and alarm.

Azriel flinched visibly, his wings flaring slightly, shadows coiling in chaotic patterns. His normally impassive face registered naked shock for a split second before shuttering into cold neutrality. But not before you glimpsed something else—confusion, perhaps even fear.

The entire table had gone deathly still.

"Well," Rhysand said into the silence, his voice dangerously soft. "This is unexpected."

"What just happened?" you asked, managing to keep your voice steady despite the strange sensation pulsing between you and the shadowsinger like a living thing.

"The mating bond," Amren said, "It just snapped into place."

"This is some trick," Beron snarled, rising from his seat. Small flames erupted around his clenched fists, dancing in disturbing patterns. "Some Night Court deception."

"I assure you," Rhysand replied, his own voice tight as a bowstring, "this is not our doing. The mating bond cannot be manufactured or falsified. It is the Cauldron's will, not ours."

"Mating bond?" you repeated, a slight tremble in your voice the only indication of your shock. The term meant nothing to you, yet the golden cord between you and Azriel pulsed with undeniable reality.

"How convenient," Beron hissed, flames now dripping from his fingertips onto the priceless tablecloth, "that my only daughter should suddenly be bound to one of yours. What better way to infiltrate my court?"

"Father," Eris began carefully, "perhaps we should—"

"Silence!" Beron's command cracked like a whip. "I will not have centuries of careful diplomacy undone by... by whatever this is." His burning gaze fixed on you with terrible intensity. "First the strange behavior, now this. Perhaps we need to discover what exactly has happened to my daughter."

Your blood ran cold.

Azriel spoke then, his deep voice cutting through the chaos with quiet authority that commanded attention despite its softness. His face was completely closed off, his eyes cold as winter frost.

"There's nothing to worry about," he said, addressing Rhysand rather than you. "A mating bond can be rejected." He turned that cold hazel gaze to you, and the dismissal in his eyes made your chest ache anew. "I have no interest in the Lady of the Autumn Court. I want nothing to do with her. Not after what she's done. No bond can erase that history."

His words struck like physical blows. The connection between you—the mating bond, apparently—throbbed with pain at the rejection. You breathed deeply, fighting the urge to show how deeply his words cut.

Yet beneath that mask of cold indifference, something in his eyes flickered—a moment of doubt, perhaps. His shadows, despite his rigid control, stretched slightly toward you before he harshly pulled them back.

"I said, I want nothing to do with you," Azriel repeated, each word precise and final. "This changes nothing."

You rose with quiet dignity, despite the ache in your chest. "Please excuse me," you managed, and slipped from the hall with as much grace as you could muster.

"Stop her," you heard Beron command behind you. "Something is not right."

You moved quickly through the corridors, your mind racing.

The mating bond. Rejection.

Beron's suspicious anger. All of it spelled danger, but you had no idea how to navigate any of it.

You found refuge in a small garden courtyard, enclosed by trees whose leaves burned like living flame in the afternoon light. The beauty of it momentarily took your breath away, despite your distress.

A tiny pink flame flickered to life in your palm unbidden, forming a miniature bunny that hopped up your arm. The fearsome Lady of Autumn, reduced to creating cuteness while nursing a broken heart over a male who despised her.

The irony wasn't lost on you.

"My lady?"

Briar stood at the entrance, concern evident in her expression.

"What's a mating bond?" you asked, your voice carefully controlled.

"Oh... My lady..." Briar approached without her usual hesitation and sat beside you. "It's rarest and most sacred connection between Fae. It's said to be the Cauldron's way of identifying your perfect match. Two halves of a whole soul." She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with gentle fingers. "It can't be forced or faked. It simply... is."

"But he rejected it," you said softly, feeling the golden thread still pulsing between you despite his denial.

"The shadowsinger?" Briar asked, surprise evident in her voice. "Your reputation with the Night Court is..."

"Terrible," you finished for her. "I tried to burn his wings off."

"The bond doesn't consider past actions," Briar offered hesitantly. "It sees something deeper, something true. Perhaps your recent changes..."

You laughed softly, without humor. "My 'changes' are more significant than anyone realizes."

Briar studied you for a long moment. "You truly are different, aren't you? Not just acting differently, but... something fundamental has changed."

Your breath caught. Was it possible to confide in her? To tell someone the impossible truth?

"Briar," you began cautiously, "what if I told you I'm not who everyone thinks I am?"

Before you could continue, footsteps approached—measured, deliberate. Eris appeared at the courtyard entrance, his expression thunderous.

"Leave us," he commanded Briar, who squeezed your hand once before scurrying away.

For a long moment, Eris simply stared at you, as if trying to solve a particularly vexing puzzle.

"A mating bond," he finally said, the words falling like stones. "With the Night Court's shadowsinger." He shook his head in disbelief. "Of all the ways you could have disrupted negotiations, this is... creative, I'll give you that."

"I didn't do it on purpose," you protested, arms crossed protectively over your chest.

"Obviously not. The bond cannot be faked." He paced before you, agitation evident in every movement. "But why now? Why him? And why are you... different? You've never cared what anyone thought of you."

"Maybe I'm changing," you whispered.

"People don't change their fundamental nature overnight," he countered, echoing words you'd heard before.

"What if I'm not who you think I am?" The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Eris went still, his amber eyes narrowing. "Explain."

You hesitated. Beyond the courtyard, guards' footsteps approached. Your time was running out.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted behind you. Two guards appeared at the courtyard entrance, their faces tight with tension.

"My lady, Lord Beron demands your presence immediately. The Night Court delegation—"

Before the guard could finish, a flash of movement caught your eye. An assassin—dressed in nondescript leather—appeared on the garden wall, bow drawn.

The arrow flew—not at you, but at Eris.

Without thinking, you moved, pushing your "brother" aside. The arrow found your chest instead.

Pain—bright, burning pain—bloomed between your ribs. You gasped, falling to your knees.

"Sister!" Eris caught you, lowering you to the ground. His face, normally so controlled, twisted with shock and something that looked remarkably like genuine concern. "Guards! Healers!"

Commotion erupted around you.

Shouts, running footsteps, the rush of wings. Through blurring vision, you saw the courtyard suddenly fill with figures from both courts—Beron rushing forward with unexpected speed, Rhysand and his Inner Circle appearing as if from thin air.

"What happened?" Beron demanded, his power flooding the courtyard like midnight tide.

"Assassin," Eris growled, still cradling your head with surprising gentleness. "The arrow was meant for me."

A healer knelt beside you, hands glowing with golden light. But you could feel something already—the magic of this body failing, your grip on this world loosening. The arrow had struck true, poisoned perhaps, or enchanted.

Darkness swept in from the edges of your vision.

The last thing you saw was Azriel pushing through the crowd, hazel eyes wide with alarm—alarm that belied his earlier rejection—as shadows coiled frantically around him. Then nothing.

Beeping. Rhythmic, electronic beeping.

Your eyes flew open.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The antiseptic smell of hospital disinfectant.

You gasped, trying to sit up, but pain flared in your chest—an echo of the arrow wound, though when you looked down, all you saw was a hospital gown and bandages wrapped around your torso.

"She's awake!" A voice—familiar, human. Your roommate from nursing school. "Doctor! She's awake!"

"What happened?" you croaked, your voice rusty from disuse.

"You were stabbed." Your roommate's eyes filled with tears. "You've been in a coma for three days. The doctors weren't sure if you'd wake up—the knife nearly hit your heart."

A coma. A dream. Relief washed over you despite the pain. The magical world, the borrowed body—it had all been some elaborate fantasy while your brain healed from the trauma.

"I had the strangest dream," you told your roommate. "I was in another body, in a magical world with fire magic and winged warriors."

Your roommate squeezed your hand. "The doctors said you might have vivid dreams. Just rest now. You're back. You're safe."

The stab wound ached whenever you moved, a constant reminder of your mortality. Yet you reveled in the normalcy of hospital routines, fluorescent lights, cell phones, and the absence of magic fire. The steady parade of modern technology—IV pumps, vital monitors, tablets with medical charts—all reassured you that you were home.

It had all been a dream. A vivid, incredible dream.

Until, It wasn't.

A strange warmth in your chest, radiating from your wound. A pulling sensation, like a golden thread tugging at your very soul.

"No," you whispered. "No, I'm home. I'm where I belong."

The warmth intensified, spreading through your limbs. You could almost hear voices—unfamiliar and familiar at once. Feel hands—not human hands—working over your body.

"Stop it," you murmured, then louder. "Stop it!"

The hospital room wavered around you, reality thinning like mist under strong sunlight. The monitors, the IV stand, the sterile white walls—all began to fade, replaced by a strange golden light that seemed to flow through your very veins.

"No! Please—"

"—don't take me back!"

Your eyes flew open to find yourself in a healing chamber rather than the courtyard where you'd been struck. Fiery amber light poured through stained glass windows, casting jeweled patterns across stone walls lined with shelves of potions and dried herbs. The air smelled of cinnamon and strange medicinal scents you couldn't identify.

You lay on a raised stone platform covered with soft furs, your chest burning with half-healed pain. Around you stood members of both courts, watching with varying degrees of concern and suspicion.

A healer—one of the Autumn Court's—pulled back her glowing hands from your wound, startled by your outburst. The magic hummed in the air, warm and tingling against your skin.

"My lady?" she questioned, confusion evident.

"I was home," you whispered, disoriented by the sudden transition. "There were beeping machines and fluorescent lights and doctors and—" You looked around wildly, finding both Eris and Beron nearby, along with the entire Night Court delegation.

Azriel stood in the shadows near the arched doorway, his darkness seeming to blend with the corners of the room as his hazel eyes fixed on you with unreadable intensity.

"Why did you bring me back?" you asked, tears welling in your eyes despite your effort to remain composed. "I was in a hospital. I was stabbed during a robbery. My roommate was there—"

"She's delirious," the healer said quickly, adjusting the bandages wrapped around your torso with gentle fingers. "The poison from the arrow—"

"I'm not delirious!" you insisted, struggling to sit up despite the pain that lanced through your chest. "I was home! In my world! With cell phones and subway trains and—and no magic! I was a nursing student, not... not this!" You gestured weakly at your borrowed body.

Beron's expression darkened dangerously, the flames in the room's central brazier leaping higher in response to his mood. "What nonsense is this?"

"I was there," you insisted, tears now streaming down your face.

Your distress triggered your unpredictable magic.

Small pink flames flickered around your fingers, forming tiny dancing animals—rabbits, deer, little birds—that hopped and flew in circles above your healing platform. They cast soft rosy light across the stone ceiling, making the runes carved there seem to dance.

Beron looked absolutely appalled. Eris seemed caught between concern and mortification.

"This is... unprecedented," the healer murmured, backing away slightly as one of the flame rabbits hopped curiously toward her herb basket.

"I think," Feyre said cautiously, "that the trauma of the attack may have affected her mind."

"Oh, Cauldron," Cassian muttered from where he leaned against a pillar, barely suppressing a grin despite the tension. "She's gone from terrifying to adorable. The little pink bunny things are actually... cute."

"It was real," you insisted, your voice growing smaller as reality reasserted itself. The pink creatures multiplied with your distress, creating a small menagerie of flame animals that darted between hanging bundles of herbs and crystal bottles. "There were cars and buses and no one had pointed ears or wings and—"

"Shh," Eris said, surprising everyone by approaching your platform and awkwardly patting your hand. "The arrow was poisoned. These... delusions will pass."

"They're not delusions," you whispered, looking directly at Azriel, whose stoic expression had slipped just enough to reveal confusion. "When I died, the mating bond took me home."

A collective intake of breath swept through the gathered Fae, the sound echoing against the stone walls.

"She probably lost the will to live after you rejected her," Cassian remarked to Azriel, whose face suddenly paled.

The shadowsinger's eyes widened fractionally, his shadows swirling in agitated patterns around the healing chamber, momentarily dimming the brazier's flames. For a brief moment, genuine alarm flashed across his features before he controlled it.

"I didn't," you started to protest, then faltered. "I mean... I did, but..."

Azriel stepped forward, his shadows reaching toward you before he visibly reined them in. "You should rest," he said stiffly, though his eyes betrayed something more complex than indifference.

Beron's patience finally snapped.

The brazier flames roared suddenly, casting the room in harsh orange light and sending your pink creatures scattering in alarm.

"Enough of this," he snarled, rising to his full height. The temperature in the healing chamber rose several degrees. "I believe it's time for the Night Court to take their leave."

Rhysand's eyebrows rose slightly. "Is that so? When your daughter has just revealed such... interesting information?"

"My daughter," Beron emphasized coldly, "has been poisoned and requires rest. Whatever delusions the venom has caused can be dealt with by Autumn Court healers."

"Lord Beron," Feyre began, stepping forward with diplomatic grace, "perhaps under the circumstances—"

"The circumstances," Beron cut in, "are that my only daughter has been injured saving her brother's life, and now requires peace to recover." His amber eyes glittered dangerously. "Or perhaps the Night Court would like to explain why an assassin penetrated our borders during your diplomatic visit?"

The accusation hung in the air like smoke.

Rhysand's expression cooled several degrees. "A baseless accusation, but not an unexpected one." He turned to his delegation with calculated casualness. "We'll take our leave. For now."

Your eyes found Azriel's across the room.

The shadowsinger stood motionless, his face once again a perfect mask of indifference. But his shadows betrayed him, twisting restlessly as they reached toward you before being sharply pulled back.

Something in your chest ached at the sight—a hollow feeling that didn't entirely belong to you. The golden thread of the mating bond seemed to stretch painfully as he moved toward the door with the others.

Azriel hesitated a moment, then gave Rhysand a single, tight nod. With one last unfathomable look at you, he turned and followed his High Lord.

You watched them go, your pink flame creatures dimming slightly as the Night Court delegation filed through the arched doorway. The last glimpse you caught was of Azriel's wings disappearing into the corridor's shadows.

Your heart felt strangely fractured, torn between relief at their departure and an inexplicable sense of loss. The bond pulled like a physical weight, making your healing wound throb in sympathetic pain.

Then, abruptly, a realization struck you.

A terrible, perfect clarity.

A small, broken giggle escaped your lips.

Eris and Beron both turned to stare at you, identical expressions of alarm on their faces.

"Sister?" Eris questioned cautiously.

The giggle blossomed into full laughter, slightly hysterical. The pink flame creatures danced faster around you, reflecting your manic energy.

"I know how to get home," you whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. Your eyes met Beron's, then Eris's, a strange smile spreading across your face.

Beron took a step toward you, suspicion darkening his features. "What did you say?"

But you just smiled wider, the revelation burning in your mind like the clearest truth you'd ever known.

I just need to die.

The thought should have terrified you, but instead, it filled you with a twisted sort of hope.

Die here, wake up there. So simple. So perfect.

You lay back against the furs, smile still fixed on your face, as one of your flame bunnies settled onto your chest directly above your wound.

"Nothing, Father," you said sweetly. "Just a passing thought."

Eris's eyes narrowed, as if he could somehow read the dangerous idea forming in your mind. "Perhaps the healer should administer a sleeping draught," he suggested carefully.

"An excellent idea," Beron agreed, still watching you with open suspicion.

As the healer approached with a vial of amber liquid, your gaze drifted to the doorway where the shadowsinger had disappeared.

If he didn't want you, and you didn't belong here anyway, what was there to lose?

The mating bond tugged painfully in your chest, as if in protest.

Just one more death, you thought as the sleeping draught was pressed to your lips. And then I'll be home for good.

Author’s Note:

This chapter had it all: fire bunnies, accidental war crimes, surprise soul-bonding, and one (1) medically inadvisable resurrection. Shoutout to Azriel for rejecting his mate like a dramatic Victorian ghost. See you next chapter—bring snacks and emotional support. 💀🔥🐇💘

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff

#acotar #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #feyre acotar #eris vanserra

360 notes · View notes

apas-95 · 1 year ago

Text

As it apparently needs to be restated - race, ethnicity, and nationality are not themselves the basic drivers of history. Political-economic class is.

The European practice of placing African people into chattel slavery was not carried out on the basis of any innate characteristics of 'blackness' or 'whiteness' - those categories did not exist before the slave trade, they were created in support of it. Europe at the time found it would be beneficial to have a class of slave workers for its colonial projects, and it had the military, political, and economic might to subjugate Africa and African people to that end. Had you asked a Prussian and a Scotsman prior to the institution of African slavery if they were both members of a common 'race', they would have found the idea ridiculous - and yet, transport those two ahead in time, and perhaps to settlements in the Americas, and suddenly they were both Whites. Whiteness (and its necessary counterpart, blackness), then, is not some intrinsic quality based on the tone of someone's skin, but a political and economic category constructed to differentiate between those people that could be oppressed and made chattel by the slave trade, and those that could not.

This is true for all these systems of oppression - though they may be divided on supposed lines of biology or locality, they are not inherently based on biological factors, those are functionally coincidental, and are constructed as justifications for a system necessitated by purely political and economic reasons. Nazi oppression of Jewish, and Roma, and Slavic [and etc.] people was not fundamentally based on any inherent quality of e.g. Judaism, but on the economic needs of German capital under the burden of postwar reconstruction and 'war reparations' paid to the victorious powers. It was not blind hatred, but the inevitable result of a society built in pursuit of profit - one whose ruling class held a cold, calculated need to expropriate wealth, weaken worker organisation, and seize and depopulate land to strengthen the composition of capital. It was still necessary for this system to split the population into one group of 'legitimate targets' for victimisation, and one of reassured, protected accomplices, though there were no obvious physical, 'biological' features to base these on - so they were constructed, both through propaganda that exaggerated physiology, and through the appending of obvious badges and marks onto those targeted. Again, these were sets of features, and categories, created to support a system of oppression and exploitation, not the reasons it came into being in the first place.

Again, these are fundamentally political and economic categories, and can only be properly understood as such. If not properly understood as being based, first and foremost, on material interests of classes, then any analysis of them is unstable. For example: appeals to the supposed ancestral claim of zionists to the land of Palestine, and thereby to indigineity, can only be refuted with an understanding that indigeneity is a political and economic characteristic, of relation towards the oppression of a settler state, and not some characteristic of where one's ancestors were born. None of this is to say that race, nationality, etc don't function as axes of oppression - but that they must be understood as manifestations of the existing political and economic material interests of classes that drive the development of history, if they are to be fought against.

5K notes · View notes

that-student-that-has-homework · 1 year ago

Text

Louder than Words - Portgas D. Ace

Portgas D. Ace x Reader

This is like the mushiest piece I have written. I was kinda embarrassed...but here it is. Let's give him the hugs and space he needed huh? This could also be a message to you lovelies out there too. MasterList linked at the bottom too!

Ace didn’t know what came over you, but whatever it was, he wasn’t complaining. Per se.

You’d cupped his face gently, rubbing your thumbs along his cheeks tenderly, while he just looked back at you, curious. He smiled, in hopes of easing or appeasing whatever drudge was swirling in his chest and tainting this moment, “everything alright?”

You hummed and nodded at him, not a line on your expression but the bliss that pulled at your lips, revealing your peaceful serenity to him. His breath hitched slightly as you pressed your lips to his forehead, lingering for a moment. Then a shorter peck to his nose, before nuddling it back and forth with your own. He reopened his eyes when you tilted his head, still cradled in your palms, and pressed kisses to either of his cheeks.

You pulled away enough to look him in the eyes, and he felt his heart chase after you, beating with a tenacity meant to jump ship from his chest to yours. Your eyes dropped to the last target on his face, and he felt his entire physiology twist in anticipation.

You guided his face to yours gently, holding him as though he was the most prized treasure of all the seas. If he ever said that aloud, you would agree.

Your own personal One Piece.

You guided him, and he followed eagerly, gravitating towards you naturally, and you met him somewhere in the middle, colliding in an explosion of euphoria, igniting the wiring of his entire being.

His every sense sharpened, yet by attuning himself to your every move he melded into you. He-his edges-seemed to all but disappear as he chased after you unwilling to disconnect for a moment longer than necessary. Your pull, irresistible-inevitable as he continued to dive deeper into it.

Deeper and deeper.

Closer and closer.

Chest to chest.

Heart to heart.

Until you gently guided him away, again cradling his face and rubbing sweet, sweet, tender circles into his skin, massaging your warmth into him. Your eyes again held his, and gosh you’re just so beautiful. He’s pulled out of his daze when he felt your chest struggling under his. You’re panting slightly, your breathing a little strained, and he realized that his weight on you definitely isn’t helping.

He lifted himself up just slightly-unwilling to completely part but-no longer crushing you. He couldn’t help but wonder: when had he ended up on top of you like this?

You’re gently moving his head about in your palms again, pressing another kiss to his forehead. Then another to the crown of his head and for a moment he’s so glad he showered and washed his hair yesterday.

“I’m so thankful to have you in my life,” you breathed into his skin, lips inscribing the words into his forehead, and tugging on his heart strings.

Again his head is guided by your hands and again his eyes are treated to the sight of yours. Like a rope with a knot catching onto a splinter of wood, the air caught inside his chest. Your own eyes trailed over his features, slowly, carefully, as though committing every part of him, every detail, to memory. You studied him with a sort of reverence, your awe manifesting in a choked gasp and subtle widening of the eyes.

Your hands slowly slipped from his face, and he found himself missing your touch immediately. Thankfully, he didn’t have to part with it for long.

“I am so grateful,” your fingers ghosted along his cheek moving to his lips, “that you exist,” your words tugged at that stuck knot.

“That you were born,” a warmth spread through his chest - yet he couldn’t breathe.

“That you exist in this world - and that I,” your expression became impossibly soft, “that I get to know you.”

He opened his mouth desperate to return the sentiment, but you continued gently tracing his lips as you did, “that you’re allowing me to love you like this.”

He couldn’t-

You let out a little squeak at the speed and force with which he sat the two of you up and held you. His fingers interwoven with your hair, his nose buried in your neck, his other hand pressing you into him, melding you into his body. Soon enough, even his legs came to wrap around your own, completely preventing any chance of escape.

Though to be honest, you escape to him, not from him.

Oh the things you did to him.

He might be made of fire, but his devil fruit couldn’t protect him from the way your affections effectively set fire to his very brain-his heart. His chest heaved, pressing against yours, his eyes water and his grip tightened. Tremors overtook him as he fought the urge to crush you completely into his body.

How could joy resemble a knife tearing through his chest? How could the tearing pain feel so delightful? The contradictions were enough to make his head spin and his thoughts knot up.

A gentle hand - your gentle hand slowly worked its way through his hair, patiently undoing any tangles your fingers came about, consequently undoing the intricate knotting of the net entangling his mind. The delicate trails your fingertips drew along his scalp soothed his thoughts such that each raging beastly emotion was conquered in turn. It wasn’t too long before he’d vanquished the confusion, your tender care steering him to clarity.

You were steering him towards dreamland too if he’s honest, as his consciousness began to ebb under the rhythmic flow of your fingers through the waves of his hair. It wasn’t long before it plunged completely into the ocean of unconsciousness.

// ——

When he regained consciousness you were seated beside him, reading something or another. You were really engrossed in whatever it was you were reading, so much so that you startled a little when his hand lethargically claimed your own, pulling it closer to him.

He brushed his lips on the back of it, grinning up at you with eyes that drooped with the sleep still in them. He delighted in the flustered expression you wore in response to his own affections, blinking at you slowly. You marked your page with your free hand, before closing the book to give him your undivided attention.

“How was your nap, love?” Love you called him. Love.

His eyelids closed, succumbing to the weight they seemed to carry, basking in the bliss washing over him like a gentle summer shower.

Love.

He could hear you moving about, his hold on your hand tightening as you shifted. A little groan left him as he struggled to open his eyes and mouth to speak to you. You were not helping with how your other hand came to comb his hair again, but he managed, “mmm you’re…gon’ make me fall ‘sleep ‘gain.”

“Then that means you need more sleep m’love,” m’love, not just any love, your love. Yours.

He was your love.

Yours.

He was yours. Happily so. Forever would be too. If you’d have him.

He hummed, lips weakly pushing through sleep to show you his satisfaction.

Your voice was much closer to him now, speaking from right above his head, and he fought an uphill battle trying to open his eyes to look at you. His whole body felt heavy, completely sapped of strength. Heck even his grip on your hand was as limp as ever. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was in contact with sea stone or something.

He felt you press your lips to his forehead again, gently fueling him enough to pull his lips into a drowsy, wobbly, smile.

“Get some rest love,” you spoke softly, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Stay wit mmmmm,” talking was proving to be a challenge, “c’mere.”

He threw a heavy arm over what he hoped was your waist. It probably was? Gosh he couldn’t care with the way you were giggling next to him.

“Sure thing love,” you had to be doing some kind of magic with how he felt like he was levitating despite the weight that seeped into his bones, “just let me brush my teeth first.”

He couldn’t hold you down if he wanted to with how tired he was, “mmm back soo,” he mumbled.

“Sure thing,” his lips wobbled themselves into a smile as you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead again.

He was out instantaneously. You kept your promise though; through his daze he felt you slip in and embrace him. Seems like his body knew what to do too, despite its earlier lack of cooperation, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to hold you in return before he was out again.

He woke up in your arms.

His head rested against your chest, with your arm languidly around his shoulders. Taking in a deep breath filled him with the nostalgia of the scent of home. A home that did not exist in his memories. Which meant it probably existed in his imagination then. A home that could be. A home with you.

It was the scent of home nonetheless.

He tightened his hold on your waist nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

I’m so grateful you exist.

His arms instinctively tightened.

That you were born.

His inhale was a stuttery one, his own lips and vision stuttering as well. He buried his face further into your neck, taking in your scent again. Yet all that did was push the tears out faster.

That was the opposite of what he’d expected!

Urgh. One of those hot, salty blobs ended up on your skin.

To his relief, and dismay - oddly enough - you remained unconscious. Your eyes closed and breathing consistent. Though that didn’t last long, as you shifted slightly, the arm around his shoulder worked to pull him into you, as your other one came up to play with his hair-you really liked doing that huh?

“Get it aaall,” your voice was thick with sleep, “get it all…out,” you hummed a bit, “let all that poison out.”

“Darlin’, did I wake you?” It was pathetic how his voice cracked - he hated this weakness that was welling up...again.

Just like that, your hold on him tightened, your lips pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

“I’d be upset if you didn’t,” you sounded much more awake now, “you’re one of the people I want to be there for the most.”

Unfortunately, a choked sob left him. Gosh he was so pathetic. He was a full grown man! He wasn’t supposed to be some weak crybaby! To think he used to get mad at Luffy for crying too!

Yet…

He. couldn’t. stop.

His shoulders shook, the tremors traveled his body, and a violent shiver wracked it. Yet you laid and held him and ran your fingers through his hair, kissing your favorite spot on his forehead consistently. Every kiss, every gentle brush of your loving fingers tenderly working through his hair, every tender trace of your fingertips on his scalp, brought a fresh wave of tears to follow the next. At some point he’d started clutching on to you, like you were the life-ring preventing him from drowning.

He wasn’t sure how long you two stayed like that. All he knew that in between his sniffles and his sobbing there was your voice.

“Get it all out love,” you lightly encouraged - as though he wasn’t lesser for crying like a baby.

“I’m so proud of you,” you said a few times too - as though this pathetic display wasn’t shameful.

“I love you so much,” you reaffirmed time and time again stroking his hair - as though his weakness didn’t make him less desirable.

For whatever reason he didn’t doubt a word. Despite the mental cesspool working overtime to drown him in darkness, the light of your honesty shone through. No matter how far he fell, it followed.

He wasn’t sure how long you two lay there, holding each other, and he wasn’t sure when he’d lost consciousness again. His eyes were so incredibly heavy when he woke up again though. They must be swollen from all his crying. You weren’t next to him this time, however as his senses came back to him, he could hear the sounds of a pen scratching and paper flipping.

When he sat up, he noticed a pitcher of water and a tall glass with an opaque yellow-tinted liquid and some mint leaves in it-lemonade probably-on the bedside table. He had a moment to locate you at his desk before you turned to face him, “hey there.”

“Hey,” he croaked, voice still thick from lack of use.

You put the pen down, got up, and walked towards him with a kind smile, “I made you some lemonade, and got some water,” you sat down near his legs, “gotta replace all those fluids you lost.”

That got a chuckle out of him, “your lessons with Marco are going well, huh?”

“I also have a lot of personal experience with these things,” you grinned at him.

“With crying like a baby?”

You just hummed and nodded.

“This might sound bad,” you weren’t looking at him as you confessed, “but I’m kind of…” you trailed off, shooting him a quick glance, “happy,” you shrunk, your shoulders reaching your ears, “you felt safe enough to be that vulnerable with me.”

“So, you liked seeing me cry?” He poked at you. “Should I cry more for you, doll?”

“Ace,” you groaned, your smile only growing fonder as you looked at him.

“Didn’t peg you for a sadist,” he kept teasing, “I’m not sure how I feel about this kink of yours.”

He loved the way you rolled your eyes, but revealed your teeth with how big your smile was getting. “I don’t like seeing you cry,” you corrected, “I like that you feel safe with me.”

You paused, then appended, “well safe enough to not hide your pain.”

“Hide my pain?” He raised an eyebrow at you.

“Crying is one way to get pain out of your body,” you twisted your body to face him more fully, voice soft as you shared your opinion, “emotional pain especially.”

“Isn’t crying just weakness?” He frowned at you.

“No?”

“It’s not?”

“Do you think I’m weak when I cry?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“But you’re a woman.”

A tired look flashed over your features momentarily, “so men aren’t allowed to cry?” You challenged, tone still as patient as ever.

“Only weak men cry,” for some reason the words sounded less convincing in your presence.

“Who says?” His gaze snapped up to meet yours and you repeated yourself, “who said?”

“Isn’t it just something that everyone knows?” His brow furrowed, scowl taking his features.

“No,” you paused as you said that, “well I guess in a sense,” you squinted at nothing, “yes… it is something that many people assume.”

“You just saw me cry like a baby,” he countered, “you don’t think I’m weak?”

“On the contrary,” he felt his eyes widen despite the weight embedded into them, “you’ve been carrying all that pain.”

An ache tormented your gentle expression, “and you choose kindness and warmth and bring joy to those you care about despite it,” you looked him in the eye again, “that isn’t something a weak person could do.”

A shiver traveled down his spine at the way your eyes studied him, softening as you opened your mouth to speak again, “kindness is the mark of the strong, Ace,” you placed your hand on top of his notably larger one, pride dripping from your voice, “and you’re so incredibly kind.”

What was with you and stealing the air from his lungs? He felt his chest constrict like he’d been punched too.

“We’re so lucky to have you in our lives,” your thumb traced circles onto the back of his hand, “we’re even luckier to be loved by you.”

He could feel that prickling in the back of his eyes he was becoming way too familiar with for his liking. “We really have to do something about that crying kink of yours,” he joked.

You scoffed, shaking your head, but you weren’t mad. “I think I’m just going to have to tell you more often how lucky I am to have you in my life.”

His heart lurched in his chest, “I think I’m the lucky one.”

“We can both be lucky.”

“Then I’m luckier.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yea huh.”

“Agree to disagree?”

“No,” he has a huge grin on his face at your scowl.

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, rising from the bed with a dramatic sigh, “I’ll let you believe whatever you want to believe.”

“Oi!” He couldn’t help the chuckle that left him.

“Drink some water and your lemonade, love,” you gave him a little peck on his forehead again, “then let’s get you showered and fed.”

He caught your wrist as you moved away, “where are you going?”

“To the desk,” you blinked at him.

“What’re you up to there?”

“I’m just going through some paperwork,” he really was the luckier one of the two of you.

“Marry me,” the words flew out of his mouth before his mind could even register them in his thoughts.

You laughed, raising your left hand for him to view, “already did.”

Shoot.

“Now,” mirth still colored your expression, “you drink your lemonade while I get these papers done.”

“Yes ma’am,” he saluted you and allowed you to slip out of his grasp.

It was when he’d finally moved to lean back against the wall and grabbed the drink you’d prepared that he heard you giggle a little. Strange, given what you were working on, “see something funny?”

“No,” you singsonged, cheerfully wiggling in your seat, “it’s just my husband asked me to marry him, again, and I’m feeling very happy.”

His head clunked against the wall he rested against, heat rushing to his cheeks as a disgruntled groan left him, despite the way he was grinning, “I swear I didn’t forget.”

“I didn’t think you did, love,” you giggle some more, turning slightly to look at him, “I’m just so happy you would want to marry me, again.”

“I’d marry you again every day if I could,” he took a swig of his lemonade enjoying the way you fought and failed to keep your smile contained as it threatened to split what he could see of your face.

You turned back around and he could see that you were fighting to focus on the papers in front of you.

“How about we have another wedding on the Moby Dick?” He found himself scooching his way down the bed, his excitement uncontained. “We can get you a proper dress this time! Your own!”

He looked up thinking some more, “and I’ll wear a proper suit with a vest and a tie and everything!”

“I’m surprised you know about vests and ties,” you shot him a teasing grin.

“Hey! I took some etiquette classes as a kid!”

“You did?”

“I didn’t tell you?” He’d have to tell you more about his life before he set sail then. “Yeah back when I was in the East Blue,” it’s been a while since he left huh? “Makino-a barmaid from the village nearby-taught me manners.”

“So she’s the one that taught you about vests and ties?”

“Yeah,” oh wait a second, “we can have Thatch make us a huge cake and a feast!” Now that he was back on the original topic he had so many ideas! “Pops can officiate! Marco can be the one to bring you down the aisle! And-and-”

“You really want to have another wedding then?” You were now turned to face him completely.

“Yeah! How about it?” He scooched even closer to you. “Our first one was nice too, but we were in a hurry and I remember we had to go with whatever we had.”

“Is it bad that I liked our small, humble wedding?”

“Huh? No of course not! It was great!” Where did that come from? “I’m just saying we can have another so I can ‘marry you again.’”

“Hmm the idea of seeing you all dressed up in a three piece suit is tempting,” you hummed.

He guffawed a bit at that. “I’d probably mistake you for an angel if I saw you in a white dress.”

“Aww you wouldn’t recognize me?”

“Nah because,” he smirked, “I’d be blinded by how beautiful you’d look.”

When you hunched your shoulders to your ears and looked away a bit, his chest swirled with pride. He was getting better at this flirting with you thing!

“Maybe we shouldn’t then,” sounds of protest were leaving him before he knew it, “I don’t want to blind you.”

That had the two of you laughing.

When you calmed down, you turned back towards the work waiting for you, “there isn’t much left to do commander, so stop distracting me.”

Your distraction quickly chugged the rest of that refreshing glass of juice, and moved back to pour himself a glass of water. Something seemed to click within his head as he pondered your order: “I’m distracting now, am I?”

“Very.”

He burst out laughing. “Well we’re even then,” he proceeded to take a loud slurp of water.

He almost choked on it laughing when he saw you startle a bit, his flirt landing well with you again.

Cradling his glass, he opted to just watch you work. He’d make your second wedding happen. You deserved to be celebrated again and again. Besides, it’s not like pirates didn’t party regularly. So it’s not like they’d be going out of their way really-if that’s what you were worried about. Well, knowing you, that was something you were worried about. He found an amused little huff leaving him at that thought.

“See something funny, love?” Seems you’d heard him.

“Nope,” he grinned your way, “just thinking.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Hey!”

“You come up with some pretty crazy schemes,” he noticed the little smirk on your lips - oh you cheeky - “they’re usually fun, even if they’re dangerous.”

“Like you’re one to talk!” He grinned. “You always add on more crazy things!”

“My crazy things are to make your crazy things less dangerous,” you hummed, “I very much prefer you alive, well, and healthy you see.”

“You just like me,” he beamed at you with a laugh.

“I love you, actually,” you responded without missing a beat nor looking up from your paperwork.

Yeah.

He was definitely giving you that second wedding here on the Moby Dick. Maybe even at one of the prettier spring or autumn islands on Pops’ turf. Whatever you’d like the most! Heck he’ll give you two second weddings - er - a second and a third. Wedding. Yeah.

Oh!

Maybe he could even surprise you with it!

He ought to get started on it - today! Right now!

He threw back the rest of his glass of water and rushed to the door.

“Ah! Ace! Wait a second!” He paused right before opening it up. “I’m just about done with this! Let me finish and I can help you with your hair and back!”

“Huh?” He raised a brow at you.

“Huh?” You returned equally confused. “Weren’t you going to shower to feel better?”

“No?” He tilted his head.

“Then you’re going straight for the kitchen?” You continued, still confused. “Didn’t you want to eat together?”

Oh that was tempting. He couldn’t say no to that. Wait, even the shower help was tempting. You’d been the one to teach him how to properly scrub his scalp after all. But he didn’t want to delay his surprise a second longer!

“Then, I’m gonna get some fresh air,” not really a lie, he’d get fresh air on his way to see Marco, “then we can eat together.”

“So no shower?”

“Wouldn’t we get caught?”

“What do you mean? I’m just washi-Ace!” You let out a garbled sound making him laugh.

“Alright, alright darlin’,” he gave you a lopsided grin, “I’m just teasing. Yeah we’ll do both.”

“Okay,” you seemed pleased with that outcome, despite it being more work for you.

He let go of the door handle to come press a kiss to your forehead, “love you.”

“Love you too,” you returned immediately.

He walked out the door feeling lighter than he had in a while.

Yeah he was definitely giving you the grandest wedding he could, and he was a Whitebeard pirate, and they really knew how to party.

Extra:

Later during an “Official Division Commander Meeting”:

Izou: she must be the one to pick out her dress

Ace: then I’ll take her out to get one picked

Izou: absolutely not! I will

Ace: hey she’s my wife

Izou: exactly! You’re not allowed to see her in the dress until the ceremony you fool!

Marco: (placing a comforting hand on Ace’s shoulder) well, there’s no one better for this task than Izou yoi

Izou: hmph! but of course

Thatch: you all have the easy part, I have to make all the food, and the cake

Ace: it’ll be worth it!

Thatch: for you maybe, you’re not the one cooking to feed a fleet. I swear I have the most difficult job

Marco: we have feasts all the time, no need to do anything extra yoi.

Ace: except the cake! The cake is really important!

Thatch: yeah yeah I heard you. groans

Marco: Besides your division has a bunch of cooks to help you out doesn’t it?

//------------------------

If you liked it: please toss a comment to the lonely oh people a'plenty

For More Ace Content: Tumblr MasterList and Asks are Open -> rules here

#portgas d ace x reader #portgas ace x reader #portgas ace x you #one piece x reader #one piece x you #portgas d ace x you #portgas d ace fluff #portgas d ace #portgas d ace fanfic #one piece fanfiction #one piece #ace one piece

2K notes · View notes

gallifreyinstituteforlearning · 7 months ago

Text

😟 Who's Really the Sorriest Doctor?

When we think of an apologetic Doctor, the 10th Doctor immediately leaps to mind. But is he really the most apologetic incarnation? Here's a number crunch of all the times the Doctor has apologised ...

These are from televised episodes/telemovie only, using keywords like 'sorry,' 'apologise,' and 'apology.' Retracted apologies or those used for clarification haven't been included. Episodes counted in serials for classic era. And of course, there's not guarantee how many of these were genuine apologies ...

Key Observations

Most Apologetic Doctor (By Average): The 15th Doctor takes the crown with a whopping 4.67 apologies per episode. Though, given his short stint so far, there's still plenty of time for that to change.

The Usual Suspects: The 10th Doctor, unsurprisingly, ranks high with 2.79 apologies per episode. But the 11th and 13th Doctors nudge him aside with averages of 3.09 and 3.16, respectively.

Not So Sorry?: The 1st Doctor had a measly 0.70 apologies per episode. Grumpy and not in the least bit sorry about it.

The Rise of Remorse: There's a clear trend of increasing apologies as we move through the modern era. Recent incarnations (10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, 14th, and 15th) seem to be getting more in touch with their feelings.

The Sorriest of Them All: The Tenth Doctor might not be the sorriest on average, but with 145 total apologies, he's got the highest raw number of sorries.

Companion-Driven Apologies: Some Doctors apologise more depending on their companions. For instance, the 12th Doctor's high apology rate coincided with Clara and less so for Bill.

If you like data, you'll like this.

Whoniverse Facts for Friday by GIL

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

#doctor who #dr who #dw eu #gallifrey #gallifrey institute for learning #whoniverse #TOTW: I'm sorry so sorry #GIL: Facts #GIL: Individuals/The Doctor #GIL

870 notes · View notes

schizospecfaye · 8 months ago

Text

Today in therapy I learned the term double bookkeeping and everything makes much more sense now

“Double bookkeeping is a term introduced by Eugen Bleuler to describe a fundamental feature of schizophrenia where psychotic reality can exist side by side with shared reality even when these realities seem mutually exclusive.”

This is why I can know I’m schizophrenic and still believe my delusions. My psychosis is its own separate reality where everything is possible. Logic doesn’t apply there, I’m unreal, my reality is unreal so unreal things can happen. I know it’s physiologically impossible and implausible, I know it’s a symptom of psychosis and not an experience I share with most of the world, but it’s still real to me

Do any other schizospec folk experience this?

#actually psychotic #actually schizophrenic #mental illness #neurodivergent #psychosis #schizoaffective #schizophrenia #schizospec #mental health #actually delusional #delusional disorder #psychotic episode #double bookkeeping

970 notes · View notes

worldofstoriesanddreams · 5 months ago

Text

Is there an age limit? Part 2

“For me?” The annoying red-clad giant of a man who was all sunshine and diabetes-inducing puppies bounced around. He played with the communicator Batman handed to him as if it were a shiny new toy.

“I can’t believe I’m in the Justice League!” The Herculean man-child squealed, grinning like an imbecile. “Somebody, kick me. Show me I’m not dreaming!”

Guy Gardner was too happy to oblige.

“My pleasure.”

His signature kick - a brutal, no-holds-barred move - would send a seasoned fighter flying across the floor. Guy delivered one of his specialties to Captain Whitebread.

Crack!

“My leg!”

Agony ripped from his foot, up his leg, as he felt his bones shatter upon impact with that brick wall of a man.

“I broke my leg!” He hopped to the nearest seat, clutching his foot, hoping to earn sympathy points with Ice.

The cold beauty looked away.

Instead, the Big Red Cheese hovered towards him.

“I’m so sorry.” The overgrown baby - who was made of concrete - had the audacity to offer him a hand.

“Can I help you?”

“Nah, Guy’s just being Guy,” Hal pulled Justice League’s newest recruit away. “You must see our recreation rooms!”

Superman, one of the Big Three, intercepted them.

“Wait, Cap,” he dangled a set of keys in front of Captain Whitebread.

“You get the room beside mine,” Superman grinned as the big blue boy scout wrapped his arm around the cheesy red boy scout.

He behaved as if Cap was his twin brother. “I’ll show you your private quarters!”

Guy’s jaw dropped as he turned as green as his ring.

While every member of the Justice League had a private room in the Watchtower, a cluster of four rooms were considered prime estate. Three of the four prestigious rooms were taken by the Big Three - Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman.

Captain Whitebread gets the fourth?

It is as good as telling the hero community that the dolt is one of the Big Four.

Guy knew he deserved that honour far more than that joke of a hero.

“Holy Moley!” Captain Marvel’s gawked at his private quarters. “Is this for me?”

“All yours,” Superman grinned, spreading out his arms.

His fellow Kryptonian’s childlike wonder was a welcome change from the jaded cynicism, or even worse, the self-important grandeur of some heroes.

“Can this room handle lightning strikes?” Captain Marvel ran his hand over a wall.

“Well,” Superman rock on the back of his heels.

“We are in space, so there is no lightning out here. But it can withstand intense heat, radiation, corrosive environments and physical stress, so I’d imagine it can handle a regular thunderstorm.”

Marvel frowned, in thought. “Can it handle over a billion volts at more than 30,000 degrees Celsius?”

“I’m not sure if anything can handle that,” Superman replied.

“May not be an issue if….” Captain Marvel’s face lit up with a dazzling grin.

“Never mind. I know what to do.” He chuckled.

“Wisdom of Solomon,” he tapped his head.

Cap’s eyes bugged out at the fully stocked mini-fridge and pantry. He picked up a can of beer. “I’m sure you must be a certain age to drink these,” he frowned.

Superman wasn’t a fan of alcohol either. It had no effect on his Kryptonian physiology. He didn’t fancy the taste.

“I don’t like beer or alcohol either. It might be a Kryptonian thing,” he beamed, more certain than ever that he was no longer the last of his kind. “I had mine swapped for milk,” he grinned. “I can arrange that for you too.”

“That would be cool!” Cap looked delighted. “Can I have chocolate milk?”

Cap behaved like a kid let loose in a toy shop as Superman showed him the room’s features.

“The bed and walls are reinforced, but cannot withstand our strength, if you toss and turn in your sleep,” Superman warned. “Do you sleepwalk?”

“No,” Cap pursed his lips. “I’ll power down before bed so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Power down? Does Marvel have portable red sun lamps?

That’s a brilliant idea he could adopt.”

For the rest of the morning, Superman had the pleasure of showing his new brother the rest of the Watchtower.

“Superman, this place is awesome!” Cap remarked

“Call me Kal,” Superman replied.

“Okay Kal. You were saying you have Polar Bears in your Fortress of Solitude. Can I play with them?” Marvel pleaded with large, puppy eyes.

“Sure, Will-em,” Kal replied.

Cap cringed. “I rather you call me Billy. William sounds so… old.”

“Bill, then?” Kal asked.

“Bill is good,” Billy replied.

Marvel prefers his civilian Earth name.

He probably was raised on Earth too.

So civilian Earth name it is.

“Then call me Clark.”

Bill preferred flying to using the zeta tubes. He had a point. One can never tire of the magnificent view, flying on your power from the space station to earth.

“You keep your key where everyone can see?” Bill’s eyes widened at the large golden key outside Superman’s ice fortress.

“It’s made of dwarf star material and weighs millions of tons,” Clark smirked. “It’s not like anyone can pick it up and let themselves in.” He fitted the massive key into the keyhole.

“I bet I can,” Bill smirked.

“Kryptonians can,” Clark replied. “But we’re almost extinct.” He handed the key to Marvel, who returned it to its place where it doubled up as an aircraft navigation marker.

“Holy Moley!” Bill’s jaw dropped lower as they walked into the fortress. “Are those your parents?” He pointed up at the statues Kal had created in memory of his birth parents.

“Yes. Jor-el and Lara Lor-Van,” Clark replied. “I was a baby when they sent me away. I don’t remember anything about them.”

“Oh,” Bill squeezed Clark’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay.” Clark assured him. “Ma and Pa Kent took me in when I landed on earth as a baby. They raised me as their own son.”

“That’s cool. I don’t have parents. I lost mine when I was five,” Bill’s eyes glistened with tears.

“I can still remember them, though the memories are getting fuzzy.”He dropped his smile.

“You can always visit me and my family at the farm,” Superman patted his back.

“Farm?” Cap’s eyes widened. “You grew up in a farm?”

“Raised there. My folks live there,” he chuckled as he led Bill through the fortress' many chambers. “Talking about families, there’s a polar bear family I want you to meet.”

He opened a door that led into a natural cave just outside the Fortress of Solitude.

“My neighbours,” Clark gestured at a family of polar bears.

The father and mother bears nodded at the men and chuffed their greeting.

Bill chuffed back.

Then he whimpered like a playful bear cub.

Curious cubs approached Cap with their heads up and ears forward.

The biggest baby bear swatted the air in a playful mock attack.

Captain Marvel pawed back as younger cubs rolled around.

Their mother walked slowly towards Cap, and sniffed at him.

The babies followed suit.

Between the cuffs, whines and whimpers, the bears seemed to be having some sort of conversation with the man.

“Do you understand what they are saying?” Clark walked up to them, getting a growl in response.

“Oh sorry,” Bill replied. “I keep forgetting we aren’t speaking English.”

“Huh?” Clark frowned. Confused.

“Sasha here was telling me about your noisy machines driving their fish away,” Bill added. “She asks you to be a good neighbour and keep the noise down.”

Apparently, the mother bear was Sasha, the father bear was Phil.

“I’m hardly here,” Clark replied.

Bill chuffed at the mother bear, getting a series of growls in return.

“She says, you may not be here, but your machines still make too much noise. These two days, the sounds are more frequent and worse,” Bill explained.

Sasha chuffed some more.

“Then there are the newcomers in shiny suits that came through this week,” translated Bill.

“That’s not possible,” Clark had a nagging feeling something was wrong.

Phil roared.

Sasha herded the cubs away.

“They are coming again. The bears smell them,” Clark translated for Bill.

“Sasha is asking you to tell your guests to be more considerate.”

“What guests?”

A sudden pain stabbed through Clark’s entire body.

Kryptonite.

He searched for the source, but his super-vision failed him. A wave of dizziness hit him. Hard.

“Are you okay, Clark,” Bill caught him before he hit the ground.

“Kryptonite,” his vision turned blurry as an armoured figure bearing a large chunk of Kryptonite stalked past the bears, towards him.

“I got this.”

Bill’s voice was the last thing Clark heard before he blacked out.

“Batman! Superman’s poisoned!” Captain Marvel strode into the Watchtower carrying a limp, green-faced Superman.

“What happened?” Batman led Marvel to The Infirmary.

“Kryptonite bomb exploded in our faces,” Marvel grimaced. “Shards of Green K pierced his skin. I removed as much as I could but I don’t have X-ray vision, but I think he breathed particles of Kryptonite, so can you check his lungs?”

“Hmmph,” Batman scrutinised Marvel. “Why aren’t you affected?”

“Kryptonite doesn’t bother me,” Marvel replied. “We were attacked in the Arctic. Who do I hand the culprits over to?”

“Bring them here for interrogation,” Batman replied. If these guys infiltrated Superman’s fortress, he wanted to find out more. “Local authorities don’t have the facilities or security to store technology that is advanced enough to take down Superman. Bring everything here for safekeeping.”

“Yes, sir!” Marvel did a chipper salute and disappeared in a red blur.

So, Captain Marvel is immune to Kryptonite. He doesn’t have X-ray vision either. The man is clearly not a Kryptonian.

As he applied the ultrasonic vibratory device to Superman’s chest to loosen the kryptonite particles in his lungs, Batman pondered on the new information that Marvel had revealed about himself.

Marvel may not be a Kryptonian, but he could be a Daxamite.

These are descendants of Kryptonians who left Krypton to explore space. They have the same powers as Kryptonians but do not have x-ray vision.

Although they are not affected by Kryptonite, Daxamites have a fatal sensitivity to lead.

Batman set up the portable lung lavage system to wash out Superman’s lungs.

Then he headed to his private quarters where he kept his contingencies against every member of the Justice League.

He removed the Kryptonite from Marvel’s box and replaced it with lead bullets.

#billy batson #dc captain marvel #billy batson is captain marvel #shazam #captain marvel #captain marvel dc #superman #clark kent #kal el #batman #green lantern #guy gardner

440 notes · View notes

222col · 2 days ago

Text

bimbo!reader x rafe cameron

summary: rafe likes you too much to let you go (part one can be found here)

cw .ᐟ hints at nsfw, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome

꒰ notes ꒱ based on the film buffalo '66 (1998)

stockholm syndrome— a coping mechanism to a captive situation. the physiological response to being held hostage, in which the captured develop a bond with their captor.

trapped in the shitty motel room, that typically rafe wouldn't be caught dead in. but he had to think quick, take you somewhere no questions would be asked.

still in the same clothes, rafe liked the pink tights and sheer skirt too much to bother going to buy you new ones. nothing to do with the fact he thought you'd escape if he left you alone, he knew you'd grown to accept that you weren't going anywhere.

he didn't force you to stay only within the four walls of the motel, he took you out too. on dates, if you will. local diners, makeshift picnics on the beach, rafe was being the perfect gentleman. well, as gentlemanly as one can be to his hostage.

"m'hungry." you murmur, fiddling with the hem of your skirt as you sit on the edge of the bed. "yeah, princess?" rafe mumbles, gently running a hand over your back from where he lays behind you. his softness had become a welcome change, no more harsh touches or screaming of orders. only when you were acting up.

he was testing the waters, taking you to the country club. he'd been exclusively taking you places where pogues frequent, the country club was the furthest thing from that. a place where people knew his name, his family.

drink in hand, actually good food on your plates, you were the picture of perfection to accompany it. "better, baby?" rafe mumbles, gulping down the liquid in his glass. nodding your head, opening your mouth to speak before interruption ensues.

"is rafe cameron on a date?" the blonde speaking laughs out the words, slapping a hand to the back of rafe's neck. you'd assume it was a friend, but the way rafe's jaw clenches in response makes you believe otherwise.

rafe leans away from his grip, eyes harsh as they meet the blondes. "fuck off topper, can't you see i'm busy?"

"touchy," topper smirks, as he looks over you from head to toe. rafe can see exactly what he's thinking, and he hates it. "where you been hidin' this girl, cameron?" god, if only he knew...

rafe is already up and standing, eyes level with topper. gaze warning, daring him to say anything more. he was the one who found you, did all the work to make you his, this is why he'd been keeping you locked up in that motel. no prying eyes to ogle at you, the only person who could look at you was him. the only one who could touch you, think of you even, was him.

"fuckin' quiet now, aren't you?" rafe taunts, a smirk threatening his features. watching the bob of topper's throat, swallowing down the nerves. "not a word, topper. don't even look at her."

you're almost impressed, watching how fast topper walked in the other direction. starting to piece parts of rafe's life together, quickly realising just how influential he must be. him specifically or his family name— you're not sure.

"you okay, doll?" rafe almost whispers, hand reaching over the table to gently take yours. you want to argue, tell him that topper barely did anything for you to be not okay about. but part of you can't help but play up to his concern. "mhm, thanks to you." you murmur softly, gently nodding your head.

the smile that spreads across his face is sinful. he was protecting you, and you were letting him. no arguments, no attempting to escape, you were grateful.

it was becoming too normal. rafe was long forgetting the circumstances to which you're lying next to him on the motel bed. the bruises he left on your ribs the first day were starting to disappear, the memory of your pleading starting to vanish from his mind. left only with the feeling of your hands on his skin, the gentle brushes through his hair, soft kisses to his cheek.

facing each other on the mattress, fingers interlocked between your bodies. no words exchanged, but his attention was solely on you. looking over the faint remaining eyeshadow left on your eyes, how your necklace pooled on your throat how you laid, the small indent on your bottom lip from where you'd been chewing.

"you're so pretty," he mumbles, thumb stroking over the hand in his. it wasn't the first compliment he paid you, but it was the first to make you blush. soft dusty pink washing over your cheeks, shy smile on your lips. squeezing your hand gently, before removing it from yours to caress your cheek. "i mean it."

unable to stop the way your face nuzzles against his touch, eyes fluttering shut. "never want you to leave me." he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

the words hit your ears and the air in the room suddenly feels different. he's genuine, almost... insecure, scared you'll beg him to let you go again. he's not sure he'd be able to deny you if you asked to leave again. "i don't want to." you whisper, softly reopening your eyes to meet his.

rafe's yet to taste your lips, but he's sure he just fell in love.

"you— you don't?" rafe asks, in disbelief. his hand cups your face, searching for any sign of uncertainty. "i don't." you assure, moving your hand to his face, mirroring his position to yours.

rafe tentatively shuffles closer, noses almost touching. feeling his laboured breathing fan across your face. his lips ever so softly touch yours, as though he was holding himself back. you were too precious, too soft to ever rush. for the first time, rafe wanted to go slow. lips kissing over your bottom lip, gently swiping his tongue across, asking for entry.

tongues meet and his eyes are rolling back beneath his eyelids, never had rafe tasted someone so sweet. one kiss, and he was completely done for.

"i like you, rafe." you whisper softly, lips kiss swollen.

"i more than like you, princess," he murmurs, voice as quiet as your own. "never letting you go."

꒰ taglist ꒱ @khartalks @funkycoloured @bluestrd @appleaali @stanart4clearskin @donteventry-itdude @ssst4444r @gublerstylesobrien1238 (to be added)

#bimbo!reader ౨ৎ #bimbo!reader x rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fic #rafe x reader #rafe outer banks #rafe obx #outer banks #obx #buffalo 66

299 notes · View notes

shiyorin · 4 months ago

Text

#Happy Sanguinala, time to meet the Great Angel

#Chaos Sanguinius x Female Reader

#Yep, four of them

#Warning: NSFW, rape, non-con, Chaos Sanguinius, there is a lot of sensitive content,....

Khorne Sanguinius

The Great Angel, his once-white wings now stained crimson with the blood of a thousand worlds. His noble features are still beautifully but twisted with rage, eyes glowing red with murderous intent. The Blood God's chosen champion, Khorne Sanguinius leads his Legion on a never-ending crusade of slaughter.

Gone is the compassion that once defined him. In its place, a burning thirst for violence that can never be quenched. His laughter is a terrifying sound that sends even hardened warriors fleeing in terror.

The Blood Angels, once noble defenders of humanity, are now rabid berserkers. Their gene-seed, already tainted by the Red Thirst, has been twisted further. Now, they fall into a permanent state of uncontrollable bloodlust, barely distinguishable from mindless beasts.

The chamber reeked of blood, sweat and sex, a fitting shrine to Khorne's newest champion. Sanguinius loomed over your petite form, his massive frame dwarfing yours entirely. His once-white wings, now stained crimson, twitched with barely restrained violence as he thrust savagely into your tight heat.

Your body shook with each brutal impact, tears streaming down your face from the intensity. But Sanguinius saw only beauty in your pain. He leaned down, his tongue gently lapping at the salty trails on your cheeks.

"So good." he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You take me so well, my dearest."

The tenderness of the words contrasted sharply with the relentless pounding of his hips.

Your only response was a defiant glare, your eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and unwanted arousal. Sanguinius smiled, a touch of arrogance curling his lips. He knew you would never admit it, but your body betrayed you. The way you clenched around his massive cock, the breathless moans you tried so hard to suppress - you wanted this as much as he did.

His tongue trailed lower, tracing the delicate curve of your jaw before finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. You shivered involuntarily, and Sanguinius chuckled gently.

"That's it," he purred. "Let go. Give yourself to me."

He nipped at your earlobe, then began working his way down your neck. His lips and tongue moved with exquisite gentleness, a stark contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. It was as if he was trying to soothe away the pain even as he inflicted more.

Sanguinius paused at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. He laved the spot with his tongue, the sensation almost numbing. You tensed, knowing what was coming.

With a growl of pure lust, Sanguinius sank his fangs into your flesh. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth, and he roared in ecstasy. His hips jerked erratically as he came, pumping load after load of scalding seed deep into your womb.

The world went white around the edges as pleasure unlike anything he'd ever known coursed through him. It was better than any battle-high, more intoxicating than the sweetest victory. In that moment, Sanguinius understood why chaos held such sway over mortals and Astartes alike.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Even as the aftershocks of his orgasm still rippled through him, Sanguinius felt his cock hardening again. The blessings of Khorne and his Primarch physiology ensured he could go for hours, days even, without respite.

He pulled back slightly, admiring the livid bite mark on your neck. A possessive thrill ran through him at the sight. You were his now, marked and claimed in the most primal way possible.

Sanguinius leaned down, his tongue gently lapping at the wound. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his lips, the rush of blood calling to the predator within him. But he held back, content for now to simply taste and savor.

"I can give you more.” he said, your answer didn't matter, he would take what he wanted regardless.

Sanguinius began to move again, setting a pace that had you gasping and clawing at his back. Your nails dig so deep left bloody furrows in his skin, but he feels no pain, only pleasure. He reveled in it, just as Blood God had taught him to revel in all sensations.

Blood and pleasure, pain and ecstasy, it was all the same in the end.

After all, they had all the time in the world. And he had so much more love to give.

Tzeentch Sanguinius

The Ever-Changing Angel. His once-majestic form shifts constantly, his wings are now covered in dozens of ever-watching eyes. These orbs constantly swivel and blink, granting the angel omniscient awareness of his surroundings. The feathers have become iridescent, shimmering with impossible colors that hurt mortal minds to perceive.

His mind, already sharp, has expanded beyond mortal comprehension. He sees all possible futures simultaneously, playing out grand schemes that span millennia.

Sanguinius speaks in riddles and prophecies, his words carrying multiple layers of meaning. He delights in manipulating events from afar, setting up elaborate dominoes of fate that topple empires and birth new galaxies.

The Ever-Changing Angel’s wings unfurled and shimmering with impossible colors. Each feather held a lidless eye that gazed hungrily at the little mortal bent before him. Your face burned crimson, turned away in a futile attempt to hide your embarrassment from the Chaos Primarch's all-seeing gaze.

The corrupted Angel of Baal gripped your hips, his enormous hands nearly encircling your waist entirely. He pulled you back onto his monstrous cock, stretching your tight pussy to its absolute limit. You bit your lip to stifle a cry, your body trembling as it struggled to accommodate Sanguinius' inhuman size.

Sanguinius began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate. He savored the exquisite friction, reveling in your warmth and the way your inner walls clenched around him. His mind raced with possibilities, a thousand potential futures unfolding before his Warp-touched eyes.

In one, he saw you swollen with his seed, your belly distended as you prepared to birth his heir. In another, your body was remade in his image, wings sprouting from your back as you ascended. Still more visions flickered through his consciousness.

You whimpered softly as Sanguinius picked up the pace, your small frame rocking with the force of his thrusts. You felt utterly overwhelmed, filled to the brim with the Primarch's massive member. Despite your training, you found yourself lost in the maelstrom of sensations assaulting your body.

Sanguinius leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back as he enveloped you with his wings. The feathered appendages caressed your skin, each touch sending jolts of unnatural pleasure coursing through your nerves. The eyes adorning his plumage blinked and shifted, drinking in every detail of your face.

As his orgasm approached, Sanguinius' mind fixated on one particular future - you, your belly swollen with eggs, utterly dependent on him for survival. The image sent a thrill of excitement through him, and he growled low in his throat.

"Perhaps." he purred, his voice a discordant symphony of whispers "we should see how well you lay eggs."

With those words, Sanguinius hilted himself fully inside you, his seed flooding your womb as reality itself bent to his will.

Nurgle Sanguinius

The Plague Father's embrace has transformed the Great Angel. Now Sanguinius' wings drip with putrid ichor, his flesh a canvas of lesions that birth new diseases with every breath.

But in this form, the Angel has found a perverse kind of peace. He spreads Nurgle's "gifts" with the same zeal he once showed in defending the Imperium.

He sees beauty in decay, marveling at the complex ecosystem of bacteria and parasites that call his garden home. He nurtures them lovingly, crooning lullabies as he unleashes them upon unsuspecting worlds.

Pale, fungal flowers exhaled spores that danced in the air like glittering dust. The fallen Angel reclined on a bed of writhing vines, his skin now alabaster and crisscrossed with livid scars.

Underneath him lay you, your petite form dwarfed by the Primarch's massive bulk. Your belly swelled obscenely, stretched taut with the unholy life growing within. Sanguinius gazed upon you with adoration, misinterpreting your revolted expression as one of tender affection.

"My love," he crooned, voice thick with emotion. "How beautiful you are, heavy with our child."

His massive hand splayed across your distended abdomen, caressing the taut skin with surprising gentleness. Beneath his palm, something twisted and writhed, pushing against its fleshy prison. The angel smiled gently, imagining the perfect being they had created together.

You bit back a whimper of disgust as the fallen Primarch's fingers gently caressed across your skin. You remembered all too well the endless, agonizing hours of their coupling, he rutting into you with tireless stamina, his seed flooding your womb again and again until it finally took root.

Now you were trapped, your body no longer your own as it nurtured the abomination growing inside you. You longed for the sweet release of death, but knew that even that escape was denied you. Nurgle's "gifts" ensured you would endure, no matter how your body and mind might break.

Oblivious to your inner turmoil, Sanguinius continued his tender explorations. His hand drifted higher, cupping one of your swollen breasts. They had grown heavy with milk, preparing to nourish the child you carried.

"So beautiful” he murmured, kneading the soft flesh. A drop of pearlescent fluid beaded at your nipple, and Sanguinius licked his lips in anticipation. Soon, he would taste the sweet nectar of their love.

Leaning down, he took your nipple into his mouth, suckling gently. The warm milk flooded his mouth, and he groaned in ecstasy. It was sweeter than the finest ambrosia, carrying hints of the love that now coursed through your veins.

You stared blankly at the canopy of fungal growths above, desperately trying to disconnect from the sensation of his mouth on your breast. You focused on the sweet scent of decay that permeated the air, on the squelching sounds of nameless things moving through the underbrush. Anything to distract from the horror of your situation.

But there was no true escape. As Sanguinius' arousal grew, you felt the massive bulge of his cock pressing against your thigh. You knew what was coming, and a small sob escaped your lips.

The fallen Primarch misinterpreted your cry as one of desire. With aching tenderness, he positioned himself between your legs, his engorged member throbbing with anticipation.

"I love you," he whispered as he pushed inside you.

You bit your lip until you tasted blood, refusing to give voice to your pain as Sanguinius stretched you far beyond your limits. His girth was monstrous, and even after countless couplings, your body struggled to accommodate him.

The angel set a languid pace, savoring every sensation as he made love to his bride. His hands roamed over your body reverently, marveling at how small and delicate you were compared to his massive frame.

In his twisted mind, this was the ultimate expression of their love. Every thrust brought them closer to the glorious future he envisioned, a family bound by devotion and Nurgle's blessings. Their child would be perfect, a living testament to the power of their union.

The angel gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his broad chest.

"My love" he murmured, stroking your hair. "Our family will be complete soon."

Slaneesh Sanguinius

The Prince of Pleasure has molded Sanguinius into its ultimate champion. The pleasure angel is a being of otherworldly beauty and horrific excess. His wings shimmer with impossible colors, each feather a gateway to mind-shattering sensations.

Gone is the noble restraint that once defined him. Now, the angel pursues every fleeting whim and desire to its ultimate conclusion. He leads his Legion on endless crusades, leaving worlds drained of all sensation in their wake.

No longer content with mere blood, now he feast on emotions, memories, and souls, always hungry for new experiences to stave off the gnawing emptiness within.

Sanguinius' voice is a weapon in itself, capable of reducing the strongest-willed beings to quivering addicts with a single whispered promise. He revels in corrupting the pure, seeing how far he can push beings before they break.

The pleasure angel stood before the ornate mirror, admiring his transcendent form. His wings shimmered with impossible hues, each feather a gateway to mind-shattering sensations. The Primarch's perfectly sculpted body was a masterpiece of hedonistic excess, every inch designed to evoke desire.

But perfection was fleeting in the realm of the Prince of Pleasure. There was always a new threshold of beauty to cross, another exquisite sensation to explore. Sanguinius' lips curled into a smile as he contemplated his latest adornments.

With delicate precision, he slid a gleaming golden ring through his left nipple. The cool metal sent shivers of delight coursing through his body. He savored the subtle ache, knowing it would heighten every touch, every caress.

Sanguinius traced his fingers along the intricate patterns inked into his alabaster skin. The tattoos shifted and swirled, hypnotic designs that seemed to move of their own accord. They were a map of pleasure, each line and curve attuned to elicit maximum sensation.

His thoughts turned to you, his only lover, chained to his bed. You were so fierce and independent, now trembled at his merest touch. Sanguinius felt a surge of pride mixed with insatiable hunger. No matter how many times he claimed you, it was never enough.

He recalled the way you writhed beneath him, your small form struggling to accommodate his huge cock. The delicious contrast of your petite body against his towering frame never failed to arouse him. Sanguinius' member swelled at the memory, already aching to be buried in your tight heat once more.

With a thought, he summoned wisps of warp energy to caress his skin. The ethereal tendrils danced along his flesh, leaving trails of tingling pleasure in their wake. Sanguinius groaned, imagining your reaction to this new trick. Would you gasp in awe? Whimper in desperate need? The possibilities were intoxicating.

He selected a vial of shimmering oil, specially crafted to heighten sensitivity. Sanguinius poured a generous amount into his palm, then began to massage it into his chiseled abs and powerful thighs. The oil seemed to sink into his very being, setting every nerve ending aflame with exquisite sensation.

His cock throbbed insistently, demanding attention. Sanguinius wrapped his hand around the massive shaft, stroking languidly. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, and he smeared it over the head, hissing at the intensity of the feeling. He imagined your lips wrapped around him, your throat struggling to take his full length...

With effort, Sanguinius released his grip. No, he would save his release for you. The anticipation would only make it sweeter.

He adorned himself with jewelry crafted from precious metals and soul-stones. Each piece was a work of art, designed to accentuate his godlike physique. Rings glittered on his fingers, and chains draped artfully across his broad chest.

Satisfied with his preparations, Sanguinius turned toward the door that separated him from his lover. His enhanced senses could already detect your rapid heartbeat, the sweet musk of your arousal. You might pretend to resist, might curse his name even as you came undone beneath him. But Sanguinius knew the truth, you were utterly, hopelessly addicted to the pleasures only he could provide.

He pushed open the door, drinking in the sight of you bound and waiting. Today, he would introduce you to new heights of ecstasy. Today, he would make you scream his name loud enough to shake the very foundations of reality.

Sanguinius smiled, a gentle smile about to devour his lover. He loves you and it's never enough.

#shiyorin's writer #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #yandere au #chaos au #wh40crack #romantic stuff in 40k

194 notes · View notes

lethesbeastie · 3 months ago

Text

I showed a few parts of this larger ref while responding to asks yesterday, so might as well post the whole thing akfhskfhskf

Version without texture overlay + character design thoughts and lore under the cut!

I'm gonna start this off by saying that I am not a biologist and that my attempts at speculative biology are operating by "rule of cool" in some parts of this design.

Wraith's design is largely based on cephalopods, with mimic octopus, bobtail squid, and cuttlefish playing a key role as design inspirations. My goal for their design in this form was to keep their anatomy and physiology as close to the typical structure of cephalopods as possible without sacrificing the necessary physical features that would allow them to adapt to life outside of the water. I wanted them to look alien, but still endearing, and to emphasize the fact that they are very much still a child despite their size and strangeness.

A quick note on some terms from the flavor text on the image:

Buccal mass: mouthparts of a cephalopod, including the beak and the musculature that allows it to open and close

Mantle: the main body of a cephalopod that protects and contains all of its major organs

Flavor text:

Arms Vs. Tentacles: on cephalopods, Arms refer to appendages which have suckers along the entire length of the limbs underside, while Tentalces only have suckers at the club-like end

1. Blue of blood shows through in membranes/thinner areas of flesh

2. Primary mouth/buccal mass

3. External gills

4. Siphon

5. Ridges flare when threatened

6. Tentacles and rear arm merge, acts as counterweight to aid in bipedal locomotion

7. Lower anterior arms merge to form legs; lack of proper bones means bipedal locomotion is unsteady

8. Upper arms adapted hands to better manipulate objects

9. The two rear-most appendages are proper tentacles, and are capable of manipulating objects almost as effectively as main hands

10. Two mouths, one form consumption, one for speech*

- 10A. Secondary mouth hidden by barbles, chitin** structure within resembles a fused set of teeth. This mouth can be used to eat, but there's a high risk of choking

- 10B. Resting position of beak in primary mouth, retracted into buccal mass

- 10C. Extended position of beak in primary mouth; capable of breaking down mollusk shells and biting through bone

11. Natural posture when unfurled

12. Defensive stance

13. The skin covering the mantel forms a cavity into which the head can partially withdraw

14. Capable of spitting ink from secondary mouth when in distress

15. Eyes are large with highly reflective pupils; excellent dark vision

16. Nictitating membrane rises to protect the eye when biting, may also rise when distressed

17. Retractable claws inside suckers

Extra design lore and speculative biology:

18. Blood is a deep blue, appears black under water, and turns clear as it dries. Texture is thick and viscous

** in the image I wrote keratin, but research has shown me that a squids beak is actually made of chitin rather than keratin! Keratin may still be present, but it's not the main polymer in the makeup of the beak structure. I know this is a silly fun character design, but I try to remain somewhat accurate with how I engage the biological aspects, so I wanted to correct my mistake

At the current moment of this design, Wraith is 11 years old, and stands at 5 ft 4 in [168 cm] when using their legs. They measure 6 ft [183 cm] long from head to tail when unfurled/in the water. Their height and size relative to their age is above average compared to humans, but is more or less in line with the normal growth rate for deep sea tritons, which are the largest of the triton variants. Their height out of the water is limited by their physiology; Wraith lacks proper bones, so maintaining an upright form requires a lot more effort and energy. They rely heavily on mobility aids (rollator, cane, wheelchair) if they'll be walking or standing for long periods of time in their true form.

The changeling magic that enables their shape-shifting provides a level of structural stability to their body when in disguise that makes life outside of the water easier, but they still require more rest and breaks from standing than other able-bodied children of their own age. The form that provides the most stability is their "default" triton disguise, which they've carefully tailored to be as comfortable as possible so they can have a more active lifestyle. Smaller disguise forms are easier to manage, as the compression of their body makes those forms more stable to hold. Their triton disguise form measures out to only 3 ft 5 in [103 cm] tall which is much easier for them to maintain out of the water.

#Waters Rising #WR: Wraith #artists on tumblr #character art #character ref sheet #Ive been wanting to draw more of wraith with their mobility aids #They dont travel in their true form very much because of how exhausting it is #but even in baby triton form walking can be very exhausting #Ive got thoughts on the types of accomodations the crew provides for them #Irving and Abalone are both amputees so the crew as a whole is used to accomodating disabilities #if ur interested in this character and their lore my ask box is always open #I can take a while to respond cause I like to answer asks with art when i can akfbskfjs

163 notes · View notes

notrapsplease · 8 months ago

Text

Werebear Halsin Headcanon

I have seen a couple other posts going around about werebear Halsin and wanted to make my own with some of my thoughts/evidence because I have been a werebear truther since I first saw the beefy elf daddy.

This doesn't really have spoilers in it, but I do touch on a couple plot points from the game. Fair warning! I also pull a lot from D&D itself, specifically 5th edition since that's what BG3 is built on.

This ended up being long, so I split it into a few different categories, they are in no particular order:

Quite large for an elf

We all know, Halsin is big. Large even. In D&D, elves are described as being slender and slight. Even if they are athletic they are not muscular and are lighter than other races of the same size (as in a 5'5" human will weigh more than a 5'5" elf). They are a little shorter than humans on average.

This puts Halsin well outside the usual elf physiology. When this is addressed in game, Halsin says perhaps he has some orc ancestry or "conventional wisdom is too narrow about what someone can or cannot be" (beautiful sentiment Halsin, you're still big).

Being a werebear offers a simple explanation for his unusual size. Werebear in D&D are described as being large and muscular, even in their humanoid form.

It's a "Wildshape"

Sure buddy.

Halsin's bear form is explained away as one of his druid wildshapes, but there are a couple things that don't line up.

First is the UI itself. Halsin’s bear form is separate from wildshape. It’s in the general abilities section not the class features. This might be just for programming reasons, but I still think it’s interesting.

Second and more incriminating, Halsin stays in bear form for too long. ACT 1 Spoilers: When you find Halsin in the Goblin Camp, the Goblins don't know he's a dude, they just think he's a bear. Even if in the stories timeline you're supposed to reach him the same day as when he was kidnapped, that's still a long time to maintain a wildshape. As per DND 5e rules: "You can stay in a beast shape for a number of hours equal to half your druid level (rounded down)."

So even if Halsin is STARTING as a max BG3 level druid at level 12, he should only maintain wildshape for 6 hours. Even as a Circle of the Moon druid, the time doesn't increase.

"I...lost the run of myself"

Related to the idea that Halsin's bear form is a wildshape, I need to touch on the parts of the game that indicate Halsin can lose control of his bear form.

My main piece of evidence here is that wildshape in D&D has no indication that you lose any control of your impulses. In fact, wildshape describes the opposite: "Your game statistics are replaced by the statistics of the beast, but you retain your alignment, personality, and Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma scores."

The fact you retain your mental stats mean you are in total control. There is no mental difference between a druid in wildshape and a druid in their humanoid form. To be in wildshape is a CHOICE the druid makes.

This is in contrast to spells like Polymorph which indicate that you lose your mental stats AS WELL as your physical ones: "The target's game statistics, including mental ability scores, are replaced by the statistics of the chosen beast. It retains its alignment and personality."

I bring that up just to showcase that D&D does have that distinction, if wildshape was meant to be something that you could lose control of, or let the beast take over, they would have written it that way.

ACT 3 spoilers: This idea that he can be made to lose control is also hinted at if Orin kidnaps him from your camp. Orin's dialogue from the kidnapped victim usually indicates a deep-seated fear the victim has, or their worst case scenario. Having kidnapped Halsin describe himself losing control indicates to me that it's his biggest fear. Which makes sense as a werebear, as a druid…not so much.

In contrast to wildshape, which is a voluntary choice the druid makes, being a werebear is a curse. Halsin is obviously in good control of his werebear self (I discuss this later on), but it is still a curse and can affect him negatively, especially in impulse and instinct.

Alignment: Neutral Good

Now I've got to talk about the werebear curse a little more. And D&D lycanthropy in general.

When someone is afflicted with the curse and resists it, they maintain their normal alignment but struggle to contain the beast. If an afflicted person chooses to accept the beast they gain more control over their bestial form, but lose their alignment to the alignment of the kind of lycanthrope they are.

Both Halsin and the canon D&D werebear are Neutral Good. Which means Werebear Halsin is in alignment with his bestial side, offering some manner of control over his transformations.

Only you can prevent shadow curses.

Werebear are described as being lone hermits who guard their territories fiercely, protecting their habitat, and the flora and the fauna from any threat. Sounds like a werebear might get really obsessive trying to rid his territory of, say, a Shadow curse.

Halsin and Thaniel's relationship makes a lot more sense if Halsin is a werebear. They met when Halsin was a child, so Halsin wouldn't have been a druid yet. In D&D druids are a learned class, more like clerics. Certainly Halsin could been a child in touch with nature, but why did Thaniel single him out?

If Halsin was a werebear though, he would have already had a natural desire to protect the land, the land being personified as Thaniel.

The werebear curse is described in D&D as usually being passed on voluntarily, as in a werebear chooses who they want to bite, either a companion or an apprentice. Werefolk curses also pass through bloodlines (as in you can be born a werefolk). The general consensus is if you are born a werefolk you will naturally align with the curse's alignment so you will innately be in more control then a bitten werefolk. We already know Halsin is Neutral Good, like werebears usually are.

This is a more headcanon-y part, but I think Halsin’s family were probably all werebear, or at least one of his parents was and from a lineage that had a history protecting the land Halsin grew up on. Knowing that Halsin's family all passed away, this could also indicate why Thaniel singled him out, maybe Halsin was the last in the werebear lineage that had chosen to defend the land Thaniel personified.

Either way, Halsin and the werebear align in the desire to protect natural spaces, and Halsin's obsession with the shadow curse could stem from that innate desire.

This isn't my first time recruiting a werefolk druid

This is meta evidence, but I'm including it. In BG2 there is a druid named Cernd and he’s a werewolf! What does this have to do with Halsin? Not a lot, but it shows that having a companion who is a werewolf is established in the universe. Cernd also establishes that being a druid helps to control a werecreature curse. Cernd isn’t feral and has greater control over his werewolfism because of his abilities as a druid. Also Cernd has magic items that are from High Forest. If that sounds familiar, it's where Halsin says his family is buried. idk the connection but it's interesting.

Final thoughts

I think that's all?? I also want to talk about why I think the Werebear curse wasn't brought up in game.

One of the other posts I saw suggested that the reason it’s not brought up in game is Halsin doesn’t know he's a werebear. I get that, I can totally see that, but I don’t think that does Halsin justice. Halsin may be a beefy boy, but he isn't oblivious. There is no way Halsin has lived for 350 years and hasn’t realized he’s a werebear. 350 years is a long time not to bite anyone.

I think the more likely explanation in game is simply that it never comes up. Halsin is in control (mostly) and not worried about it. He is also not used to having people who care for him (this is a huge part of his characterization in game), and probably has had to keep the fact that he is a werebear relatively secret throughout his life.

From a meta perspective, I think it was cut for time and content. We KNOW that a lot of his content was cut already (Sorrow, anyone?). There is also the fact that originally one of the other origin characters was going to be a werewolf, so they may have decided to ease back on Halsin being a werebear so she would be more unique. Then she ceased to exist anyway. Personally I think they should have included some dialogue about it somewhere, especially after deciding not to have the werewolf companion. I genuinely can’t FATHOM that werebear Halsin wasn’t the plan all along, regardless of if they decided to cut it. Alright I'm done. Werebear believers unite!

#baldur's gate iii #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #halsin #halsin bg3 #halsin silverbough #werebear #headcanon

227 notes · View notes

dreamofhircine · 2 months ago

Text

SNAPSHOT

When you signed the contract with Pinnacle Transport & Logistics it was because it was the only thing hiring that could get you off-colony sooner than a year out without indenturing yourself in the process. Mercenary companies were like that, high turnover for low to moderately skilled labor. It was a good deal.

PT&L wasn't one of the big five but they held contracts for a handful of systems, a few up and coming colonies. Nothing too impressive but they were recruiting a lot, manning up for something bigger. They were even paying better than mine day labor rates just to come in and get tested at their portside offices.

You went because you could use the money even if they didn't sign you, even if they said you weren't worth the cost to take into orbit. The staff was professionally cold and efficient, never sparing a word that wasn't part of the script they must have memorized. They spent hours hooking you up to electrodes, running scans and tests and endless aptitude batteries after you'd checked in. More needles and probes than you'd ever had in you before, eyes looking hungrier and hungrier behind their splash-guard visors the longer they continued.

Eventually you passed. You passed so well that someone in a suit came down before you even had a chance to wipe the electrode signa-gel off or change back into your jumpsuit and she came with a thick stack of paperwork and a few digital pads with it all laid out for you to sign, review optional.

It seemed like good terms with a quick scan. An indefinite contract but both parties could cancel as necessary, operational conditions permitting. A signing bonus that would have been a year's wages in the mine. A salary even the techs at Colonial Admin would have jumped over to private for and room and board that didn't come out of your pay. They were even offering medical coverage.

You signed. You barely read beyond the summary sheets. You didn't negotiate, too worried that this was a joke and they'd drop the punchline on you if you didn't dry the ink fast enough or sign the digital seals before some unseen timer ran out. The corporate rep just smiled the whole time and said that with your scores, you qualified for a special new program they were recruiting for, something better than the augmented infantry or aerospace fighters PT&L featured on all their sizzle reel ads.

They were standing up an experimental mech corps, a new kind of pilot for a new kind of machine. Faster to train, easier to use, a totally new generation of tech but much harder to find physiologically compatible pilots. There were surgeries, she said, augments they'd need to make to your body. To your brain. Things that would make you and your machine sync together like your brain and your body does.

You'd heard of something like that, the political fanatics on the edge of the Economic Zone of Control were supposed to use things like that. WARSPRITES, or S-MAGs, the rumors were spotty and the corporate news never ran any stories about them but word traveled far down the transit lanes, packed right along with the workers tending the mineral trades.

The corporate rep and a new batch of technicians in surgical gowns so white and unblemished that they almost hurt to look at sat you back down in the exam room after you signed, techs swarming around and fitting you for a new kind of probe. Electrodes and sensors all around your skull, digital goggles over your eyes. She said it was the first step, a 'neural snapshot' that she needed to have recorded for your medical records before the rest of the processing began.

It started quick, once you were settled in. No fanfare, just a sharp prick at your neck and then there were lights. Flashing, bright, pulsing. Warmth and stillness flowing out from the pinpoint in your neck, rolling down into your limbs like hot sap. You heard something like bells in the distance, a tapping or clicking or snapping getting louder as the flashes got brighter and started to sear into your eyes, into your brain, burning hot and painful. White light, white noise, thunderous, roiling, boiling up and up and then nothing. Then nothing. Then nothing.

The first thing you notice when the goggles come up is how cold you are, like a chill had snuck into your bones while you blinked. Your hand is shaking but you can't reach over to still it, bound by too-tight straps to the chair. To a different chair than before.

"Welcome back to us, Pilot Registration Number PTL-7954. I understand that you're very disoriented right now, " a voice begins saying, too loud and too abrasive in your suddenly very sensitive ears. As the blurry edges of your vision clears away you start to see the figure, someone new and unfamiliar.

Everyone was new. Sterile white labcoats swapped out for strikingly bright orange cleanroom suits, faces all obscured behind masks & goggles with mirror-finish tint as they work around the room at beeping, flashing panels or circle around you taking notes. "But we really must get through this."

You start to form a question, but a raised finger from the technician in front of you catches it in your throat. "In accordance with the New Oslo Corporate Armistice Settlement all neurologically augmented combat-rated employees, " They rattle off from a tablet, before pausing.

"That means you, of course, are to restored to the earliest viable neurological engram to be offered a chance to voluntarily end their current service contract." Bored, droning, like reading a weather report. "I can answer questions you have, but please make a decision quickly."

Your mind is still moving slow, hazy, stumbling. You heard the words but they meant nothing. Your hand is still shaking and you try to focus on it, look away from the stranger and catch your bearings again. Center on something familiar. The whole room is different. And cold. Your hand is different too. Studded now with implants. And cold.

There are ports, scars, burns, scratchy little tattoos across your hands and forearm disappearing up into the sleeves of a green medical gown you don't remember putting on. A machine nearby is beeping, starting off some quickly muffled alarm. Your breath is fast and ragged.

You tear your eyes away from your arm. Even just that had been too much, the phantom kickback too great. You're so skinny. Gaunt and pale and wounded in ways you can feel are old, bone deep and part of you now. The technician starts up again after sharing glances with the screen. "This neural engram is from your initial indoc, about twenty years ago."

That hits like a fist to the gut, and they didn't even pause to let it sink in for you. Business as usual. "You've had ten years active, ten years on ice. Your record is actually very impressive for an earlier cadre like you, it's probably why Allied Interorbital Freight bought your contract."

"But if you don't have any questions, I really need that answer. We have a full slate of neural restorations to do and we're running a bit behind. Do you want to continue your contract, or activate your severance clause?" they ask, tapping away at the monitor in front of them.

You can see a small reflection in the shiny visor they wear. Of you. Of something that looks like something you could be. Of something emaciated, drained, dotted with black metal ports and unfamiliar piercings. You can just barely make out the swell of breasts, of all things, beneath the gown.

The longer hair framing your unfamiliar face is the most shocking part. You'd never worn it like this before, always so closely cropped for mine work. The alarm kicks in again, louder, blaring a few notes longer than before. You need to leave. You need to go home. You need to go home and tell the foreman you want to keep your job. "H.... Home..." you mutter, as another tech steps in with a needle next to you.

The one that was talking to you shakes their head, and stops typing. "Hmm... Let's chalk this one up to a unstable state then. Reset to the most recent mental state and then roll back to...." They order, checking another monitor "Five years post-indoc. That's after the surgeries, a few contract deployments. The baseline capture will be a lot more compliant."

"Always like this with the early ones, don't know why we bother going all the way back when they just beg to go home." the tech with the needle muttered, stepping behind you and out of sight while the lead tech laughs. "You know how it is with NOCAS compliance, we have to give them a choice but nobody audits the logs too closely as long as a snapshot makes the right decision in the end."

The rising panic in you fades with the words and with the prick of something new in your neck, some pressure behind your eyes and wrapped around every thought loosens up and the fingers you hadn't noticed were gripping the armrests with enough force to turn paper-white slacken and release. The visor goggles slip back down, the same painful light and noise trying to burn your brain out again but you don't burn. You're too cold for that. You were so cold, now. Everything was so cold now. Then it was nothing.

#mechposting #mechsploitation #writing tag

73 notes · View notes