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tunastime · 1 month

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do androids dream of electric sheep?

I am nothing if not a vessel for self-indulgent docsuma, especially @shepscapades's dbhc self-indulgent docsuma. sometimes you fall asleep in the lab, and sometimes your friend feels compelled to make sure you're okay <3

(3964 words)

Doc sometimes slips into daydream.

It’s not unlike him. He’d been doing it for some time now, some fix halfway between awake and Sleep Mode. Not quite his mind palace, but still wedged into predictive processes, still trying to work to replay memories. In quiet moments, more often than not, he finds that it’s easier to slip away, to tuck himself into his work, drafting, or building, or walking thoughtful circles and let the mechanical parts of his mind slip away into calculation.

In those same dreams, he tries to calculate the probability of events with what he has, blocking out the movements of who he knows best, who he may be able to pinpoint. He works in quiet as his mind runs in the background, wondering how conversations may go, how actions could be perceived. He maps what might happen if someone got hurt, or if someone needed help, or if someone fell asleep in the lab. Someone. Just anyone. He tells himself it could be anyone, but he would be lying if he didn’t know who.

It was hard, right—it felt wrong if he didn’t. Something he was designed to do, put to waste because it felt silly to imagine waking his lab partner, his friend, making sure he was alright, helping him. Was it wrong to want to be helpful? Was it wrong to want anything? It feels—it’s silly. Want was such a human word. He’s not sure he can really want at all. The paper in front of him is getting fuzzy around the edges, though, as he forces himself back into his true waking mode, and focuses on the task in front of him, now a line of text in his eyesight.

Doc leans hard on his hand, cupped around the side of his jaw as he studies the plans in front of him. He’s long since set them to memory, easily recalled with the summon of command, but he works out the fine details of the draft in front of him, still unsatisfied with his new creation. He works quietly, mentally mapping the lists of supplies he might need, the time it may take. If he were to concentrate the slightest bit more on the display in the corner of his vision, he might note how late it had gotten. Without any windows down here, the night sky can’t leak in, which means Doc doesn’t know it’s gotten dark until Xisuma starts to yawn or he manages to peek outside.

He sets his pad down, eyes skimming the surface. Right, and where was X, anyway? The space, ever growing, up, down, sideways, that he used as his lab had gone still and quiet some time ago. Enough for Doc to take note of. Enough to be a little odd, he would assume, even for him, and the behaviors he knows well from Xisuma. Xisuma didn’t just wander off without a word—he was much too narrative for that. Doc sits up, hand falling to the table.

“X?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows. The room stays quiet, aside from the hum of recirculating air and electronics. Doc taps his hand against the table—it was some sort of tic he’d picked up from Ren, a sign of his impatience. He couldn’t shake the habit of mimicking it while he was thinking.

Okay, right. Last time he saw X. He gathers up the recall of the path Xisuma would’ve taken from his side, checking over his work at Doc’s request, and around the lab itself, looping back to a series of benches to work on. Leaning from his spot, he tries to pinpoint the peek of green helmet or shoulder piece. He finds neither in the direct line of sight, though, and slowly, bracing his prosthetic arm on the table, Doc stands.

It’s a gentle quiet that fills the room, nice and easy and soft to step through as Doc makes his way around the space. Despite having another work bench quite close, Xisuma had a habit of leaving his stuff about, flitting between projects as he saw fit. It was interesting, sometimes, to watch him move around the room—not that Doc had done any of that. He seemed to bounce from point to point, sometimes staying still for hours, unmoving, lost in work. It was in those hours that Doc found himself watching, just for a moment, studying the shallow curve of his nose and the way his hair fell into his face from behind his helmet.

His office is here, too. Though it’s no different than any other working space in terms of equipment, the space itself is fully outfitted, lined with tools and a large work table, his computer, a desk with a chair. Through the glass, he can see the shape of Xisuma at his desk, likely too caught up in whatever he had been working on to notice Doc’s concern. Doc pauses as he slides open the door, standing in the doorway, announcing himself to the cluttered room.

“Xisuma,” Doc starts. “I know it’s late, if you want to head home, I’m sure I can finish…”

Xisuma is slumped over on his desk as Doc enters. There’s a brief moment, no more than a second, where Doc’s mind spins a scenario hard and fast, the crumpled shape of Xisuma over his desk. But he can see the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. He registers the slow, steady heartbeat in Xisuma’s chest, and his shoulders sag with relief. He stands in the doorway for a moment. Xisuma looks small, head pillowed on his arms. He’s still running a series of code on the console next to him, which illuminates the back of his head in pale lines of data. His hair falls half loose across his shoulder, like he’d forgotten to finish tying it away from his face, and the slow, deep breaths make it seem like he’d been sleeping here a lot longer than Doc realized. He’s without his helmet, too, which sits beside him on the desk, discarded.

Long enough to get a sore neck and complain about his upper back hurting. Long enough to worry that he might not be getting enough oxygen. Doc sets his shoulders. There’s something in his chest that feels like it skips—regulator, pump, or otherwise. They work in tandem to produce whatever fluttery feeling invades the space where his ribs should be. He presses the heel of his synthetic hand against the depression of his chest, rolling his wrist. The feeling fades for a moment, shuddering through his wrists like it might rest there. He was never going to get used to it, was he?

He steps into the lab proper, sticking his hands into his pockets. He picks his way around the room, trying to walk quietly around it. Xisuma stays asleep, shoulders rising and falling in that even tempo. Doc crouches beside him—Xisuma is properly slumped, back curved forward as he rests. What little Doc can see of his face is soft with sleep, eyelids fluttering just so. When X doesn’t move, he rests his palm over the curve of his shoulder, gentle and slow. He tries not to focus on the fact that so much of his face is exposed to him, aside from just his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He’s seen him before, briefly, every so often, but it was so different watching him now, calm and comfortable. Doc forces himself to focus.

“Xisuma,” he says, voice dipping low and quiet. He runs his hand over the part of his shoulderblade he can reach. He pats the high of his back. “Xisuma, hey…”

X takes a long breath in, making a squeaky sort of sound high in his chest. Doc feels him hum out from under his hand.

“Doc,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. It was a tired sort of rumble, just on the edge of being rough with sleep, just enough to bring that feeling back to Doc’s internal components, like thirium was sludging too quick too warm through him. He huffs a little breath, a sound caught in his throat.

“You fell asleep at your desk, X,” Doc says, not able to weasel the amusement out of his voice. He runs his hand over his back again, just to see Xisuma’s eyes open tiredly, and shut again. It was so unlike the version of him that he knew in his mind, seeing him savor the brief contact, even from Doc. Especially from Doc. Xisuma was always the one reaching out for him, repairing or correcting or studying. All with purpose. There was no lingering touch between them. And though this had its purpose too, Doc lingered, feeling Xisuma breathe under his hand.

“Sorry,” X mumbles, finally moving to lift his head, to open his eyes. Doc’s hand slides away as X sits up, over his back and back to Doc’s side. Xisuma blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands. A frown comes between his eyes as he tries to focus the world around him a little clearer. Like it were mimicking the score across his cheek and nose, there’s a fine indent pressed into his cheek. Doc smiles at him, scrunching his nose in a way he’s seen X do a hundred times.

Xisuma jolts, half reaching for the helmet beside him. If Doc were to really look, he might see the pink-red flush over his cheeks and ears.

“Sorry—I didn’t…”

There he lingers, halfway to reaching. Doc looks away from him, purposefully averting his eyes.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “You have to be comfortable too.”

Xisuma hums, smiling a little, hanging his head as he leaves his hand on the table.

“Hah,” he says, ears still pink. “Right. Sorry, sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t know where you had gone off to, so I figured I would come make sure you were okay.”

X nods. Doc watches him twist around, hearing the faint give and pop as his spine adjusts to sitting upright.

“‘M alright,” he says. Then he laughs a bit—the sound is airy and half in his chest, enough to shake his shoulders but more of a wheeze than anything else. Everything fit so well to the timbre of Xisuma’s voice, it seemed, be it the way he moved about, or the way he laughed, or the way his shoulder sloped or face was shaped. Not that Doc had been looking. Regardless, Xisuma sighs, and smiles back at him.

“Just embarrassed is all,” he manages. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate you.”

X leans back in his chair. Doc watches him resettle and hum to himself as he gets comfortable against the plush backing. Doc makes a clipped sound, reaches out and moves away again, halfway between shaking him awake and letting him sleep.

“X,” he says. “Would it not be more comfortable if you were sleeping in your spare room?”

Xisuma frowns.

“Would be,” he says, eyes still closed, mumbling. “It just gets awfully cold in there. ‘N if I’m perfectly comfortable in here, why not stay tha’way?”

It’s almost amusing, the trickle of stubbornness that leaks into the tired slur of Xisuma’s voice. It’s almost endearing. He watches X fold his arms over his chest, armor only partly discarded, watches his face wrinkle as he notices and tries to rearrange himself. Doc smiles, something that he simply can’t help—it feels so right, considering how ridiculous this is. He considers his options and weighs the success rates, the action taking a fraction of a second in time, though the scene plays out in his head in full.

“Because you’ll hurt your back,” Doc says plainly. X frowns, clearly mulling it over. There—that’s one that Doc knows, that face, where X slips into thought and worries the inside of his cheek and works his jaw. Doc raises his eyebrows, as if to question him without saying anything, without Xisuma even looking at him.

“Mhh,” Xisuma huffs. He pulls his knees up. Somehow, he manages to fit himself into his desk chair, curling his tall body over his knees and leaning sideways into the back. Doc hums, makes the approximation of the sound he knows.

“Xisuma,” he says. “I’m not going to let you sleep in that chair, you know. You are being stubborn.”

“M‘kay, okay…” Xisuma wheezes, finally uncurling himself.

It takes him a second. Watching Xisuma stretch and blink awake is like watching him come to life. He stretches up and around, face pulling as he likely unsuccessfully shakes the tension from the line of his spine. As he twists, he freezes, face scrunching all at once as he winces, hand shooting up to cup his neck.

“Ow. Jeez.”

He can see it tight in his shoulders and neck, even as X deflates, looking up at him blearily, still slightly slumped in his chair. His eyes shut again.

“Xisuma…” Doc says, mouth twisting.

X sighs.

“‘M fine, Doc,” he manages to murmur out. “Just’a sore neck. Mm’exhausted.”

“Sounds like you need a real bed, mm?” Doc replies, setting his hands on his hips. Xisuma peeks at him, one eye opening, and shutting again.

He sees the fraction of a smile lift the corners of X’s mouth.

“Sure, sure…”

Doc looks over Xisuma’s face. With his eyes shut, face softening, hair tumbling over one shoulder, he looks comfortable. It’s as if someone took a brush to his features and smoothed out any hard edge—either that, or the static has leaked back into Doc’s vision. He feels a chug in his chest and his joints as he locks up.

X hasn’t moved. Doc reaches out, tapping his knee. Xisuma huffs, clearly startled from the half-sleep he’d drifted back into.

“Too tired t’stand,” he manages. Doc makes a questioning noise.

“I think you can make it,”

There’s a beat of silence. Xisuma cracks an eye open again, shuts it, furrowing his eyebrows. Doc watches him curiously, mind running through the list of possible scenarios. He’s made it part way when Xisuma says:

“‘M using you t’stand, then.”

And he makes a little, amused heh, before he says:

“That’s fine.”

There’s something he means to say alongside that, but as soon as X’s very warm, very human hand makes contact with the fabric of his lab coat and the cool synthetic of his arm, he loses focus. He should be used to this—the amount of times X has performed his routine maintenance, sweeping his hands over the replaced shoulder joint to check for seams, or made sure the regulator functioned, or backed up personal data, fingers skimming the shallow port at the back of his neck. He should be, but that contact alone sends a prickling-warm jolt up his arm. It feels foreign to let the touch linger. But Xisuma lingers regardless, hand flat against the space where Doc’s left ribs should be. He’s gone from holding, to simply sitting there, arm bent at the elbow, held weakly up.

“Mrghh…” he complains. Doc taps his elbow, trying to jolt him back awake.

“C’mon, X, you can get up.”

X shakes his head slowly, his hand finding the inner curve of his prosthetic arm, squeezing just once, like he’s remembering it’s there. Then, X leans into him, all at once, slumping into his chest. Doc lets out a wouf in surprise. He holds still, aside from the simulated breath in his chest. After a moment, Xisuma makes a small, tired sound, almost like a laugh.

“Houfh,” he mumbles. “I, mm, don’t…don’t think ‘m gonna make it, Doc.”

“Mhm…” Doc chides.

Xisuma laughs again, lying still for a moment, voice still heavy with sleep. There’s a moment where he shifts, and there’s a small, painful noise that he makes.

“Ow, mrrgh—ow, okay—” he gripes. Doc’s synthetic hand finds the curve of his shoulder, patting gently.

“Oh, X—just…stay still, mhm?”

“Mm,” Xisuma says tiredly, “Alright.”

As much as he wants to move him, X is still wearing that damn armor.

Doc lets him lean into his chest as he tries to weasel off the bits of armor left over. It’s a struggle, keeping X comfortable and trying not to pull him around awkwardly, while trying to remove his chestplate with one hand. Once the armor pulls away, he resettles him, slowly scoops one hand under his legs. Something about this, about the way Xisuma leaned heavy into him, felt so painfully human he feels it curl up between the wires connecting his regulator to his side fans.

“Ready?” he says, mostly to the top of Xisuma’s head.

“Mmh…” X murmurs.

He hefts him into his arms, settling him against his chest. When Xisuma sighs, it’s profound and heavy and he tucks his face into Doc’s coat. Doc can feel the remnant of heartbeat from where his arm rests behind his back, thudding away behind his ribs. His breathing stays even, though shallow. One of Xisuma’s hands clasps over the back of his neck, keeping him still.

It’s a careful walk to Xisuma’s spare room. Doc is careful not to bump anything, measuring the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he walks. He drifts back to sleep, though, through the lab, through Doc shutting the lights off. He’ll have to come back through to power down their various computers, but for now, the dull white-blue glow illuminates the room. He carries him into the halls and through and to his room. It’s smaller than the room in his base by a sizable margin—just enough for the essentials. X stirs as Doc pauses to flip on the lamp, the light warm and yellow briefly illuminating the room. This can’t be a daydream, now, with the way X sighs and wriggles himself free as Doc pulls back the quilts and lets him down. He sits down with him, and the warm shape that Xisuma makes curls toward him, just a fraction, as he pulls the blankets over him.

Part of Doc knows that Xisuma won’t remember him carrying him to bed, or making sure he was warm, or keeping the light on so he wasn’t disoriented when he woke. Xisuma sighs, sinking into the pillows, expression relaxed and content. Doc hums.

“That’s better, yeah?” Doc says. He reaches out, instinct, want, desire, something, hammering away in his chest, as he brushes hair from X’s face, tucking it behind his ear. He brushes through the hair close to the base of his neck, across his cheek with his synthetic thumb. His dark hair is fine and soft and it must be a daydream—or it isn’t and he was right, because there have been moments like this in his head. Wondering if Xisuma would let himself succumb to soft comforts. He’s spent his own share of time lying next to him, ignoring the way Xisuma curls up next to him, pretending he himself didn’t move closer when Xisuma lies still. It was this dance that Doc didn’t understand, that he wasn’t sure if he was overthinking. Or overstepping. But Xisuma shifts, pressing his cheek to Doc’s synthetic palm, and Doc suppresses a shudder. It sparks something that could’ve been painful right up his arm and through his chest, bright and warm and staticky.

Doc hums, smiling to himself. Something like a dull thrum knocks in that space of his pump, pushing itself a little further, a little harder. It was sweet. X trusts him, not only to see him without his armor, but to help him to bed, to help him sleep. But Doc lifts his hand away, feeling that ache, the nervous shudder through his system.

X makes a sound, then, something small, eyes fluttering as Doc pulls away. Doc pauses.

“Mhh,” X manages. Doc swallows—he shouldn’t have to. That’s not something he should have to do, or be able to do, but the action just feels appropriate. It goes right along with sighing and laughing, and as he does it, Xisuma says:

“Thanks,” in a small, soft voice, and, muffled, and slightly slurred with sleep: “Didn’t have’ta stop.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, Xisuma,” Doc says. He can feel his temperature tick up several notches, no doubt a blue flush coming to the high of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. He laughs, just a bit. “Did I wake you up?”

X sighs, stretching as he does.

“No,” he manages. “No, y’didn’t…”

“Oh,” Doc says. “Were you awake this whole time?”

Xisuma nods slowly. Ah. Ah. Doc dismisses a temperature notification.

“A little.”

“Mm,” Doc hums. “Silly Xisuma.”

Xisuma laughs. The sound is high and a little fuzzy and a bit caught in his throat. His bright eyes blink up at him and shut again as a smile settles on his face.

“Doc?” he asks.

“Mhm?”

Xisuma yawns, smothering it with the back of his hand, just barely. He tucks that hand close to his chest, curling up further still under his thick comforter.

“Could you…could’you do tha’again? The…” Xisuma lifts his hand, miming a brushing motion as he does. Another temperature warning, higher than the last, blips into Doc’s field of vision. It’s immediately dismissed, but he pulls in a breath, quiet, trying to turn it into a soft laugh.

“I can do that,” Doc says gently. Gingerly, he brushes his fingers through X’s hair, sliding back against his head. He combs through, lifting his hand to go back to his forehead, back to cradle his skull. X’s eyes fall closed again.

Doc can tell the moment that Xisuma truly slips into sleep. He lingers in his space, tracing out the base of his skull with his thumb, taking in the sensation of warmth and contact and stimulation, fingers flickering white up to his wrist. He wishes biting down on his tongue would do anything. He wishes that the hollow of his chest didn’t hold a weight that no diagnostic could fix. He felt too awkward and stilted and not nearly gentle enough. But as Xisuma stays asleep, he draws his hand away. He mumbles his good nights as he stands slowly, shutting out the light and wandering from the room.

He makes his way back into the lab. He replays the memory of Xisuma’s small smile, the fine line of his scar as he’d pressed his face into the pillow, the way he’d relaxed against Doc’s touch. He replays the memory, again, and again. It has to be a daydream. Has to be. There’s no other logical explanation to all of that.

Maybe that would explain the ache in his chest, far too human to be his own.

Doc goes back to work. He sits down at the lab table, spreading his arms as he braces against the white tabletop. He furrows his eyebrows. Something doesn’t feel right, too warm or out of place. He feels gross. Not gross bad, maybe, gross different? Broken? Not broken, maybe. Weird. Wrong. Out of place. It doesn’t make any sense. Or it has, and he’s refusing the obvious answer. Xisuma didn’t ask for any reason. Xisuma asked because he was tired, and tired people do silly things, and silly people are a handful, and Xisuma is a handful—a lovely one. Doc shuts his eyes. His chest hurts. It’s an awful hurt, actually, less painful than it is just weird. He thinks for a moment he might be better off if he left, maybe the weight of whatever lingered in his memory would be better off if he were to take a break from standing in the same spaces.

He sends Xisuma a message. From his office, he hears his com ping.

Docm77 whispered to you… Xisuma I’m stepping out, sleep well :-)

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venusandsaturnsrings · 2 years

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can i contribute? foxboy childe and wolfboy diluc with a catgirl reader. wolfboy diluc being a bit jealous that childe's fox dna is a tad bit better when it comes to breeding you... but he'll force it.

YEAHHHHHH THIS IS THE GOOD SHIT!! ur dna naturally works better with one another but diluc is a determined man and must prove he's better than that stupid fox harbinger >:( hehe this is just over 3k words and also my 100th post!! eat up!!

contains: foxboy childe, wolfboy diluc, female reader, chubby reader, slight spoilers for diluc and childe's backgrounds

to mate was one of the most sacred actions amongst hybrids. it was a symbolism of true trust and love. there was nothing more special than bearing the kittens of another to you and it was often something you fantasized about when lounging in the sunshine. you'd let golden rays warm your skin and ears while your brain was lost in the thoughts of finally being loved and fully filled. one day you'd have the perfect mate, you were sure of it. but for now you simply appreciated the small pleasures of sunshine, fish, and your close friends.

it was always easiest to make friends with those genetically closer to you so, it was no surprise that as a kitten yourself, you befriended the fox down the street. the climate of Snezhnaya was beyond freezing but somehow that bright ginger boy was always able to make you feel warm and safe. perhaps it was his glowing personality or the way his ears always twitched in the same fashion as yours. regardless, he was always your very best friend. he was mild as a boy only to grow into a man more bold and fearless. you always justified it as part of his DNA when people asked as they didn't need to know the reality of his situation. despite the poor hand he was given, he always shone more brilliantly than any sunray that could ever hit your skin. Ajax was always the star you'd follow home and the beams of light you'd bask in. he was and is the most special person to you.

and so, making the move to Mondstadt was the most difficult moment of your life. you knew with his rank amongst the Fatui you'd never be truly leaving him behind yet it stung all the same. you were leaving the place with his life and younger years written all over it. where his energy and desires had sunk into the earth only to reverberate through your bones on the days you missed him most. here you wouldn't have the same comfort. you could take every gift he ever gave you and every item of clothing he sacrificed into your possession but nothing came close to being where his everything once was. you mourned for those feelings. alas, making this move was necessary for you. Snezhnaya was never a land where creatives such as yourself could thrive. the constant and sometimes mindless monotony of the people striving to create the best of the best technology in between freezing off limbs and fishing could no longer serve your mental any good. with everyday passing there you only found your mindset getting worse and no matter how hard you scraped up the bits of Ajax nothing, not even him, could fix you. Mondstadt was the place you needed to be. it was a land of bards, poets, and storytellers. it was the land of freedom. you needed to be somewhere that valued your talents and inclinations towards the arts. through letters and visit he made to help you pack Ajax assured you this was the right choice. he assured you he'd come visit and that he'd have some men looking out for you. even past distance and through slivers of breath he would keep you safe.

as things turn out, he was right, Mondstadt was the place you needed to be. with flat and warm planes of rock to bathe in the sun, ponds and lakes full of fish, other creatives, people that were always kind, and a rather large community already established of cat hybrids you finally felt like you belonged somewhere that didn't require you to be coddled in the arms of Ajax. home was no longer just a person but a place as well. metaphorically, you had two houses. one in Mondstadt and one with Ajax. sure, one was certainly closer to your heart than the other but to feel belonging was knew and welcome. making friends was easier here too. the Kätzlein family had practically adopted you the moment you arrived and Diona was pretty much your little sister. occasionally you had to wrangle her out of clawing patrons to death but otherwise she followed you like a small shadow. a cute small shadow. you ended up with a rather large circle of both acquaintances and close friends all of which Diona offered up unfiltered opinions about from her interactions with them. she didn't have a positive impression of most of the adults, with good reason, but you always took her word to heart. drunk words are sober thoughts, no?

regardless, it was only natural that you'd be introduced to the Cat's Tails' competitor and wine tycoon Diluc. you had initially thought he was socially distant and perhaps slightly judgmental but it didn't take long for you to deduce that wasn't the truth. through other residents and friends you learned Diluc was simply reserved and no longer as good with people as he used to be. it was almost strange to find out he functioned the direct opposite of Ajax but his mild nature was almost refreshing compared to all the other strong personalities of Mondstadt. much to Dionas chagrin he quickly earned the spot of your second best friend in the city. he's easy to be around and always treated you with a gentle nature you didn't often see. the wolf ears atop his head and blood flowing through his body had initially intimidated you but he was never the aggressive beast you associated wolves with. he would always scratch your ears if you did his, buy the nicest fish he could find to serve you, and create drinks in your likeness. all of the drinks were sweet and served with some floral on top; it was cute to say the least. you spent plenty of time around his manor particularly in his office while he worked. the window behind his desk was always ajar and had the curtains pulled back which made it a perfect place to lie around. Diluc even went through the effort of pulling some blankets and cushions together for a little nest you could curl up in and enjoy the warmth in. the silence was always comfortable and only accented by his pen scratching on paper or birds chirping. occasionally conversation would form usually when he'd ask if you needed a drink or food but for the most part you'd let him work without distraction. you loved the little nest and perhaps you got a bit too attached to it as when your first heat in Mondstadt hit that's exactly where you were.

you felt warmer than usual and couldn't stay still. it felt like your bones were vibrating in your body and your thoughts could only shuffle between Ajax and Diluc. you knew Diluc had mentioned some sort of meeting this afternoon he wanted you to be present for but it was hard to focus on the future when you were just so hot all over. initially you thought perhaps you were just not used to the summers in Mondstadt as Snezhnaya was so cold all year round. as your thoughts continued to cycle heat continued to pool in your lower stomach and between your legs. it was only when Diluc grunted and spun around to face you that you realized you were indeed going into heat. the low noise from him spurred a whine from your throat as you looked up to meet his indecipherable gaze. perhaps he felt conflicted over the situation, it was a tough one to be in for a hybrid that's so domineering by nature. weakly, you rose to your feet to excuse yourself from the room and manor but you're actions were interrupted by a familiar and desirable smell. a quick knock hit the door before it swung open. you would've recognized those ears and eyes anywhere in Teyvet; Ajax. so this was why Diluc had insisted you stick around for this meeting. he was thinly aware of your connection to the harbinger but you doubt he knew the true depth of your relationship. crossing the room to behind the desk Ajax wrapped you in his arms and close to his comforting body. a long and needy sigh left your lips as he squeezed you closely, hands rubbing your arms and back in soothing motions. he must've picked up your presence and heat faster than even Diluc based on the rushed movements. rarely did Ajax allow himself to purr but his head rested upon yours with calming vibrations coming from his throat. Diluc cleared his throat. your face stayed planted into the chest against you but you could feel the rotation of Ajax's head atop yours. the sound he made was irritated, followed by a snippy 'what?' and glare. the tension in the room had you feeling hotter by the second. unconsciously you had began grinding against the thigh conveniently placed between your legs. the friction felt overwhelmingly good. you'd never felt touch like this before and never from another person and it was good. one large hand grabbed your plush hip and pushed you harder against his thigh leaving you keening and needy for more. surely you wouldn't be tortured this way for much longer?

another hand grabbed you by the waist and pried you from the grip of Ajax. the whole world seemed to spin momentarily before you were placed on Dilucs lap, face now in his neck. one of his hand steadied you by your waist as the other slipped between your thighs to give you more of what you really needed. briefly you noticed his gloves were no longer on his hands. two of his fingers gathered globs of slick dripping out from your cunt while the other moved under your dress to push all of the fabric up above your chest. Ajax moved behind you to fondle your plump breasts and grind his length between your shoulder blades. the room felt stuffy as it filled with the musk of both the fox and wolf you were sandwiched between. embarrassingly, the combination of so much stimulation had you crying and your cunt drooled impossibly more onto the fingers playing with it as you came undone for the first time that afternoon. growls and grunts echoed around you while four hands greedily began shedding clothing from all bodies. even when bare and on full display you still felt your flesh burning. a flush was present across your face, ears, and shoulders and cooler hands rubbed over the areas softly cooing sweet nothings about your beauty. you did indeed look beyond that of a goddess with eyes lidded and limbs trembling. spit leaked from the corner of your mouth only for Ajax to lean over and lick it up before connecting your lips properly. you found yourself being pulled further into Diluc's frame as he propped you up gently to his chest with hips angled to take his sizable cock. the tip was red and leaking with the knot already partially swollen at the base. you could tell he was thick based on the way it slid and grinded between your folds so deliciously. Ajax massaged your ass cheeks from behind you. he pushed your hips back just a bit further to spread you open and spit straight onto your pussy. the moisture wasn't needed at all but the action alone was beyond erotic and had you mumbling for more through slurs and whines. both men softly assured you you'd get what you needed. from below you, Diluc began pushing his hips up and cock into you. if it weren't for your heat you'd certainly be crying from the stretch but it only added to your stimulation as you whimpered and shivered from the delicious pain. Ajax had placed his cock between your ass cheeks while slowly pumping it between them with small grunts as he ran a hand through your hair softly. the other was planted firmly on your left thigh to stabilize your form. if you didn't have three hands holding you up, you surely would have crumbled by now. once the squishy knot touched your hole the relief you felt was immense and had tears dripping from your eyes. finally, you'd get fucked and filled. Diluc set a steady pace as praise flew out of his mouth about just how good you felt and how happy he was to fuck your sweet cunt finally. small confessions of nights spent jerking himself to the thought of your squishy thighs littered his speech and only served to arouse you further. lost in the pleasurable feeling of his cock you cried when you felt his movement hault.

"please," you whimpered pathetically, "please don' stop. need more, s'not enough...." one set of hands smoothed over your flesh softly as the other spread your pussy lips further before wiggling a finger in alongside the cock already stuffing you full. an affirmative hum came from both of them before you felt another tip rub your cunt right on top of the one already inside. panic didn't even pass through your skull as a second thick and long dick stretched you open; painfully so. you sobbed pitifully at the feeling but you were so so very full. could you really complain? and you were taking them both so sweetly! as the two began to thrust at opposite intervals you were never left empty. one fat cock was always brushing the spots you needed most while your gooey cunt coated them both so pretty. Diluc's office chair would surely be left a mess once you were done by all of the slick fluids dripping onto it. both knots were fully swollen at this point and begging to be pushed into you properly. Ajax reached one hand down and around your tummy to rub quick circles at your clit. only a couple flicks of his wrist had you squirting and shaking over both of the men. with eyes rolled back in your head and vision blurred you sobbed and whimpered at the stimulation before biting down on Diluc's shoulder to muffle yourself the slightest bit. you'd never felt so good in your life so it was hard not to cry out so loudly. you had two huge cocks fucking into your guts so who could really blame you? the pounding continued from stuttering hips and through low grunts and growls. with such pleasure still rolling in waves you didn't even notice when Diluc raised a foot to kick Ajax away before sinking his knot deep into your cunt. his seed began to flow and fill your womb so full. you could hear upset and disgruntled noises but were too focused on finally being pumped up and pretty by a big knot still so deep inside you. one of Diluc's hands came up to cradle your head and plant a kiss to your forehead and lips with the softest smile you'd ever seen across his features.

"you'll be full of my pups soon enough, my love," he murmured sweetly. your tummy did flips at the knowledge that you'd finally been bred as your tail was lightly swishing behind you at the thought of being plump with such perfect pups from a perfect father. the loving moment was, of course, interrupted.

"not if i've got anything to do with it! that was a cruel move, mutt. bear in mind you may have filled her but she's certainly not designated as your mate yet. she's mine so back off, yeah?" if he could do it without hurting you, Ajax surely would've ripped the knot out of you and scraped your insides of the seed currently painting them white and full.

"we'll see what happens, harbinger." from behind you, Ajax snarled. he pulled on his disheveled clothing before throwing his jacket over your naked form and leaning to sit back on Diluc's desk.

"we've got a meeting to conduct still. i'll be taking her home once that pathetic knot of yours has gone down," you could practically feel the anger seeping from his form. "her home is with me, not you. you're like a replacement given to a kid when their favourite toy breaks except i'm not broken. i will be taking her back and you can cope with that you dog." Diluc scoffed with amusement in response but Ajax was serious.

perhaps your pounding wasn't going to stop here. <3

#foxboy childe #wolfboy diluc #childe x reader #diluc x reader #female reader #chubby reader #childe x reader x diluc #catgirl reader #tartaglia x reader #genshin x you #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader

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generic-sonic-fan · 1 year

Text

A Father's Embrace

Summary:

“Father,” said Sage, “Metal Sonic has voiced to me that he would like a hug as well.”

(Eggman, post Frontiers and with the help of Sage, realizes something about the way he’s been treating Metal Sonic. Inspired by Egg Memo 19)

2855 words

The holo-matter generator was now capable of being stable for longer than a few seconds. It wasn’t capable of generating textures, only force, as air molecules were gathered into a rough approximation of a solid. Sage was now able to manipulate basic physical machines, such as levers, buttons, and switches, all of which would help her when interfacing with systems that were too primitive to be networked to.

And now came the final test.

Ivo stood in the center of the testing chamber. Sage materialized a few feet away, and a hum filled the room as the holo-matter generator whirled on. She waved a hand over her arms, chest, and legs.

Ivo smiled. “Come here, my girl.”

She inched closer, and he held his arms outstretched. She hovered out of reach for a moment, clutching one arm in the other. She then simulated a deep breath- she was getting so good at that! -and flew forward until she met his chest. Instead of phasing through, there was a gentle push of force against his sternum.

“Hologram stability remains at 98%.” She reported. “Holo-matter generator output is consistent according to my data. Can you confirm this observation?”

“I can.” He whispered. “May I commence the next stage of testing?”

“Yes.”

He brought his arms toward his chest, stopping when he hit the back barrier of her hologram. His pinky dipped into her graphic before she recalibrated the wall of force to push it back to her surface.

“Stability?” He asked.

“88%, but holding steady. Proceeding with reciprocation.”

He felt her arms press against his sides. So small they were. Such a delicate hold, as if the slightest gust of wind might shake her off.

“Father, you may be experiencing what my database refers to as ‘cuteness aggression’. Please remain mindful of your exertion of force.”

He dropped his embrace immediately. “Stability?”

“Still within acceptable levels.” Sage looked up. “Please. . . re-engage the test?”

He placed his hands back onto her back. He recognized, now that she’d pointed it out, the urge to hold her tight, to twirl her around, to shield her body with his own to protect her from all harm. . . as illogical as it was. The holo-matter projector could only project a force of around five pounds. So, instead, he began caressing a careful hand up and down her back.

“I will strike this unscientific language from the record when we are finished with this experiment, but I wish to inform you that this is wonderful, father.” Sage said.

“Absolutely wonderful. I concur.”

“Better than my simulations. Better than I could have ever speculated.”

He leaned forward to place a kiss on her head, but his lips passed through her hologram.

“Apologies, father!” Sage giggled. “Such an action was not detailed in the testing procedure. I have not generated holo-matter for that portion of my avatar.”

“It would seem we require further tests, then! Repetitions of this experiment would be greatly beneficial.” He smiled.

“Indeed!”

Ivo held her until the whir of the holo-matter generator became a roar, and a notification popped up, warning of an overheat. Spite drove him to stay curled around her, but alas, her tangibility vanished. She hovered, for a moment, a silent image in the shell of an embrace, before she phased through his arms.

“Test complete.” She reported. “The holo-matter generator will require thirty minutes to return to operation.”

“I’ll see what I can do to fix that.” Ivo walked over to the device.

Sage flew in front of him, blocking his path. “Current internal temperatures are high enough to inflict damage to your tissue- you must wait until the device is cool.”

“Ah, if you insist. How long?”

“Long enough for you to sit down for a meal. What shall I have the kitchen prepare?”

“Clever girl.” He wagged his finger. “If we’ve got the material for an egg salad sandwich, I’d like that.”

“Order sent successfully. Shall I accompany you to the dining room?”

“If you’ll have me, my dear.”

With a flick of her eyes, the door to the test chamber opened. They walked out and into the hall. Correction- he walked, she hovered, her hair and dress modeling appropriate undulations due to the air resistance. She’d worked so hard to detail her own animations. He couldn’t help but smile at that.

Before they could reach the dining room, Metal Sonic rounded the corner down the hall ahead of them.

“Hello, brother. Have you completed your task?” Sage went ahead and landed beside him.

Metal Sonic, of course, didn’t respond with anything visible or audible. The unit wasn’t programmed for that.

“That’s good. Mark that operation as done, and bring the production line to phase three once the resources arrive.” Sage instructed.

She could easily give this instruction to Metal Sonic over the network. She had remote command over every Badnik currently operating in the empire through the Eggnet, and she used it for such in every instance except for this particular unit in blue. Thankfully, Metal Sonic was the most well-equipped of his creations to constantly transport itself back and forth to her beck and call, but this habit of hers was still inefficient.

A small giggle from her wiped all the annoyance from his thoughts, though. “The experiment went wonderfully. I would like to include you in further repetitions of it if possible.”

“Don’t be silly, Sage.” Ivo said as he arrived beside the two.

“I am not. Calibrating the holo-matter generator against surfaces of different shape and density would generate useful data.”

“In that case, I suppose I’ll review it if you write a draft of the procedure.”

“Thank you.”

He gestured her back to his side and continued walking, yet she did not appear beside him. He paused, looking over his shoulder to find her still standing beside Metal Sonic.

“I’d like to propose a different variant of the experiment. Or perhaps, not an experiment at all, as the action will not serve for the purposes of data collection.”

“What is it?” He turned around.

“Brother has expressed to me that he would like a embrace from you as well.” Sage said. “Given that he already possesses a physical form, it would be a simple request to fulfill.”

Ivo saw his once-greatest creation stiffen as straight as a ramrod at the words.

No, that couldn’t be the case. It just had to be a trick of the light. Or a trick of his own mind. Pure projection, that was all.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sage, reevaluate your previous statements for falsehoods.”

“I am not permitted to lie to you. You know this. My statement is based on evidence. Would you like me to show you the file-?”

She stopped herself. At the same time, Metal Sonic’s left pinky digit curled inwards, and that was no trick of the light at all. Sage covered her mouth. She then lifted from the floor and rejoined Ivo’s side. Metal Sonic began walking back down the hall. Walking quickly. Almost running.

“Apologies. Please disregard the previous conversation.” Sage waved him in the direction of the dining room.

“Metal Sonic, stop.” Ivo commanded.

The badnik froze in its tracks.

“Please disregard my previous words. They were in error.” Sage said.

“What kind of error?”

“. . . I am now aware that I was not supposed to bring his request to your attention.”

“Is that so?”

“This breach in etiquette was entirely my own. Please do not let this incident reflect poorly on him in your assessment of his functionality.”

Ivo walked around the motionless Badnik until he was directly in its path. It had ceased walking mid-stride, and stared directly ahead.

“Sage, I understand that you seek familial connections. Are Orbot and Cubot not to your satisfaction?” Ivo said.

“They are quite satisfactory. I enjoy an excellent relationship with them. Is there a reason I cannot pursue the same with Metal Sonic?”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but Metal isn’t designed for such a function. Too much of this sort of thing could start affecting his efficiency.”

“You have designed him with a short-term adaptive processor capable of intaking new data with ease. Furthermore, he has witnessed, quote, ‘this sort of thing’, in abundance during his extensive encounters with Sonic and Tails.”

“He is a weapon. He shouldn’t be bogged down with more of that sort of data than he needs to be to exploit it.”

“Should I not be ‘bogged down’ with this data, either, then?”

There was no hidden barb in her voice, and no malice in her eyes, yet it still felt as if Ivo had stumbled into a trap.

“Statistically, my emotional data hinders my processing speed by 7%.” Sage continued. “In order to achieve a higher rate of efficiency, shall I-?”

“NO! Absolutely not. Don’t you ever consider such a decision again!” Ivo pointed.

“Even if not doing so will put your life at stake?”

“Yes!”

“Understood, father.” She nodded. “If that is the case, then what is your command to Metal Sonic in this regard?”

Ivo lowered his hand and turned his gaze to the blue Badnik. It still hadn’t moved. His verbal command held perfect power over it; Metal Sonic was caught in suspension, frozen in time, held to stillness beyond the capabilities of a living organism. There was nothing to be read from its glowing red irises. No thought, no emotion.

Ivo thought he’d patched the “emotion” part out after the Neo Metal incident. That had required a near-total wipe of Metal Sonic’s operating system; rebuilding the AI had taken months, and it had taken even longer for it to relearn the more complex functions that came with experience. Catching any re-emergence of emotion in the early stage meant that it would be possible to simply order Metal Sonic back to the work bench and repeat the process, but. . .

He looked at Sage. Her hand covered her mouth, obscuring the intricate animation of worry painted onto her face.

“Sage, what do you think should be my command to him?” Ivo asked.

“If I may speak freely?”

“Of course, my girl. Always.”

“Have you not perfected my loyalty protocols in the current version of my operating system?”

“I don’t doubt your loyalty.”

“Is there a reason you can not implement similar loyalty protocols in Metal Sonic’s processor?”

“He’s simply not designed for that. You, my dear, are in the network. You accompany me everywhere, as it’s your primary function-”

“And as a result, I generate positive emotional data that strengthens my loyalty protocols instead of conflicting with them. I’m aware.”

“You are not permitted to interrupt me.” Ivo snapped. “What has gotten into you?”

“You gave me permission to interrupt you in regards to the imminent safety of yourself or the Egg Empire, and I’m interrupting on behalf of the Empire now. Root cause analyses show that the most significant causal factor in the Neo Metal incident was a conflict between emotional data and loyalty protocols. To prevent this recurrence, I am recommending that you utilize the same procedure that has seen resounding success with me.”

“It’s too late for that. I’d have to restructure his AI from the ground up to be more receptive to that sort of-”

“Negative. In fact, the last thing brother wants is to be reprogrammed.”

Ivo knelt down. He stared again into Metal Sonic’s irises. The projected ovals on the eyescreen were frozen, of course, but he knew that Metal’s camera mechanisms were independently mobile. It could be looking anywhere if it had the ability to shirk orders. It could simply be playing frozen and helpless on the surface, waiting to strike if provoked.

Or. . .

“Sage, access Metal Sonic’s emergency shutdown code, and be ready should he attempt to harm me.”

“He will not harm you. I apologize for referencing the Neo Metal incident. I thought it would illuminate the situation. I did not intend to imply that Metal Sonic has gone rogue in any capacity.”

“Of course I knew that. Now quit blathering and be ready.” Ivo snapped, before taking a deep breath. “Metal Sonic, relax.”

Its joints released. It stumbled a miniscule amount before restoring itself to an upright standing position.

“Is it true that you’ve developed emotional data despite the inhibitors?”

Metal Sonic did not reply.

“Answer me. There’s no purpose in trying to fool me now.”

“Father, Metal Sonic is incapable of-”

“Which is why I’m asking yes or no questions. Now answer!”

Metal Sonic’s head shifted a few millimeters up and down.

“And you did not report this malfunction to me?”

Another nod.

“Because you did not want to be reprogrammed?”

Another nod. Ivo pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You did not want to be reprogrammed because you’ve found a way around your intended programming again.”

Metal Sonic shook its head violently. Ivo flinched, but the Badnik did not make any further approach.

“Actually, Father,” Sage said quietly. “He does not wish to be reprogrammed because it would hinder his effectiveness to you. He is familiar with the length of the turnaround time after the erasure of his previous incarnation.”

“Show me the communication in which he stated this. You said you had the files.” Ivo pointed to her.

Her hologram flickered out of existence, and was replaced with a box of text displaying the finer workings of her operating system. She navigated through the folders, leading to a file labeled “Communications With Unit MS-1”. A wall of binary text appeared. In a second, various bits in the binary were underlined with blue.

“Shall I translate the text to english?” Sage asked.

“No, I can read it well enough.”

The binary words said exactly what she’d promised. He should have known. She would not- and as a matter of fact, could not -lie, yet he’d doubted her. He’d have to apologize later. He waved off the screen, and Sage transmuted herself back to her original form.

He looked back to Metal Sonic. “So you don’t see me as a roadblock in the way of your core directive?”

It shook its head.

“You don’t object to how you’ve been treated since I last reprogrammed you?”

A hesitation. Ah, there it was. Ivo gave a bitter smile.

“Father, if I may speak freely?” Sage asked.

“Yes, you may.”

“If I received the same treatment that you have given to Metal Sonic. . . I would object to it as well.”

Ivo stared at her.

“For efficiency’s sake. To prevent the aforementioned conflict of emotional data and loyalty protocols, amongst other things.” Sage added quickly.

Metal Sonic lowered his gaze to Ivo’s shoes.

“Why,” he swallowed, though this did nothing to ease the tightness in his throat, “are you informing me of this?”

“I do not wish for this current operating system of Metal Sonic to be erased.”

“I would never erase you, my girl, if that is your concern with all this.”

“I do not fear for my own life. I fear for his.”

Life.

An intelligence made of code and electrons. Brilliant and loyal and perfectly effective. The product of a true genius. Sage was all of this, her design perfected from previous iterations. He’d based the bulk of her data calculation and analysis programs off of the adaptive processing he’d developed for Metal Sonic’s OS.

. . . perhaps he’d created life a lot earlier than he’d thought.

Funny. He’d spent months laboring over Neo Metal Sonic’s code, unable to find the source of the catastrophic malfunction that’d overridden his prized creation’s processor. Now the answer couldn’t be more obvious. How could he have missed it?

“Just so everything is clear,” Ivo looked to Metal Sonic. “All you truly want from me. . . is a hug?”

Seconds passed, before it nodded.

Ivo laughed. He threw his head back and let his laughter spill down the hallway. He clapped a hand against Metal Sonic’s shoulder before standing.

“Father?” Sage asked.

“Yes?”

“Why are you expressing humor in this moment?”

“Don’t worry about it! Say, the kitchen should be ready with my sandwich, shouldn’t it? It’s about time I sat down and had a nice lunch with my children. Come along now.”

He started walking. He did not hear any footsteps following. Metal Sonic was staring at Sage. Communicating, most likely.

“Come along, you two. You wouldn’t leave your old man to starve, would you?”

“To clarify, Father- you do not wish for Metal Sonic to delete his emotional data?”

“No, keep it where it is. And Sage, clear my schedule for today. I want to take a look at his processor after this.”

“Rescheduling now.”

Metal Sonic curled its pinky digit.

“Don’t you worry. It’s not to erase you.” He assured. “I just want to take a look. If I like what I see, I might take those emotional inhibitors out of you.”

Metal Sonic simply stared.

“That would be wonderful, Father.” Sage replied.

“I’m glad you like that idea. Now follow me, please.”

Sage hovered by his side. Metal Sonic trailed behind, its footsteps echoing in the hall.

Or his footsteps, as the case may be. Ivo would have to ask for a preference.

---

(Future chapters posted on AO3)

#Eggman #Sage Robotnik #Metal Sonic #sth #fanfiction #eggdad #eggman is a good dad #or at least he's getting there #he is downright adorable with Sage #but uh. the horrors are still there with Metal #but don't worry! he's great at denying it :)#I'm leaving this one open! I might add onto it or I might not

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adaptacy · 4 months

Text

A Found Flame {Pt.12}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) - (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: Sorry I haven't been updating this super frequently, I lowkey forgot tumblr existed for a hot second. it's all up to date on AO3, but I'll get back into posting it on here too! Also, I have commissions up on my page! There's a link to an info post on my pinned :) could really use the extra money & I'm happy to write for ideas that y'all have!!

Word Count: 4.6k

The start of the morning went according to routine. Waking up at sunrise, fixing yourself and Tara breakfast, and tidying up the study before she awoke. While doing some light reading over a cup of hot coffee, you’re startled by a knock on the door. Soon your increased heart rate is not out of fear, but instead out of excitement. An eagerness to see a familiar face, somehow believing that he had managed to cut the trip down to only nine days. An incredible feat, but you certainly weren’t going to complain – you would be without him no more!

You’re quick to stand from the loveseat and rush for the front door, leaving the book you’d been reading on the table, far less interested in its contents when Gale had finally come back. You open the door – you don’t bother to call out, or ask who it might be, as you’re sure that you know who it is.

But Gale’s beard was certainly not that long. And not nearly as white. And his face was never as… old.

“Hello?” You stammer, caught off-guard by a completely unfamiliar elder, dressed in obvious wizard-esque attire, with a long orange and red robe and a matching hat that drapes behind him. He nods, smiling wearily and glancing behind you.

“The apprentice, I presume? I intend not to affright thee. Might you indulge an old man? I bear regards to Gale,” he speaks, his voice deep in the stereotypical elderly way, and you swear he’s far too old for a mortal human, but he looks plenty human.

“You know Gale?” You ask, hesitant to believe anything the man says, both due to your immediate disappointment that the door didn’t open to Gale, and because you know better than to immediately trust strangers.

“Indubitably. You may safely classify Gale and I as friends,” he confirms, and you realize that this may very well be Gale’s ‘old friend’ that he intended to visit. After all, he’s plenty old, and allegedly a friend. There is an instant pit in your stomach – If he is here, and notably lacking the company of your mentor, then something must be wrong.

You know that your worry shows on your face, but you don’t care. You step out of the way and pull the door open further, inviting him in. “Come in, please.” It takes a lot not to choke on your words, on your rising anxiety, on your terror. He enters, steps out of his boots, and makes his way to the study, not requiring any sort of direction – a confirmation that he’s likely who he says he is.

You follow, and he pauses in the middle of the study, motioning about the room. “A mighty toothsome abode this has become – cert ameliorated since I last bore tarriance.” He turns to look at you and waves a hand, a smile crossing his wrinkled features. “Compliments! Alas, I trekked not for flattery. Should thy curiosity bear uncertainty, I shall put to rest such indecision. Elminster Aumar, at your service.” He extends a hand, and you stare at it for a moment before ultimately taking it, and he gives it a firm shake, pushing dried wrinkles against your palm, before he drops his hand.

“Nice to meet you. Where is Gale? Is everything okay?” You question, desperately searching his eyes for answers, perhaps something more clear than his convoluted conversation will provide, but you find a barrier of blue wisdom, refusing you any peeks into his true nature.

“Enigmatic, the situation remains. Harrowing dawns are upon us, I fear. Mystra sanctioned the deliverance of a memorandum most paramount,” he sighs, and you frown, simultaneously trying to decipher his statements and search for assurance that Gale is okay. You don’t particularly succeed at either. “Cognizant am I of his absenteeism, inclusive of thy enlistment to the abecedarian chosen’s – ah, erstwhile chosen’s – service. A most discommodious concatenation has seized the deliberation of the Gods.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, but when he doesn’t speak anymore, you shake your head, narrowing your eyes. “I’m… not understanding.”

He tuts, clasping his hands together and closing his eyes, sighing yet again. “Apologies. I come bearing a–”

“By Mystra’s mercy!” Tara yowls, her tail stiffening and puffing as she emerges from Gale’s room, anxiously glancing Elminster up and down, her head shaking and her wings twitching. “Elminster Aumar? Oh, dear – whatever trouble has my wizard gotten into?”

Elminster looks at Tara, and he smiles nervously, dipping his head once more. “Tara, dearest, a delight to see you.” He clears his throat, addressing you once more, and Tara comes to rub against your calf, taking a seat between your ankles and looking up at the old man. “I desiderate not to impose you, but to entrust to you a message. A consideration, on Mystra’s part, to offer Gale redemption.”

Your eyebrows furrow, and you feel Tara’s fur bristle against your skin, both of your guards up. “Redemption? I don’t understand – where is Gale?”

“I know not his precise locale. Hence my emergence in Waterdeep. It is in your hands I allocate his discovery. Tara – grant me aplomb, will you?”

Her tail swishes, brushing over the ground in mild irritation, or perhaps worry – maybe even a combination of both. “I can find him, Elminster. Rest assured.”

“Most meritorious. Upon reconciliation, I ask you to inform him of the following. It is imperative that he understands the false deity he faces is far more dangerous than he may possibly conceive. It threatens the gods, the realm, the universe itself. Mystra believes only he is capable of its thorough destruction.” His voice is tainted with regret – as if he is apologetic for the goddess’ message. He reaches into his robe, presenting a tightly tied scroll, and you take it from him, though don’t dare to open it. “If he complies, the spell contained within that scroll will put a halt to the orb’s impending implosion. A temporary fix – all too temporary indeed. He must find the heart, and obey the ritual.”

“False deity? Threatening the gods – the ‘heart’? What are you on about?” You let out an exhale that borders on the edge of a confused, overwhelmed whine, your head shaking in an attempt to dispel the oncoming migraine.

“Set out as quickly as you can. The realm battles against time. He will understand, even if you do not.” He shakes his own head, inhaling slowly, as if to steady himself. “My sincerest apologies, child. Had I any choice in the matter, you would not be my target of burden. Alas, you know him well, and the trust is mutual. I have little time – Mystra beckons me afresh. I may only bestow upon you luck. And the best of luck it is.”

. . .

“So, he is her chosen?” You ask, sorting through Gale’s desk as you collect two pouches of gold, dropping them into a quickly-filling traveling pack.

“Has been for many a century. Oh, I do so hope to be absolved of my misery at a quicker rate than that. To live for a millenia – isn’t it plain dreadful?” She mews, kneading at the cushion of the loveseat across the room from you.

You close the drawer that you’d been sifting through, opening a different drawer filled with quills, as well as a dagger that has gone unused for longer than you’ve known Gale. You don’t have any intentions of using it, but you’re smart enough to know better than to travel unarmed. “Did you understand anything he said? All of that about Mystra and the ‘huge threat’, or whatever he called it?”

“Hardly, though I rarely concern myself with the affairs of gods. Once we find Mr. Dekarios, he will explain all. He won’t want to risk the clawing that would come with keeping us in the dark about whatever he is up to,” she replies, stretching out her back and jumping off of the couch, approaching you before hopping onto the desk, inspecting the bag you were packing. “My, quite the pile of gold you’ve acquired, dear.”

“Well, yeah. We’ll need to afford rations for the trip, there’s no telling how long it will take, and probably transportation, and–”

“Hah!” She meows, amused at your statement. “Nonsense. The trip will be a short one. With my purrrfect nose, we’ll find him in a whisker’s twitch.”

“We’ll still need to travel to him, though.”

“Ah. With my trusty sense of smell, my unbridled connection to my darling humanoid, and a sprinkling of conjuration magic, we’ll be in the… general area of Mr. Dekarios,” she assures, sticking her head into the bag and biting the tip of a gold pouch, removing it and dropping it onto the desk. “Let’s leave some inheritance for our return, yes?”

“Wait – we can just… appear there? Like, teleporting?” You chuckle in surprise, a little baffled that it would be that easy.

“Well, thirty-two years of companionship doesn’t go without its benefits! Aside from the self-warming bed, of course. I know Mr. Dekarios better than he knows himself. I’ll find him, don’t you fret. Elminster emphasized the urgency of the situation, so I best be referring to a few studies on transpositional spells. We should depart before the evening. Will you be ready?”

You think over what else you need to do, or pack, and eventually nod. “Yeah, I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Delightful,” she praises, hopping off of his desk once more and walking towards his room. She pauses, however, to look behind herself at you, her ears twitching. “Do bring along some of that salmon, would you? As much as I enjoy hunting the occasional mouse, we’ve larger missions to sink our claws into.”

“Of course. I’ll even cut it up into squares,” you tease, and she lets out a loud purr in response, satisfied with your answer. Tara disappears into his room, and you return to your packing, picking up the backpack and leaving the study, immediately preparing the salmon before you risk forgetting. You slice it into squares as you’ve been doing for the past few days, and then place those squares on a sheet of parchment paper, rolling it up and securing it before you tuck it into your bag.

Knowing that you have very little hunting experience, you make sure to grab plenty of rations for yourself, as well, though find that the bag is getting quite full. You suppose the several changes of clothes are mostly at fault for that, and you have to sacrifice two sets in order to fit what you believe will keep you fed for at least a few days. Maybe less, should you need to share with Gale, but you’d be happy enough to have found him, you doubt you’ll have room for complaints.

When you return to the study, you can hear Tara muttering incantations in the next room over, and you decide better than to risk interrupting her. You would pick out a book to keep you company, but you doubt you have the room for that, and as Tara said, you’d probably have your hands full for the next few days. Instead, you take a seat by the unlit fireplace, allowing yourself a few minutes to think – to properly process everything that has been dumped onto you in a morning. Truly, it would be nice if ‘grand reveals’ were a little more spaced out, or had some build up to them. Alas, you were smacked with concerning news flashes that rattled you for a morning, or a single conversation, and then you were promptly dropped in a sea of confusion, left to teach yourself how to swim.

How unfair.

Thanks in part to Elminster’s intensely coded and decorated speech mannerisms, you have no clue what you should expect. On the bright side, it seemed quite assured that he was not dead. Mystra would certainly know if he was – not only because of her familiarity with him, but likely that her connection to the weave within him would draw her immediate attention, should that connection be severed, or… exploded.

She was rather audacious, if you had to be honest. To abandon him in his time of need, to leave him wandering and hurting after everything he tried to do for her, was one issue, and a plenty large enough issue on its own. But now for her to suddenly call upon him for a mission because she felt threatened? Oh, the gall.

You couldn’t tell if it was incredibly serious because she’d called on a mortal to do her bidding, or if it was incredibly un-serious, because she had called on a mortal to do her bidding! She, a goddess, the weave incarnate, the mistress of magic, couldn’t take care of a threat to the entire universe, but Gale Dekarios, a middle-aged, objectively gauche and reclusive wizard, was capable of such victory?

It was the orb. It had to be. In no world did Gale naturally have such power at his fingertips. Even so, the weave within him is only a fraction of Mystra. Surely she is stronger? Surely she can cast such destruction tenfold, should she be so inclined.

…Right?

Gale was not more powerful than Mystra. Nobody could be – not via the weave, anyways. Gale wasn’t even on a similar level to Mystra. He had a fraction – a fraction – of her power. Didn’t he? That’s what he’d told you.

You recall your own experience – pulling energy with the orb as your source. The split second of unforeseen power that you felt, that surged through you as if it was you. In that moment, you’d believed yourself unbeatable. All-powerful. An irrational thought, you’re aware, and yet such possibility intrigues.

If Mystra controlled the weave, couldn’t she remove the orb? According to Elminster, she’s capable of pausing it, and yet it remains latched and active within his body. She had to have her reasons. Mystra would not turn down the ability to be even stronger without good reason.

Again, you return to your memory – the quiet calm of the orb, paired with Gale’s utter terror. It makes you think.

Is Mystra scared of it?

“Are you quite ready?” Tara peeks her head out from Gale’s bedroom, and you quickly stand, putting on your boots and nodding, grabbing your backpack from the loveseat. You follow her into Gale’s bedroom, where a swirling purple and black vortex awaits you.

“We’ll be able to return, right?”

“Oh, of course,” she reassures, and you relax, stepping closer to the portal. You feel her rub against your ankle, and she outstretches her wings, yawning. Jumping to fly behind you, she perches on your shoulder, her tail bumping against your back. “With the assistance of a horse, but a return is a return, yes?”

You cringe, a little less sure, but give an affirmative shrug nonetheless. “Right. Here goes, I guess.”

“Prepare your feathers, dear – a quick trip through the cosmos and we’ll surely be on his doorstep! Or… somewhere in the vicinity.”

With that, and a nod at one another, you step through the portal, having to rely on your trust in Tara to recite the spell correctly and not land you in a heap of trouble.

– – –

He’d left the ruckus of the party behind him, the noise from drunken singing and laughing a little too much for him to bear. And far too sweet of an opportunity. A perfect distraction – as if it had been curated for him. He did deserve it, didn’t he?

He’d worked so hard. Slain so many goblins. Thoroughly exhausted himself, dirtied his daggers and saved lives. Heroes, they named them. As if his intentions were entirely pure – as if he felt empathy for the tieflings, as if he’d been pushed to act in their honor, as if he cared.

The wine was tolerable, at least. The company not so much. Drunk and dry. Below his standards, and far too chatty.

The boars were better than the rats. Had more sustenance to them – a little more flavor. More of a kick, too, as small as their legs were. Alas, he was hungry, and ever-so-greedy. Perhaps he’d find a deer. Or another boar – it wasn’t too wretched of an idea. If he had to compromise, he wasn’t entirely opposed to it. Hardly a fan, but blood was, ultimately, blood. A boar would hold him off for another day or two. A deer, though? Oh, certainly a week.

He finds himself traveling deeper and deeper into the forest. The party, ringing through the trees around their little clearing, scaring off the prey he so helplessly yearned for. What insatiable hunger. A hindrance, a terrible flaw, a godsforsaken craving – until he satisfied it, at least.

However temporary the satisfaction, it made the carnal desires, the churning desperation, the withdrawals – all of it, worth it, for a little while. Few things came close to the sensation of blood running down his neck, washing him inside and out, fulfilling his bone-chilling needs.

How clueless his companions remained. It granted him fragmented amusement, witnessing their utter hopelessness – gave him the slightest rushes of power, of pride. Of security. To know, and to trust, that his secret remained just that, all thanks to his carefully plucked words, his controlled smiles, his flawless manipulation. Even his kills were tidy –

Well, save for the first boar, that is. Not that they’d picked up on it, fortunately, but he supposes he could have cleaned that one up a little better. He’d been desperate, and practically starved. Trekking about in unfamiliar lands was so incredibly exhausting. Especially when he was forced to sweat under the heat of the sun – not to say he didn’t enjoy walking freely under the sun, of course he did, but the sweat he could do without.

And slaying was even more taxing on his body. Swinging, dashing, dodging – oh, catching prey used to be so easy.

At least he did it for himself now. Made the burdens far easier to bear. Free will was such a luxury, wasn’t it?

Astarion pauses, hearing movement ahead of him. He can’t hear the noise of the party anymore, nor can he see the lights, and he’s sure that his prey lies close. So he sticks closer to the denser parts of the forest, hugging every shadow that he can, moving with them as one as though he’s Baldur Gate’s best trained assassin, or a panther, slinking about the underbrush, eyes on a darling, oblivious gazelle.

He smells a fire, and then he hears quiet chattering –

A person.

His heart flutters, his fangs practically ache, and he realizes that settling for a boar would be a horrific lowball. Unfair – unfair to him.

He deserves better. He deserves real prey. He deserves payment for two-hundred years spent in a hell personalized for him. He deserves payment for having his freedom robbed from him. He deserves payment for freeing those poor, defenseless tieflings.

He deserves payment. Retribution.

He deserves real blood. Sweet blood. Thick, terrified blood – crying blood, pleading blood. Blood with a life. Blood with a soul. Blood with a personality.

Better him than a wolf, or a bear. Better fangs in the neck than claws across the torso, surely. He’d be doing this stranger a mercy. Maybe he’ll even be gentle. Maybe he’ll be kind – maybe, he’ll be the hero that the tieflings claim he is.

But he is hungry. And he is weary. And he can smell them, smell a meal, smell satisfaction. It is yards away, and he is closing in, and his fingers twitch, and he is silent. The grass does not betray him, no sticks dare to sneak under his steps, not a leaf crunches under his weight.

He is being given what he deserves, at last.

No – he is offered no gifts. Every step is a careful one, every stick is dodged, every leaf is tip-toed over.

He is taking what he deserves.

He creeps closer, finding someone getting ready for rest, curled up alone on a bedroll, unaware of the danger lurking mere feet away. They smell sweet – innocent. Had he any less dignity, he’d positively be salivating, closer to an excited mutt than an ex-magistrate. However far he’s fallen, he cares not.

His mind belongs not to him, but to his need, to his cravings, to the yearning of his fangs. He watches them, their eyes closed, but he’s sure they’re awake; moments ago, they shifted their makeshift blanket, ensuring perfect comfort.

He hopes it’s an adequate final resting place.

In an instant, he’s pounced, and he kneels beside them, a hand firmly clasped over their mouth as their eyes widen and they writhe, making his own blood rush. He shushes them, feigning some care for their comfort, but he knows that the more terrified they are, the quicker their heart beats, and the more blood that will be pumped directly into his mouth.

His other hand tangles in their hair, and he yanks them up, his mouth opening as he eyes their neck, and at last, he bites down, earning a pained squeal from his victim.

It is magnificent.

Perfect, sweet with a kick, and it warms him, far better than any blood he’s ever tasted. Animals are no match. When blood like this exists, blood that makes him feel like royalty, blood that makes him twitch, blood that consumes his mind as he consumes–

“Fiend!” A feminine voice hisses, and Astarion feels claws rake across his face, earning a hiss from himself as he stumbles off of the victim, dreadfully yanked away from his meal. That meal clutches their neck, and Astarion finds that his assailant is a winged cat, her fur standing on end, her tail thick and bristled, claws unsheathed and prepared to strike again.

“Bloody hells! What is wrong with you?!” His victim cries out, and Astarion’s eyes linger on the blood trailing down their neck, pooling in the crevice of their collarbone, painting them a perfect feast–

Once more, claws strike across his nose, and he growls, backing away an extra step and looking between his victim and the tabby. Despite his urges, and his concern for allowing a victim to escape, he recoils and retreats, believing it to be better to return to camp rather than expel any more energy in a battle.

After all, it’s quite unlikely for the pair to stay in these woods when they’re aware of a vampire on the loose – They’d have to be positively insane to stick around.

– – –

It’d been too long since he’d indulged in the bittersweet sting of wine, and he’d made up for lost time tonight. Several glasses deep, as a matter of fact, and his mind was entirely distracted from any pressing matters, and certainly drawn away from the impending regret to follow the next morning.

The river bank they camped by was perhaps the most peaceful place he’d found thus far. So it was on the bank that he sat, not minding the tickle of sand, too focused on the quiet, buried sound of the water slowly running past. Buried, that was, underneath the sound of the off-tune singing and chattering of his companions and their guests, the tieflings they’d rescued.

It isn’t half the view, but it reminds him of Waterdeep. Reminds him of the view from the balcony – the one he could share with them, no matter the time of day, or night. The breeze here was slight, but it’s enough to make him reminisce on the salty breeze he had grown so used to. The kind that’s just chilly enough to allow for him to pull them closer, wrapping an arm around their shoulder in mock defense of the cold and be safe from any possible accusations about ulterior motives. Gods forbid he be pushed to answer for what exactly his feelings on them were – he hardly knew, and he doubted anyone else, especially them, would be capable of understanding.

Tara called it love. Tara also had quite the habit of getting ahead of herself. He enjoyed their company, that was certainly a given, but toleration was quite different from love. Albeit, he was beyond simply tolerating them, but it still hardly called for such an extreme adjective. He was not, and still is not, a man who is searching for love. Even if he did possess such feelings for them – which was wildly unlikely – he wouldn’t be able to act upon such feelings. Gods, he didn’t want to even imagine the embarrassment that would follow any kind of confession from his end. Perhaps even worse, the accusations. He had not taken them in so he could pursue any kind of an intimate relationship with them. He had not mentored them with such intentions in play.

Gale knows his concerns are reasonable, and completely justified. Any such unforeseen flattery would put too heavy a damper on what they already had; a perfectly innocent business relationship, perhaps even one more akin to a professor and his student. The kind of relationship that absolutely did not, under any circumstances, have room for romantics.

Anyways, he harbored no longing for them. So it mattered none. Whatever limitations he had firmly set in his mind were not going to become tainted with regret, because there was nothing to regret. Nothing more to wish for. He yearned for survival, nothing else. Certainly not them.

Likely, the wine was to blame – mixing unpleasantly with the tadpole in his head, causing his thoughts to branch off into unsavory places. The wine and the scenery. Wishing for them, now, meant nothing. Being calmed by the waking dream of their presence beside him, it was nothing more than a result of his exhaustion from the day’s events. What little peace he experienced now, he wished he could share with them. But that was not due to love, he was a perfectly sane man, and sane men don’t fall in love with their apprentices. Unreasonable – that’s all it was. Unreasonable to miss more than their company. Unreasonable to allow himself to crave their touch, to dream of the sound of their voice.

Unreasonable to revisit the feeling of their weight in his arms, carrying them back to bed after they’d fallen asleep in the study, resting so comfortably against his chest. It had been unreasonable for him to hold them for a few moments more, despite standing beside their bed, knowing he should set them down.

Unreasonable for his mind to drift in this moment, the wine barely being strong enough for him to blame his less chaste thoughts on, conjuring up other scenarios in which he might feel their weight against his body, close and gentle, or what sorts of noises he may be able to pull from them when his hands are allowed to roam their body freely. The expressions that may come across their face, acting entirely on reactions to his saccharine teasing, playing them much like he would a lute, capable of plucking their strings enough to form only the most blissful of melodies. How pleasant such an encounter would–

“The fun is coming to an end.”

Gale’s eyes open quickly, and he finds himself gripping the base of his chalice rather tightly, causing him to gulp and forcefully relax, sitting up and turning his attention to Shadowheart, a glass of her own in her hand. He nods, cracking an awkward smile and raising an eyebrow. “Is it?”

She nods, motioning with her cup back towards the main gathering space of their camp. “Indeed. Assumed you’d want to say some goodbyes. Perhaps accept another round of praise. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

Gale scoffs, shaking his head and rising to his feet. “Nonsense. I was merely enjoying the quiet. Past time I submitted to sleep – fear I’ve gotten well-too deep in our wine supply for one night,” he chuckles, and Shadowheart dips her head and raises her glass in agreement, returning to the fading festivities alongside him.

#shadowheart bg3 #astarion bg3 #bg3 gale #gale bg3 #bg3 #gale baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #gale x reader #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #tara the tressym #bg3 companions #shadowheart

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beansterpie · 4 days

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ES21 japanese volumes part 3/??

<< part 1 < part 2 ||

HAHAHA guess who found a site with japanese scans?? (Also yes hello it's been close to.... half a year??? (fuck) since my last post-- a big part of that is because taking clear pics of panels/pages on my phone was a pain in the ass so I kept procrastinating lol)

Now lets get back into it!

We left off at the end of Sena's unwilling first morning practice, where we got to see just how fast he's able to run. We were then informed that their first match is happening the following day... while only having 3 players :')

oh the lengths one must take to subdue Cerberos....

Panel 2 -> HIRUMA: We need 8 people by tomorrow's match! We'll split up to gather them! Panel 3 -> KURITA: 8 people? SENA: I thought you said that American Football requires 11 people...

You'd think he might catch on to what's happening after all the 'top speed in the NFL!' fuss at the end of the last chapter.... but our boy is not smart, your honor.

But Hiruma (seemingly) relents, saying how they each have to find at least 3 people to help out their team by the end of the day. Whoever finds the least amount of people faces whatever penalty game that Hiruma comes up with, so uh, there's reason to fear.

Panel 1 -> Basketball club Panel 2 -> SENA: Alright, I'll start here...! Panel 3 -> imaginary SENA: How would you like to play in an American Football match? Panel 4 -> imaginary SENA: We'll prepare all of the equipment! All you have to bring is your fighting spirit!!

imagination vs reality....

Panel 1 -> SENA: Um... excuse me Panel 2 -> SENA: So... I was wondering if maybe I could get you guys to play in an American Football match for us... or something... Panel 4 -> JERSEY #16: Ahh... I'll pass. JERSEY #8: Yeah, not interested. SENA: I-is that so... Panel 5 -> SENA: Aahh-- it's no good. Why do I always....

Ah poor Sena. But all those years of timidness and cowardice aren't going to up and disappear overnight because then we wouldn't have a story. Also, an aside, but in these earlier chapters Sena has this little... verbal tick, I guess? where he ends his sentences (usually requests) with "なんて…" (na-nn-te), shown in panel 2. A different form of the word is often used at the end of a joke, meaning essentially "just kidding!", and this is like... an uncommitted, spineless little version of that. He's asking them if they would please consider playing in a match, and basically ending it with: "haha jk...." 😔

I translated it as "or something..." because he ISN'T joking, he just can't help but say it because he's that non-confrontational, and I thought that might be confusing without context? Or perhaps I'm just over-explaining, but alas.

Panel 1 -> KURITA: Wanna play in an American Football match!? Panel 2 -> JERSEY #16 & #8: No! Panel 4 -> SENA: No, it's not over yet! This isn't the only sports club! Panel 5 -> SENA: I'll go around to all of 'em--! Panel 6 -> HIRUMA: You're playing in a match for the American Football club!

I had to put in all three of their uh, pitches? to the basketball club because I love this little sequence lol. It's such a fun way to show the differences in how each character approaches a problem, and visually displays their body language so well. It's like the funniest version of the three billy goats gruff story

Is this the first official appearance of Hiruma's little black book? It's funny, it's dastardly, and it's just as much for the sake of cartoon violence as his guns are lol. (Seriously, some of the stuff he uses to blackmail people has me side eyeing Hiruma (and Inagaki) real hard rip. The fact that you're not supposed to take any of it seriously is it's saving grace.)

Panel 1 -> JERSEY #16: Uwah, again!? JERSEY #8: Will you give it a rest!! We said we're not gonna play!! Panel 2 -> HIRUMA: Hooo~ that defiant attitude.... I take it you two are first years? Panel 3 -> HIRUMA: Hhmmmm, so Satake-kun from year 1 class 2, and Yamaoka-kun from class 5, huh? Panel 4 -> HIRUMA: Satake-kun is-- well well! The true culprit behind the underwear thefts of the swimming club! And Yamaoka-kun-- what's this? He gives a kiss to his poster of Ai Kago every morning? Whoow, isn't this painful! SATAKE: Wha-- YAMAOKA: How do you-- Panel 5 -> HIRUMA: Now, I think I'll just spread the word!!! SATAKE: Waahh w-we'll play, we'll play! YAMAOKA: Please let us play in the American Football match!!

The severity of the dirt seems pretty skewed to me, but I guess to a teenage anime boy from the early 00's, general embarrassment is just as bad as sexually harrassing your schoolmates 🙃

But anyway, now we know exactly why Hiruma is so feared by the general student body (and faculty)! A real menace to society <3 Btw, at the time Ai Kago was a girl in the pop idol group Morning Musume.

After going to every other sports club in Deimon, Sena finally comes into some luck at the track and field club....

ISHIMARU: An American Football match? Yeah sure, I'll play!

Ishimaru.... you're such a good guy..... 😭

Panel 1 -> SENA: R-really!? ISHIMARU: Yeah, and y'know-- Hiruma's probably gathering the first years, right? Panel 2 -> ISHIMARU: So if I play with them, I'll get to know their physical abilities, and I can invite any of the promising ones to the track and field club. Panel 3 -> ISHIMARU: That's ok, isn't it? As a give and take. SENA: O-of course!! Panel 4 -> SENA: (Yay, that's one person!) Then I'll be seeing you tomorrow! Panel 5 -> ISHIMARU: Tomorrow!!? That's impossible! SENA: What--!!? Panel 6 -> ISHIMARU: I work part time for the local magazine delivery-- I have to deliver them all by noon tomorrow so it'll be tight. Sorry

Poor boy can't catch a break. And enjoy Ishimaru in his like, first and last serious arc for the rest of the series..... :') you deserved better my boy.....

Ishimaru's fairly casual attitude towards Hirma makes me so curious about what he's like in class though lol. I guess for people that Hiruma has no direct use for, they end up flying under the radar and don't have a strong opinion on him? Maybe to some students in Deimon, Hiruma is just 'that eccentric guy in my grade' lol. Strange thought.

But you know, at least Hiruma managed to get some people to help out! Wow, such charisma.

Panel 1 -> (from left to right on the chart -> ): Sena, Kurita, Hiruma Panel 2 -> SENA: Amazing!! So many, just by himself...

Panel 1 -> SENA: Hiiee!? Panel 2 -> KURITA: Hey.... I guess you're also at zero, huh.... Panel 3 -> KURITA: Even Hiruma stopped after 7 people.... and all the sports clubs have already gone home.... It's no good, we're not going to make it in time for the tournament.... Panel 5 -> SENA: I-I'm going to make another round!

Like, ok. So I haven't actually read that many sports manga (mainly because they tend to not hold my attention very long), but Eyeshield's opening chapters are so charming and cute and like... well set up that I always love re-reading it. It might ultimately be a classic coming of age/underdog story, but at this point Sena isn't even interested in playing the damn sport lol (in fact playing the sport is the thing he's got the most reservations about). It's just that he's made friends with Kurita and wants to help him (and Hiruma) towards this goal they're so passionate about, and also wants to feel like a part of something. Idk, it's really successful in fleshing out Sena's personality imo, and manages to make this extremely cowardly kid very endearing (which I think is kind of a rare thing in a shounen manga protag, not to mention a sports manga one).

BUT anyway, he spots Ishimaru doing deliveries and jumps over the fence to reach him.

SENA: Please let me gopher-- no, I mean-- please let me help you!

His heart is in the right place! When you've been a doormat your whole life, it takes a minute to move past it!!

Anyway, skipping ahead a few pages because I've already used too many images on this chapter lol (not me straight up posting half the pages of this chapter so far 😭) -- Sena helps Ishimaru deliver half of the magazines and so they manage to hand them all out that night. Since that frees Ishimaru up the following day, he agrees to play in the match-- which means Sena managed to get one person!

He returns to the club room and tells Kurita the good news, but that still leaves them with.... 10 people.

Panel 2 -> KURITA: We're short.... one person.... Panel 3 -> KURITA: We were so close.... Panels 5 & 6 -> Sounds of the crowd cheering

Panel 1 -> SENA: U-um! Panel 2 -> SENA: For the last person, if I... if I participate...

Whenever Sena thinks about potentially playing American Football in these early chapters, I've always liked that the things he focuses on is the sound of the crowd, the... kinship, maybe? of being on a team. There's probably an element of the glory that appeals to him, but it mostly seems to be the ambience and passion and unity that he's drawn to. As opposed to like, Monta later on who (initially, anyway) really just wants the fame and adoration of being a popular player lol (and good for him, the heart wants what it wants). But for Sena, as the protagonist, it helps me connect to his wants at this point in the story a lot more organically as opposed to if his desire had always been "I wanna be The Best Sportsman™!!!" But again, that's a me thing lol.

Of course Hiruma has to interrupt before Sena commits one way or another lol

Panel 1 -> HIRUMA: That fucking konbini!! Running out of sugarless gum!! Not even flies would chew on that nasty-ass sweet gum!! Panel 2 -> HIRUMA: Oh damn, I forgot to put them up halfway through.

Hiruma's comically short temper that vanishes between one panel and the next will always be funny to me lol. Explosively coming into the club room, ranting about unimportant bullshit while tossing soda at to his teammates (which is quite thoughtful of him actually) and then casually revealing that he's taken care of everything....

Sometimes when I'm feeling unmotivated, I think to myself "what would Hiruma do?" the answer is usually 'several illegal things', but I can at least try to emulate his proactiveness lol.

Panel 2 -> SENA & KURITA: WE DID IIITT Panel 3 -> HIRUMA: We didn't do anything!!! I'm the one who ended up doing it all, you useless idiots!! Actually, give back my cola!! I don't have a single drop of fluid to spare for you morons!! Wilt and die!

Well. No one ever claimed Hiruma was gracious.

That's (more or less) the end of chapter 3! Finally!! The chapter ends with another character room, this time for Hiruma. I'm also putting Kurita's here, which was at the end of chapter 2 but didn't manage to squeeze in.

Page 1 Kurita Ryoukan 2nd Year Deimon Devilbats #77 Power: ***** Speed: * Technique: ** [upper corner: "My refrigerator" bottom left: "Bookshelf-- bursting with American Football magazines" bottom center: "Weights over 100kg"] Page 2 Hiruma Youichi 2nd Year Deimon Devilbats #1 Power: ** Speed: ** Technique: *****

When I read this manga for the first time back in highschool, I was SO frustrated that it just showed the club room instead of Hiruma's bedroom. Ngl I still feel a little cheated, but I guess they had to maintain that gremlin mystique somehow 😔

(Also join me as I puzzle over where the fuck Kurita keeps his futon.... 🤔)

------------

I was going to cover the next chapter as well, but I think I'll just end this part here-- the next chapter is more or less when the first match starts, so I figure I'll do those together! Honestly this chunk of the story didn't have any egregious translation errors in the fanscans so there wasn't too much to comment on that front lol. Enjoy my ramblings about how much I like these early chapters, they're so charming!

#eyeshield 21 #es21 #es21 japanese readalong #bean talking into the void

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jelka-jan · 6 days

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The story of how Jelka tried to find a boyfriend

ATTENTION!!! WITH THIS POST I DO NOT WANT TO INSULT, OR OFFEND ANYON!!

Well, spring came, and from March to mid-April I started trying to build a romantic relationship with someone. To do this, I signed up for one of the dating apps available to me. And... I haven’t seen such a theater of the absurd for a long time, despite my experience working with people. Let me briefly mention the type of perverts who directly declare that they have forgotten here. But something else struck me: very, very many “grooms” who want to find their soul mate put forward the following requirements for girls (hereinafter - a somewhat exaggerated collective list):

“Your height should be between 150 and 165 centimeters. No more! Weighing STRICTLY no more than 50 kilograms. STRICTLY blond/brunette/red, only long hair/hair no lower than shoulders, brown/blue/gray-brown-raspberry eyes. You should have clear skin, no moles or scars / having unusual moles in an interesting place will be an advantage...”

Question: do you guys really want to meet a girl or are you still choosing a purebred dog or horse? That you wouldn’t be ashamed to appear in public, and you managed to grab a medal at the exhibition.

And I understand perfectly well that no matter how much they say that appearance does not matter, we still take it into account. However (it’s true, please forgive me if I say something out of the ordinary), it’s very awkward and even disgusting for me to see when guys who put forward such strict demands on girls in terms of appearance, judging by the photo, do not burden themselves with basic take care of themselves, do not have to deal with a razor and a comb, and are unlikely to exhaust themselves with sports and diets.

Okay, let's move on:

“You should always have a fresh manicure-pedicure, makeup and hairstyle. You must be able to cook, you must have a constant income, and in bed you must be a lioness-tiger, ready to experiment.

and at the same time, the “groom” is not going to write anything about himself in the questionnaire, putting forward the condition that he will tell everything about himself during a personal meeting...

I'm sorry, but is this ok? Maybe you want me to give you the key to the apartment where the money is?

No, of course, I also found normal, quite adequate guys there, I went on dates with several of them, but alas, I didn’t date anyone more than twice and, to be honest, I didn’t want to. Somehow I just didn’t feel like seeing each other again, that’s all. Perhaps I’m already accustomed to loneliness, or I have a subconscious fear of meeting new people due to negative experiences... I can’t give an exact answer to this. And to be honest, almost every date I felt awkward, sometimes I didn’t know what to talk about with my interlocutor, and from frequent stories about myself I began to feel like a parrot.

In general, it’s a tiresome and even stressful (for me personally) business of going on dates and looking for your soulmate. Sometimes thoughts creep into my mind that apparently the time has not yet come for me and I need not to rush things, but enjoy freedom, go to dance classes, go to dance parties, blog the way I want, draw whenever I want, do makeup and get dressed, and not worry that my partner won’t like it. As they say, if you want halva, eat it, if you want gingerbread.

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mariana-oconnor · 11 months

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Wisteria Lodge pt 1

Definitely haven't read this one before. If there's a Granada version I will have watched it, but only once about five years ago, because that's when I bought the box set and just straight up watched them all. I don't remember the name even slightly. Wisteria is very pretty, though, so I've got a feeling I'd want to live in this lodge even if it does get a bit murdery.

Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”

That is not what I was expecting him to say. Do you mean the adjective or the noun, Holmes?

“Strange—remarkable,” I suggested.

That's... not how I would define it either. Is that an evolution of the meaning in the last century? There's a definite meaning of ugliness or disgust these days, not just 'strange'. I'm not sure I'd call any of the cases grotesque, in fact, because it's really more a visual adjective to me than an experiential adjective. I guess The Five Orange Pips was fairly grotesque, given the subject matter involved, but even then... I assume the meaning has evolved slightly.

“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you? — “Scott Eccles, “Post Office, Charing Cross.”

I know you had to pay by the word for telegrams, but that is the least descriptive telegram you could possibly have sent, Mr Eccles. Clearly you belong to the school of 'leave them asking questions'.

I'm a little confused by Watson thinking that the name Scott Eccles could have been a woman in 1892. Did Scott used to be a gender neutral name? But also, Holmes assertion that a woman would have come rather than just vague-telegramming at him makes me laugh. I feel like anyone else would have just turned up, or at the least sent a message that gave a smidge more information, y'know. Like a ballpark description, a hint of danger, or a location?

HIs name is going to give me a craving for eccles cakes, though.

“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world."

Who is Colonel Carruthers? So many colonels recently. Is colonel statistically the rank most likely to require the services of Sherlock Holmes? Although one of the colonels wasn't a colonel at all, and was also the villain of the piece, and the second colonel was the victim, so didn't really require Holmes' services so much personally.

Love Holmes waxing lyrical about how boring all the criminals are, though, and how they're just not as good anymore as the old criminals were. Woe! There is no light in the world with criminals going around being so prosaic and uninspired.

His life history was written in his heavy features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to the last degree.

Alas. A tory.

Quite a restrained description from Watson here, though I have only quoted some of it. He's fairly restrained apart from the 'pompous' part. The rest of it is all rather 'ymmv'. I mean, personally I see that list of descriptors and wince, I'm genuinely not sure what Watson's own intention with them is. On the one hand, Watson's very much pro-establishment in so many ways, and his classism is entrenched, though often soaked deep in patriarchal condescension that he must feel is open minded (and probably was for the time). On the other hand, his best friend is Sherlock Holmes and he clearly enjoys unconventional things. So is Watson singing Mr Eccles' praises here or is he too wincing internally?

“I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It is most improper—most outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation.” He swelled and puffed in his anger.

Given the description, I'm now expecting this to be something along the lines of 'a man with the wrong accent said hello to me'. But I'm probably being unfair. That would not be worthy of a Holmes story.

"Private detectives are a class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard your name—”

OK, reading this sentence, I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to be feeling very charitable towards him. You don't just walk into a place to ask for someone's professional assistance and insult their occupation. Firstly, that's an idiot move, secondly, it's incredibly rude. I put the idiot bit first because honestly the stupidity of it offends me more than the rudeness. You're asking to be overcharged or sent packing. Asshole tax is alive and well.

But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and official-looking individuals...

Inspector Gregson does not get compared to an animal in his description! Instead he's called 'gallant'. I guess Watson likes him more than Lestrade.

OH, Scott Eccles is a two-part surname. That's why Watson thought it might be a woman. Right, Scott would have been a surname at this point in time. Everything makes sense now.

Well, not everything... but I feel like that's too much to ask of my dear friend Dr Watson.

“We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which let up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.”

DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUN

Aloysius is a name my brain never remembers how to pronounce unless I stop and stare at it for a minute. It just doesn't look how it sounds to me, y'know. Not that that's the relevant part here. The relevant part is he's dead. So Wisteria Lodge is looking a bit murdery. I bet it's pretty, though.

“Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm."

This story brought to you once again by the healing properties of brandy. Brandy, the cure for all ills.

"He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life. “In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement."

So Mr Scott Eccles met a hot young guy and they hit it off and one thing led to another. Hmm... *eyebrow waggle* and then he was invited to stay for a few days, hmmm? And he went to fulfil this engagement... HMMM?

Likelihood of this being explicitly queer in a Victorian era short story: -1%. Likelihood that my brain will insist that these two were lovers, or at the very least flirted outrageously: 101%

My opinion of Mr Scott Eccles just went up a little bit because closeted Victorian gay is a better look than just straight up pompous Tory, but then he used the term 'half-breed' and he has sunk even lower. For two whole sentence I almost liked him.

"I remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought."

🤣

"It was an old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair."

So it's a fixer-upper... sure... I could fix it.

"I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly."

Victorian Grindr date gone wrong.

"About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door—the room was dark at the time—and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was nearly one o'clock."

Dude. This is no longer giving queer Victorian fling vibes, it's giving 'Mr Scott Eccles is oblivious to the fact he's on a date' vibes. Guy meets you once, invites you to his home, has a 'tête-à-tête' dinner and seems nervous. Then shows up in your room at one am asking if you rang...

Garcia wanted to get laid, Mr Scott Eccles. He's into the older, buttoned up, repressed gentleman look.

Clearly this is not the case, because Victorian literature. But my brain can see no other explanation.

Mr Scott Eccles was so busy being judgemental about the food he didn't realise he was being flirted with so hard.

"You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted."

Very ghost story. Once again the Gothic horror vibes. I suppose this is where the word 'grotesque' comes in. I feel like the word they were searching for was 'unsettling'. But yeah, waking up to find the house abandoned is creepy af. BUT

"My host had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door."

So before he came into your room at one am to see if you rang for him, he showed you his room... I stg, I know this can't be what it looks like from a modern perspective, but it's so very blatant, I can't even.

Honestly, at this point it reads like a ghost story where Mr Scott Eccles made a narrow escape from a ghost who wanted to fuck him, and through that somehow either steal his life force or trap him forever in the creepy ghost netherworld with him.

Obviously that's not the real answer, but you could finish this story like that and it would be a perfectly valid ending.

I will forever find it hilarious that ACD is most well known for writing stories where things seem supernatural and then his main character proves everything is mundane, while he himself was a fervent believer in all things otherworldly. Just... amuses me.

Other than the obvious 'gay ghost wants to seduce the living to spend forever in limbo with him', the only reasoning behind this I can see is similar to The Red-Headed League and The Stockbroker's Clerk: For some reason a gang of people wanted Mr Scott Eccles to be away from his home for the night, then split once they had accomplished their illicit goal. Although that doesn't solve the murder, just the weirdness. I don't think there's any way to solve the murder at this point.

#Letters from Watson #Wisteria Lodge #Sherlock Holmes #Long post #Is this the gayest story yet? y/y?

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mariathechosen1 · 1 year

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Queer participation and representation in fanfiction: An update

Hello!

Some people might be aware of the fact that last week I posted a survey I was doing as part of research project for a Norwegian research competition. I was expecting about 50-80 answers, but instead got about 8300…this is a lot of answers. For quite some time this was more ‘Maria’s silly little fanfiction project’ and so, due to the nature of the competition and the expected sample size, official university requirements weren’t prioritized. Since then, me and my research supervisor have been in contact with the university organizing the competition to ask them “What the hell do we do?” and after much discussion we’ve decided to redo the study.

The survey itself can be found here: https://forms.gle/Tcoafs9dU627PNcn8

Update: The survey is now closed!

FAQ:

‘What does this mean?’

The main differences are that we’ve had to remove the two questions asking the survey taker about their gender identity and sexuality as these are considered to be sensitive information. We’ve also decided that to participate in the current study, you have to be over 16 and we’ve changed the requirements so that this study is only for queer individuals. There’s an added ‘terms and conditions’ page that one must consent to before taking the survey to confirm this.

‘I participated in the past study, what happens to my answer?’

Any past data from the former survey will be deleted. I know that some people might be a little frustrated over this (A big thank you to all those who wrote 800 word essays in the original survey), but the past data would simply not be valid. I apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused, but that’s what we’ve been recommended to do. If you want, you send in a new answer to the updated study.

‘I didn’t participate in the past study, can I still answer?’

Yes! Anyone who is 1) queer, 2) over 16 years old, and 3) familiar with fanfiction, whether that be through reading or writing it, can participate in the new study.

‘Why didn’t the original survey follow these new criteria?’

The simple answer is that getting 50 answers is very different from getting 8000. Getting this much engagement made us realize that this was actually a topic that a lot (and I mean A LOT) of people are engaged about. The research competition is, for the most part, designed to introduce younger students to proper research and study methods, and so requirements weren’t as strict as they would be for a scientist with years of experience. Now that we’ve realized the potential of this study, though, we’ve decided to try and conduct it befittingly.

If it weren’t for the fact that the competition deadline is in April, we probably would have applied for special permission to ask more specific questions about sexuality and gender, but alas.

‘Will I be able to read the project after it’s done?’/’Will you post the survey results?’

This is still under consideration, but if the project does manage to win the competition, the organizers will publish it on their website. If it doesn’t, we will most likely decide to publish it on our own. I also feel it’s relevant to mention that even though it’s slightly frustrating to have to do the survey all over again, the positive side is that after many emails with the organizing university, they’ve gotten very interested in this project and has, along with us, realized that the potential for fan studies is a lot bigger than what one might have thought. The future is still unknown, but they have inquired about doing something more with the research in the future, so who knows?

‘I have a different question about the survey questions/project/research.’

If (and this is a big if) you have a casual question or inquiry about any of the survey questions or the project details, you can send me either a message or an ask (Though I would prefer a message). I get that some people feel a little awkward sending a full email if they have a small informal question about how something is phrased, for example, but please send any serious questions about methodology, data privacy or our qualifications to the study’s research supervisor. Preferably in a respectful manner.

#queerficsurvey

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pursuitseternal · 11 months

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You will “Beg” me to post this update soon for “Touch the Darkness”

At least I hope! And while I promise some more saurondriel smut, I cannot wait to share some juicy Shelob from this chapter…

From chapter 40: “Beg”

CW: minor violence, bad bitch energy

“It won’t happen ag…” the orc’s words ceased midbreath, Shelob’s hand flying faster than sight could catch as her unnaturally long nails sliced through the soldier’s neck. As they began to shrink back into her fingers, she licked them clean of the black-spurted blood that soiled them. Serves them right for not grabbing the puny She-elf when she was vulnerable.

Shelob gave a weighted sigh as she stepped over the nearly-decapitated body to return to her favorite perch in the cavern wall. Those vile lesser creatures should all be thus punished for their failure. They must learn who is truly in command now, no longer a father, a sire of their line, but a ruthless and fearless being of power that could suck the very breath from their bodies on sight. Alas, she continued to muse as she wiped the rest of the blood on her dress. She tired of the taste of orc now. Only that Moriondor remotely came close to sating her.

As if summoned, Adar’s footfalls sounded from the entrance, quick and measured steps to match the precise and critical stare he leveled at her. “What is this?” He demanded, pressed and hushed in voice as he stopped short of his fallen child.

“A bit of a mess I haven’t had the time to clean properly, dear,” she called from aloft, savoring the way he squirmed when she used such terms of affection. Such pet names. And she certainly fed on such discomfort. “Now, I take it you did not come to see me in such a state…”

Her preternatural speed launched her to the floor beside him. A hand reached out to caress his shoulder, but even as he withdrew from her touch, her pointed teeth peeked barely from the bottom of her plump upper lip as she smiled her greeting. Undeterred.

“We require more power, more resources for breeding,” he stated. Still distant and cold, even as he retained her dark and alluring gaze.

“A shame to hear you speak of breeding so…” she paused to pass behind him, pressing her lips against the back of his mottled and pointed ear “… so dispassionately.”

“It is a matter of growing more soldiers, more warriors as we see the masses Sauron has called to muster for him.”

“Masses?” She demanded quietly, rounding to face him again more swiftly than before.

“Nearly ten thousand, an alliance of Men and Elves now camps between his tower and the mountain,” Adar’s smirk widened to see her perturbation twisting her pale face. “And you promised us aid, protecting, until we unlock the secret to Morgoth’s return.”

Her eyes rolled all the way back in her head, a toss of her long, ebony hair as she spun away from him. Her bare feet silent on the floor. “It matters not,” she hissed. “Let them come, we need but one thing to hold away over Sauron, and then he will feel truly Abhorred. To make him fall lower than ever before, to debase him worse than Melkor ever did, we must capture his mate.”

She rounded slowly, already feeling the rage flowing from the Moriondor, his ire like coals behind the black of his eyes. “We are not merely provoking Sauron,” he commented quietly. Always quietly. “This is about regaining a land for Darkness to thrive, a way of returning to Morgoth’s plan for a land of our own, for my children. And if his Chief Servant abandons loyalty, we must remove him or remind him of just whom he serves. We must reach the Dark One in the void.”

“You fool,” she chided, her tongue tutting the roof of her mouth. “You are in such denial, Adar. For you no longer serve your children now.” Eyes glinting like starlight in blackest night, she reached for him, feeling his shoulder twitch beneath her fingertips. “You belonged to me the moment you crossed into my domain, into Cirith Ungol,” she paused to lean up into his face. His own dark eyes stared down his nose at her, unyielding. “You are mine, Moriondor. You should have learned that by now for all the times you’ve had to please me just to keep your children here, safe… and alive.”

“You wish to put yourself on the throne of Middle Earth? In place of a Dark Lord, all shall bow to the Webbed Queen on her throne of corpses sucked dry and lifeless?” Adar taunted, almost leaning in as his barbs hit home. But he saved the best for last. “Even your own kind, another Maia, has chosen a She-elf for a mate,” his eyes flickered as he quirked a single brow. “And not just any of the Eldar, a most powerful warrior, brimming with boundless light now that he has gifted her with his own power. They will be nigh unstoppable.”

Shelob’s whole frame drew rigged, spindly power threatened to burst through her skin, fangs grinding in blinding wrath. It was meant to be you. It should have been you, the hiss of ages of jealousy wound tight over her heart. Always in the shadows as she was, the great Lieutenant had never stopped to gift her with more than a glance, but it was enough to whet her appetite for his power. For the depths of his smoke-scented magic And for more enticing form he now embodied, for all that he had to offer. For all that the blonde She-elf enjoyed. It should have been hers…

Only as Adar attempted to turn away did the visions of her green-eyed past cease. Her hand gripped hard into the flesh in her grasp, nails drawing black blood that began to darken his faded black tunic. “Where are you going?” Shelob hissed, pulling his body tight against the curves of her own.

“To breed you an army,” his mouth refuses to turn in displeasure, revealing no hints of pain. Pain he could no longer feel. “We can see to the details of power, of dominion later.” She felt a hand slink down her back, tracing around the fullness of her ass before gripping it tightly himself. “You should not forget I am just like you, Lady Shelob. Neglected, overshadowed, but not just lying in wait. We wait for the right prey.”

A cold smile of pleasure turned the fullness of her mouth into a beguiling smile. “Time to earn the resources you have requested,” Shelob’s free hand drew up her skirts as the other, still piercing his shoulder, pushed him to the ground. “Now get on your knees and use that tongue of yours for more than just words to beg me for my favor.”

#the pairing I did not see coming #Adar x shelob #touch the darkness #bad bitch energy #the rings of power #sauron #haladriel #halbrand #saurondriel #rings of power #lotr rings of power #lotr rop #sauron x galadriel #haladriel fanfic #saurondriel smut #saurondriel fanfic

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nomadicism · 1 year

Note

Any more thoughts about the whole Twitter situation? What do you think will happen to that site over the next while?

Hi Anon, thank you for the Ask!

By the gods, what to even say now?

I wish that I had the wit to voice my thoughts with brevity and good humor. The Twitter Musk situation is hilarious-but-also-serious, and alas, I am verbose in my thoughts and not very funny.

I'm not sure that Twitter will survive, if I have time I'll post more deeply on what I think will happen with that.

I don't follow much outside of USA Twitter, so I can see all of this going in a lot of directions, such as the platform being irrelevant in the US, while remaining utilized outside of the USA.

We can still use Twitter and curate our experience by muting every slur that ever existed while using mega block on shitty tweets to expand our block lists, but that's not gonna change the fact if Twitter survives—without Furry Musk-gland backtracking on moderation—then the winners will be authoritarian regimes and con artists. Both rely upon sowing disinformation, distrust, propaganda, and conspiracies.

There are many choice threads on Twitter that reveal the convergence of serious issues, and I don’t even know where to begin summarizing them all. I’ve included a list of URLs to a variety of threads that might be of interest. What's happening here is not a simple thing, it's bigger than one spoiled mediocre man's ego.

Content is king, and Black people did a lot of labor in creating the kind of content that draws users to Twitter. Michael Harriot of The Grio has some words.

Hark! A graph showing Mastodon new user sign up spikes plotted against new user sign-ups on Twitter

A kind and thoughtful thread by Gerard K Cohen about his team members. Their entire team (Accessibility Experience Team) was among the mass firings at Twitter last week.

Of which, the unsurprising firing of thousands of employees (not all of them whom are software engineers) potentially poses as serious legal issue for Twitter due to California’s WARN law.

Also in Ireland (though small potatoes I suppose).

Apartheid Clyde (thank you Black Twitter for this most excellent name for Elon Musk) tries to blame advertisers bailing on the platform on activists. Gets called out by the president and Chief Operating Officer of MMA Global (a multi-national marketing trade association) whom he had just had a call with.

On the value of experts discussing in an open public forum

Concerns from a Chinese dissident

Discount Stark is fact-checked on his lie about advertising

Profoundly bad business decisions. There is no 5D chess here folks. There may well be a case for Tesla stock-holders to sue for breach of fiduciary responsibility.

Being an asshole to everyone and then firing the security team (who were already pissed at you very likely) as you’re rolling out a feature that requires both financial and personal data to be transmitted and stored is beyond foolish.

Ohhhh, hmmm about those critical employees…

Some of the fired employees are here on work visas

Potentially disruptive for upcoming elections in the USA.

Listen, I work in tech. I co-founded a startup back in 2013. No job is worth a 9:30pm stand-up while your colleagues are being fired by a useless billionaire.

Does Twitter really matter though?

Learn to host your own content.

Make a list of your fave Twitter artists, authors, etc.

When parody is only comedy if it comes with a disclaimer

Comedy as a venn diagram

Use lists to get around shadow banning of un-verified accounts

Paying for verification reduces identity to a trademark. The average person does not have the resources to continuously litigate their identity, such people who are recognized experts in their field, journalists, government officials, etc will be the ones impersonated.

A must-read thread about Twitter and counter-convergence (spoiler, Harry Potter was a counter-convergence)

Faith and trust rely on knowing that people are who they claim to be when they speak on subjects with authority and expertise. Undercutting the ability of such people to verify themselves is a form of discrediting, and when that happens systematically to scientists, educators, and public servants, then we have fascist propaganda tactics on our hands.

I hope you find these useful Anon!

(Y'all give me some reblogs because I'm not sure if this post will show up organically since it has links in it.)

#twitter #blue checkmark #verification #apartheid clyde #furry musk gland takeover #ask me anything #anonymous

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poisonfireleafs · 1 year

Photo

Veles’ Bachelor Challenge

We are almost halfway through the lepacy and it’s time for a new BC. Our boy Veles is going to be our bachelor this season ♥. You can learn more about his personality here.

Veles will be waiting for the contestants in the Bachelor Mansion. I’ll be taking 8-10 contestants. If you are interested in submitting a contestant, please message me and follow the requirements under the cut.

Requirements:

Veles is pansexual, any gender is fine.

The sim must be a young adult.

The sim must be vanilla or banilla (non-natural eyes and hair) and human.

Private download please! (You are allowed to upload the sim if they don’t win)

Include a biography in his post

CC is only allowed for makeup, hair and patterns. Please use EA’s clothes for the outfits.

Sliders are fine!

I have all EP’s. And I have Town Life Stuff, 70, 80 & 90′s Stuff, and Outdoor Living Stuff.

Slots:

Avani Bell by @nikatyler

Alexandria Dyer by @captainfishbone

Niall Harlowe by @forgottenhollowss

Nora Reese by @arogaba

Imogen Turner by @moveobjects

Milo Steele by @simside

Raiden Davis by @teekapoa

Raven Lemon by @wafflecatsims

Newt Dunlap by @alas-i-cannot-sim

Anne Morgan by @firefoxsims3

DEADLINE: December 31st!

#veles merryweather #veles bc #ts3 #sims 3 #veles ep0

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childlikegoblinqueen · 9 months

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Grimwalker Scarytale

The whispers in the walls.

Once there was a young witchling who was taken in by a kindly old couple.

They had been a reclusive couple that lived in a large crumbling home on the hill.

The word around town was that their own children had sailed for uncharted lands and never returned, leaving their parents alone to age.

So when the couple had posted a notice around town that they required the help of a strong young witchling to aid in their chores, the child on the street immediately had marched up to their door and applied for the position.

The couple were overjoyed and immediately offered the young witchling a nice soft bed and a hot meal cooked from the vegetables they had grown from the garden that grew all around the yard.

But that first night when the witchling slept they heard whispers from the walls all around.

“Let us out.”

They sang.

“Let us out.”

The next morning when the witchling woke, they asked the couple about the noises.

“Oh, you must have heard the wind howling through the Titan’s ribs.” said the wife.

“If you close the shutters the noise should stop.” said the husband.

The couple fed the witchling breakfast, and they went about their day.

They milked the spiders, brought in the griffin, cut the red grasses and grinded up the grains to make bread for supper.

Tired out, the witchling fell to sleep – but not before closing the shutters as suggested to keep the winds from howling.

But once again, that night, the witchling was awoken by the sound of whispering from the walls.

“ Let us out.”

They hissed urgently.

“Please, please, let us out!”

Again, the witchling’s sleep suffered.

The next morning at breakfast once again, the witchling rose for breakfast in a daze.

“What is troubling you?” The wife asked.

“I closed the shutters like you had said, but I heard the voices once again.” The witchling explained.

“Ah!” Said the husband. “Our dear children used to have trouble sleeping as well, did they not, my dear?”

“Yes,” said the wife mournfully. She nodded towards an old portrait on the wall of five witches. Two were clearly the elderly couple in their prime. The other three were small children with hair the color of raven feather and thickly freckled noses. Their bright yellow eyes mirrored the joy of their wide grins.

“In their youth, our children would often complain of the winds in their ears.” The wife explained, “They would crawl into our beds to cuddle when they could not sleep, and we would care for them as we would when they suffered from the common mold.”

“They were our everything, but then they chose to leave.” said her husband, “But alas, now you are here and you have reminded us of how we lost them.”

The witchling apologized for upsetting the couple and dragged their tired body out to the field.

Once again, they milked the spiders, and took the griffin out to pasture.

That night the frost had rolled in and the couple asked the witchling to chop some firewood from the nearby forest, even though they seemed to have a pile of beautiful blue logs in a corner or the griffin’s stable.

“Make sure to bring some wood into your own room dear,” said the wife.

The witchling did this, and placed the logs into the small fireplace in the corner of their room, laying the ax next to the window.

But once again, that night the witchling was awoken by the sound of whispering in the walls.

“Let us out!”

“Please, please, let us out!”

The witchling could no longer take it. They grabbed the ax and began to split the walls, chipping away at wood and plaster until the witchling saw them.

Dozens and dozens of figures, behind the walls.

Some older, some younger. All with raven black hair and freckled noses.

But their eyes were not gold.

They were bright red.

They grabbed for the witchling with long, unkempt fingernails.

“Thank you! Thank you!” They sang. “Please release us!”

But the elderly couple had heard the noise.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” The wife said.

“And our children should have never tried to leave us.” Said the husband. “We stopped them, but then we had realized the mistake we had made, so we fixed it.”

“But they came out wrong. So we tried again and again.” the wife explained, “but they all tried to leave us.”

The witchling backed into the wall as the couple approached, both drawing spell circles that shook the ground.

“So we built this house to keep them with us for always.” The husband said mournfully.

The hands of the red eyed figures closed around the witchling’s shoulders, pulling her in.

“Alas,” sighed the wife, “Now that you have discovered our secret we must keep you as well.”

“And just in time.” said the husband, “for our children have not eaten in weeks.”

And then, the walls closed all around the witchling as their eyes filled with tears.

#grimwalker biology #toh grimwalker #grimwalker lore #toh fanfic #toh grimwalkers #scary tales #the owl house #a03 fanfic #fanfiction #grimwalker

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nostalgia-tblr · 1 year

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it's not a plot hole if you do it on purpose

okay but there's a few "anti sylki" takes about at the mo which are converging in my head to form Wait I Think That Might Be How Whatever S2's Plot Is Gets Resolved and i am gonna splurge that onto a tumblr post because alas there is nobody around to stop me. And I shall be using screencaps to illustrate because everyone enjoys looking at hot people, right?

we shall start with the following sub-tumble: this bit of touching causing a nexus event is not actually a plot hole. we have indeed established that you don't get those things in an apocalypse, as proved by the fact that they didn't cause one just by arriving on Lamentis (neither of them is "supposed" to be on this timeline). by the rules we've been given thus far there should be no possible way for anyone to cause a nexus event here. certainly not by holding hands, ffs!

that's why everyone in this shot looks so surprised! WTF! "that's not someone stepping on the wrong leaf!" yelps mobius, who knows what to expect in such scenarios. he has spied an obvious plot hole and it shocks him! but for now we don't need to know how that impossible nexus event happened because for the short-term plot this is gonna get those damn variants 'safely' back to the TVA.

they are brought in and immediately separated. this is (maybe) important! they will not be in the same room together until near the end of the episode, which means no touching or doing any other gooey emo stuff at each other.

when they do reunite we discover that The Time-Keepers Don't Real. shocking twist! Oh no, Sylvie despairs as her years-long plan to bring down the TVA falls to roboty pieces around her!

And to sub-tumble again: I absolutely agree that Loki is having A Thought here about something Mobius said to him earlier in the episode. To wit: "the nexus event the two of you caused, whatever that connection is, can bring this whole place down." Mobius - who as we recall knows that the nexus event on Lamentis should not have happened - reckons that whatever the fuck that was must be pretty powerful. and he has a point (maybe). if holding hands can cause an impossible nexus event in an apocalypse what would happen if they got handsy and/or emotional at each other inside the TVA itself?

'Fear not, Sylvie, for I have worked out how to bring this motherfucking place down! Maybe those dudes were robots BUT we can still fix this because... um...' ALAS this is going to require some actual Feels to be expressed D: D: Loki awkwardly attempts to lead into this by explaining the theory: "We will figure this out. [...] Because, uh… Well, back on Lamentis…" Eventually he gives up and seemingly decides to just go right for the Declaration Of Feels.

OOPS, NOW HE'S FUCKIN DEAD, guess they won't be bringing down the TVA after all. Note that after all this we see a fair bit of nexus-tempting touchy-feely stuff but (BUT!) it all happens outside of the TVA and outside of normal time (whatever the heck normal time even is). And it seems you really can't cause a nexus event there.

And here I stop with one simple observation: Mobius's theory that getting your ship on with yourself can break whatever the TVA is remains untested and thus not proven wrong. This whatever-it-is might still destroy the weird agency that controls everything. Now that I have gone to all the effort of doing this post it probably won't but it might.

#do we still call this meta?#sylki #probably not actually Loki S2 spoilers but who fucking knows really #will i finally be right about ANOTHER thing in telly? :O #probably not but as you can see my logic in this post was impeccable #but yes this isn't a plot hole this is a plotline that lacks a conclusion but with more episodes coming we can't rule out it getting one #the Declaration of Feels IS plot-motivated BUT it'd also have to be real for it work - at least according to the best guess/theory we have #if you want a (possible) plot hole - why doesn't mobius make any attempt to ask sylvie what happened on lamentis? she'd know too!#handwaves can be submitted on a postcard to the following address:#loki series

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a-gal-with-taste · 2 years

Text

Yours | Chapter 2.2

Or, a saga detailing the complex, and peculiarly prolonged courtship, between a Captain of Zaun, and his Lady of the Isle Promenade.

7204 WC - Silco X F!Reader - Regency AU

AO3 - Prev - Next (TBA)

Warnings: Regency AU, arranged-marriage, slow-burn, romanticism, time-skip, love-letter, humor, fluff, family-dynamics, worldbuilding, Reader POV, stupid-suitors, minor period-typical sexism

A/N: Second-Half of Chapter 2 - Read the full chapter on AO3!

For, Solely, the Eyes and Acknowledgement of my Betrothed Landresiding Confident,

Think me presumptuous once-again, however, I fear we share the same accidental qualities that cause a, completely coincidental and entirely fortuitous happenstance with the usage of the term betrothed .

Though it seems accusatory, I must proclaim that your previous usage to be the cause of my blunder. A dreadful influence, as you prove ought to be - though, I cannot deny writing such a word to be quite a pleasurable experience in my writings.

Even more charming, is how such a term presents by way of your own hand... daresay, I quite like such a word coming from your penmanship, and mayhaps one day, such a word coming from your lips.

In other, less-pleasant musings, rather than-that of your potential of the verbal quality, I must thank you for providing such personal history, even in passing, and even if you think it insignificant. The mind is made up of art, sometimes in structure, words or indeed, images of metal-paintings, and though I am one of a more calculated mind, it cannot be denied that you, my confidante, have made a very pretty picture.

Both in your memoir, and encased in gold around my neck.

I fear, indeed, that I have grown quite used to the sight, but never less-fonder, and so do imagine that such a spectacular sight in you at setting-sun would be a sight one could never be sated from.

Divine, I would dare say. In mind, it is an image to behold. I can only dream to imagine, what such an image would look in life. At my guessing, it would be a sight equally bewitching.

I feel compelled to point out that you possess the spirit of an adventurer - a pleasing surprise. Sir Edmund, as I so briefly knew-him, sought to develop his own spiritual prowess in the realms of the daring, however I believe all-parties are quite aware of how that particular venture concluded. Do not mistake my tone as admonishing - Edmund’s enthusiasm is well-appreciated, just as his desire to avoid the sea for the reminder of his youthful career, would very much be understandable.

Think not that adventure lies only in your hand, by way of fencing blade, tournament or race, but there is an exploring nature in your mind. It’s apparent, in the way you write, envision, and no-doubt in the way of speech. You consider yourself of practical nature, but evidence must dictate that you have a flair for the romantics, unsurprisingly .

Alas, while the sunset you so described is a temptress as powerful as oneself proves-often to be, future prior-engagements call upon my presence, and I greatly fear that may interfere with the pace in which I post replies. An unfortunate, unhappy matter of circumstance that I greatly loathe, but must endure nonetheless.

I fear there is much, that all within the Zaunite waters, must brace ourselves to endure within these coming months, and it is not the chill of winter that requires focused-preparations towards continued survival.

Indeed, a part would rather wish to battle against the hibernal season ahead, rather than the season I so face. Another part would desire nothing more than to join you on land to avoid the rising tempest that we face upon the sea.

Another, far more foolish and romantic as yourself, would enjoy little-else than to coalesce with you upon a cliff, facing the dying light of day, while watching the stars come alive in your eyes, however much they could never hope to compare with the flawless surface of which they reflect upon in your gaze.

A dream that is kinship with the truest of bliss, I would dare say. With great misery, and even greater dedication, I admit that such euphoric dreams must remain as such, while the reality I face is of another nature entirely.

Indeed, it is a less-pleasant reality that we soon face. In such a line of reasoning, foregoing whatever emotions I have roused within these pages, I urge you to now focus on the strategy I lay between my words. Indeed, ‘tis not for the preparation of the winter ahead, but another storm entirely, one that I fear must be inflicted, before our Nation can see its clear-skies at last.

I only ask that you forgive me, for my part in it. I feel no shame, and host no regrets for what must be done. Simply, I pray for additional forgiveness in providing little other warning besides my subtle advice, and occupation with vagueness.

Firstly, prepare your stocks and strengthen the bonds you have with those of Zaunite origin. Commodities, I understand, are a far-reaching good within these waters, but I ask that you work to retreat your reach to the more-local of your wares. Particularly, loosen the ties that bind you to the City of Progress - in time, you will find it clear why I insist.

Less clear, for now, will you understand my more outlandish reasoning, but while horsemanship is an admirable skill - and, indeed, an activity that I have little awareness or expertise of - I would ask that you look into the more physical arts that your brother has become acquitted with. Fencemenship would raise fewer brows, though dare-not discount the advantages that can come with knowledge upon the seasonals of hunting, and, more discreetly, the art of the short-blade.

Myself owns a dagger, one forged modestly, and often out of sight for reasons most inconspicuous. Many can find usage in such a tool, and mayhaps, you would find benefit in the blade as well as I, or, in-least, find a form of security that would prove detrimental in the storm ahead.

If my words have perplexed, or most damnably, frighten you, I again must ask forgiveness. Regret is not something one such as I feel often, nor can afford to experience, but though it is in the very best of interest to her ladyship, heeding of my words will no-doubt cause further confusion, and, has much potential to cause grief.

I never want you to know of grief. Never again, not with any loss of family, permanent or temporary, nor with loss of station, happiness and good fortune - to strip you of such contentment feels like-that of a crime, one I loathe to commit, and grow evermore hatred of myself at thought of direct-inflictment.

That is why I feel I must prepare you for grief ahead. To prepare, in hopes to give a world where such grief never, ever exists in your sphere of existence ever again.

That is why I am called-ahead. For selfish reasons, and for the most unselfish, I march into storm with such a world in mind, a world in which grief is merely an aspect in passing, not a daily occurrence in the life of so many. A world in which sunsets can be enjoyed at cliffside without worry of the darkness beyond it, and only the stars, and new dawn that would be soon to follow.

I must face this storm. I must endure it, and endure it I will, if only to make it through the night of storms ahead, and join you at a sunlit-dawn all the sooner.

I have trust, faith and dream that you will endure what comes next. Know that I will hasten reply when I can, and will be ravenous for every word from your hand that makes it to my vision, however long it takes for me to feast upon the sight.

The writing is at its current rate, an acceptable appetizer to the delight you will no-doubt prove to be, though make no mistake, my longing desire’s seam from the thought of you, in your whole and your entirety, at my side.

It will be a thought - nay, a dream - that shall help make the coming tumultuous season all the more bearable. Have faith in that, and have faith, in that such a desire will gift upon me the strength to find my course through such storms ahead, and mayhaps, set my course en route to you.

With continued admiration and hopes to convene upon a new dawn,

Yours, always, and evermore,

S. Shimmerson

Co-Captain of The Children

A Son of Zaun

Such was the way of his letters - they had a confounding impact, on both sense and sensibility. One such impact that left you reeling in-place, even if your current position demanded you remain ever rigid and upright, both in mental-standing, and in the physical-realm of horseback.

As if in the effort to confirm this line of thought, a huff sounds from the Standardbred you perch upon, commanding you to also release a loud, lingering breath - more of a sigh lying-within the world of deep-thought, rather than a grunt in present questioning.

Even if, indeed, you have many questions.

But your thoughts come to focus on appreciation, hopes instead, compounded by the current environment you find yourself in, reawakening in the world of reality, rather than that filled with an increasingly-familiar scrawl that threatens, always, and evermore, to devour your thoughts in their entirety.

But it does not yet devour your practicality, nor does it impede upon your sense of absolute curiosity.

“What storm does one intend to face at such perilous stakes, wonders I...?” You murmur aloud, smoothing at a corner threatening to wave in the gentle flow of salt-tinged breeze, an ever present feature at this cliffside retreat you had trotted to. Indeed, after the most recent-literary dispatch to the post of Port Lanes, your own words had reflected a poor image of you as a horse-rider - grieving or not, duty-bound or not, your dear Standardbred had been neglected.

Not from feed or rest, but what it was born to do, which was to ride. And, in a similar fashion, you yourself had been neglected of the practice, and sincerely relished the revival of your skills being put to live-experience.

Sounding a formal, yet fond command in the form of a clicking against your teeth, your steed jolts softly into the action of a steady-walk along the firmer portion of the cliff's-edge, overlooking a pinkish sunset that you had not taken-care to view for far, far too many months... another thing that had been neglected, daresay almost forgotten in your more dire-hours.

Papers securely held at-breast, your fingers fiddled among the reins you held relaxed in your other hand, your narrowed eyes thoughtful as you found your thoughts swirling into focus by way of observation of the setting-sun.

The tone was - beyond entirely flirtatious in a way that had originally left your cheeks at a hue rosy-enough to rival the skies own current-shade - also had an air of urgency, one that you had not-yet seen in S. Shimmerson’s previous, personal works. ‘Twas a tone that was not quite in the way of a warning, but indeed, as he voiced, preparation for cautions that loomed ahead.

His concern was as flattering as his actual obsequiousness, but that didn’t erase the peculiar brand of blandishment, in a way of persuading you into action. Apparently, action of the defensive.

‘To what storm approaches us, Shimmerson?’ You think, not disgracing yourself again with speaking such-thoughts out loud, but forever intrigued at the manner of which he spoke. ‘One that much dictate we endure alone, apart from one another... such is the way of life, but must it be so?’

When, originally, you had brokered the idea of such a union of landresider and seafarer, your hands had shook in a way that forced you to place-down the quill, pick it up once more, and place it down many-times-over before such excitement cooled enough to allow for better penmanship, one that spoke of calmer air, evidence of a calm, neutrally-so mind.

Anticipation, mayhaps, but your pride merely allowed you to view it as excitement in way of caution, the caution that comes when inviting strangers to personal-shores.

Certainly not the anticipation that comes with inviting a correspondent to home, one that, perhaps, you would be eager to see in-person, rather than just in writing.

Though, despite it not being an eagerness in-the-case of the desire to meet face to face, that didn’t stop the small, never-felt crushing sensation that crashed upon something in your chest, at the thought that such a union would be delayed, however long, thanks to the nameless tempest that lies in the good-Captains path.

‘Must we brave this storm alone?’ You thought, in the certain way of a new, unknown sadness, as you gazed over orange-streaked blue waves, and pondered-upon how many horizons away you were from the man you spoke to, even if only on paper, and, increasingly often, in your own mind.

The man that, quite suddenly and astoundingly, you found yourself wishing you were with. Physically, entirely and wholly, at his side, to weather come-what-may, even if you did not know the true nature of what lie ahead:

You found yourself, inexplicably and unquestionably, wishing to be at S. Shimmerson’s side, and have him at yours.

“Dare not,” You murmured, in way of your own warning as you tightened your hands at the self-rebuke, though it was far-closer to a scolding as you opened your eyes and physically shook your head to clear away such notions. Notions that are bordered on the inappropriate - though, were they?

Indeed, if anything was to be deemed as inappropriately flirtatious, it was the way in which you conducted the greeting and opening of your previous letter - all-but coy, teasing, and taunting the free-sailing man with the accidental usage of a term that, originally, you had been loathe to associate with. Particularly in the very-term that was, steadily, becoming the most-simplest word, that could be used to describe the budding-bond the two of you were blossoming in-between you both.

After so many months in which letters have been written, exchanged and, upon your end, consumed with the utmost of keen eagerness, it could be argued in many courts that, though such a word was not used in it’s more earnest-format, betrothed may be closest in-way of explaining the bond you and the good-Captain now shared.

In which case, was it not then most-appropriate to long for such a bond to be closer, not only in mental and emotional states, but in its most prominent state of the physical-sense?

Was it not a crime, but merely a sort of natural conclusion, for a lady perhaps such as yourself to long for the presence of her betrothed, and mourn the fact that a more-distinct distance was being forced between the two, by a storm which one could not speak of? A storm which could separate, yet again, someone who the heart had deemed dear enough to open-up to, in such a way as you had thus-far in the letters you shared?

Only half of a year prior, had Edmund been thought lost to a series of spring-storms, swallowed up by the sea... be it metaphorical-indeed, or a truth the sky did not leave you privy towards, your halt jolted in the thought of the captain facing whatever perils that soon came from over the horizon, heartbeat stuttering again at the thought of him facing the tempest alone.

You have come to care for him.

Enough that, the thought of S. Shimmerson, alone to the elements that dreaded him so, left you with an urgency, a grand and heartaching desire, to join at his side and stand-together in the wake of the great, terrible unknowns.

Could it perhaps be such a sign, however foolish or hasty, that the curious desire was quick-fast transforming into more powerful emotions? Perhaps, far from mere care and kindness, that-of the delicate beginnings of true admiration, adoration, and, daresay, the evermore fragile and delicate emergence of lov -

“Has your evening proved to be pleasant, my lady?”

You startled too quickly at the unexpected, and not entirely welcomed greeting of a Lord of the Isle - indeed, the one who had so sought to familiar himself at no other place but your brother’s false-funeral, half a year prior.

Upon your surprise, you are quick - and annoyed - to find that your hands clench on-impact of his call, forcing the papers at your chest to crinkle, and your horse to ninny in equal-surprise from your sudden tensing upon the reins. Still, ever polite, you manage a breath as you’re careful to hasten relaxing your grip upon the treasured-pages, turning to gaze over your shoulder at the fast-approaching rider, “Indeed, sir, though I fear that pleasantness is soon to be quite-forgotten.”

The dry-reply, partially in jest but mostly in truth, earns you a flash of an indignant, stiff upper-lip. Then it smoothes, into a neutral and more-practiced frown, one that persists even at the show of an elegant dip of the gentleman’s chin in a greeting-nod. “Indeed... clouds ahead of us-all, the first of autumn storms, I fear.”

Your heart jolting again, you turned your gaze back, fixated upon the horizon. There’s not a cloud in sight, not in your field of vision, but in your mind, supplied by the words upon the pages you hold so dear, the endless skies of your mentality are indeed clouded in worry... “Indeed,” You murmur quietly, your agreement distracted and a bit too slow to be waved-away by simple melancholy.

Yet, you’re so distracted, in fact, that when the Promenade Lord so-loudly clears his throat, it’s with an unmistakable steak of impatience that finally redirects your attention back to him.

"Forgive me," You say, though your focus isn't quite on the aspect of granting an apology. "How goes your day, sir? And how may I be of assistance?"

"Your presence is all I require, my lady," He says, losing some stiffness, gaining some sense of a more amicable timbre, but lacking on none of his apparently-natural monotone. You've lived an entire life, family manor practically neighbors with this man, and yet, he's never felt more so like a stranger, and even then, a stranger such as him has never felt so... boring.

Boring, was the grandest, most generous, and most affectionate word to describe this man. Like a culmination of all aspects in the dullest-portion of life shaped into human-form, you begin to feel restless just by looking at him, shifting on top of your horse, while your steed does the very same, as if mirroring your actions. He follows the action with attentive eyes, a slight purse on his already downward-lips.

"Trouble?"

"Nay, she only grows energetic at this hour-"

"Unsuitable, considering our placement," A single nudge with his heel draws himself, and his own horse ever-closer, and before you can question, or more appropriate, command him to back away, the Lord leans across from his steed to yours, and wraps his leather-clad fingers around your reins.

"Allow me. Such retreat from the e cliff's edge must be done by practiced-hands, not your fair-ones."

"... you have my... gratitude."

If there’s any indication that the gentleman has any inkling of the purpose behind your unsubtle bristling, there is no such sign made that he understands the origin behind your apprehension. In fact, in a solitary comment in regards to the weather beginning to offer chills, bringing-forth shivers throughout both days and nights, it’s as if he’s entirely left unawares as to why you should feel so offended at a stranger taking the reins away from a woman.

One who is perfectly, and utterly capable of riding herself back home. Certainly without his guidance, and more pointedly, without the unconsented removal from the saddle-helm from your hands, into his.

In fact, the man looks to you expectantly as he expels a verbal command, setting both your four-legged creatures into a steady trot. The Lord of the Promenade gazes at you, patiently, as if to await a thank you.

For what? For being so valiant, so absolutely brimming with bravery, as to trot you away from the cliff-side back to familiar fields overlooking the manor of your home in the distance, all without ever even asking if you desired, wanted, or needed the help.

You offer no such gratitude. In fact, you share not a single syllable with the gentleman during the entirety of his unprovoked escort, and in similar fashion, the good-Lord neglects to disturb the silence between you both, in favor of directing your steed through the gates, and towards the stables.

Ignoring curious glances of the stable boys, you pretend not to take notice of the gloved-hand held out to you, instead, climbing yourself down from your dear-steeds saddle without assistance of any kind.

"I can quite control myself from here, kind sir."

"Of that, I have no doubt. You are... forgive my forwardness, but well-mannered. Excellently taught. A fine, fine woman you have become."

Swallowing back a retort so quickly dry and flat, you prove your education in mannerisms and class by offering the smallest of smiles, teeth flashing when he turns to gaze forwards once more. Chest puffed slightly, as if he won your heart, right then and there, when all he gained was another burst of annoyance within you.

'Twice we have met by cliffside, and twice I have been chafed by his absolute absurdity of... does he think this is wooing?' You think hotly and stunned at the thought, that this gentleman believes this would work in the first place, and, indeed, that it's a form of flattery that is working with you!

It was not even flattery.

It was insulting, as much so as when he holds a hand out to you to take upon yet another undesired-escort.

You tuck the papers further into the safety of your inner riding-coat, for fear of crumbling them in tight hands as you speak between gritted-teeth, assuring him that such is unnecessary.

“Nonsense,” He dismisses plainly. “Such an effort upon your ladyship requires the rousing of the spirits once-again, perhaps in the arrangement of tea. It would be a shame upon my honor, to allow you to stumble alone to your personal manor all on your lonesome, especially after such exertion, as to ride-alone.

Exertion.

“... right.”

Sitting a half-hour later in the parlor, you fume still, but silently with hands clasped. A brief undertaking had been taking, both in to quickly order a round of evening-tea, and to change swiftly from your slate shaded riding-attire into more modestly comfortable wears, such also granting the excuse of a reprieve from the houseguest’s presence, and the opportunity to gently guide the folded-letters of S. Shimmerson’s hand back into the small, carved-wood chest beneath your bed. A stowed treasure, in such a way.

Indeed, prior you thought it silly to envision wishing for the companionship of the good-captain himself. But now, you’d give anything for his presence, or any other welcomed-person’s company, as you miserably make your way down into the greeting parlor of your home, your brother already seated there.

The gray streak through his hair, the sign of a stressful endeavor at sea six-months prior, is nearly combed-back and it still’s you briefly when you see the lack of muddied, torn or ruffled clothing upon your brother. Daresay, he almost looks proper.

Edmund had indeed shown a remarkable change in the last months. Boyhood didn’t flee entirely, as there was still a youthlike quality in his manners and even in the remaining-plump of his cheeks, despite the strain put into brightening streaks of his hair into white. But there was new attention brought to his perception, focus slightly redirected from the more exciting aspects of flighty-pastimes, to the art of conducting the household, himself, and the family business besides. It almost made you proud of the change, but more than anything, it had surprised you to see your sibling finally take some matters seriously.

And so, seated beside him, you were glad that he was equally-serious in this more present matter, if a bit off-put by the sudden arrival, your uncharacteristic annoyance and the mere presence of the gentleman, standing at-attention while Edmund slurped upon his tea.

Yes, unfortunately. He slurped - evidently, not entirely rid of his unseemly habits of unmannered boyhood, despite his earlier mentioned progress.

Lifting the cup to his lips, it rose in time with Edmund’s brow, his voice curling over the china piece as he asked cautiously, curious as to the meeting and as to the stiffness of their guest, “Do forgive me, but the exact naming of your Lordship has escaped me, sir...?”

Straightening, and with the smallest of flushes onto the tips of ear and neck, there was a proud, firm rushing of re-introductions as the Lord named himself, “Sir Audrey Nimrod-Hussey. The Third, as it is a well-cherished family name.”

How recollection of such a... memorable title had ever escaped you, the knowledge was forever unknown. You managed to bite the soft inside of your mouth sharply by the time your ears registered the sound of Lord Nimrod-Hussey, however, Edmund was far-less prepared, and promptly snorted into his teacup, sending the warm-liquid splashing upward, onto his face.

“Forgive him, Lord... Hussey. My dear brother suffers-still from the occasional cough from his stint in swallowing salt-water.”

Indeed, another round of ‘coughing’ began again as you stretched with a handkerchief between your fingers to dab at your brother's soaked face. Though, these sounds were significantly higher-pitched, and rhythmic in-time with a humored sound of squeaking as you addressed the gentleman again.

“My good sir-Hussey...” Another childish-giggle burst from Edmund, stifled quickly with the caring, silencing ministrations of a handkerchief you made towards drying his face from splashed-tea. “... do-forgive us for the repeat in introductions. Though neighbors we might be, as you can guess, our attentiveness has been primarily directed on the subject of family-”

“Yes, which I have undoubtedly anticipated, and shown appreciation for, by not interrupting such a time,” If Audrey held any regard for how rudely he had interrupted you, there was no sign made of it. In fact, the man had angled away from you entirely, his entire scope of focus on your brother, who was hasty to lower the handkerchief from where it had dabbed at laughter-tinged eyes. “However, the manner is most urgent, and I fear that further delay will be a disadvantage in the actions we make, going forward.”

“In what sort of actions were you planning to make, Lord Audrey?”

“Sir Edmund,” The gentleman didn’t even glance at you, ignored your question entirely - indeed, fixated on his own thoughts, and the words he had no-doubt practiced a thousand times over before a looking glass, now being brought into open-view. “I would think it to be in the best-interest of both parties to insist upon opening the floor of discussion, in regards to the opportunity of a marital contract between myself, and your sister.”

Upright, you sat up rigidly, and your thoughts snapped equally to-attention, gaze sharpening enough to catch the glint of impatience behind the formality in the gentleman’s eye, though, still, he did not dare to look upon you when he, in so little words, all but asked for your hand in marriage.

The situation was so familiar that you swung your gaze sharply to Edmund, face neutral but displeasure radiating from your form like danger-laden fog creeping up on an unsuspecting harbor. A disaster to ship and man alike, only the Gods away of what sort of wrath lay beyond the curtain of gray... and indeed, you were unafraid to act upon such a wrath. Though, to his credit, Edmund only blinked in lame-confusion, and made no sign that he consented nor agreed with the Lord’s word.

“... A marital contract? ”

“Indeed,” Lord Audrey confirmed, at the same heartbeat as you spoke with all the sweetness of honey - faintly tasting of cyanidic almonds, and indeed, a danger beyond the unsuspecting shield of gray your face had become in it’s pointed-neutrality.

“Yes, brother-dear. Imagine that - a gentleman, coming to ask if you dare-so to give my hand away, in marriage .”

“Is such not the way of our world?” Evidently, Lord Hussey was incapable of deciphering your brother’s sudden discomfort, and was equally oblivious to your soft-edged fury, as his tone was simply matter-of-fact. “Ladies of good, reputable standing have so often been gifted to gentlemen of equal, if not higher-position in society. There is so very-little difference, and with the both of us similar in age, regrettably singular in the world of partnership...”

More-so like understandably singular.

It could not be comprehended, what woman or even human-being, could stand the companionship of such a dullard, a man who nary even offered you a glance since stepping into the room containing your eldest-brother, and, in his eyes, the only one worth-speaking to on the matter of your engagement.

How dare he!

“Edmund,” You said, suddenly and perhaps rudely, but you cared-not. Simply, it was the same gift of indifference that Lord Hussey had gifted to you, and you were quite generous with it as you turned upon the cushioned-seat, facing your wide-eyed brother in full whilst largely giving the other so-called gentleman the remainder of your cold-shoulder. “Edmund, I do not wish for it. I do not wish to marry this man.”

“The benefits of such a union, my lady, could not be understated-”

“And yet, I will not have you state them in the slightest,” You said shortly. Indeed, it was quite rude, and you quite had very little care that it was. “You insult me, sir... is it not in my own prerogative, to determine the length of my time as a bachelorette?! I haven’t recalled a time where I, or any other, commanded upon my brother to cut his own bachelorhood short, why must you insist that he cut upon mine?”

“I don’t...” Finally, the blank-slate that was Lord Audrey Hussey, apparently the Third of his remarkable name, frowned in concern. But you didn’t dare to hope it was with the sudden realization that his behavior and demands were nothing less than atrocious, and indeed, you were unsurprised that his realization was in-regards to the exact opposite source of your ire.

“Surely, my fair lady, singlehood is not to remain your plan for the remainder of your livelihood? Spinstresses are often miserable, a fate I nary wish upon any maiden of your fair, respectuable stature, and good-name... unless, of course, you mean to withdraw upon a nunnery?”

Oh, sweet Lords and Ladies above... “Edmund,” You said, reverting your attention in its entirety back to your wide-eyed brothers, whose brief humor at the thought of you in a cowl dissipated at your firm expression, and fierce glinting-eyes, as you spoke with all the finality of a door to a potential life’s-path, one of marriage and misery, being slammed quite firmly shut. “Edmund, I do not wish to marry this man.”

Your brother, all that remained of your family, turned to gaze fully at your determined expression, one that teemed with fury, and, though neither of you would ever make voice of it, a tinge of uncertainty.

You never forgave Edmund - verbally, that is - for the stunt he had pulled in regards to his return back to the land of the living, complete with news of your surprise engagement. Though, your anger had lessened, and slowly eroded away almost entirely between the passing of letters, and his unspoken groveling in the form of gifts, sweet-words, and a constant, guilty and sheepish expression had helped erase your already-dwindling rage almost in its entirety.

But it did not erase the memories. The few hours, where you had stood on the precipice of panic, and fear with bruised, blood splattered knuckles as your brother clutched his nose, the response to his ‘happy’ announcement at how different your life was to become... the memories of what you had felt at the moment lingered-on, even as the initial fury at the situation itself became nothing but a faded-echo in your recollection of that miserable, dreary day.

Panic, and a hint of fear at the thought of what was to become to you, without your consent or even pre-existing knowledge of the fact that such an engagement even existed. It existed, if only in memory, and such a memory comes to your recollection now, as you gaze at your brother, and, for only a moment, wonder if history is doomed to repeat, and you are doomed to a fate of marriage-undesired.

Edmund’s eyes flashed in both hurt, but in equal-understanding, and he gazed over your head only briefly to fixate on the Promenade Isle Lord. “I do believe my sister has spoken for herself,” He said, no longer bemused, timbre as cool as the mists that were beginning to roll in between the first falling of autumn leaves outside. “Her speech is all that’s required, I believe. And since she has spoken, I believe we’re quite done here.”

If it were truly just him and you, simply you and your dear, stupid but , you would have thrown your arms around him in the way of your youth, gratitude flooding every vein, and affection overriding any sensation of worry you had ever thought to have.

"Indeed," At this, you stand upon the moment following a sharp click as you settle your china down, standing and swiftly removing one leather glove, then its other with a snap as it releases its grip on your, finally-relaxed fingers. "Lord Hussey-" Edmund makes a suspicious coughing sound, which you're tempted to draw attention to, but spare the undeserving gentleman from his secondary humiliation. "- I imagine you can find the door. I encourage you to escort yourself home. I fear we have nothing more to discuss."

"There is-" Annoyance arises again in his eyes, before he closes them. Breathing-in slowly, as if entering a meditative-state to control every volatile, interesting emotion he can conjure in his entire body, the Lord Audrey opens his eyes, and upon doing so, surprises you both with a swift, but low bowing at the waist. "There is much to discuss, I fear. However, my greatest terror comes with the fact, that I believe I have made a poor impression, and even worse proposal."

"Indeed."

"Forgive me," He says, gaze rising only slightly to gaze up to you through his lashes. It's not nearly enough to soothe your nerves, but the bare-hint of implorance in his gaze gives your rage pause, be-it-only for sake of avoiding burn-out of your intense emotions for the day. "Forgive me, and allow me to offer further sympathies in the form of an invitation to my own estate, as you have invited me onto your-own. In two weeks time, where I imagine discussions at-length may be had about the current... situation. And where it might-so proceed, into our future. Both together, and apart. However you so-wish."

You blinked, in time with Edmund.

"I... a gathering, sir?"

"A venture of many things," Audrey nodded, turning back towards Edmund, much to your re-awakened annoyance. "I understand you are working to conduct trade in a more personal-fashion. Indeed, I offered invitations to several representatives for such reasoning... The Promenade is a landmark in exportation and trade, and there are many who would be delighted to engage with a developing-business man such as yourself."

Developing indeed, but you didn't say that. To his credit, Edmund was trying his best to make up for too-many years of boyhood, years that should've been spent at a desk, or upon a map of the routes, or even just dedicating himself to the bare-minimum of numbers... all aspects of the marketing-business your family had built-itself from, a business you had to carry-on in Edmund's stead during his adventures.

Arguably, some amongst household staff would suggest you had carried-on better than he could, despite his more-recent advancements in the practice.

Still, despite the insult of your work being looked-over in favor of that amateur-work your sibling was offering, you were growing weary of the offensive-assumptions, and merely filed-note of this apparent gathering to the back of your mind. Such an event could prove of great importance, despite the identity of the man hosting, and it was a far-past time both you and Edmund worked on developing more personal connections in the realm of business...

Had S. Shimmerson not all-but suggested that you do the same?

Clearly, he expressed a greater urgency upon developing connections with deeper-Zaunite ventures... mayhaps this was the first step in such a journey.

Perhaps it will make the coming storms easier for us all... and mayhaps, easier for the good-captain to travel-through, when the storms up-ahead clear his way... his way to here.

To you.

"Your proposal is well-warranted, and will be duly considered," You said smoothly, managing to smooth your brief smile at happier-thoughts away, and merely gaze upon the man with all the neutrality he had to offer you. "Thank you for its extension. Now, if you would be so kind, the hour of correspondence is well past us..." A dismissal, not very subtle, as you bore your gaze into him quite-pointedly. Somehow, after missing all other clues onto your exact emotional-standing of this evening, Lord Audrey Hussey the Third finally took the hint, and straightened quite swiftly.

"Right. Indeed," The good-Lord gazes at you for a moment, almost expectedly... when you finally take note of his offering-hand, made slightly aloft in your immediate direction, and it takes you only a second-longer to realize why he hesitates so.

It’s a hesitation on the subject of, at last, decency in your regard.

With a big, heaving sigh you don't even attempt to hide, you reach out, and despise yourself for such a hasty removal of your gloves previously. It's enough to make your skin prickle uncomfortably, watching this fine, upstanding member of society lean down and brush lips across your knuckles, and you pull your hand back far, far too quickly to be proper, but you simply no-longer care.

Lord Audrey Hussey, the Third of such a name, cannot leave fast enough, and you could not sigh in relief quick-enough the moment you hear the mighty front-gates echo-shut behind him.

"... did you really think... that I would, for a moment-?"

"If you had no such designs too, then why did you hesitate?" It's not an accusation, but Edmund finches as though it is as you turn upon him. "A second time in a single year, Edmund... you hesitate, upon being asked to grant my-hand. Forgive me for being concerned, considering how the first round of hesitation led to an actual engagement."

"I wouldn't do that to you again!" He insists. "Never!"

"Well..." You trail off, half angry in your sigh, but all the more tired, weary. "... well, you did it once. I had doubts that you would never do it again."

At this, your sibling sits up straight, then stands taller, stepping over to you with a look equally weary, but more earnest as he takes your hand. It warms at his touch, a far-cry from what was invoked at Lord Hussey's. "Never," He vows, with a gentle squeeze that allows you to meet his eyes, true and honest in every possible way as he gazes at you. "Never again. Your future is your own, just as mine is, and just as your heart and hand is. May no other man ask me, for I will simply direct them to you... that is the way it is, how it will be, and how it must always be. I swear upon the Gods themselves, my sweet sister. Never, again."

"And... and if I -" You stop. Partially because you had not been entirely aware of your mouth moving without your permission, not until the sound of your own voice came along to compound the fact that your voice was committing a mutiny of your body.

However, it is far too late as your brother takes-on a quizzical expression at your hesitation, growing more puzzled in the slightest, and you know you cannot avoid allowing the betrayal of your voice, and perhaps your heart, to take place.

"If... if I were to decide I wanted another, any other at my side? Would you accept my decision, and be happy for my fortunate and choice?"

You try to tell yourself you don't already imagine someone there. That it isn't a man, perhaps not one of fine social standing, but far-higher naval standing... perhaps a glint of ever-present daring in his eyes, the smell of crisp sea-salt forever upon his lips, with fingers talented at both sail and writing wrapped around yours.

And his words, oh, his words... always so careful and so calculated, inspiring both warmth to your heart, and warmth to your face...

You try, and tell yourself that's not who you want. But that’s exactly, and the only, man that you so envision for such a fate at your side, and yourself at his.

"You would accept him? Whoever I so-choose, to spend my life at his side, and him at mine?"

"Of course." A moment's hesitation longer, but this one doesn't inspire uncertainty, as his last had. Not with the embrace your brother, so sturdy and so full of home, pulls you into with the soft assurance he gives as he wounds his arms around your waist, giving it a tight-squeeze. "All I ever want is your happiness for you, dear sister. I have trust that you know where to find it, and have faith that you will find it through whatever comes your way. No matter what trials, what endurances, whatever storm you must brace against... happiness will be found by you. I know it, and I cheer for the day that it does."

Pausing, you're comforted and warmed beyond words at Edmunds speech. Indeed, it's all you've ever wanted, ever expected in your life. The joy and freedom of choice, without reproach or judgment - such was the way your parents found their happiness, such was what you expected Edmund to do to find his, and how you always counted-on finding yours...

Maybe, not in the form of the well-standing man residing only acres away.

But a sea-faring confidant, thousands upon thousands of leagues away, whose words have burned into your heart and mind in a way that leaves sweet, aching brandings. Branded, in such a fashion that they shall keep such warmth alive despite the storms ahead of both of you.

And, despite Edmund's irresistible final tease, breaking off quickly into a round of giggles that could rival a humored school-girl's:

"I only hope... that you don't intend to find your life's happiness in the form of becoming Her Ladyship, Mrs. Hussey."

In-time with your admonishing scowl, and light smack upon his biceps at such ill-timed humors, the first roll of evening-fog drifts into the harbor of the Promenade Isle - and indeed, it's a fog that's shielding the sight of lilac-twilight skies, the final death of a sunset’s light.

An autumn-fog.

The first sign of the season's storms, coming ahead to wreak upon the Isles and Waters of Zaun alike.

Requested Tags: @writingmysanity @medivalpersephone @spaceythangs

#silco #silco x reader #arcane #regency au #romantacism #regency #silco fic #arcane fic #arcane x reader #silco arcane #regency silco #slow burn #persuasion #persuasion au #Yours

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melancholic-hues · 2 months

Text

line between truth and pretend (where are we?)

posted on AO3

kafblade week 2024: prompt - dinner party / fake relationship

fandom - honkai: star rail

rating - general audiences

warning - no warnings apply

category - f/m

pairings - blade/kafka

tags - kafblade week 2024 ; pretend/fake relationship ; no beta we die like caiyi

word count - 1796 words

Curse the script.

Kafka breathes in the cool night air of the planet they’re on, looking over at Silver Wolf through her peripheral vision.

Silver Wolf throws her head down, letting out a dramatic groan, flinging her arms over the edge of the fence. Her video game console is tightly clutched in her right hand because Aeons know how she’ll react if the console drops down the, what, seventy, eighty story they’re on?

Kafka waits until Silver Wolf is done lamenting about her deleted game accounts. She must say, this little Herta–Silver Wolf rivalry is amusing to watch. Oh, with the addition of the Screwllum robot. She heard it all from the other Hunter. Silver Wolf hates being outsmarted.

“Kafka,” Silver Wolf turns around and leans against the fence, “You got a date yet?” Her lips are twisted into a mocking smirk, and her voice is drawled out and sarcastic. Ah, right. Her new mission.

“I have plenty of those on my calendar,” Kafka counters, unfazed and calm. But she still needs to find a partner for the script. This is one of the few times she curses Elio’s name. Have you seen the script?

“Good luck finding one,” Silver Wolf snickers, “Just so you know, there’s someone who will definitely take up your offer straight away.” She slips her console away, the device vanishing into neon-colored pixelated code.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Kafka asks, tilting her head, though she has a sneaking suspicion she already knows.

Silver Wolf yawns and stretches. She brings her arms down and heads into the building. “Imma head off now. TTYL,” she calls over her shoulder, full of mocking sincerity.

After a moment, Kafka heads in as well, a decision formed in her mind.

“Dinner… party?” Blade asks the next day.

Kafka downs another glass of wine, the purple-red liquid dribbling down the corner of her mouth. She sets the glass down with a clink and nods. “A dinner party,” she confirms, reaching across the counter to pour herself another one. It should be in her best interests not to get intoxicated within such a short amount of time before the mission, but it’s not like Elio can stop her.

“And you need a partner for this,” Blade looks down at the script. “Are you sure you want it to be me?” he hesitantly asks.

Kafka nods again. “Sam can’t go because it’ll look weird. Besides, we’ve been partners on several missions already. This one is no different.” Deep down, they both know this one is drastically different. Previous missions didn’t require anyone to pretend to be in a relationship. Previous missions didn’t need her to find someone to be her “husband.”

Will it be so bad, though?

…She shakes off the curiosity. What a pesky little intrusive slip of a thought.

“Of course,” Blade says, slowly, “I will go with you, then.” He shifts from his position, eyeing the wine glass Kafka is holding in her hands. Wine from a planet known for its drinks and culinary arts. The universe is infinitely vast and holds so many surprises. She didn’t even know a planet can manufacture several thousand different types of alcohol.

“Thank you, Bladie,” she smiles, “The mission is tomorrow evening. We have to check into the hotel in two system hours. I wish Elio gave us more time to prepare. Alas, we will have to make do with what little time we have.” It’s unusual for Destiny’s Slave to hand them a script on such short notice; it’s even more abnormal for this to be such an important mission. Apparently, they have to retrieve something that Elio foresees will be an important bargaining chip in the future.

Blade gives her a tight nod. “So I have to call you my…”

Kafka chuckles at the faint dust of red spreading across his cheeks. “Yes, husband ~ ” she teases.

Blade turns an absolutely ferocious shade of red at that.

***

They are to enter the ship, arms linked and as a couple. Kafka is to introduce them, referring to him as her “husband” and her as his “wife.” Blade thinks their marital status, however fake it is, should not be of the security guards’ concern. Kafka disagrees.

“Got it?” Kafka asks him in Xianzhou, their go-to foreign language so no one can understand what they say, placing a reassuring, black-gloved hand on his upper arm. “You don’t have to say anything during the check-in. Leave all of the talking to me.”

“Okay.” Blade pulls at his tie one more time through the camera of his phone. He had to forgo his bandages for gloves that Kafka bought at the last minute, her reasoning being “it’s not proper enough for an exquisite gala like this.” Blade doesn’t think so, but what does he know about being proper? And, besides, who is he to disagree with Kafka?

Kafka looks like a goddess in her outfit: a long black, shoulderless dress exposing her left leg in dramatic layers and laced black gloves; her hair is curled, flowing down her shoulder in rolling magenta waves. “Our ride is here,” she looks at the black limousine that pulled up, Sam in the driver's seat. He is not sure how Sam managed to fit, considering he always wears considerable shoulder armor. “Let’s go,” Kafka nudges him in the elbow.

“Yes, wife,” he says, the word strange in his mouth.

Kafka smiles. “I see you’re getting into the act already, husband ~ ”

Blade clears his throat and walks up to the limousine, opening the car door for her. Kafka winks at him when she steps in like a princess to a carriage. Except Kafka doesn’t need a prince charming, and Blade can never even be considered a prince. The thought alone disgusts him.

He enters the car after her and takes a seat on the U-shaped velvet couch next to Kafka.

Their ride to the gala is silent. Blade isn’t sure if he should initiate conversation, since Kafka is looking out the window, a tranquil smile on her cherry lips. She had spent a long time on her makeup, and Blade wants to ask the universe how someone can, somehow, get more prettier than they already are. Kafka does not abide by any rules, it seems. She never has.

They pull up in the parking lot of the gala next to a lot of similar limos and elegantly dressed patrons, though none of them can match Kafka’s beauty.

“Enjoy your date,” Sam says matter-of-factly as they get out of the car. He does not flinch at Blade and Kafka’s glare.

He takes Kafka’s hand in his when their turn comes.

“Good evening,” the security guard greets. “Names?”

“Good evening, I’m Lily Ming, and this is my husband, Ren Ming.” Something about Kafka’s fake identity taking his pretend last name shouldn’t be as heart-stopping as it is right now. It really shouldn’t, and he’s being delusional.

Kafka hands over their identification cards, and the guard lets them through. “Have a nice night,” they say, stepping aside.

“Good work, Bladie ~ ” Kafka praises.

He is not blushing. He is not blushing. He is not blushing. He did absolutely nothing. Why is he blushing?

Blade inhales and lets Kafka take him to their next location.

“Would you be so kind, husband, and take me up on this dance?” Kafka asks, holding out a hand. They have a period of intermission before they kick-start the next act of the script, and Kafka clearly isn’t going to let go of any chance to have fun.

Blade blinks and looks at the other couples on the dance floor. “Are you sure?”

“Unless you don’t want to. Are you a good dancer?”

There are bits of broken memories that float to him, then. He remembers holding the hand of someone on the Xianzhou Luofu, their grip firm yet gentle, and them two dancing underneath the moon on a clear night, cups of wine long since forgotten on a stone table away from their makeshift dance floor.

That is in the past. He is not the beloved anymore. He is Blade. The steps are a bit hazy, and he is most certainly not a professional; nevertheless, he can manage. He just hopes Kafka isn’t looking for a standard ball dance.

“If you don’t mind me accidentally stepping on your feet,” Blade murmurs.

“As long as you don’t do it excessively,” Kafka replies and pulls him onto the floor.

Turns out, he still remembers a lot of it. It’s mainly muscle memory; although, Kafka is obviously stunned and (hopefully) pleasantly surprised by her expressions.

He twirls her around and bends her over to the beat of the orchestra, smiling slightly. He’s, admittedly, having fun during this. Kafka’s eyes flash with something he can’t name, but she’s smiling. She hasn’t stopped smiling since he took up her offer to dance.

Blade allows himself to feel nice about this, just this once.

He tells himself he is just following the script.

He tells himself this has nothing to do with their relationship. All of this is strictly professional. They are to not speak of this mission ever again after it ends regardless of their victory or loss.

He tells himself this over and over again as they talk to the other patrons as a married couple. Tells himself this over and over again as they ask about their fabricated past. Tells himself over and over again as they awe over how perfect they look and how gorgeous their children could be.

He tells himself Kafka is not into this, that everytime she calls him pet names like “babe” and “dear” and “darling” and “husband” are all part of their plan.

He tells himself he is just really playing the role whenever another man comes near Kafka, trying to talk to her, only to be unnerved by his cold glare.

This is all play-pretend, and they are to shed the personalities of Lily and Ren Ming as soon as they step out into the night air again after the gala ends.

The night ends.

They are yet again successful in their mission. Blade is holding his suit jacket in one arm and his other is looped with Kafka’s.

Maybe it’s the alcohol they both drank a generous amount of, maybe it’s the overwhelming amount of couples kissing around them; but Kafka turns to stare at him, her smile reaching her lovely eyes.

“Promise me something, Bladie,” she says. It’s the first time she called him Bladie ever since he’d agreed to be her pretend date to this gala.

“Yes, Kafka?” he asks.

Kafka leans over and kisses him. Just along his jaw, with her fingers caressing his face.

She whispers into his ear: “Promise me, forget everything about tonight.”

#melancholic-hues #writing-hues #blade x kafka #kafka x blade #honkai star rail #blafka #kafblade #kafblade week 2024 #hsr blade #hsr kafka #sam hsr

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misscammiedawn · 1 year

Text

Charmed! Recap Day 4 (Saturday)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 (you're reading it!) Part 5

AAAAAAA!!!!

I bolted upright, terrified and activated.

“It’s okay, Cammie. It’s 2023. You’re in Annapolis. It’s Charmed. You’re in a hotel room. It’s 2:30am. Everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

Puppet and Sleepyhead take such good care of me…

I fell back asleep. I wasn’t even certain that moment had happened, but my journal notes said “panic attack in middle of the night?” And I asked Sleepyhead, who told me her version of that event.

I woke again at 7:30am, took a test and got myself dressed for first event of the day…

Yoga with Copper!

A presenter I had a firm connection to ran the class and it was nice to have an event with Copper. The two of us remained close during the event and did our best. I’m a bendy bitch but my reach is kind of limited.

The presenter was another person I really wanted to catch up with this weekend as we had a friendship built up from when we both lived in the same state. Alas, this was not the best time for it as I had a 9am coffee date scheduled with Daja and Nath…

Charmed! Outfit 5: Miss Dawn's Default Attire For those who want to look exactly like their Tumblr avatar.

Which I dressed up for in my “Miss Dawn Default Attire”, which is the outfit all of the online art depicting me wears. Well. Most of it. Some of it has the red magician’s outfit I wore at Beguiled.

For the Starbucks run, Daja wanted to ensure I got to eat a proper breakfast and was eager to get some time with me and her Lady at the same time.

Unfortunately what didn’t work out with our plans was that the first Positive COVID test of the convention had been announced and it was someone both Puppet and Tigress had spent time with. Puppet, for a few minutes while masked and Tigress while eating lunch.

Though it broke her heart to do so, Puppet opted to remain in the room until 48 hours after exposure to take a PCR level test to confirm she was safe to continue enjoying the con. Good news is that I am posting this on Tumblr a week later and all of Oikos have received negative PCR tests. None of us got sick.

But I at the time I was worried about a LIFE CHANGING appointment which would not have happened if I got sick. COVID anxiety played a big part of my weekend.

The knowledge of that important appointment meant Oikos needed to discuss how to handle this. We decided that masks should remain on during demos and classes, no inviting people outside of our bubble into rooms (Daja/Turq are inside bubble) and any major play required tests before hand if possible.

Sleepyhead was booked solid for the entire day full of demos and fun. I was OVERJOYED that she was getting all of that…

Though I will write a little more about that later…

I pulled into the tail end of the hairplay demo class and sat next to Daja who cuddled me close and ensured I paid attention, even going as far as to forbid the nuzzle trigger from working for the next hour. She was interested in my reactions. The way I gasped and whimpered at the wall slams, the way I shied up at the neck nape grab. How I giggled and enjoyed one of the presenters hamming up her role and another turning himself into a wall for the demo bottom to be slammed against.

There was a Kodak moment in there. You had to be in the room. Or the online stream.

Hairplay is always a highlight for me any time I go. Daja was in Toppy space and was being playful. My reactions must have been feeding her.

“And, sweetling, when the next demo happens you’ll feel whatever happens to the demo happen to you.”

I whimper just to remember.

The presenter was showing off his D.A.N.G.L.E the most advanced hairplay tactic where the hypnotee goes limp and their whole weight is held up by the hair pull and…

In 2022 I wrote:

"Eventually Daja’s second demo came about. The Directed Angle Neutral Grip Leverage maneuver. Dangle. A tall grip where the subject goes limp in your group and is held up by their hair.

Daja later told me she went as limp as she felt safe to but she knows her body.

I know how gorgeous that looked. Outside of skill level, but I wanted that. I wanted it. I.

I wanted it."

Daja knew this and wanted me to FEEL this… and feel it I did.

Mmmm…I…

Oh… *whimper*

I just

*Whimper*

I felt it…

The class ended and we decided to go up to the room quickly before the Topping Is For Everyone class and my own Communication With Deep Self class.

I was feeling a little destabilized so told Daja that I’d be looking at my tablet, but I’d be in the room and present as she taught the class. I sat in the corner of the room because the person sitting next to me in the front row was enjoying a teaching lunch and I still had hospital stuff in the back of my mind.

It was a good class. Last time I attended it Miss Dawn was eager to learn all the ways that Daja enjoyed topping and use her own tricks against her. Those memories made me smile then as they make me smile again typing.

EnScenic reached out to me via Discord to say that she was looking to give me a gift and that we should meet up. I told her my location and she said she would stop by.

Daja spoke about how seeing Captain Marvel helped her utilize Carol Danvers energy to overcome any social programming about manifesting her power. She said that she is beyond needing that, but outright said “I have nothing to prove to you.”, which reminded me of a brat taming scene I had done with her once, and that made me smile. I love her so much when she’s bold and strong and sure of herself. I always love her. But my heavens that glow when she is firm and certain in her conviction and determined.

I am still beyond smitten.

She went over a little bit about the vampire fantasy which was going to end our weekend and how things were looking from her perspective.

I simply couldn’t wait. The way Daja went through my fantasy list and wanted to make them all a reality was just—

I cannot even begin to find words for how honored, flattered and overjoyed I am by everything from the weekend.

After the class EnScenic stopped by and handed me a hand drawn image of a Dalek yelling FRACTIONATE - FRACTIONATE!

I near died laughing when that image was posted online. Apparently EnScenic remembered my reaction because she went through the effort of bringing it to the con and hunting me down…

So many people did so many nice things for me this weekend…

I— I’m so happy to be part of this community. I’m finally home. I finally came to the party. I’ve always been welcome. I’m here. I’m happy. I’m home.

I want to hug every single person. Just squee about what they all mean to me. How humbled I am by their encouragement and acceptance. I may have cried again. I don’t know. I was all over the place.

After a quick lunch it was time for my class, Communication With The Deep Self.

Daja and Copper were in the audience as well as a Twitter community writer of whom I have great respect and admiration for and the gentleman who was being an issue on the Discord, along with a group of folks he seemed deeply engaged in conversation with, hyping up Ormund as the best hypnotist.

The Zoom coordinator hopped on and began to start the intro schpiel, it was quite loud. Loud enough that Daja plugged her ears.

It did not seem to dissuade the disruptive party from a conversation. They even seemed to be standing up and testing balance or measuring feet size. I was not certain. I was simply bewildered. I could not understand what I was seeing. The class had started. Please sit the ever living fuck down you *intruder*.

The class went okay. I feel I gave a better version of the talk a year ago, but I was discombobulated and in the wrong headspace for it. Dawn would have done a better job of it.

I recall explaining the concept of the mirror lake trance I use on Sleepyhead versus the “Ceiling Unlimited” version that I use on Daja. The concept is a complete and utter tranquil state of peacefulness. I used it on either of them to try and induce Esdaile. Succeeded in both cases.

Copper told me that I had misinterpreted the meaning of Ceiling Unlimited, but it’s okay because it likely matches the meaning of the Rush song I was pulling from.

I wish I had a better recollection of the class but it was a blur. I do not wish I had a recording for that one. Still wish I had one for the Presence class.

It proves that I need to tailor my output to be more akin to Presence.

Daja and I returned to the room and had a few quick scenes. I was still riding a bit of Top energy from the class and so did my absolute best to pounce her, pushing the “feel me” trigger as far as it could go. I was feeling fair triumphant but Daja appeared to be a loving brat and proved that she is not the only one who can stretch the “feel me” trigger.

As I pulled her in with a “Daja, Kiss Me!” And a Freeze, I enjoyed keeping her at the egde of my range. I then hypnotically bound her wrists to a surface and released her. Hung right outside of her ability to reach me.

“Feel me make you kiss me.”

…!

That!

She!

….!!!!!

UNFAIR! TRICKERY! THIS IS MUTINY.

And that is how Daja successfully flustered a Fae.

And then made her sweetling go deep.

I tend to write “eclipse” as a descriptive in prose. For when someone stands above someone and engulfs their entire vision. To block out light and make the entire world a single focus that is the person commanding your attention.

Daja eclipsed me in that moment. She was delighted by how my eyes rolled up and asked for permission to take the photo above.

We paused for food and enjoyed a quick date before moving on to evening events.

With that, we prepared for the soiree. This was when the blue fire scene had been scripted to have happened, so I simply skipped the ceremony and used the forehead press to have her get dressed and pulled on my own outfit:

Charmed! Outfit 6: The Soiree

For lovely queer ladies who are going to the ball to flirt.

As we left the hotel room there was a Moment which feels too private for me to truly intrude upon. But Daja and I got to be there for a friend. I’m glad I was there. I am glad I could be of assistance…

Once that I accompanied Daja to the Soiree room but did not have much time to enjoy the queer ambiance as Sleepyhead showed up looking for me.

She did this because she is a good Dolly.

Earlier in the day she and I had discussed hitting the vendor’s hall together. I wanted to get her a lovely birthday present. That was always on the cards. My presence with her in the vendor’s hall was no longer a request, though. It was a neccessity.

See… while I have been off attending Topping Is For Everyone, teaching Communication With The Deep Self, having coffee and subs and curry— Dolly, sweet little thing she is, had been keeping herself VERY busy. Dollification class, fractionation class, memory play class, hypno-roulette…. she had been demoing nearly constantly since 10am.

I posted this on Twitter and I find it to be the most accurate representation of how Saturday was for Sleepyhead:

And so I hooked her arm and lead her up the stairs. I was in my most fancy outfit, wearing heels and a swooning blissed out dolly was leaning against me barely lucid enough to do more than sigh and murmur when I softly asked her to stay with me and follow along.

The vendors room was a very small part of my weekend. I doubt it lasted more than 30 minutes and yet I was able to fit in quite a number of potent memories. From bumping into a number of folks I had longed to speak to all weekend while dressed up in my best; to taking my sweet girlfriend around each stall to examine the wears while softly teasing her with little promises of what each item could be used for.

It is rare for me to get these pure dominant moments where I get to embody the style and grace of a Top in a non-scene space. She was so very sweet and tender and her passion for hypnotic trinkets was so refined. Every book on sale she owned. Literally every single one.

After a full cycle we discussed what she enjoyed and went back to look at the ones that she had her eye on. A necklace with a near Disco Ball level of sparkles surrounding it. “We’ll take it.” And I paid while she admired. Then another trinket, a sibling of the bottle I uncorked earlier that weekend.

I tipped Linny $10 extra for being responsible for my best scene of the weekend. I feel it was more than well earned.

Feeling dominant and confident, I lead Sleepyhead back to the room so she may enjoy a little more of her hypnotic reverie. Puppet, who was now taking her PCR level test, was still confined to the room. As I settled down, Puppet explained that Sleepy was intending to go stay with someone important to her and needed to prepare for that. The test pinged negative and I proved to everyone, including myself, that Bad Pain Days have incredible highs as well as lows.

See when I’m in a BPD day I am so overwhelmed by my own emotions that I cannot filter or apply appropriate levels of reaction to things. Typically this is set off by upset, paranoia or frustration.

It can also be sparked off by moments of love, moments of relief, euphoria. Even as I skipped through the day there had been several moments where I had cried and been torn asunder by raw emotion.

Puppet got the negative. Sleepyhead had the Most Perfect Day Ever.

I broke down in happy tears. Blubbering that I was so worried about Dolly.

About this time. Saturday night of Charmed! 2022, Puppet and I knelt side by side in front of our Goddess and were asked to, under no compulsions and free of any influence, give ourselves to our beloved Goddess.

That memory means the world to me. It was *special* it was *important*. But it was in the Oikos living room, in the light of a make-shift studio I created for the occasion. It was lovely. But it was not the plan.

It would have taken place in one of the classrooms. Surrounded by loved ones. Witnesses who loved Goddess. Witnesses who were overjoyed to see Puppet and I’s big moment of accepting our collars.

Omicron crushed that dream. Just 3 weeks before the event and that impacted all of us in ways we’re still not fully over, yet. When Beguiled happened, Puppet and I went rogue. We needed to be there for our sanity and mental health.

Sleepy refused to go. She couldn’t handle another dream being snatched away.

I was carrying so much worry that Sleepy’s anxiety would keep her from enjoying the con, but here she was, fractionated to oblivion and with even further evening plans. Puppet was not going to be confined any longer.

It turned out okay. It was alright. Thank heavens. It was alright.

I love them both so very much. I love them and I’m so glad they got to have this and no one can take it away from them this time.

So fucking happy.

I returned to the Soiree to finish up but it was *loud* in there. I sat on the outskirts of the room and chatted mildly with Joy but Miss Daja informed me that if I was uncomfortable, I should leave. She was proud of me for speaking up for myself earlier in the day, she wanted to ensure I was always rewarded for speaking up and seeking my comfort.

So I slipped out… around about the same time another friend from the local hypno-community did.

This person was someone I’ve not seen since March 2020. She was a member of the HYPE monthly hypnosis meet-up in Grand Rapids.

We bonded a little bit over old memories and for a brief moment I felt calm and comfortable. Like I *could* just start up conversations without shyness or feeling stupid.

After she left I confessed this feeling to Kitty Sylvie who was door dragon for the moment.

And then I started crying again.

Because Sylv said such kind words about my presence in the community, especially online and then Psy just appeared out of nowhere backing them up and I was just left without words. Two lovely humans who I trusted and wished I were better at being open, casual and conversational with.

Perhaps in another world I would have stayed in that hallway. I would have opened up and made a connection with two people I actually *do* desire to know better. I would have channeled some of that adorable cuteness or that flashy performative charm or my level serious empathetic conversational energy.

In this reality, I let the tears win and I retreated to the room. There I ran a hot bath to activate physical extreme stimulus. Unlike some of my friends who go through this, I couldn’t be feeling rope bite tonight. Nor would I seek it.

Some music and heat will do the trick… and they did.

Daja IMed me to let me know that not only had the soiree ended pleasantly and she had met up with Tennfan. Thanks to some banter during the Topping Class she discovered that Tenn had enough training to handle drops and falls and things that Daja had assumed no one in the community was physically capable of doing with her other than the ONE PERSON SHE WOULD NEVER EVER EVER.

I was summoned to meet them after Daja had run a scene and listened to them chat a bit. Tenn is one of the 5 major asexuals in the community who I find trust and kinship with.

Tenn and I really need to build a rapport and just get to talking. I may have to be the one to throw the first signal.

But that chat we all had was really nice. Really really nice.

Apparently the topic did not elude my devious Faelike nature because once Daja was free we snuck into my room for another scene. Puppet was enjoying post-quarantine freedom and Sleepy was away for the night.

Dawn *pounced*. To the point where Daja once again had to invoke the pact the two of us had made.

Sometimes I worry about going too far; understanding that, Daja made a promise that she would enforce our agreed upon boundaries if I do, so I can let go and enjoy the moment.

She enforced them then. I am glad she did. There is a certain level of “out of control” where I essentially hit trance state and for lack of better wording, my voice in Dawn’s actions goes away. It’s a liberating moment, especially when I think about it in her headspace, but it’s like throwing away the safety and I’m terrified of breaking something when I lose my over-controlled behaviors.

Daja is supplementing that and makes it easier to feel no fear. I am grateful to her for that.

After the scene was ended, I settled back to Camden space and cuddled her. I was still a little caught up by how INTENSE the day was and bemoaned how I hated that I cost her spoons to deal with. Spoons she needed for running classes and meeting partners and traveling.

Daja just told me I refill her spoons. She feels energized when we talk. When we play. When we’re together like this.

…what do I even say to that? I was lost for words. Well… most words. I had a few left.

“I believe you.”

Daja tucked me in again and fed me a chocolate. We had another day of fun and games. Tomorrow would be the vampire scene. Tomorrow was worth looking forward to.

Part 5

#charmed recaps #hypnosis #hypnokink #hypnocons

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