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kharti · 2 years

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write wrong to write right

just a quick little tip from me to anyone interested in writing, because this just happened in real time and i thought it'd make a good tangible example.

i was struggling with how i wanted to write the next chapter of Still Life, how I wanted Mary to approach Doug and initiate their relationship. and since i was drawing a total blank, i forced myself to write something, which ended up working in a somewhat backwards way.

by writing it "wrong" (to me), i was able to articulate to myself what was "wrong" with it and therefore rewrite it into what i actually wanted.

(some Still Life ch 18 semi-spoilers below)

here's the original writing:

Mary wanted to make it through the next lesson, just in case this ruined everything. The only problem with that was she was so absolutely nervous that her hands trembled, and every stroke of the brush just made her anxiety all the more obvious. “If I may,” Doug said in a gentle voice, standing just behind her. “You seem not yourself today. Is everything all right?” Mary jumped a bit and felt the warmth deep in her stomach spread all the way to her fingers and toes. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “I’m—” She wanted to say fine, but there was concern on his face, and it made her want to confess everything to bring the smile back. “I’m sorry.” She sighed as she set down the brush and palette before facing him and clasping her hands in front of her, eyes downcast. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.” Doug moved to the nearest chair and gestured for her to sit across from him. “I’m listening. No judgment here.” Mary looked at it and, for a moment, contemplated sitting and having a reasonable discussion about her feelings. Instead, she crossed the distance toward him and took his face in her hands, sucked in a nervous breath, and finally leaned down to kiss him. He made a small sound of surprise, but didn’t pull away—after a moment of her lips moving against his, he reached up to put his hands over hers. “Oh,” he said when they broke apart, foreheads still touching. “That was… unexpected.” His eyes widened and he quickly added, “But not in a bad way.”

it may be fine, and may read fine, and may have worked just as well for anyone reading, but I wasn't satisfied with it. I knew it wasn't what I wanted for the scene, and reading the "wrong" version gave me the clues I needed to write the "right" version.

1 - Mary was too soft, too anxious. which she can be, she could be, but it isn't what i wanted her to be here.

2 - Doug is too bland. i frequently joke that doug is white bread vanilla plain toast, but he has some pieces to him I adore when writing him, namely his chronic miscommunication syndrome because he has exactly 1 brain cell and it's dedicated to being nice and not being smart.

so, after i finally had a tangible grasp on what i wanted, i could write the actual opening to chapter 18:

If not now, when. Mary could think of a million excuses as to why now was a terrible idea. But she kept asking herself: then when? She had spent so much of her life lying next to a man who didn’t want her. Wasted years accepting that love wasn’t for her and never would be. It was her time to finally live. So when Doug opened the door to let het in, she decided, in that moment, she wasn’t going to stop herself from the joy she’d gone without for so long. Unless, of course, Doug was appalled—but Evelyn had assured her that her advances would not be unwelcome, and there was no one in this world she trusted more than Evelyn. “I have something I need to tell you,” Mary said as she stepped inside, waiting for the door to shut before she turned to face him. Doug looked at her with an open, honest smile. “What is it?” Mary opened her mouth, hesitated, then said it: “I fancy you.” “Oh?” Doug’s head tilted just slightly to the side. “I’m glad to hear that! It would be difficult to be your instructor if you disliked me.” “No, Doug, I—” Mary frowned. “I fancy you. As more than an instructor.” Doug’s face lit up. “Ah, I understand.” He chuckled. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with being friends outside of lessons. No conflict of interest that I know of.” Oh good lord, why did this actually make her want him more? Since words weren’t getting her anywhere, she put a hand on his chest to push him back against the door while her other hand reached up to grab the back of his head and pull him down to her level. She met his lips with her own, a firm and unmistakable kiss that she was certain he couldn’t misunderstand. He flinched in surprise, but didn’t pull away. At first, he gave no indication of a reaction, then his hands moved to her waist and he leaned into the kiss, returning it, even taking it over briefly by angling his head and sliding his tongue against her teeth.

so that's my writing tip for my fellow writers who may be struggling, especially with the dreaded writer's block: just write something. anything. sometimes i go so far as to write the most ridiculous thing i can think of, JUST to make my brain explain why it can't happen, because that will guide me to what i really wanted to write in the first place.

it may seem like a futile or wasted effort, but it genuinely isn't. words beget words. ideas beget ideas. writing begets writing.

#writing #writing advice #no rules writing #hope it helps someone #i used to struggle trying to craft the perfect sentence #i'd agonize over every word #just enjoy the process!!#have fun!!#write characters doing the chicken dance!!

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alex51324 · 2 years

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Read a post earlier* that clarified something I’ve been having trouble getting WRT OFMD and race: namely, why the topics of race and racism--which many people have compellingly argued are vital to understanding some of the key scenes, e.g, the Party Boat--are handled so obliquely. And the answer is--I think--to avoid drawing attention to the corner they’ve painted themselves into with the setting in general and the figure of Stede Bonnet in particular.

(*I didn’t do this as a reblog/reply because it’s the one that starts out, “I’m not posting this in the tags, but...”; was thinking of linking it, but now I’ve misplaced it.)

So the first difficulty, that this (Doylist) reading solves is the one from the first time I blundered into the Race in OFMD Conversation: namely, there is a decent amount of evidence to support a reading of race-blind casting for the Blackbeard character. Several people have patiently explained to me why that reading can be hurtful to fans of color, and I pretty much get it. (And also agree that on balance, there’s more evidence for reading the character as a man of color.) But, I’m sorry, there are things about the show for which race-blind casting would be a satisfactory explanation--I’ll lay those out in more detail it if somebody asks. My point now, is that there’s a more compelling explanation.

So, then, the question is, why? Why, for instance, when Ed is talking about the violent caricature of him in the History of Pyrates book, is his list of Stereotypically Violent Others just about the whitest such list imaginable? (Vikings, Vampires, Clowns--all known for being quite pale.) Why does the French captain say “Donkey” when there’s, you know, another animal that would make it 100% unambiguous that this is a racist insult and that Ed is hearing it as such? Why not telegraph this stuff more clearly?

Ed’s race in the show is almost as subtextual as his queerness would be in a typical mainstream genre show. As subtextual as, say, Xena and Gabrielle. If you know, you know, but if you don’t, it’s possible to miss it. (I did--or at least misread it--and I flatter myself that I’m about as informed on race as your average white liberal.)

(Note: If your introduction to the concept “subtext” primarily from the “buttsex” joke, please note that “subtext,” on its own, is not an insult. t doesn’t mean thing you’re making up. It means something in the text that you have to interpret/dig for, rather than it being right there on the surface for anyone to see.)

And that’s a pretty unusual choice--especially if the show is trying to say things about race (as it very openly does in, say, the scene with the indigenous villagers).

One answer is, “That aspect of the show isn’t for you, as a white viewer; if you didn’t get it, you don’t need to get it.” But that’s not a very satisfying answer, because--as I worked through in another post--making a vital aspect of a character’s identity--an identity that viewers may share--deliberately difficult to discern is kind of an insulting move, whether that identity is sexuality, race, religion, disability. It suggests that that identity is either something that needs to be hidden, or something that isn’t important enough to make it into the plain text.

The more compelling answer is that, to be blunt, it’s a comedy, and slavery isn’t funny. It’s basically impossible, if we suppose the story to be set in anything resembling the real world, that a person in Stede’s position would not have gotten his wealth through slavery. (As I think most of us know, the actual historical figure was definitely an enslaver.)

It’s similarly unlikely that real people resembling Frenchie, Roach, Olu, and Ivan would have all not ever been slaves--you could come up with a compelling and plausible backstory, that does not involve slavery, for how any one of them ended up where they are in the show, but all four would stretch credulity to the breaking point.

Stede saying, “I sold a few slaves (instead of “a few acres”) for my own needs,” would not be funny. Frenchie saying, “I was a house-slave (instead of “in service”) for about a minute” would not be funny. There’s no way* that a show in this setting can be textually about race and still be funny. The most you can do is sort of glance at it out of the corner of the eye, and then get back to the pirate humor--bounce off “donkey” (and not the other word) straight to “skin him with the snail fork,” and don’t look back. If you look too hard at Ed’s race, it becomes a story about a man of color falling in love with a man who enslaves other men of color, and nobody wants to watch that**.

(*As far as I can tell! Maybe the show will surprise me and address race more directly in Season 2.)

(**I mean, I guess you could maybe pull it off as a serious drama where the main plot is the white guy realizing how fucked up his life is, becoming a staunch abolitionist, and figuring out a way to make amends to the people he and his family harmed? But definitely not as a sitcom about pirates.)

But I’m pretty sure the show’s oblique angle on race/racism is a deliberate choice to keep it on the tightrope of being a show with a diverse cast of characters (as well as actors), and situated in a place/time that was permeated with racism, and still have it be a comedy. It comes across as kinda weird, because it is.

#ofmd #race in ofmd #cw: racism #historical racism #please note that if your take is that the show doesn't relegate most questions of race to subtext #then we really don't have enough common ground to be talking about it #a white person's take on race in ofmd #if there's another tag I can use #for people who don't want to see white people's takes on race in OFMD to not see it #please let me know what that is and I'll add it

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khinblog · 9 months

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Winning Lottery Numbers Ramap

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This Guy Didn't Win Once ... But 7 Times. The UNREAL Story

When Richard Lustig won his very first prize, people thought it was a fluke ... however then he won 2, 3, and 4 more times.

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The general public was convinced that he must have been cheating and it's difficult to blame them.

when most of us are dying to win the prize just once in our life time.

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As you'll learn in this brief video, he is not the only one.

All across the nation, in every state, there is a select group of people who have cracked the lotto code to win 5, 10 or perhaps as many as 35 separate lottery game draws!

What makes them so lucky? Well, it's not luck at all ... It's easy mathematics.

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shloakblog · 9 months

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Lottery Secrets Kingston NY

Stop Dreaming, Start Winning - Discover the Lottery Formula Today!

This Person Didn't Win Once ... But 7 Times. The UNREAL Story

When Richard Lustig won his first jackpot, people thought it was a fluke ... however then he won 2, 3, and 4 more times.

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But after wins # 5, # 6, and # 7 lottery commissions and people all over the U.S.A. started to examine and truly listen to this man. Even Rachael Ray's program and Ripley's Believe it Or Not came to visit him to see what he was doing to regularly win.

He actually welcomes the public to follow his same technique he has used for years to win. Why?

Because his lottery number selecting technique only needed one easy mathematics formula.

The general public was convinced that he must have been cheating and it's difficult to blame them.

when most of us are dying to win the jackpot simply once in our life time.

Seriously, how did this man manage to win 7 times when most can't even win once?

As you'll find out in this short video, he is not the only one.

All across the nation, in every state, there is a select group of people who have actually cracked the lottery code to win 5, 10 or perhaps as many as 35 different lottery draws!

What makes them so lucky? Well, it's not luck at all ... It's easy mathematics.

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0 notes

small-business-payroll-greer6 · 9 months

Text

Mega Winning Numbers Mount Ve

Learn the Secret Formula of Repeat Lottery Winners - Click Below!

This Man Didn't Win Once ... But 7 Times. The UNREAL Story

When Richard Lustig won his first prize, people believed it was a fluke ... however then he won 2, 3, and 4 more times.

Still people were skeptical. stating it was simply blind luck and he was "lucky".

But after wins # 5, # 6, and # 7 lotto commissions and people all over the USA started to examine and really listen to this man. Even Rachael Ray's program and Ripley's Believe it Or Not came to visit him to see what he was doing to consistently win.

He actually welcomes the general public to follow his same method he has used for years to win. Why?

Since his lottery game number picking method just required one easy math formula.

The public was convinced that he must have been cheating and it's difficult to blame them.

when the majority of us are dying to win the prize simply once in our lifetime.

Seriously, how did this man manage to win 7 times when most can't even win once?

As you'll find out in this brief video, he is not the only one.

All throughout the nation, in every state, there is a select group of people who have actually cracked the lotto code to win 5, 10 or even as many as 35 different lottery game draws!

What makes them so lucky? Well, it's not luck at all ... It's easy math.

The only thing these repeat lottery game winners share is the formula they utilize to choose their winning numbers.

You can find out everything about this formula-- and how to utilize it-- in this brief video presentation.

I simply started using it in May, and I've currently won 2 lottery game draws to win thousands.

And I do not intend on stopping here.

That's what's so exciting about Mr. Lustig's formula ... It works over and over again, for every single game out there.

So whether you play Mega Millions, Powerball or Pick 3 ... this formula will make you a winner.

Obviously, we do not want EVERYONE to be a winner ... then there 'd be no lottery game to play! That's why you are one of a very select few who have actually been picked to see this.

I repeat: This video is FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.

But you have to act now ... only you have access for a restricted time before we give the chance to someone who will benefit from it.

Do not miss your possibility to crack the lottery game code.

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densi-mber · 2 years

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Secret Santa

A/N: This is for today’s prompt: Kensi and Deeks plus a Secret Santa/gift exchange. Set in season 4, so it could probably be considered AU.

***

“Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself this year, Nell,” Callen complimented her, taking a sip from his glass of spiced rum.

The bullpen was decorated with approximately a hundred strands of garland, twinkle lights, and a multitude of Christmas ornaments. Since they didn’t have a chance to fully celebrate on the actual holiday, they’d decided to hold a small team get together.

Of course, Nell had interpreted “small” very loosely and with Eric’s help, transformed the area into a temporary winter paradise. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, though that might have been partially due to the large bowls of egg nog, Christmas punch, and spiced rum that they all indulged in.

“Why thank you,” Nell said, straightening the sparkly green elf hat she wore. Eric stood next to her in a tree sweater which matched her sequined dress.

“Yeah, thanks for setting this all up, you guys,” Kensi added, leaning over to give both Nell and Eric a hug.

“You’re welcome.” He hugged Kensi, then quickly clarified, “Though I don’t take any responsibility for the beverages. That is all on our resident mixologist.”

“Well, I think the booze worked, cause you got even Sam feeling jolly.” Deek grinned, glancing at Sam. His cheeks were possibly just the tiniest bit rosy and his Santa was slightly lopsided.

“Hey, I am always jolly,” he protested. “I’m just more stoic about it than most people.”

“I don’t really think stoicism and jolliness go together,” Callen pointed out. “You’re definitely grumpy most days.”

“This coming from the man who has a single red candle in his house for decorations.”

“You know I like to keep it simple.”

“I could lend you some ornaments,” Deeks offered helpfully. “I’ve got a whole box of puppies, surfboards, and reindeer.” He couldn’t hold back a grin at Callen’s look of distaste.

“I think I’ll pass,” he said dryly.

“Hey, your loss. Monty and I always have a fantastic time putting them up.”

“It’s kind of sad that you have to decorate with your dog,” Kensi teased him.

“Hey, you know you’re welcome anytime you want to come over,” Deeks offered, sounding more suggestive than he intended to. Kensi held his gaze for a few seconds before suddenly finding the pattern on her glass extremely fascinating.

“Alright, I think it’s gift time,” Nell announced loudly into the awkward silence that followed. She clapped her hands together as she walked to the small tree just outside the bullpen and retrieved a present. It was perfectly rectangle, wrapped in shiny green and red paper and she handed it to Callen with a flourish.

“Merry Christmas, Agent Callen.”

Deeks grabbed a package from his desk as the others scrambled to grab theirs. He’d pulled Eric’s name in the gift draw and although he’d been hoping to get Kensi, it wasn’t too difficult to figure out a gift for their resident shorts-wearing geek.

As he passed the gift to Eric, Callen pulled out a pair of fluffy red socks with black polka-dots out of a nest of white tissue paper.

“Ah. Just what I always wanted,” he said, making Nell snort.

“Well, you always say you don’t want anything so I figured I go with something practical,” she reminded him reasonably. Then, taking pity on him, she reached over and plucked out a second, gift card shaped present. “I also got you this.”

“Ooh, this is that collectors edition I’ve been eyeing,” Eric interrupted, holding up a comic book with mild reverence in his eyes. “This is awesome, Deeks. Thanks!”

“It was either that or a candle,” Deeks joked, accepting a hug from Eric.

Kensi gave Sam a gift card for a nice restaurant while she opened a card from Callen with a donut of the month subscription. Eric gave Nell something a necklace with a red pendant, which she immediately handed to him to help her put on.

Sam handed Deeks his package last, which was in a neatly wrapped and plain silver box.

He gave it a shake, raising one eyebrow when the contents gave a dull thud.

“Sam Hanna, did you give me a book?” he asked, sliding the wrapping paper off and lid off. Sure enough, there was a woodworking book inside along with a gift card for a hardware store.

“It’s practical, educational, and by the end you’ll have a new piece of furniture,” Sam defended easily, ticking off each point on a finger.

“Well, I certainly can’t argue with that. Thanks, Man.”

As everyone headed back to the refreshments table, Deeks grabbed a second present from inside his desk drawer, tucked it into his pocket, and wandered over to Kensi.

“You gotta second?” he asked, gesturing to down the hall with his head. Kensi eyed him suspiciously, but followed him readily enough until they reached the burn room.

“Ok, if you’re going to pull out a piece of mistletoe, Deeks-” she started, crossing her arms. He noticed that she didn’t back away though, leaning against a file cabinet just a foot or two from him.

“I promise it’s nothing nefarious, Kens. Which might I add, it’s very hurtful that you would assume such things about me.”

Before she could comment on that, he revealed the small box wrapped in blue paper. The bow was a little crumpled now from being tucked away in his pocket.

“I just want to give you your present and figured it would be better away from prying eyes,” he explicated. Kensi frowned, hesitantly taking the box.

“But I wasn’t your person,” she said, looking confusion. “You already gave Eric his gift.”

“Hence the hiding in a fiery closet. I didn’t want to make anyone jealous. Plus, as my partner, you're always my person.”

He swore Kensi blushed just a tiny bit at that, hastily untying the ribbon as he watched. She lifted the lid and carefully removed an intricately carved wooden bracelet.

“Oh my god, Deeks...” She ran her fingers over the warm brown stain, feeling the tiny whorls of miniature wooden flowers.

“You like it?” He’d been a little unsure if it was too much or just weird ever since he bought it.

“It’s beautiful. Where did you find this?” she asked, her tone slightly hushed.

“There’s this guy I surf with sometimes. He makes carves all kinds of things in spare time for stress relief and sells them on the weekends,” Deeks explained with a shrug. “When I saw this one, it reminded me of you.”

“Wow, thank you.” She slipped it on, the bracelet encircling her wrist perfectly. “It’s such a thoughtful gift and I didn’t get you anything.”

Deeks made a dismissive sound and shook his head slightly.

“That’s not what this is about. I just wanted to get you something nice.” He paused a beat. “Although, if you insist, I have been eyeing this sick board.”

Kensi rolled her eyes, expression fondly amused. And possibly something else he couldn’t quite interpret. She set the box on top of a cabinet, closing the half-foot of space between them, and hugged him. His arms came up reflexively, hovering at her waist before loosely settling on her mid-back.

“Thank you, Deeks,” she repeated in his ear. The soft whisper made him shiver pleasantly. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” he said, relishing having Kensi in his arm for a few more seconds. She pulled back way too soon and patted his arm, urging him towards the door.

“C’mon, we better get back before Nell drinks anymore egg nog and does something truly ridiculous.”

“Anything you say Partner.”

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dontmindmyshadowhunting · 3 years

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When Clary meets Ash (Fan Fic)

Hey :) this is how I imagine Clary and Ash's reunion (after the events of TDA) in the fic I am currently writing.

It's Chapter 5 of "The new Shadowhunter Academy" (Ao3 link to the full fic is here but don't click or skip Chapter 4 if you are not in for Kitty sexy times).

Thanks to @amchara for providing beta work and to @blaidr for letting me bounce my ideas off him.

To give you context, Ash met Dru in Faerie and they exchanged their numbers. Clary seized the opportunity to obtain Ash's number from Dru and write him the following text message:

“Hey, Ash. Dru gave me your number and please don’t be angry with her, I am very strong headed and there was absolutely no way she could have refused. I am Clary. You may have heard of me. I am your late father’s sister. That’s right, your aunt. You can call me whatever you like. Emma told me what you did in Thule, how you saved her. How you saved everyone. That was very brave of you. In a way, both of us were faced with a very difficult choice and made the same. Doing what we thought was right. I would love to meet you and tell you about my mother – your grandmother – or just talk about anything. It can be things totally unrelated to the Shadow world. Hobbies, movies, books and games we like. You can pick the time and place. Neutral territory. Hope to see you soon. Clary.”

This is what happens following the text:

*****

Clary wrapped her oversized woolen coat tighter around herself, as she made her way through the crowded streets of Manhattan. The route was familiar. She took it almost every week to meet up with her parabatai and have what they called their “mundane hour”. They talked about everything, from Clary’s art to the latest TV shows they had binge watched. No topic was off the table, save for anything related to Shadowhunter duties, and the Shadow world in general. As co-head of the New York Institute and since recently, artist owning her own gallery, her weeks were very busy so she looked forward to those rare and precious moments when she could escape with Simon. Her heart rate seemed to accelerate with each of her steps, and it didn’t help that she also had the strange feeling she was being observed. When she reached her destination, she took a deep breath and opened the double glass doors leading her inside the coffee shop. She and Simon had their regular routine there, and her gaze went automatically to their usual spot, near the large windows.

A broad-shouldered jock with a baseball jacket was already sitting there, speaking loudly to his cheerleader girlfriend. Two of his friends were standing next to him, mock punching his muscular arms. It made her realize that Ash probably never had this. High school friends and romance. Ash. She was still struggling to figure out why he had asked her to meet up at this place, at the exact time she usually got there with Simon. Was it him being considerate, a clumsy way to make her feel comfortable in familiar surroundings? Or was it a warning? I know your habits, and precisely where you take your coffee, when and with whom.

Her gaze swept over the crowded room - her heart seemed to have moved up her throat, the frantic pulse almost choking her - and zeroed on a tall, white blond haired boy ordering coffee at the counter, standing with his back to Clary. She sucked in a breath. Ash. He was fully clothed in black - Dru had told her that was his usual style - and huge headphones were covering his ears. She slowly and cautiously approached him and when she was close enough, put a tentative hand on his elbow. “Ash,” she whispered. The boy glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes quizzical and… it was not Ash.

She mumbled an apology.

“Clary,” said a voice coming from behind, and she froze. It was not a boy’s but a man’s voice, the sound beautiful and ethereal. She just stood there for a few seconds before she slowly turned.

What had she expected? Merely a taller version of the young boy with pointy ears and a sour expression that she had met three years before, dressed in the same refined velvet clothing threaded with gold that identified him as fey royalty?

If so, she had clearly been mistaken.

She blinked a few times to make sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks. He was tall, as she had anticipated (Sebastian had been after all). At least two heads taller than her and probably taller than Jace. But he was also very different from the Ash of her memories, from the sketches she had drawn of him after they had crossed paths. He had amazingly grown into his features, his face now the best combination of the Seelie Queen and Sebastian’s. As if he had picked the most alluring colours of the palette. And the result was… Stunning. Clary’s hand twitched, aching for a pencil.

He was not dressed in black, but in plain blue jeans and he had stuffed his hands in a very elegant, long pale gray cashmere coat. His white blond hair and pointy ears were concealed under a deep green beanie, the same colour as the scarf around his neck.

He arched a silvery eyebrow at Clary, his expression bemused, and she realized she was staring.

“Clary, seriously?” he said, his gently scolding tone at odds with his enchanting voice. “This guy isn't even half as good looking as me." He glanced pointedly at the patron in question, who was gaping at him, and shrugged. "No offense, dude,” Ash added as an afterthought.

He turned his attention to the barista. She was beautiful, dark skinned with long braided hair and pouty lips. “Hello, gorgeous. We’ll have a double espresso with oat milk and a dash of cinnamon for the lady and a plain black coffee for me.”

Clary stifled a gasp and tried to hide her discomfort. He knew exactly how she took her coffee, and she didn’t know how she felt about this.

The pretty barista nodded eagerly, her cheeks red and her big dark eyes dreamy as she stared at Ash. “Why don’t you… Go sit at your table and I’ll bring you your beverages when they are ready?” the girl offered enthusiastically. The long line of patrons that had formed behind Clary and Ash would probably disagree but she didn’t seem to care.

“That would be lovely,” Ash said in his euphonious voice. “And so are you.” He winked at her, and Clary wondered if she would need to catch her while she swooned. He paid before Clary even had a chance to reach for her purse.

“Come,” he said in a commanding tone, as he made his way to Clary and Simon's usual table. This was unnerving.

The jock seated there paused in the middle of his conversation with his girlfriend when he saw Ash stand casually next to him. Clary braced herself for a heated exchange, but she should have known better.

“You want to sit somewhere else,” Ash said evenly, one hand inside the pocket of his designer coat and the other stretched out in front of him as he studied his fingernails.

“I want to sit somewhere else,” the jock repeated in a monotonous voice, his gaze blank. He stood, as if in a trance, and his girlfriend and friends followed him, puzzled, to an empty table at the far end of the room.

Ash drew a chair for Clary and she sat. He did the same, opposite her. He pulled off his beanie, and shook his silvery hair, like a crown of liquid white gold. He wasn’t dressed for the part but he had never looked more like a prince.

“Ash… please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Your mind tricks.”

He cocked his head and observed her, his face unreadable, for what seemed like an endless minute.

“You’ve been my aunt for what? Five minutes? And you’re already trying to boss me around?”

“I am not trying to boss you around, Ash. Simply asking you not to abuse your powers.”

A shadow flickered across his green eyes.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Clary. I spend much more time and energy holding back than using my powers. If I did let go, trust me, you would know.”

Clary opened her mouth to reply but was cut short as the barista popped in front of them and placed the mugs on the table. She slid a paper napkin to Ash, her phone number scribbled on it. Clary tried not to roll her eyes, as Ash flashed his dazzling smile at the girl, who almost tripped on her own feet as she returned to the counter.

Clary lifted her cup to her lips and paused, as she caught sight of the cinnamon powder floating on the surface. She put it down.

“What about this?" She pointed at her coffee mug and waved around them. “ What is it, if not a show of power? What are you trying to tell me? That you know everything about me? That you’ve been spying on me?”

Ash pulled on a fake shocked expression, mouth open and green eyes wide in mock innocence. “Spying on you? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Ash. The evidence is right here.” She lifted her cup abruptly, and hot liquid splashed out of it. “You know exactly how I like it. When I take it, where I take it.”

Ash’s mouth twitched. “Where did you pick up these lines? From the script of some lame X-rated movie?”

“Adult movies have storylines?” Clary asked, arching her eyebrows.

“Of course they do. Where do you think the Grimm Brothers took their inspiration from?”

He grabbed the paper napkin and started mopping the coffee she had spilled on the table. The blue ink faded and the barista’s phone number vanished.

“You lost that girl’s number,” Clary noted.

Ash shrugged. “I have a girlfriend now.”

Right. Drusilla Blackthorn. From the moment she had met her, Clary had known that the smart and quiet turquoise-eyed girl would someday turn heads.

Clary knew that Dru hadn’t really confirmed their relationship status yet, but it was neither the time nor place to broach the subject with Ash. She was, after all, on a mission to win over her nephew and had not been doing a very good job so far.

A young lanky boy with pink hair and piercings covering his skin walked by and dropped a glossy flyer of the upcoming Mortal Instruments concert on the table between them. Clary hid a smile. It reminded her...

“I have something for you.” She said as she fumbled inside her bag and took out the drawing she had made of Jocelyn, Luke and herself, in front of Luke’s upstate farm (before it was turned into the new Shadowhunter Academy) and laid it on the table.

Ash looked at it hesitantly, like a kid who really wanted to grab the candy but was afraid there was a mouse trap under it. He hunched his shoulders forward and clasped his hands under the table, as if to keep himself from temptation.

“I recognize your art. I like it. I also appreciate Julian Blackthorn’s but I may not be as objective where… one of the subjects of his drawings is concerned.”

“You’ve seen my art?”

He leaned back on his chair, crossing his long arms behind his head. Somehow, he managed to make it look graceful.

“Which Shadowhunter hasn’t? I noticed that you often drew Jace with angel wings.”

“Yes. That’s how he used to appear to me. In recurring dreams.”

“Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Jace. In your dreams.”

“Who else would it be?”

“Someone who looks like him, but who actually has wings.”

“You mean Kit.”

Ash shrugged. “It would make more sense.” His gaze flickered back to the drawing, which still lay on the table, untouched. “You look a lot like your mom.”

“So do you”, Clary blurted before she could take it back.

Ash shot her an unfathomable look.

“How is she?” She asked.

“You mean, the Seelie Queen? You tell me. You must see her more often than I do.”

“Well, not really. I am not that involved in politics, even though Alec is Consul. Julian Blackthorn is the one who deals with her most of the time. She appears to have... a fondness for him.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Clary’s mouth quirked up.

“I am glad you are getting along with the Blackthorns. They are such an incredibly strong and talented family.”

“They are.” He turned his face away, but not before she could see the expression of longing plain on his delicate features.

She swallowed. She was painfully reminded that Ash never had a shot at a happy family. Born of a political union, and dragged here and there, though interdimensional portals, by people more interested in his powers than anything else he had to offer as a person. And judging by how Dru talked about Ash, he had a lot to offer.

“I imagine it must have been awful living in Thule… But what you did for Emma and Julian back there... if it hadn’t been for you…”

“I don’t want to talk about Thule,” he interrupted her. “Can I borrow this?” He asked, his long fingers brushing the Mortal Instruments concert flyer.

“Sure.”

She watched as he started folding the paper, realizing with a jolt of surprise that he was making an origami and wondering what shape would come out of it. It was odd seeing him doing such an innocuous thing, as if he was not a faerie prince with a heavy heritage and a giant target on his back, but an ordinary boy. She remembered what Emma had told her of her encounter with Ash in a nightclub in Thule. The way he had shown no interest, playing a video game in a corner of the room, while Sebastian was committing atrocities. Had he really been as indifferent as he looked?

“Ash, we don’t need to talk about Thule if you don’t want to, but if I can help you… If there is anything I can do-”

“Why?” He looked up sharply. “Are you able to create a rune that could undo the things I saw?” His tone was even, but his delicate fingers had started slightly shaking and he suddenly dropped the paper - his work unfinished - to fold his hands under the table to hide it. From that moment, she knew.

“No…” Clary said, drawing the word out. “But trust me, coming from someone whose memory has been tampered with... it’s not a solution.”

“I said undo. Not forget.” He snapped. “I am not such a coward that I would choose blissful ignorance over knowledge.”

He caught himself, blinking, then clenched his jaw and looked away. As if he was ashamed he had allowed himself to show any emotion at all. But Clary had managed to catch a glimpse of what lay underneath the mask and wanted nothing more than to see the rest of it.

“I don’t think you are a coward,” she said.

He looked over at her, a silver eyebrow raised. “I let it all happen, didn’t I? I didn’t lift a finger.”

“Because you couldn’t. Sebastian would have killed you. And you, Ash, are just like me. A survivor.”

He snorted and crossed his arms in front of him, leaning back on his chair. He had stretched out his long legs and Clary realized that he was tapping a foot nervously next to hers.

“Wrong. I could have. I chose not to. Because I am selfish. I don’t care about other people’s fate.”

His face split into a lazy, wicked grin. Clary could see Sebastian’s influence in his leer, but she wouldn't let it deceive her. Just as she wasn't fooled by his laid-back demeanor.

“I think it’s the opposite, actually. I think it’s because you care too much. It’s not death you are afraid of. The thing is, you have such a tender heart, you need to protect it from an affliction far greater than any physical pain you could endure. So you’d rather lie to yourself and pretend you feel nothing.”

From the long conversations she had with Tessa about her ancestors, Clary knew of a Fairchild boy who had been too compassionate for his own good. And he had been surrounded by loyal friends and loving parents, even though he had shut himself, putting on a facade while burying his grief in alcohol. Ash never had that kind of support. Throughout his life, he was left to figure things out on his own. If he was as empathetic as Clary thought he was, Ash probably had no other choice but to deal with his sensitivity alone. It was a miracle he had turned out the way he did.

“You have a lot of imagination,” he said after a moment. The ghost of a smile was still playing on his lips but something had passed across his eyes. “Then again, you are an artist. You seek beauty in the ugly. You find colors on a blank page. I admire your faith, but in this case, there is nothing to see.”

Clary jutted her chin stubbornly and they held each other’s gaze - his green eyes glittering in amusement and hers dead serious - in a staring contest.

“Still,” he said when he finally broke, first. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I am sorry.”

Clary softened. “Don’t be. I am glad you are finally showing your true self. You don’t need to wear your mask around me, Ash.”

He chuckled. “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

“It’s funny that you would quote Oscar Wilde.”

“And why is that?”

She shrugged. “Just another thing you share in common with a Fairchild I heard stories about.”

“Clary,” he said in a gently reproving tone. Her name sounded like a caress in his melodious voice. “Are you being purposefully cryptic to arouse my curiosity?”

She moved closer, so she was sitting at the edge of her chair, and leaned forward, hands folded over the table.

“If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” she whispered. “Let me in. Shed all pretense.”

“I can’t promise you that,” he whispered back in confidence, leaning closer still so that their faces were inches from each other. “It’s like fabric that burns and melts into skin. If you peel it off, the skin goes with it.” He grimaced, reclining on his chair. “It won’t be a pretty sight. I don’t think even my level of hotness could sustain it.”

“Ash…” Clary said, sensing that she finally had an opening to say what she had been brooding over ever since she had learnt of Ash’s return from that forsaken land. “I wanted to tell you… I am sorry.”

Ash’s green eyes widened.

“Sorry for what?”

“I should have looked for you. I should not have given up on you.”

Ash’s jaw clenched and he looked away. “Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. Seb-...Ash, we...”

“What did you just call me?” He snarled. His eyes snapped back to her, suddenly cold as ice.

“Sorry, Ash. What I meant to say is… we are family."

“I already have a family.”

“I know that you care about Janus…”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he cut her off.

“And we don’t need to. I just wanted you to know… I understand that he’s been like a father to you, and I don’t plan on moving against him, unless he strikes first or makes it impossible for me to overlook his actions.”

“Because of me?”

“Of course, because of you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Ash… You are my nephew, my blood. You may not feel the same way about me, but that’s how I feel about you. I want you to know that, if things go wrong, for any reason, you can always turn to me. My home is your home.”

“What you are actually telling me is, Ash, if I kill the one person who has ever really cared about you - and it might definitely come to that - you can always grab my hand, still sticky and warm from his blood. Well, how nice of you. To quote Oscar Wilde again, true friends stab you in the front.”

“That’s not what I am-”

“Clary,” Ash interrupted as he stood. “Do not make me choose between you and him. Because…” Looking down at her, he swallowed hard, as if the words pained him. “Because you will lose.”

She knew exactly what he was telling her. Because they were the same in that way. Ruthless, even with their own blood, when it came to protecting their loved ones. If I had to choose between killing him and you, I would not hesitate. I would end you. Yet, despite his cold statement, despite his sharp and resolved tone, his eyes seemed to carry a deep regret.

“Ash, I understand what you're saying and I swear I am not trying to make you pick a side”, Clary said, suddenly desperate, as she mirrored him and stood. “Please don’t go. I am sorry I brought it up. We will stop talking about him. Starting now.”

“This was a bad idea. Never try to contact me again.” He drew his green beanie from the pocket of his coat and put it back on. He turned and strode toward the exit. She grabbed the family drawing that still lay on the table, stuffed it in her bag and followed him, half-running, as he was quickly losing here with his long legs.

“Ash! Please. Give me another chance. I am so sorry.”

He paused right outside the coffee shop, closed his eyes and sighed. “Don’t be. It didn’t change what I had planned to tell you anyway. I don’t want to know anything about you or your mother. I don’t want to have anything to do with either of you.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said, and he whipped his head around to look at her in surprise. “I know you were under house arrest. You probably had to break out of whichever place they were holding you in to come here. You wouldn’t have done that unless you wanted something. Something from me. Tell me, Ash. Tell me what it is.”

He turned his face away so she could not see his expression. A full minute passed and she had almost given up on receiving an answer, when he finally spoke.

“My fa… Sebastian. How different do you think he would have been if not for the demon blood?”

“Oh. Ash.” she whispered. She brought her knuckle against her sternum instinctively, as if to cover the gaping whole in her chest. “I saw him, you know. The brother I should have had. The father that should have raised you. If only for a few minutes.” She paused to bite back tears. “In those few minutes, he told us how to get rid of the Endarkened and said he was sorry. It’s not much to go for, but… that’s not all. I have recurring dreams of the green eyed boy that was robbed from us. And I know in my heart he would have been the best brother a sister could ever dream of.”

He was still looking away and she could see the sharp line, the stubborn set of his jaw. She wanted to hug him, to tell him she would not fail him again. That they could mourn her brother, his father, together. That he didn’t need to bear the anger at everything that was wasted alone.

He finally turned to look at her. A tear had escaped to run freely down his cheek. He had completely shed off his mask, and what Clary saw was like a stab in her gut. She shivered. Wordlessly, he reached for his deep green scarf and tied it gingerly around her neck. The way Sebastian had when they had walked down the streets of Paris. Ash looked nothing like her brother had then. His green eyes held an infinite sadness that spoke of a grief deeper, older than the short years of his life.

“It doesn’t change anything.” He said - she hadn’t imagined his beautiful voice could sound so hollow - and turned to leave.

“Ash, wait.” She grabbed him by the elbow and he froze. His eyes widened as his gaze zeroed on the fingers covering his coat, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She realized she had never touched him before.

“Clary, what do you want from me?” He asked in a tired voice.

“I just want to get to know you.”

“Trust me, you don’t. I am not the brother who was stolen from you. I cannot replace him. If anything, I am just like Sebastian was before me... my father’s broken toy. There is no way to fix me.”

“I don’t believe it for a second,” she said, almost frantic. “And I don’t want to find my brother's replacement, I want to get to know you! Ash. The real Ash.”

“I already told you. That’s not happening. Don’t ever try to contact me again. I am serious.”

“So that’s it?” She tried not to sound too whiny but panic was eating away at her stomach and she thought she would throw up. “You went through all this trouble spying on me, learning how I take my coffee to simply disappear from my life from one moment to the next?”

He gazed at her for a moment, his expression unfathomable. It seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke.

“I was not spying on you, Clary. I was merely following your stalker.”

“What? You were… protecting me?”

“Take care of yourself, Clary.”

He said as he stepped away from her and vanished into the crowd.

****

Clary threw herself in Jace’s arms as soon as he opened the door to their bedroom at the New York Institute. He froze, then started stroking her hair in a soothing gesture.

“Clary, what happened? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Tell me, Clary. What is it?”

She pulled away and wiped tears with the back of her hand. Jace’s face was a mask of shock. Clary couldn’t blame him. She almost never cried.

“I messed up.”

“What did you mess up?”

She walked to the bed and sat on the mattress. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for his reaction. “Ash. I met up with him earlier today.”

Jace tensed and his hands clenched into fists. “WHAT- Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have insisted on coming.”

“Damn right, I would have. And I would have been right, too. Look at you, you look miserable.”

“It’s my fault,” she said in a small voice. “I pushed him too far.”

Jace sighed and came to sit next to her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I am sure you did nothing wrong, Clary.”

“I thought- When I showed him the drawing… the way he looked at it, Jace. He is not indifferent. He cares.”

“What drawing?”

“The one I made of the family,” she said absently, as she grabbed her bag and started fumbling inside.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The drawing wasn’t there. Peeking out in its stead, and folded out of the flyer of the Mortal Instruments concert, were origami faerie wings. The Fairchild family symbol.

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spitpr1ncess · 3 years

Text

Can I Call You Sir? / Nanami Kento x Fem Reader

--“And if I did? It’s only proved what I thought to be true all along. You’re a little degenerate, like me. I just wanted to test you, to know if you wanted what I wanted. Seems like you do, so tell me to stop and I will. Tell me you’re leaving, I’ll let you. I’m not going to force you to do anything, I respect your boundaries, and I respect that this is wrong. It just, feels so right. So deny it.”--

Fucking bullshit.

You stare at the graded paper before you and seethe from the inside out. An F? A fail?! But you’d studied relentlessly! The only thought you were having was how your mother was going to kill you when she finds out, you can practically hear her shrieking, “I’m paying heaps of money to put you through university and this is what you have to show for it?

Professor Nanami is writing something that looks vaguely recognizable on the chalk board, his tall but slim body looking oddly out of place at the front of the long classroom as you glare holes into the back of his blue shirt. There wasn’t a single person you hated more than him in this never-ending moment. You yawn and allow your head to fall heavy onto your crossed arms, hiding your shameful test results. You could listen to Professor Nanami with your eyes closed based solely on the fact that you would be failing the rest of this term if your test results were anything to go by.

The rest of the lesson passes quickly as you fall victim to maladaptive daydreams, playing out every single scenario where you approach Professor Nanami and question his harsh grading. You aren’t a stupid girl, in fact, in every other class you were smashing your target or hitting above. What was this mans problem? You imagine slamming your paper down in front of him, arms crossed and little foot tapping the floor. “Do you hate me?”, “So you have favourites?”, or just a plain “what the fuck?!” were among the favourites you’d rehearsed. His face was cold as stone as he stared back before licking his lower lip and smirking, pulling his glasses atop his head, causing a pretty ripple in his hair as he stands absolutely towering over you. A large thumb lifts your chin to look at him as his eyes bore into you. Then his lips are on yours.

Wait what?

What?

You’re roughly pulled from your daydream by your hair as a pair of polished brown shoes stand at the foot of your worn school desk and a voice beckons your name. Professor Nanami is stood less than a foot in front of you waiting for an explanation. You shoot bolt upright in the uncomfortable wooden chair as your entire body feels like its been zapped by an electric fence. You can feel the blush in your face spreading to your ears as you push the strange daydream to the back of your degenerate mind.

“Sleeping through my lectures will not help you fix that broken grade, Miss Reader. Do you understand me? Or do I need to put it more plainly? It can’t be easy with a simple mind like yours, but I’m sure we could find a way to help you absorb what I’m saying.” His eyes are cold as steel and boring into your soul, he doesn’t even blink, he’s like a robot. You hold his gaze before risking a look around the classroom revealing that it is completely empty, not a soul to be seen, brilliant. So not only had you failed your test but you’d also voluntarily agreed to extracurricular activities whilst daydreaming about kissing your Professor, it sure was a great day to be you.

You panic, how were you going to salvage this? You needed to think quickly, but nothing was springing to mind.

Clearing your throat and calming your nerves you begin, “sorry Professor I didn’t get much sleep last night, I have a lot going on at home so am finding it difficult to participate in classes at the moment.”

You are?

He lets out a small snort as he sits at the edge of your desk, peering down at you through his glasses, a look of judgement plasters his incredibly chiselled facial features, he is beautiful, and you’re happy to admit that, whether or not it could get you in trouble.

What?

“Your lies won’t cut it here, you’re excelling in all your other classes, algebra, languages and biology. These are not easy subjects and geography is a breeze in comparison, so why are you failing? Are you doing it on purpose?” Your attention is drawn to his strong throat and his Adams apple lifts and falls again as he swallows and you wonder if he is anxious about approaching you, not that he has any reason to be.

You feel anger bubble in your throat as you argue back, “I’m not a liar. I’m having trouble concentrating here. Your teaching, the class size, the fact the class is the last of the day, maybe you’re grading me too harshly! Have you considered that? Nobody else failed, so why did I?!” Your voice is shaking now and your knuckles are white as you push your nails into your palms, drawing blood. Professor Nanami looks at you for a moment before standing and heading back to his desk at the front of the class where he picks up a piece of chalk and some papers and begins to write.

“Question one is on plate tectonics, lets begin there. Would you care to explain the theory to me?” He turns and gives you a weirdly friendly smile, you calm your nerves and take a breath, opening your paper and looking at your answer, you read out the sentences you had written and cringe as you allow Professor Nanami to correct you, taking notes on his tutoring. Your personal four o’clock class finishes at just past seven as you both wrap up the test paper and Nanami wipes the board clean.

“In future Miss Reader, you come to me when you need help. You’re a smart young lady really, you know that, so put your brain to use. You’re going to do great things after your course is up so don’t discredit yourself over one failed paper.” He sits at his desk and waves his hand to dismiss you. “You’d better go now, I’m sure you have a worried boyfriend wondering where you’ve gotten to so late in the evening.” He pushes his glasses onto the top of his head, much like in your daydream, and you appreciate how good he looks for a moment. He’s aged yes, around thirty yes, but still gorgeous. You know the girls at University fawn over him, fighting to get even a slither of attention, and here you were, in a private tutoring session of your own, and without even meaning to.

You ponder the boyfriend comment before packing up and heading for the exit, deciding to test the waters you address him, “I don’t have a boyfriend Professor you see I simply don’t have time, and anyway, none of the boys here are mature enough to interest me.” You turn and give him a smile as you catch his gaze flitting up from where your stockings meet the fat of your thighs, you roll your eyes at him and shake your head as you sigh and leave for the night.

This was an interesting development.

Sleep washes over you as you awaken in your dream. Professor Nanami is sitting before you, he beckons for you to sit on his lap, you oblige and as you nestle against his chest, his fingers find the edge of your stocking, he traces lazy patterns on your thigh, eliciting a small sigh of pleasure from you. He nuzzles his nose against your cheek and plants a soft kiss against your neck, he pushes your soft hair behind your ear and begins to litter kisses on your sensitive lobe.

“Sweet thing, you smell heavenly, I just want to devour you.” He whispers. You throw your head back and invite him to suck and nip at your exposed throat, completely vulnerable in his arms you entrust him with your entirety. He groans as you manoeuvre your little waist to create friction with the fat of your ass and you’re met with the impossible hardness between his legs, this moment between the two of you feels like fireworks, everything is at a standstill and there is nothing but your two bodies, completely entwined, obsessed with each other’s perfect anatomy. You continue to explore each other physically as you mewl and sigh rhythmically, nothing has ever felt better than your Professors loving touch on your absolute innocence. You’d been with boys yes, but never a man like Nanami.

“Nanamin,” you cry out as he finds the hotness between your legs.

“Sweet girl, I’ll take the best care of you, just relax.” he speaks like sweet poetry from his mouth that tastes like the most expensive organic honey. Your breath hitches as he starts to disappear, you reach out but he is no longer there.

You jolt awake as you feel wetness pooling between your legs, the hotness and lack of friction so unbearable you are torn from the dream of all dreams.

Fuck, this is weird now.

Daydreaming about your Professor wouldn’t be the worst thing if you weren’t now absolutely sopping wet and grinding against your own mattress. You dare to slip a tiny hand under the waistband of your pants and give a little release to yourself, it felt unreal, and without realizing you were picturing him as you drive yourself to the edge and jump off head first. You’re picturing his pretty features and strong hands, his soft lips and authoritarian stare. In your head he’s praising you, “sweet thing, sweet girl” he says. You shudder as you come down from the satiating high and allow shame to encase you completely, rolling over, you stare at the screen of your phone.

5:38. A notification flashes from last night.

baby nobara: maps said you left uni at 7! wtf were u doing?? ps, shopping tmorrow?

You open the notification and type a quick reply.

you: was just studying, nothing important hahahah. sure! meet me at 11?

With that, you roll back over and let sleep nestle you gently between her arms.

It’s twenty minutes after your planned meet time that Nobara turns up, and holding a Krispy Kreme bag full of donuts and a doc marten tote housing at least one new pair of shoes, she’d obviously done a pre-shop, not that it was particularly out of character for her. Her gentle face is plastered with a mischievous grin as she runs and embraces you like two sisters might embrace after a long time away from each other’s presence

“I had to warm up before we got started!” she laughs at you, and all is forgiven in a matter of seconds. You’re both giggling as she opens the bag and makes you a peace offering of a strawberry donut, you eagerly accept as you discuss what shops you want to hit up today. You both spend hours browsing, trying on and chatting about everything, you don’t get to see Nobara often as you have alternating days on campus and your schedules clash horribly so the times you do spend together are cram packed full of mischief.

You’re walking past a load of stores as you approach Victoria's Secret and you immediately flash back to Professor Nanamis eyes on your stockings last night and his comment about your supposed boyfriend. Cogs are turning in your mind but before you have time to make the connection, you’re being dragged in, you have no objections and are pleasantly surprised by the variety of lingerie this particular chain of store holds. You pick out a few different numbers including a black corset body suit and a matching garter with stockings, you knew the reason for picking it out was completely inappropriate but it didn’t stop you from taking it to the counter and paying nearly 100 dollars for it. You grinned as you schemed yet another daydream waiting for your friend to decide on the bits she wanted.

You both decide on a little sushi place for lunch and as you fill your mouth with miso Nobara asks, “Who are you fucking? It has to be someone at university, that’s why you stayed so late, right?” The question completely winds you as you try not to choke on your food. Your eyes are watering as you try to explain that it was just extra-curricular studies. Nobara nods and rolls her eyes, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’ll find out sure enough.” She laughs as you pray she lets this go, shovelling some nigiri into her mouth she waves you off. “Chill,” she says as you allow your heart to slow in your chest.

You give her a hug as you finally part ways and she ruffles your hair, “See you around”, and with that she’s gone. You begin the walk home as you reflect on the events of today, you reel as you come to the realization you spent 100 dollars on a lingerie set for a man over ten years your senior who would less than likely ever find out you’d bought it. Unless.

No.

You shake the thought of trying to bait your own Professor after barely scraping by the last term, expulsion for indecent behaviour seems somewhat worse, at least you think. It also doesn’t seem good for Nobara to now suspect you have something going on with somebody, she has to know all the top gossip and you don’t doubt she will find a way. Now that you think about it, you should turn your phone location off. You know your friend would stalk you for the sake of some scandalous news she can tease you about. You giggle to yourself, you and Professor Nanami, what a thought.

The bell rings as you finish washing your hands, you stopped to use the bathroom before your final class of the day, Geography. You’d been anticipating this class, having chosen the black corset body suit with stockings to match, you’d paired it with a mid-length black satin skirt and an oversized cardigan, it was enough to feel comfortable in, and not break any regulations but enough for Professor Nanami to notice, which was just perfect. You wanted to test the waters after his comment and wandering eyes, you’d had time to stew over your awful test results and were wondering if maybe he was a little harsh with the grading. Either way, today would tell.

You hurry up the stairs and down the long corridor to the classroom where he lectures, there were around 30 students already settled in class and you could see your Professor writing on the board. You slip in quietly and take your seat at the back of the class, you shed your cardigan, giving a frontal view of your chest and begin to take notes. You ensure you pay full attention to todays class, not taking your eyes off the man at the front of your lecture room. You meet his gaze a few times and you sense him trying really hard to not allow his eager eyes to flit downwards, you wish for him to give you anything more than a feeling to go off of but he’s stone cold and hard as steel. As the class draws to an end Nanami dismisses the students and you wait until the room has emptied before you walk towards his desk. You wait for him to address you.

“Miss Reader, can I help you with something?” he doesn’t meet your gaze and instead continues typing something on his keyboard, you’re frustrated with how nonchalant he’s being, how you’ve probably misread the entire encounter, how you’ve created a whole reality from nothing.

“I, I was hoping maybe you would assist me with some questions I have from the class today Sir, if you have time of course.” If he wanted to play games, he would get games, you might be younger than him but you’re not stupid.

“That’s okay, you’ll have to give me ten minutes whilst I finish this email, then I’m all yours. Feel free to take a seat.” He motions for the first desk in the front row and you roll your eyes as you decide to make a stand. You pull a chair from the side of the room to Nanamis desk and sit directly opposite him, you take out your textbooks and begin to lay them out on the space behind his computer, sitting down you cross your legs, brushing his shin with your shoe. You’re sure you see his jaw tighten, but he plays it off by cracking his neck, the loud crunch distracts from the tension filled silence and you lick your bottom lip in anticipation.

He finishes with his email and pushes the computer screen to the side of his desk then leans back in his chair and loosens his tie slightly, he catches you watching the space above where his shirt is buttoned and smirks, “So what questions do you have sweet girl?”, it’s an innocent enough question but you’re walking a fine line and need to be careful. You make idle small talk about today’s class for an hour or so before asking your Professor to quiz you, it’s a shot in the dark but you’re hoping he will catch on.

“I’ve been revising, ask me any twenty questions, if I get them right you can pass me for that test!” you grin, proud of the compromise you’d come up with.

“It’s a good idea, but what if you get questions wrong? Does the fail still stand?” he laughs quietly, like he made a personal joke that only he understood, he allowed his eyes to trail down to the black floral lace encasing your chest, it wasn’t overly provocative (you were in university after all) but it was enough to make his mind wander. You test the waters again, trailing a finger over the top of the hem, outlining the soft of your breasts, Nanami shuffles in his seat and adjusts his legs, brilliant.

You allow your Professor to test you, answering all questions and waiting for each correct answer like a patient puppy, sitting for its master. At the end of the test you grin, over the moon with yourself for showing him you deserve a passing mark.

“I told you! I told you I shouldn’t have failed. You were definitely marking me too harshly!” You brush your leg against his again, and he doesn’t make an effort to move himself, he drinks you in through the round frames of his glasses that are sitting pretty on the top of his nose.

“Sweet girl, I never thought you were stupid, in fact, I think you’re rather smart. So tell me, why are you really here right now?” He sits forward in his chair and leans across his desk, towards you. Your faces are so close that you can feel his warm and tempting breath on your lips, your eyes close of their own accord and you lean in. He teases you with soft pecks and you fight back, bringing a hand to his chin but he beats you to it. Your hand completely drowned by his own, the sheer size difference a shock to your system, he holds your hand against his desk where your forgotten papers sit. With his other hand he brings his thumb just below your chin and lifts your face so your eyes can meet his, “Is this what you wanted all along? To kiss your Professor? Is this what your little get up today is about? You thought I wouldn’t notice the pretty lace? Do you know how good you look?” His rhetoric questions causing your heart to beat a hole in your chest you inhale sharply, trying to take control of your breathing once again.

“You failed me on purpose.” It’s slipped out before you have time to consider what you’re saying.

What?!

“And if I did? It’s only proved what I thought to be true all along. You’re a little degenerate, like me. I just wanted to test you, to know if you wanted what I wanted. Seems like you do, so tell me to stop and I will. Tell me you’re leaving, I’ll let you. I’m not going to force you to do anything, I respect your boundaries, and I respect that this is wrong. It just, feels so right. So deny it.”

A grown man, your professor nonetheless, sits before you in what feels like a dream, asking for you to stop this.

So stop it.

You take your free hand and pull his face into yours, you’re kissing again, this time with more desperation. It was like you were parched, and Nanami was a stream of fresh water, you couldn’t get enough, and it was like your entire life depended on it. His desk was the only thing stopping you from jumping across and allowing him to devour you whole, you thought about straddling his lap and allowing him to grab the soft fat of your ass. Not yet.

You pull away from the kiss and stand, looking at the man before you, his tie completely loose, a few strands of hair falling on his forehead allowing him to look dishevelled, his glasses slightly steamed up. He was a sight to behold and your heart was beating to within an inch of your life with the idea that you had caused it. Internally you were screaming, DON’T FUCKING STOP. But you had to, had to make sure this wouldn’t be a mistake. You leaned across the desk and picked his glasses off of his nose, placing them on your own and pulling them up, to push the hair off of your face. He looked puzzled and opened his mouth to say something but you interrupted him.

“It seems I have forgotten something, looks like I’ll have to come back to get it tomorrow, what a shame.” And with that, you shot him a grin, turned on your heels, and left. Nanami sat staring at the door in utter shock and awe as you stalked out. He quickly fixed himself up sans glasses and packed up for the day, he muttered something about teaching you a lesson, and spare frames before he left, allowing the leftover tension to dissolve.

#nanami x reader #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen #Nanamin #nanami fanfic #archive of our own #spitprincess #spitty #my own work #original content #nanami x femme reader #kento #kento nanami x redaer

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inkformyblood · 3 years

Text

stay interested (in what comes back)

Day 01 Clan of Three for @dincobbweek Summary: Cobb never expected to hear from the Mandalorian after he leaves, but then the first letter arrives... The first letter arrives a few days after Mando and the kid leaves, and it sits unopened on Cobb’s shelf for several days before he can bring himself to open it.

The courier — a young woman named Tai with a constellation of freckles across her cheeks and forehead and close-cropped black hair — presses it into his hands with a knowing grin. Her clothes are worn from the speeder ride around Tatooine, sand clinging to them so that she appears to be part of the desert made flesh.

“If you want to send anything back,” she says, pausing in her swaying walk back to her bike, turning to look over her shoulder towards him. “Just leave it in the usual box. I’ll be back round in two weeks.”

She grins and Cobb catches sight of a new banner tied around her waist: a striped cloth in browns and golds and undeniably Tusken, but it tears the breath from his lungs before he can respond. She hops back onto her bike and is gone.

Everywhere he turns, he is reminded of Mando and the kid, and just when he had pushed the other man from his mind with practised unnerving ease, the letter arrived.

The material is well-made, smooth to the touch except for the small crumpled swell in the centre, and the seal is neat but plain. Cobb brushes his fingers over the markings — a smaller line that flares out into a small peak with a notched end next to a hooked line — and places the letter down, willing his thoughts to turn away from it.

But it remains like a stone digging into the soft skin in the arch of his foot or a shard caught in his teeth.

So Cobb opens it, after one trip too many past it, his gaze locking onto it and the burning curiosity courses through him again.

A crumpled picture on pale brown paper spills out, the edges ragged and torn, and Cobb recognises it as the unmarked side of a help wanted notice. They are common enough in Tatooine that Cobb flips it to the other side to inspect the details before allowing himself to take in the hand-drawn picture.

It was one of theirs, he realises, smoothing out the creases that distort Mos Pelgo’s desperate plea for help. Why had he chosen this? Cobb was well versed in backhanded insults and thinly veiled threats. He had learned to be. The scars that span his back and thighs still ache with the memory of the burning whip and each one is a testament to what he survived.

Mando didn’t strike him as that sort of man. Cobb had seen the way he had curved towards the kid, always half stretched out to brush fingertips across his skull as if he was caught in orbit. Cobb liked to think he was a good judge of character and even when Mando had bared his metaphorical teeth at him, Cobb knew he was a good man.

So, he reasons that the paper was likely convenient rather than a reminder of a debt owed, and flips it back over. A huge white shape dominates the right-hand side of the page broken up by the jagged edges of what Cobb realises are teeth. Next to it are two crudely drawn stick figures, one broader and grey but clearly wearing a helmet with a T shaped visor and the other taller and shakily drawn, featureless except for a red triangle at its throat. Next to the two is a smaller circle in green with two triangles for ears inside a floating grey circle.

It’s the three of them, and a Kraft dragon.

Cobb smooths it out as best he can, his heart twisting and constricting in his chest, threatening to choke him. The other item in the letter is smaller. It rolls when Cobb fumbles while drawing it from the envelope, slipping through his fingers and clattering onto the floor. He drops to his knees, cursing his own uncooperative hands and the protest of his knees, the sharp flare of pain dulling to an ache that would haunt him for a few days.

The ring is cool to the touch and is perfectly sized for his thumb. Cobb doesn’t let his thoughts linger on that, focusing on the careful engraving of segmented bone upon bone instead of the remembered press of Mando’s hand in his, surprisingly warm given the chill of the night air, the slight hesitancy as if expecting Cobb to pull away from him.

He slips it onto his thumb, tacks the picture up on the main wall in his section of the house, and returns to work. A letter detailing their efforts and professing his thanks, along with all the unmarked scrap paper he can find and pencils scavenged from the passing traders that the school doesn't need anymore finds its way into the courier dropbox and is away before Cobb can talk himself out of it.

He just hopes he has made the right choice.

The arrival of a second picture — the same lopsided circle-shaped child drawn in greens and browns and two stick figures, one grey and one brown with red at its throat beneath a sky that burst with all the colours of a fistfight — confirms he was right. The note that comes with it is brief but Cobb traces his fingers over the hesitant letters. Thank you.

⁂

The shadow at the end of Cobb’s hallway shifts as he steps closer, his blaster held ready by his side. “Wasn’t sure you’d be coming here, Mando. Glad to see I was wrong.”

Mando’s laugh sounds wrong, too sharp at the edges and echoing slightly. Cobb takes another step closer, his gaze dropping to search the lighter shadows by the other man’s feet, looking for the huddle of fabric and large eyes of the kid.

“He had to go back to his people.” Mando sounds broken, his voice flat, and Cobb knows that feeling only too well. It draws you down, down into its depths, until you can’t remember what it felt like to believe in something or to care about another person. He steps closer despite himself, one hand stretching out to try and offer what comfort he could when he stops.

Dark curls, close cropped and unevenly cut, greet Cobb’s gaze, brushing against the edge of Mando’s beskar, his helmet held loosely in one hand. His heart lodges in his throat, remembering the way Mando had recoiled when Cobb had taken off the helmet of the borrowed armour, his hope dying in an instant.

“I’m guessing a lot has happened since your last letter.” Cobb doesn’t look at Mando further, navigating with the edges of his vision, sliding his feet across the floor as he hooks his arm around Mando’s waist. The man freezes before curling into him with a wounded noise ripping from his throat. “Come on and sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“Didn’t know where else to go.” Mando sighs, his feet leaden, but he goes where Cobb leads. His skin was as cold as his beskar, gritty with sand that rasped against Cobb’s palm. “Knew it would be safe here.”

“Ain’t that a good endorsement,” Cobb murmurs, trying to ignore the swell of emotion the words created in his chest. The gap in letters had troubled him more than he wanted to admit and Tai had taken to stopping by his house first on her rounds so he wouldn’t waste more time waiting for her, only to be disappointed once again.

“It’s true.” Mando turns to watch him, and Cobb keeps his gaze fixed forward. The other man is shorter than him, folding into the curve of his chest as if he had been made to fit there, and he catches a glimpse of dark eyes before they move into his bedroom and Mando’s gaze snaps to the wall. “Oh.”

He sways, no longer leaning on Cobb for support, but clinging to him like a lifeline, and Cobb chances smoothing a hand along the curve of his hip, leaning down to blindly knock his temple to the other man’s. “You will see your kid again, Mando. He loves you.”

“He talked about you too.” Mando’s words rumble through him, his voice cracking and breaking. “Always drawing you. We were going to come back before— before—”

“He’s a sweet kid. Takes after his daddy, I reckon.”

Mando laughs at that, a helpless exhalation, and Cobb chuckles along with him.

“Now, go to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning,” Cobb continues, nudging Mando towards the bed. It is unmade, the blankets twisted too high, exposing the pale sheet beneath, but he doesn’t have time to reconsider it as Mando falls onto it as if his strings were cut.

“Skywalker took my child,” Mando mutters into the sheets and Cobb freezes, old familiarity washing over him, his thoughts turning towards an old datapad stored in a small chest in the corner and the contact details hidden within.

“Sleep, Mando. It’ll do you some good.” Cobb waits until the man’s breath levels out, falling into the deep easy rhythm of sleep before turning to inspect the wall. The most recent picture from the child catches his eye — the figure of Cobb and Mando on either side of the kid, their hands overlapping, beneath Tatooine's twin suns — and his hands curl into fitsts. He knows what he has to do.

The datapad hums as it turns on, the screen cracked and blurred, but Cobb navigates through it easily, old memories coming back to him.

‘Skywalker? Been a while, but did you just pick up a Mandalorian’s kid and not leave any contact details?’

The reply is quick, and Cobb squints at the screen, his mouth moving soundlessly as he reads through the misspellings and laughs to himself when he finishes. Three days travel away, and Mando would see his son again. Three days of Cobb living with the man he was hopelessly in love with as he helped him restore the balance to his family. This was going to be difficult, but, hopefully, easier than killing the dragon.

#dinncobb #cobbdin #cobb vanth #din djarin #the mandalorian #star wars #my writing

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honestsycrets · 3 years

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Say Your Piece II: Heart Breaker

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader, hvitserk x ?

❛ type | double triple? shot, mistakes were made au

❛ chp summary | after the reader says she doesn’t want hvitserk; he makes a bad decision. it gets worse from there.

❛ tags | plus size reader, verbal arguments, extreme social anxiety, extreme body insecurity, drinking, hateful words, illustrator hvitserk x writer reader, mention of infidelity, shame, OCs, sexual frustration, blackmail, cheating mentioned, verbal abuse, sexual blackmail, poor communication? it’s more likely than you think. tags to be added.

❛ request | So Hvitserk request (you a asked for it 😂) Remember the Little Lovers event and the self-conscient plus size reader who didn’t want to have sex ?Well I didn’t get the sex lol. I want my Hvitserk to show a woman how her body is enjoyable. Thank you 😊 for @alicedopey

❛ sy’s note | i’ll eventually get you your sex scene, DAMN IT.

He wakes with a blaring headache caused by a stream of fresh morning light against his soft cheek. He pulls his arms around you-- or, what he thought was you, as the moment he does so, he knows it’s wrong. Where soft folds and overflowing breasts were, he finds thin limbs and small breasts.

It’s not your body-- he realizes all at once. The high rise apartment that overlooked the city wasn’t, either. It was the fruit of an accomplished older woman, whose many books hovered on a white shelf beside a white bed. Everything in the room holds the same pure standard. He flings himself from the bed, his naked ass colliding with a nightstand. The items ripple over the surface and settle into new positions. The woman pushes up, dragging the painfully monochrome white fluffy sheet to cover her flat chest.

“Hvitserk?”

Erika, in all her sharp-eyed glory, stares right back at him. Vomit spins up his throat, incited by the affection by with her eyes considered him. Hvitserk scrambles over the perfectly plain hardwood floors, upchucking up what’s left of his agitated stomach after his pathetic night out on the town.

“Hvitserk!”

Her spindly hand is at his back. Ordinarily, she was a comfort in your absence. That despite her pushing, and pushing, and pushing to get your name off “his” book, she would always be there for him in ways that a lover could not. Author-illustrators make so much more than being an illustrator alone, she reminded him. Her considerate words now feel like measured steps against his relationship. Her touch rips his skin into gooseflesh. Hvitserk works his shoulder away, his knuckles becoming white around the bowl.

“You drank too much last night.” it’s a non-question. Obviously, if he were here, he had. He groans his miserable response into the toilet bowl, wishing he could smother himself in the water, as it would be a better punishment than anything his girlfriend could do to him. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

Her steps become distant echoes. When he finishes and cleans after himself, he starts his search for his clothes. He picks them from a singular pile, draws them back on, and reaches for his phone. It bleats a miserable eight percent battery life.

“She didn’t call if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Ericka stands in a silvery slip; although he’s not sure when she put on some clothes. She hands him his cup of coffee and takes a seat on her “divorce couch”, a plain grey chair that she scammed her ex-husband out of. As she sits there, all long limbs, and purposefully sultry clothes-- the guilt strikes him.

Hvitserk takes a sip of bitter, burnt black coffee. She’s never been a great coffee maker but her heart is in the right place. It wouldn’t feel right to snuff her. After all, he probably spent the night before buried in her cunt.

“You called me to pick you up at the bar last night. You were so drunk all you wanted to do was lay on my chest,” Ericka pulls a sheer black kimono over her thin collarbones. His eyes fall on her hands. “I told you she’d break your heart. Women like that-- once they get over a certain weight-- they aren’t emotionally available to do anything but eat. It consumes them.”

“She ain’t like that.”

“If she’s not like that, then why did you have sex with me? Be honest with yourself, Hvitserk. Your needs aren’t met with her. That’s why you needed me.”

His mouth runs dry. Like he’s been chewing on his regret as if it were paper. He couldn’t remember the night before. It was like a bad memory he never wanted to recover. Hvitserk glances down to his cup as he sinks onto her bed.

“It was an accident,” he glares at the surface. “I- You know I can’t be with you, right? You’re--”

“Old?” she asks. He’s never cared about something as simple as that. Twelve years his senior or not, it wasn’t an issue.

“It’s not that. C’mon Erika, you know I don’t give a shit about age. She’s my baby girl.”

“You’re going to stay with her? A woman like that?”

“Like what?” Hvitserk sets the coffee on the nightstand as he snaps at her before he could bite it back. He knew what she meant. Erika’s long ranging sigh reminds him of Aslaug. How tenderly her hands would wrap around him even though they were truly tainted with alcohol perfuming off her breath.

“I’ve been your agent for years Hvitserk. We go through this every time you find a girl. This oen is by far the worst. She doesn’t care about you. Look at all that work you did for her yesterday. The pendant you bought her. The work you’ve put into her books! You even pick up all the food she eats. She won’t go outside of her house and you still expect that she’ll suddenly become this fat trophy wife on your arm.”

“Just because she’s fat don’t--”

“It isn’t about the fat, Hvitserk. How many times does she have to show you, or tell you for you to get the picture through your stupid head, huh? She doesn’t want you! And you have the balls to call me a fucking accident.”

“Erika--”

She leaps up from her chair. Hvitserk sucks in a hard breath and tries to find sense through the nonsense, looking through his phone. Erika was right. You hadn’t sent a message. Not in his texts, not on his social media. More egregiously, he spots a new post. Ericka’s hands fold over his, pushing him back to sit on the bed. She slides over his thin hips and takes a seat on his empty lap. It was painfully simple, painfully domestic, and painfully wrong.

“Let me tell you what I’ve learned in forty years,” Erika whispered in his ear. Her thin lips move, gliding like butter in his ear. “If someone doesn’t want you, there’s nothing you can do to change that.” Her fingers comb through his hair, like slimy tendrils. “But I’m here.”

Hvitserk tips his head nack, gazing at the ceiling. Her palm caresses his scruffy jawline to drag his attention from the ceiling to her soft blue eyes, a painless depth, if only he would listen to her words. Hvitserk shifts her back on the bed, loitering around her waist with a supportive hand on the base of her back.

“I know you care ‘bout me. I just-- need some time, okay?”

It doesn’t slip him that she’s scowling as he walks out of her home. There was someone he could count upon, when things were difficult, his phone buzzing in his palm reminded him of that.

“Hey, Ivar.”

Or, maybe not.

“You fucked her?” Ivar stopped chewing his pastry, ambling his head one way then another, laughing against himself. He took his mug of properly brewed coffee to his lips. Hvitserk regrets agreeing to meet him at the cafe. “What were you thinking sleeping with your agent?”

“I wasn’t thinking! I was drunk--” Hvitserk set his hand to his forehead. He has no appetite as he cycled through what he had done, searching out the moment that he called Erika. He fails to locate anything but quiet sobbing behind the neck of a beer bottle and a distant, squeamish feeling of fingers down his nape. “I think she took advantage of me.”

Ivar sets down his cup of coffee, picking up a fork and knife as he leaned over the table, lips punctuating each word.

“Yes, well, I am sure that will go over with your girlfriend well. I’m sorry, I slept with my skinny, well-established agent who has been wanting me to get rid of you. That bitch has been after you for years. What do you think she will do now? She won’t let you go.”

“She understands,” he reflects at the monochrome crowd. His plate is full but has gone cold with his lack of appetite. Normally, this was the place he came with his brother to binge breakfast and muse about women. Ubbe wouldn’t care about his issues: he never had time for anyone but himself. Not really. Ivar scoffed, gazing into the foot traffic flitting by their cafe.

“Tch, I’m sure she does. She will probably break up with you.”

He bobbed his head.

“I think she already has.”

A normal man would come to beg.

But Hvitserk draws in the deep quiet of the park. With only the barks of dogs, the giggles of children, and the occasional frequency from couples watching movies in the park, it’s a place of solace by the small pond.

He starts with an outline of Xiao’s small face. It’s a rough outline, budding and ready to be kissed with by watercolours. Soft pinks like petals of peonies droop in his photo. He must have blended this shade wrong. Line after line that he sweeps, he weeps. His phone jingles in his pocket and his heart tightens around his chest like a straight jacket to someone in an insane asylum. He must be going crazy-- if he too can no longer paint.

“Where are you?!” you boom on the other end of the line. Hvitserk fumbles his phone, suckling in a breath. Had Ivar told you? No, his brother wouldn’t. Not Ivar. He was never a gossiper.

“In-- in the park?”

“What has gotten into you? You could have at least texted me to tell me you were okay. I was worried sick!”

You? Worried sick? This wasn’t the you from yesterday. The one that pelted out how selfish he was for craving intimacy. The one that told him that all he wanted was to sexualize you. As if he were some sixty year old pervert with a camera in hand to click a picture of under your beautiful pastel skirts. Hvitserk sets the brushes into his cup of water and sets aside Xiao’s painting to dry.

“Hvitserk!”

“I’m here,” he blurts out. “I didn’t think you’d care. You didn’t call.”

“Like I didn’t I call you all night.”

Something cracks, deep in his belly. With all the days of work he’d done for you and you alone, he forgot himself in the mix. He jerked his phone back, frantically looking at his phone app. No recent calls meant what they meant. When he finds nothing, it only thrusts him into a further rage.

“Bullshit,” he belts out. “You didn’t. You didn’t care about me last night. You never fuckin’ do.”

“Hvit--” he turns off his phone. There was a sliver of a moment in which he regrets that on the basis of last night. Maybe you rejected him, but he wasn’t an idiot. A man simply didn’t cheat on his girlfriend because she said no.

He packs up his bag and heads toward the football field. It’s time to play football.

He smashes Ubbe on the field. If he wasn’t at peace with being an illustrator, maybe he could have been a ballplayer. Flipping the ball from foot to foot with Ubbe on his trailing his tail was fun, but watching him try and miss as he thwacked the ball on its net was even better. Unlike Ubbe’s well-proportioned body, he’s all long limbs and quick feet. Just the right combination to slip out of Ubbe’s grasp. Well, that was, until Ubbe tackled his ass onto the blades of grass, sending the both of them rolling through the grasp.

“Bro, really?!” Hvitserk laughs, dropping back onto the grass. The skid marks on his clothes would be unreal.

“If I can’t catch you,” Ubbe heaves, digging his hand into his pocket. He finds his phone there, vibrating with messages from Torvi: probably. Hvitserk shoves his arms behind his neck, drawing out breath after ragged breath.

“Wanna go eat?”

“Na,” Ubbe shoves himself onto your feet. “Your girl is here.”

His what? Ubbe rushes off. A sinking feeling came over his clammy hands. He opens his mouth to beg him not to go, to take him along with like he used to as a child. He’s terrible at making up and hours ago, he’d hung up on you. His lips press together, soothing himself with the false pretense that-- no, it would be fine. If you didn’t apologize, perhaps neither would he.

He finds you on the other side of the soccer field, fashioning his favorite sundress. There’s something glamorous about its corset bodice and its draped sleeves that left him breathless. He wills down his terrible arousal, drawn to the pendant he bought you nestled between your large breasts. You wait for him by his things, pulling the rim of a broad pale hat and looking down at beautiful chunky nude heels.

You’re beautiful and terrifying all in one. He regains himself enough to make his legs solidify from the liquidy mass they were seconds ago. He might feel much like a newborn calf falling over himself to get his things, but perhaps he looked better than he felt. Women like sweaty, stupid men, right?

“What are you doing here?” he picks up his things. “I thought you didn’t like to be seen in public.”

“You hung up on me,” you hold his tablet flush against your dress and offer it out to him. He takes it and secures it back in his bag. “I had to come to find you.”

“Yeah? I’ll bet.” Hvitserk wills down the painful throbbing behind his joggers, pulling his bag to obscure the pain he was in. The sooner he went home, the sooner he could jerk himself off without the overwhelming guilt of being, as he was, a whore. Why couldn’t he stay mad? He wanted to stay mad! “You look... nice. Never seen you looking so nice. What’s the occasion?”

“You like it?” You pull out the skirt and stop to do a twirl that he curses himself for stopping for. Normally, his girl wouldn’t even go outside. Who was this? He’s aware of others watching-- the fat girl in a flashy dress. “I wore it for you.”

“Yeah, I do.” He moistens his lips, his voice raspy and thick. “Looks like an angel.”

“Does that mean you’ll come back home?” You reach out for him. Your soft hands winding around his well-corded arm. He realizes then, the confidence in which you carried yourself masked the desperation in your hands. They trembled over his bicep. “I’ll be good, I promise I won’t yell at you again like that. I wouldn’t even be mad if you-- you found someone else to fuck. I know you-- I know you need it. If you can’t get it from me, I can wait on the side. As long as you’re not in love.”

“Hey,” he softened, settling his hand atop of yours. He stops midstep, turning on his high tops on the sidewalk. He takes your hands and listens waits for your outpouring of emotion. Traffic passes by him. They speak in hushed whispers. “Hey, hey, hey. Baby girl wait-- that’s not -- what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that but you were pushing and pushing and wouldn’t stop! I didn’t know what to do. I want to have sex with you,” you squeeze his fingertips. “But you don’t know what it’s like to be fat, old virgin.”

He was trying to listen. He really was. The moment you spoke that word: that v-word, his mind went blank and numb. You’re still talking long after he’s stopped listening. Hvitserk sucks in a breath: it sends him into a flurry, pursuing the bone of your virginity long after you’ve stopped talking.

“What do you--” his lips twitch, drawing in a smile. “--mean a virgin?”

“I haven’t had sex-- I… I wanted to--”

His girl-- a virgin. He wants to smile, if not for the knowledge of the other night, waking up in Erika’s itchy sheets. Hvitserk knows that he has to tell you, he only doesn’t know how. You’re talking again.

“What did you say?” he asks.

“I want you to do it,” you answer. “Right now. Just forgive me.”

He about drops, a moistness coming over his mouth that he can’t-- exactly-- help. His palms feel just as hot, sweating as he pulls them free from yours. Clearing his throat, he slips his hand against the small of your back.

“Na, let’s… let’s take it easy. We’ll talk ‘bout it later.”

He wants that virginity.

But logically, oh woe is he, he knows it’s not really right to take someone’s virginity if they’re not all there. You’re not all there because you don’t know of that night. It’s like, consent, right? Bad consent was just jerking your ankle like some Viking and dragging you into bed with him. If he was going to do it, he told himself, you had to know what he’d done.

It was a slip-up.

Hvitserk finished another drawing for his new book independent of your input. It was a children’s book about good bodies-- because as he looked at your good body, he was reminded of Ericka’s cruel words. He wanted to do better for lil kids.

“Hvitserk, your phone is ringing,” you said pointedly from across the room where you sat like a madwoman. Your frantic papers sat nestled around a basket of shared chicken he made for lunch.

“Huh?” Tapping over, he recognizes Erika’s photo, planting a kiss on his cheek on his first big break. She had been the first one to really believe in him. It was a long time ago now, he reminds himself to change that to something more… suitable after last night. He gestures his fingers at you. “Thanks, baby girl.”

He answers the phone. The moment he does, he hears Erika’s flat voice snaking into a hiss. It’s a noise that he hasn’t heard. Not in all his years of having her as his patient agent.

“You’re with her, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m uh-- with Ubbe.” He throws you a glance. You tilt your head, he shakes his, and that’s the terrible loneliness of holding a secret. “Erika--” Hvitserk sighs, parting his lips to talk. She shushes him with such severity that he thinks she’s trying to lop his head off, too.

“Break it off.”

“What?”

He steps outside and leans against the cold metal door separating the high-rise apartments from, well, the outside world. He expects to see her standing out there. All he finds are the many cars parked on the street and the stillness of movement. It’s too quiet. The whistle of the wind through the street chills him.

“I know you’re with her. I can tell her for you if you’d like.”

“No. Don’t--” Hvitserk sighs, searching for the words in the silence. “I don’t think you understand. We worked through it.”

She laughs something from deep in her belly at him.

“I wasn’t asking. Either you do it— or I’ll make you do it. You obviously don’t know what’s best for yourself. Why else are you fucking around with some--” He collapses on the stairs, cradling the phone to his ear as she goes on. “Don’t think I won’t expose her for what she is. A thief.”

“She’s never-- Why the fuck are you doing this?”

“You told me you would take care of it. Something you’ve failed to do-- I should have known you couldn’t do it. ”

“If this shit is about yesterday--”

“I’ll give you one more chance to break it off if you come over tonight.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” There’s a pause on the other line. Then a chuckle. A long winded, painful chuckle. He should have known better. That night-- calling it an accident wasn’t exactly tolerable for a woman like Erika. She wasn’t the kind of woman who could be easily ignored.

“If that’s what I have to do.”

He chokes out a sob. Ivar was right. She wasn’t going to let him go.

“Fuckin’-- fuckin’ fine.”

@punkrocknpearls @flowers-in-your-hayr @tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor @strangunddurm @superwolfchild-fan @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

#Hvitserk x Reader #Hvitserk x OC #Hvitserk/Reader #hvitserk's heathen feast #hvitserk ragnarsson x reader #it feels good to write my baby #Hvitty x Reader #hvitty/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #hvitserk x plus size reader #Vikings x Reader

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bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

I was going to write this for the Aspec Archives week, but I got overexcited, so here we are.

AU: Mythical creatures. OG Archive team.

Some CWs apply, see tags.

The sea is more than water, her elder brethren taught her, warned her, chided her. It is home and harm and hungry, and you should not face it alone. Her siblings were older, ever knowing better, boisterous and boasting braver, but even they worried, scolded and fretted when she swam out too far alone into deep waters.

It will love you, but it will not always be kind, her eldest sibling bit out, snapped to mask their anxiety. There can be no bearings, in the deep-deep down, no anchors to denote where the sky lies.

When her people sleep, they rest wedged into some secure rock or crevice, tails looped around tails so no one is lost while dreaming.

You cannot be a shoal of one, my dearest, my youngest and bravest, the oldest of their shoal had said, when she told her she was planning on taking the rising when the waters warmed. Ascending landward on the tide swell, letting the shimmering scales of her tail split into skin.

She had not used the name Sasha at that time because that was a landward name she chose with care. Her folk gather names like a garland of pearls, to be constantly strung longer through life as age advances them; names for qualities, for momentous events, for hopes and desires. Her first name, gifted by her shoal, was guttural. It starts at the back of her throat, trails off into a susurration through gills. Mer is a difficult language to learn, though not impossible.

Tim tried. There is no one singular language of those who skirt the deepwaters, so he attempts to mimic her dialect. His pronunciation stumbling, he makes tentative sentences with the butchered grammar of fry. Martin’s grammar is even worse, though he picks up the eddies and waves of the sounds easier.

Jon, like most things in life, takes it as a challenge. One day, almost stubborn with nerves, to perform his task to perfection, he pushes out a juvenile approximation of her first name. Clipped and textbook and the stress in the wrong places, but Sasha smiles, showing her sharpest teeth in delight. Instructs him where to hold the hum at the back of his throat, how to roll the third phoneme upwards like an air bubble. Jon repeats it and repeats it, quietly smug and pleased at his achievement, and the sea in her soul rocks fondly at the sight.

She broached landward in the rising two moons after her age of maturation. She was one of a handful to come to shore. A sibling in Brighton who she phones every week, another two in Holyhead. Her first shoal traverses to warmer waters when the season shifts, and she would feel the rock-hollow absence of them if it was not for Tim, inviting her to participate in a hundred-and-one inane activities that keep her from feeling swept out; Jon, with his libraries of questions and intrigues, his quick-silver tongue; Martin, who sometimes swims a little further out from them but who finds her small knick-knacks in charity shops and craft markets and leaves them on her desk for no reason other than he has thought of her.

She makes three necklaces, plain with a strong chain, a single pearl attached. And on a day where her folk traditionally string garlands of seaweed and mangrove roots and colourful plants from coral reefs in a celebration of family – there is no one word in her language for this idea; it poorly translates into hierarchies like sibling and brethren and elders, but these are not concepts that fit it exactly – she gifts them to the shoal that will anchor her in the depths of the sea, and bestows upon them names. Most Mer names are wishes for quick fins, calm waters, safe shores, and so she wishes these for them in a language they are not quite proficient in yet.

Her landward shoal is smaller than is traditional. But she loves them as treasures of her heart, and thinks she understands what her siblings told her, about anchors.

His parents, both harpies from local nests, are perplexed when his wings start coming in.

Must be a colouring from your mum’s side, his dad hums thoughtfully when Tim’s primaries grow in long and shining like struck bronze. He runs a careful finger down the central line of the rachis, and the wing shudders and jumps, the feathers still sensitive, and Tim complains that it’s ticklish. His wings are too small to fly away as his dad dives in, captures him in careful arms, corkscrewing upwards a little off the ground with Tim squirming and squealing and squawking in play, but they flutter and flap nonetheless.

The wing span’s from your dad’s side, no-one from my nest ever went more than five foot, his mother says, rubbing at the dark brown of his downy secondaries. Tim stretches them out wide, eager to boast at their length, the tips of his longest feathers reaching past his arms held out wide.

Danny’s wings are smaller. Magpie like, bold lines of white broken up by blue and black, the same as his parents. Tim’s wings, broader, a colour like beaten brass that tips into gold at the ends, draws attention, but he’s never been embarrassed. His family never treated him differently, so he didn’t dwell on it.

He can fly, though he doesn’t often. After his parents died, and after… after Danny, he moved to London, where there’s tighter airspace regulations and permits involved, so he mostly doesn’t bother. This doesn’t mean never, however. He has learned, while working in the Archives, that from the ground, his wings have enough lift to pick up both Jon and Sasha by at least a foot. He thinks he could probably manage Martin as well, if it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that Martin is mildly allergic to a whole host of things, including feather dander, meaning he gets a bit watery eyed whenever he gets too close to Tim’s wings, and he’s a sniffing, red-eyed mess come moulting season.

Anyway, he can always fly when he leaves the city. When it’s been too long since Sasha’s scales touched seawater, she invites him out to the coast. Jon apparently has had enough of the coast to last a lifetime, and Martin gets funny about large bodies of water, so it’s often the two of them. She swims out, the greenish scales of her tail catching the sun-struck water, and he, above, feeling the breeze brush through his cramped wings, follows her wake. When she breaches the surface in a playful arc, he swoops down, trying to catch her at the same time as she tries to splash him.

“You never thought to look into it?” Jon asks. Always brewing with questions. Tim is obligingly holding out one of his wings, and Jon, who takes everything like a project, has books out and webpages up but with no further clue as to why his colouration and span differ so from his parents.

Tim shrugs. “Doesn’t matter really, does it?”

Jon hums, clearly not agreeing, and Sasha rolls her eyes fondly, and that is the end of that.

Marysia had hoped her child would not take after her husband. She’d lit candles and attended masses during her pregnancy, worn the beads of her rosary smooth. Her child had been born on land, miles from shore, and her husband had been a grounded man, who had folded up his pelt on their wedding night for her and swore to wear no other soul than his human one.

But then her husband leaves, the box where he kept his second soul empty, and Martin is eight years old, and he wakes up one morning glassy-eyed and complaining of nausea, his lip bleeding from where his sharpening teeth have ripped the skin, and she knows her prayers were not answered.

It is not unknown, for the second soul of some folk to flourish later. But it is a rough awakening, to have one’s body grow a new skin out of itself, and Martin is off school for over a week, riddled with fever and fervour, constantly parched, crying and sweating out salt-water.

She watches his skin prickle with grey and black fur, blotching with white over his stomach as he coils up under his covers, throws them off only for his limbs to reduce to shivering. His brown eyes have gone black-shot, his cries a mix of language and barks, and Marysia fears she will lose her only child to the sea.

It will be hard for him to fit in, she tells herself. It would be best to choose one, and he has his friends and family and her on land, and who knows where his father is now, and surely it would be cruel, an unnecessary agony for him to endure some other foreign pull away from all he knows.

She does what she thinks is a kindness, though that is neither excuse nor forgiveness. After nine days, his fur has come through, sleek and soft, his whiskers twitching, and she helps him peel it off as one would do clothes, revealing sweat-sheened limbs, his eyes slipped back into brown again. His gaze still distant and feverish, he tries to cuddle into her, and she soothes him while she finishes stripping off his pelt and folding it neatly.

While he sleeps, she burns it in a fire in the back yard.

When he comes back to himself, she lies and tells him that he’s been sick with a bad fever. And he trusts her, and never questions it. He doesn’t understand that she’s burnt a part of him up, scattered the ashes to the winds, but it was for the right reasons. To keep him safe, and happy, and with her.

He grows up human-limbed and cloven-souled, and she never tells him the truth.

Sasha floats in an ever-dark, stolen away and hidden. There is a knot, a cage-trap around her legs, which have fused into her tail although there is no water. The sea, far away, like the wail in a conch shell, throbs in her soul as she strains and shouts and snarls in the wrapping of spider’s webs.

The sea is the only thing with her in the dark.

Sound has a particular quality, underwater. She hears it first, an echo that shivers through her, like being thrummed on the backdraft of some shallow wave. And then it is a wash of insistence. A command.

The compulsion uses her names, landward and seaward and it pulls and demands her attention, and she shrieks and cries back, struggling in the depths. She is being called home, up up up to breach the surface, and she cannot help but answer.

There is a crack and the sea splits, and she is choking on cold and dusty air.

“Sasha!” someone is saying. “God, is she – she’s not – ?”

“Get that stuff off her, come on. Sasha. Sash, love, can you hear us?”

A series of thuds as she splutters. A twisting, gnarling screech, and several swear words.

“Jesus!”

“Shit – shit, get her out of the way.”

“Boss, move, give me the – ”

The screech degrades into a glitching, warping scream. There is the multi-layered sound of compressed air, and crackling fire,the woosh and stench of something burning.

In time, she cracks her eyes open to the punch of light. Her tail flaps weakly. Someone is pulling great strands of silk that has clumped like poorly soldered iron around her limbs, making visceral noises of disgust. She’s cold-stream shivering, surrounded by broken wood and chippings.

“Hey, hey, we got you. We got you. You with us, Sash?”

The faint scratch of feathers against her cheek. Furnace-warm arms are holding her.

Jon is kneeling down in front of her. Holding an axe and stinking of smoke, and she knows, she knows, that it was his voice she heard, although she doesn’t yet understand why.

Martin throws a blanket over her as she shivers, her tail shrivelling and bisecting into legs. He has silk in his hair, and his fingers are trembling, but his face is broken with a look of such relief.

“It’s you,” he says, and his hand touches at his throat, at the necklace she made for him. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

It’s Martin in the end that carries her out of the tunnels, tucking the blanket completely around her. He is talking in the scatter-gun way he does when he is anxious, babbling, and she can’t bring herself to listen. He smells of soot and saltwater, and she’s never noticed that before.

She falls asleep, curled up into his hold, drained and shaken, but feeling utterly safe.

Jon is human. Completely, one hundred percent, although Sasha had joked once that way way back there must have been some Spinx in the family. Tim’s long suspected that Martin’s not quite human, no matter how he presents, but that’s Martin’s business, not his. Some folks have lineages that are rare, or mistrusted, or misunderstood, and Tim’s not one to pry.

Jon, though. Human through and through. Which is why he’s so worried.

“I shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Jon says. Martin’s with Sasha, making sure there’s no nasty side effects to her imprisonment in the table. Jon’s had a face on him for a while which means he’s Worrying with a capital W, and it’s taken hours for him to untangle himself into a blustered declaration to the rest of the class, spiked with nerves. “That place, it had her. It shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I did, but I told her to leave, a-and she could. And she shouldn’t have been able to.”

“And you think that you did that?”

“I – I know I did that, Tim, I felt it, o-or. I mean, I felt something!”

“Ok, alright. Alright. Let’s, let’s calm down and look at this logically.”

Jon goes over what he said while they struggled to rescue Sasha from the deep. It was something he said, he’s sure of it, which is why he is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the main archive office space with Tim, his trousers getting dusty and his temper scraping frayed, getting increasingly frustrated when he tries recreating exactly what he did with his voice, going through questions and commands and instructions and inquiries. And while Tim answers, it’s clearly not what Jon’s looking for, and he’s rubbing the hair at the back of his head in the way he does when he’s getting increasingly frustrated and is too bull-headed to walk away.

Then Jon, rolling his eyes and seething in annoyance, asks him a throwaway question, one of many he’s been trying – what’s your favourite colour? (seriously, Jon, that’s what you’re going with?!); What did you do at the weekend? (you know what I did, you and Martin were with me!).

“Why did you join the Magnus Institute?”

They both sit, frozen and horrified as Tim’s mouth opens and his words trip over his tongue in their eagerness to leave his mouth. As his eyes grow wide and water with tears as he cannot stop speaking about Danny, about the Covent Garden circus and Joseph Grimaldi. As Jon sits, ramrod-backed and cannot stop listening, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His expression wars between frantic and panicking and hungry.

Tim feels wrung out and hollow once he’s finished. Jon’s manic with apologies. It takes both of them a long time to calm down.

“Maybe… maybe you’re a siren or something?” Tim suggests, but Jon is shaking his head.

“It’s this place, Tim. It’s those statements, when I read them. It’s … I – I think they’re doing something to me.”

Tim looks at Jon and the light strikes off his eyes in a way that it shouldn’t on a human.

He touches Jon’s arm.

“We’ll sort this,” he promises. “We got Sasha out, didn’t we? The four of us, we can get to the bottom of this, yeah?”

Jon nods, and gives a small fragile thanks, and that’s human enough for Tim.

Marysia told herself she was not a bad mother. That her son was simply a hard child to love, that he had all the worst trappings of his father, his brown eyes perpetually caught with a far-away look that doesn’t know where to place its longing. But even as she sickened, and he sloughed off every facet of himself in a pathetic attempt to please her, she couldn’t find anything but sorrow in her heart to look upon the man grown over familiar in face, a growth that grew deep-set and fungal into contempt.

She almost spat the truth out to him. Once or twice, with the thought that confessing might bring them closer. She wished he’d chosen the sea instead, so she wouldn’t have to look upon her amputated, half-formed child who would always be lost.

But she never did.

And Martin finds out alone, cornered in an unlocked office, his hands dropping the lighter as a thousand eyes open and watch satisfied as they pour his mother’s choices down his throat to choke him.

It starts when Martin starts sleeping in archive storage. When Tim watches worms burrow into Jon’s skin at the same time as they latch and gnaw and wriggle under his own. When they get Sasha back, and find Gertrude’s corpse and Jon leaves and gets hurt and hurt and hurt again, and the world around them gets smaller and meaner and there is nothing Tim can do.

He takes to storing food in their desk drawers. Nothing that will go off, or won’t keep. Tins and dried goods and non-perishables. He lines the walls of Martin’s storage room with fire extinguishers of different types, fire blankets, and spare first aid kits bulging with plasters and bandages and antiseptic wipes. He buys blankets and pillows and rope and penknives. He stress-moults constantly, and tucks his feathers out of sight, irritated and embarrassed at the sight of them, and it occurs to him that nesting is not a healthy way to deal with this.

He wants his family safe. He used to think it was such a small thing to ask for.

He thinks about that when the bomb goes off.

He burns, and he is dying.

His rage and fear burn off into a different fury. That it has come to this, his family so threatened, that all he has to his name is his sorrow and trauma and frustration and vengeance.

Tim wants nothing more than to live. To see them safe. To rail and rage against what seeks to harm them. So he burns and he burns and burns, his wings aflame and his mouth twisted in a scream, and does not die.

They dig him out breathing from the rubble. His skin stained grey with ash and soot.

His new wings stretch out red as the sunset.

#tma #the magnus archives #fic #alternative universe #mermaid!sasha #pheonix!tim #selkie!Martin #regularOGhuman!Jon #with added Beholding spicyness #cws for implied child mistreatment #cw fire #cw burning #cw canon typical violence #cw compulsion #ask to tag

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potassium-pilot · 3 years

Text

Prompt 27: Benthos

Why am I back here again, Dia thought.

There was no reason, really. It felt right to her. Whatever the others might say of this place, whatever horrors she experienced here, Amaurot fascinated her. She traversed the city and listened to them, to her people…or to the people that she once knew, at least.

Why would Emet-Selch allow them their opinions still? Why would he not want them all to simply agree with the course of action taken by the Convocation? Would it have not made him feel more justified to rewrite history? These were questions that plagued her when she thought of Amaurot.

“This place creeps me out, you know”, Ardbert commented.

“Noted. Now where do you think we should go next?”

“Ishgard, if you would.”

“Before that.”

“Urgh, I don’t understand you sometimes. Why can’t it be as simple as, ‘This place is creepy and dark and made by an Ascian; perhaps we should avoid it.’”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s more than that, and you know it. This was…our home once.”

“No, it’s a recreation of Azem’s home. It’s dead, Dia. Dead and gone.”

“I’m aware of that, thank you. I also watched the Final Days and we’re apparently due for a repeat. That doesn’t mean that a recreation can’t be found intriguing.”

“It can if you let it.”

She kept walking past Macarenses Angle. Azem’s crystal seemed to pulse as she walked in the same rhythm. She seemed to want something, to add her own voice.

“Azem, no more kissy-face with Emet-Selch, I’m begging you”, Dia whispered softly as she gripped the stone in her inventory. She bound for a nearby bench, and took a seat. The familiar pull of the past taking her away embraced her.

*********

“On that note, I would like to draw this meeting to a close.”

Emet-Selch’s voice rang across the assembly hall. The fourteen stood in respect before he dismissed them.

Azem dreamed of the day they would finally intervene, recognize that their duty to the world has always been plain. The circumstances which led them to this point, however, devastated her. Her fellow convocation members, her friends, her family- all of them were in danger. She needed to protect them, and although the matter was grave indeed, it was strangely refreshing for her to see the Convocation finally acknowledge the threat at their doorstep.

The solution was anything but.

A dark primal concept?! Azem thought, They want to kill half of Amaurot to save Amaurot?! Unacceptable! That won’t save anyone! The dark primals only want more power, more aether! Their dark primal won’t rest until it’s consumed everything whole. I saw it happen with the other primal concepts, bless Lahabrea’s heart; I will not see this primal of theirs consume everything I hold dear.

To that end, she marched to the office of Elidibus, and knocked on his door.

“Enter”, he called.

She opened the door and greeted him with a typical wave and smile. “Can we talk? Just you and me?”

“I’m a bit busy at the moment, but I can certainly find the time for you. What do you need, Azem?”

Azem stepped forward and took her seat. “That was…a more emotionally charged debate than I was prepared for”, she tried to calm herself with humor, and Elidibus gave a light laugh in return. “Indeed. I suppose the Final Days do bring out a different side of all of us. You paid attention in a meeting for once.”

“I know. I never thought it would come to this”, she joked before asking in a more serious tone, “But…are you okay?”

“I’m better than okay. I have a chance here, Azem. We have a chance. We can save Amaurot.”

“But…can we though?”

“Azem, we debated this for hours. Half of Amaurot is better than complete engulfment.”

She argued the point as firmly as she ever could have, which meant little compared to the masters of debate she encountered regularly. Primals demand much and more, and drain power and aether. Dark primals demand sacrifice, in particular. Unfortunately, she exhausted all arguments in the assembly hall. She had no rational argument left within her to turn them away from such an irrational solution.

“And we’ll use what’s left to bring them back.”

She had also argued that what these primals can bring back will be nothing more than husks; the amaurotines would be long gone.

Especially Elidibus.

“But why you?”

“What do you mean, Azem?”

“Elidibus, if you become the heart of this primal, that’s it. There’s no going back. You’ll be consumed whole, left with nothing to show for it. The only thing that could even have a shred of you is…” she didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“If I use the power of the primal to recreate my form, as we discussed.”

Azem shook her head, her face growing hot. “Elidibus, that won’t be you. That’ll be a creature, an abomination with one sole purpose.”

“Better that than to leave Amaurot in the hands of calamity.”

Damn this mask, she thought as her tears stung her eyes. She stood up, and stepped to his side, making Elidbus turn to her and gawk at her clear breach of Convocation etiquette. She fell to one knee, and took his hands.

“Please, Elidibus”, she choked out through the lump in her throat, “I don’t want you to die. You’re so young. You have so much potential. You have a future ahead of you, my friend.” Her voiced shuddered before she begged him, “Reconsider, give me time to think of a better solution. Stand with me as I’ve stood with you before.” Her tears were contagious, as the young amaurotine felt his own well up too.

“I’m sorry, Azem. But time is so precious, so valuable. My future means nothing if all I hold dear is brought to ruin.”

Her tears dripped behind her mask and rolled down her cheeks.

“Damn it all”, she seethed, and ripped the mask of her face to wipe away her tears. The face she kept from her young friend for so many years laid bare in front of him.

“Elidibus, look at me.”

“I-I am…”

“No, I mean without the mask. Please. I may never have this chance again. I beg you.”

He hesitated.

He thought back through the years. He respected her, treated her like a sister as she treated him like a brother. They dined together, enjoyed their leisure time together, she knew his family as he knew hers. Yet through it all, he did not remove the mask in front of her. It felt akin to baring himself naked to her.

But when he stared into her eyes and witnessed the sorrow emanate from her soul, the choice became clear.

He removed his mask and revealed to her the hazel eyes and cherub cheeks he concealed. It only agitated her further to see the man- barely a man- that would become Zodiark’s heart.

“I will not sit by and align myself with this madness. I will not associate myself with the end of our very star. If the Convocation should move forward with the proposal to summon this dark primal…I will resign.”

His tears burned in his eyes, and he wiped them away with his hands. “Don’t do this, Azem!” he sobbed, “Don’t make me choose between my loved ones and my world!”

“I chose my world when I argued against the summoning. Your loved ones are in this world, Elidibus.”

“Don’t you see I have no choice?!”

“You have a choice, Elidibus, and I beg you to make the right one!”

“I will not forsake my duty, Azem!”

There, the line was drawn in fire. Azem and Elidibus stood on opposite sides of it, and watched the past burn.

She turned her back to him and replaced her mask on her face.

“Then it would appear our business is concluded”, she stated coldly.

The door opened and closed. The rustle of her robe as she stormed out was the last thing he heard before he sunk his head into his arms as they crossed on his desk and cried softly into them. The salt water stained his desk.

The memories flashed too quickly for Dia to keep up, but the last memory was clear; Azem clutched a white robe and red mask, and wept into the cloth.

********

The tug of the past released itself from Dia’s soul and she returned to Emet-Selch’s paradise.

“It would appear the burden of Azem has unveiled itself to you.”

Dia jerked her head to her right and met her gaze with Hythlodaeus.

“Hello, my new old friend.” She couldn’t help but smile. “Hello to you, Hythlodaeus. How are you?”

“I am well. Forgive me for startling you; I was merely curious as to how the stone fares with you, and if it grants you the wisdom I had hoped it would.”

She let out a light laugh. “Yes and no.”

The amaurotine hummed. “Helios was capable of balancing her impulsive nature with implacable wisdom. This made her a great fit for the seat of Azem along with her combat prowess. Perhaps this was why Hades loved her so; his impulsiveness rivaled hers, thus do I find myself at the bottom of the sea.”

“You know where we are?”

“It’s difficult not to draw conclusions when fish people occasionally wander in.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Did you know Elidibus, Hythlodaeus?”

“Not as well as I knew dear Hades, but I knew him. Helios loved inviting him over for drinks, the occasional card game, and park outing. He followed Helios like a lost puppy, and it drove Hades crazy.” Dia laughed at his recollection. Hythlodaeus turned his head to face the ground in front of him.

“When Elidibus sacrificed himself, she lost more than just him. Hades was also corrupted to Zodiark’s influence to the point where he never appeared in the apartment again. She knew only sorrow, and I could only be of such comfort.” He moved his gaze to hers.

“Dia, I barely know you, yet I can see you’ve suffered great loss and sacrifice. I can only hope you can keep those you hold dear. I can only hope that you will live a happy life. Most of all, I can only hope that those who find you dear shall keep you close. Already do I find myself holding you dear…both of you.”

“What?”

“I speak of the other piece of you that resides within; a strange thing, it is. He’s not rejoined with your soul, yet he’s perfectly aligned with it”, Hythlodaeus explained.

“Oh good, it can see me. Just the thing to give me nightmares”, complained Ardbert.

“He need not fear. Much like Hades, I am gifted with the ability to see souls. I mean no harm.” Dia couldn’t help but find herself amused at his squeamishness with the amaurotines.

“I see. Thank you, Hythlodaeus.” She rose from the park bench. “As a matter of fact, I need to tend to the ones I hold dear now.”

“Of course. May we cross paths again soon, my new old friend.”

She nodded with a bright smile and prepared Teleport.

“Thank the gods we’re leaving”, praised Ardbert.

Cram it, she whispered.

***********

The night sky glazed over the Source. It was 10pm and Dia only just left the Syrcus Trench. She called upon her black chocobo to carry her to the Rising Stones. The doors flung open at her command and she walked past them with what confidence she could muster.

“Ah, Dia, I expected you to be in Ishgard. Is aught amiss?” greeted Alphinaud. He sat at a table near the bar alongside Alisaie and G’raha with a deck of Triple Triad cards.

“Oh, uh, well, I had hoped to speak with you in private, but if you’re busy…”

“Nonsense. I’m happy to make time for you. That said, must it be in private?”

She thought about it for a moment. “I mean…I guess it’s not anything particularly sensitive…”

“Anything you can say to Alphinaud, you can say to me”, Alisaie added.

“As well as I”, G’raha chimed in.

She didn’t expect an audience, but she was presented with little choice.

“Very well”, Dia took in a big breath through her nose and let it out through mouth. “I just want to say…I want you to be okay, Alphinaud.”

His eyebrows furled in confusion.

“Sixteen summers is far too young to be dealing with any of this. Hells, when I lost my fathers to the Calamity, I could barely keep myself together and I was twenty-five.”

“You lost your fathers to the Calamity?” G’raha asked.

This shocked the other two as well. For as long as they’ve known her, they knew surprisingly little of her past before she joined the Scions.

“It’s not the point. My point is, you have experienced so much loss, and pain, and betrayal. The people you’ve lost, the things you’ve seen; no one your age should be subjected to such things, and yet you are, and yet you grow stronger for it. I want you know that I see you, Alphinaud. I see you and I am so proud of you. But I don’t want you to bear it by yourself.”

Alphinaud wiped his building tears away with his sleeve. “I don’t bear it alone”, he explained, “I never have. I’ve had you. You’ve been my beacon when the light of the dawn grows dim. You’ve been an anchor to keep me aweigh where I would find myself adrift. We’ve shared these burdens together, and I promise, wherever we go, we will always share them.” She couldn’t help, but drop down and wrap the young one into her arms. The other two rose from their seats and piled themselves onto the pair. Dia and Alphinaud released the floodgates onto each others shoulders, quietly sniffling.

“We fight together. These burdens shall be lifted by all of us”, said G’raha, “Come what may, we need not fight alone.”

“Dia, in the past, you’ve fought these battles in solitude, but our future will be shaped by all of us fighting at your side.”

They enjoyed this rare moment of closeness together. Dia’s not one for sentimentality, but she couldn’t stop herself. She wanted him to know.

Elidibus, I’m sorry you were led to make such a decision and that Azem couldn’t be there. That you should bear the burden of the ancient world at such a young age is a tragedy no one should experience. But I will make it right with this one.

This one will not walk alone.

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