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ultralightpoe · 8 months

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Spellbound Part 2 - Geralt of Rivia

Authors Note: Sorry it took so long, I just really had no clue how to do the first part justice

Word Count: 3,876

Warnings: reader is a brothel worker

Description:Part two to the first. FIRST PART HERE

Enjoy!

There were many times in Geralt's life where he felt an undeniable rage, and there were many times that he let that rage affect him until he was forced to suffer the consequences of all his actions. He had learned over the years that there were ways of handling his rage, there were ways of dealing with sadness and pain.

He had been through so much, and yet he stood, and he always told himself that it would be worth it. Soon enough he would find something that would make it all worth it, and he had found that in you.

Your soul matched his in a way he never thought possible, and though you didn’t have the same physical scars you had both been through more than you can imagine. And he always found himself gravitating to you, the one person in the world that he felt never judged or expected anything from him.

Sure, he obviously did not know how to deal with this. He never knew how to talk to you, what to say and when to say it, and he really did not know how to seem casual just as Jaskier always could. Not to mention he was constantly worried about losing you. He felt like a flame, loving something so much and trying to engulf it into warmth only for it to burn and vanish.

You had been through so much, he never wanted you to burn and he couldn’t imagine a life without you.

So, even if he couldn’t show emotion or manage to properly show his love, he allowed Jaskier to grow close to you. Geralt made sure that you were physically safe, warm and fed. It was the least he could do.

He never wanted to leave you wanting for anything, and he desperately tried to find ways to show you yet nothing ever worked.

But then you were his, for one small moment he had you and he felt as though everything was worth it again. He would burn the world down for you, slay any monster and batter any mortal. It was all yours for the taking…

Until you burned.

How ironic, how hard he fought to keep you at arms length only to lose the battle in a split moment, and be proven right just like that.

Now you were gone.

He knew exactly where you were, had already tried to get you, only to be stopped at the door each time. Each time he was stopped he wanted to crush their skulls, storm up to wherever they were keeping you and try to explain.

He would drag you out the door himself just to make sure you never had to do this again. But there were laws, as well as contracts. He would never be allowed to see you unless he could pay the fee, and you would never be allowed to leave unless you could buy out your contract.

If he managed to get to you and help you escape there would still be the hassle of everyone hunting you down, and word spreads from town to town quickly when it comes to Witchers.

“How much?” He growls, keeping his eyes narrowed in on the older woman before him, watching her lean back on her chair and fix her dress. She was unlike any other brothel owner he had come across, the others always had a protective notion for the girls. This one seemed vindictive in every word she spoke.

“Witcher, I have told ye the last 4 times ye have been here that she is not for sale.” She laughs, reaching a foot out to kick the pouch of gold he had laid on the table in front of her. Her dress rides up exposing a very scarred leg, and his stomach tightens at the atrocities you must be going through with this hag and any man she rented you out to. “Y/n is the emerald of all brothels, before she came upon mine she was already widely known for her beauty, not to mention her time with the Witcher? Men are practically killing themselves to have a moment with her. I stand to make more keeping her than I ever would selling her back to you.”

“Her contract-”

“Has another 4 years under my roof. By the end of that I could be far far away from this continent. Don’t you understand?” She leans forward, knocking the satchels down and watching all the gold pieces fall on the ground.

That had been 4 months work, 4 months of Geralt working himself to the bone and saving up in a chance to save you. He hadn’t eaten properly or slept more than 2 hours a night in that span of time.

Images flash through his mind, him ringing this wenches neck in or slamming her head into the fire. Maybe he could slice her head off in one clean motion.

But he doesn’t, because he understands the consequences. So he bites his tongue and stands straighter. “I just want to see her-”

“Then you pay, just as everyone else.” The Madame sneers, leaning across the table. “I don’t give a fuck if you love her witcher, though I don’t believe you are even capable of that, my rules stay the same. You want to see her then you pay for her time.”

He leans forward, smirking a bit when her attitude drops in fear for a moment, before tilting his head. “Then how fucking much?”

“I really do not believe you were worth 230 gold pieces-” Lord Servail huffs, struggling to shove himself back into his trousers. You struggled not to roll your eyes as you sat up, pulling the sheet to cover yourself and looking at the floorboards of the raggedy room.

You had learned that the men of this village did not like to be watched, most of them married and most of them carrying guilt. You had merely assumed Lord Servail to be the same.

“Have you nothing to say, whore?” He bellows, walking across the room to grab at your chin. A moment of panic sinks in, one hand holding the sheet tight while the other grabs at his wrist in an attempt to free yourself.

“I do not understand what you mean, sir-”

“You are boring! You just laid there like a fucking corpse-”

“That didn’t seem to stop you from finishing within a minute-” The slap sounds out and for a second you wonder what he hit, then you open your eyes and feel the stinging on your cheek to realize it had been you.

A bitter laugh slips past your lips as you taste the iron.

Blood trails down past your lips as tears spring up in your eyes, the sheets under you stained and ripped from the past month. You think of Geralt in this moment, wishing that you were near him even if he ignored you.

There had always been a calming factor to the witcher that you never understood, maybe it was a feeling of safety or maybe you just liked that he never showed much anger. He took anything that affected him and made a rational judgment.

He was a man of trust, and he had never let anything harm you. Sure he yelled at you when he thought you stupid, and made condescending remarks, but you never felt as though he would lay a hand on you.

“Is that all?” You sniffle, reaching a hand up to stop the blood as he steps back. The man stares at you before yelling out and storming out of the room, shirt untied as well as the trousers. You hear him yelling at your Madame before he leaves and you move over to the basin in the corner to clean yourself off.

You clean your nose before moving to clean your legs, letting the tears fall freely as you hear her heels come down the hall.

“You’ve just cost yerself yer pay, I’ll tell you that much.” Madame snaps, the door swinging hard enough to make the wall shake as she marches in. “I told ye that Lord Servail was a valued client and you-”

“Smiled pretty and let him cum. He really didn’t complain much until it came time to pay.” You snark, watching her face pull up. “Have I any news? Anyone come to see me?”

It had been a month, and you had kept hoping that maybe Geralt or Jaskier would come to see you. At least try to get you back, but nothing. No letters, no visits, nothing.

“Yer Witcher isn’t comin for ya’. So I suggest you fix yerself up and get back to work.” The Madame snarls, tossing the silk robe at you before storming back out.

That lonely feeling that clung to you the day you left never seemed to fade, it folds in around you now as you pull into yourself. Knees hugged to your chest as you hide your face and cry.

Truly what did you expect? That he would come pounding on the door? Try to save you? The salty taste of the tears mixes in with the iron as you sob. You had been foolish, so very foolish.

Geralt must be at least 6 towns away by now, barely even thinking of you.

“I am terribly sorry to inform ye, Witcher, that my emerald is stacked up for the next week and a half.”

“Bullshit.”

She snarls at him, standing quickly and snatching a heavy book from the desk behind her before slamming it on the table. “Take a fucking look then.”

He doesn’t waste a moment, snapping through the pages one by one until he reaches your ledgers. Your handwriting is at the top, neat and clean from the ink, dated that day you dashed from the tavern.

The very same day he had raced over here to see you.

The day after he had you in his arms.

The memory of it flashes through him, the way he snatched you like a caveman. He tries to reason with himself that he believed it to be consensual, that he hadn’t realized you were under a spell. But it didn’t matter.

He treated you in a way he swore to himself he never would, and he made you so uncomfortable that you ran.

Bile rises in his throat as embarrassment and guilt claw through him, he snaps through your pages to see dozens of signatures on each page. “You have her seeing twelve clients each day?”

“This is a busin-”

“Is she eating enough? Sleeping enough? Are you giving her proper time to rest?”

“I’m not a fucking babysitter-”

“If you are abusing your contract then she has a right to leave!”

She stares at him, watching for a moment with wide eyes as her cheeks go red. Then she fixes herself, clearing her throat before shouting out loud. “BOYS!” He doesn’t fight it as they grab both of his arms, instead he lets them carry him to the door and throw him to the mud below.

“Guessing she didn’t take it?” Jaskier asks, watching Geralt pick himself up, checking to make sure he still had the satchel of gold. “Surprise surprise.”

All Geralt could do at this point was grunt, moving towards Roach as the barb fixes his coat.

“I have another job, heard whispers of a screaming creature in the woods not far off from here. Figured you’d want to go out and make more gold so we can do this all again over and over and over.”

“She’s overworking her, I just know it. Not enough time to eat or sleep-”

“Geralt, as much as I love Y/n, I think we need to….evaluate our current situation.”

“I NEED TO -”

“Get to her. I know. I’m not saying anything otherwise. I just want you to think about whether you want her to see you like this.”

“I want to see her safe.”

“And Y/n would want the same of you. Besides, we obviously have no power against the brothel system.”

“I have fought countless beasts-”

“And I am still your only friend. It’s time you admit it Witcher, humans aren’t your best expertise.”

If this was any other moment Geralt would ignore him, hop onto Roach and pretend the worm didn’t exist. But he was tired, so tired he truly didn’t think he could even climb onto the horse.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“First? Sleep. Then? We find an outside source.”

Two months in and winter had finally come.

You found yourself huddling together with Snae, a brothel worker that had been here a little longer than you, but hadn’t been that much older. This had been the first night you both had off this entire time, and it hadn’t been a purposeful thing.

There had been a ball in the village, apparently a beast had been slaughtered and most of the nobles and rich men left in their carriages far away. Which meant you were free to huddle close to your friend for warmth as you tried to fight off the winter air.

“I imagined this brothel warmer.” She sniffles, pressing her forehead to your arm as you shiver. “I was told this was one of the best-”

“It is….. To their guests.” You laugh, tired and aching. Honestly you could barely move, and you hadn’t managed to make it at dinner hour since you had been with a client. But Snae was nice enough to sneak you in a roll of bread.

“I want to get out of here.” She admits in a quick breath, and you can’t help but smile at the admission.

You had often imagined ways you would escape, but the truth was you had nowhere to go and no one to leave for. What would you have if you left here? Nothing.

So instead you close your eyes, and lean into her as you whisper. “Where would you go?”

“Home. To find my sister.”

“You have a family?”

“A little sister, it’s why I am here. I wanted to make sure she had something to pay for food.” Something tears at your chest, and within a moment you think of a plan.

“Then let’s get you out of here.”

It takes a mere 30 minutes to pack her a travel pack using a sheet from the bed, rushing to your room to pick up the floorboard where you keep the little pay you make, 10 silver coins. Tossing them in her satchel before tiptoeing to the attic where the largest window was.

“Shhh.” You whisper when she slips, the wood beneath her scraping under her shoe. Helping her stand before moving to the window. Unlatching it was easy, the winter air covering both of you in a moment. “You swill slide from this section to the next. Until you make it to that tree.”

“You go first.”

“I am not coming.” You laugh, clearing some of the snow from the sill.

“You must.”

“No, I have nothing. Besides, one of us needs to stay and give you time.”

“Y/n-”

“If she begins hunting you then go and find the witcher. Do you hear me?”

“He wouldn’t help someone like me.” She laughs, and you merely stare at her.

“I think you would be surprised of just how good of a person the Witcher is, though he likes to pretend he is not.”

“What should I say to him if I must find him?”

“That the Geralt I know would keep you safe. Now go.”

You help her climb up the sill and onto the roof, watching her slide down in the flimsy robe Madame forces you to wear and make sure she makes it to the tree safely before closing the window.

You allow yourself one moment to press your forehead against the cold glass of it, your breath hitting the glass to form a smudge. You imagine escaping yourself, maybe going out to find Jaskier.

But that was unrealistic.

And you were obviously unwanted.

“Please, it’s very important-” A strong female voice fills the air as Geralt breathes in the scent of roast and ale. There was also smoke from the fires but he was far too hungry to admire that scent on it’s own. “They said that he was here and-”

“First round of ale on me.” Jaskier sings out, moving to the counter as Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier was carrying his gold sack so truly the first round was on him.

He was six villages away from you right now, landing at a cheap tavern for the night before they set up camp. They were here to listen for jobs.

The plan, as terrible as it was, had been to travel to find Yennefer and along the way they would earn some extra gold. That way when they go they can send the witch in to make the deal, or at least pretend to make the deal as she can try to sneak you out.

It was a terrible plan……. Because it was Jaskiers plan.

“Please, I need to find the witcher.” That draws Geralt's attention away from the hearth he had been glaring into, head whipping to spot the young woman clutching the shoulders of a little girl as she begs the man once more. “If you could just tell me where he would be staying-”

“Witchers aren’t allowed in the fucking taverns here, so shut yer trap before I put it to work-.” Before Geralt could stop himself his hand is shooting out, catching the man by the back of the neck. At his movement the hood he had been wearing falls and the people around him all quiet down.

The womens eyes fall to him, widening. “You are just as Y/n described.”

Something tightens in his chest at the mention of your name, and he finds himself nodding to Jaskier to lead the girl outside. The air hits him, the warmth gone but there was nothing that would hinder him from the conversation.

“You know Y/n?” His voice is rough, the heat traveling his skin hiding him from the cold. The woman's eyes are filled with tears and the young girl is shoving her face in the smallest scrap of dress he had seen, so in one quick moment he rips his hood off to hand to them. “Is that what you wear in this cold?” “Please, I… I’m from the same brothel as Y/n and she helped me escape. All my money has gone to keeping my sister warm….. Y/n said that you would help. She said the Geralt she knew would help.”

“Where is she?” His heart is thundering through his ribcage at this point, and he can see Jaskier emerging from the tavern. “Did she make it-”

“She didn’t come.”

“Why?”

“Probably scared she wouldn’t make it out. Or might believe she is all alone and has nothing to escape for.” The feminine voice makes Geralt jump through his skin. Suddenly she is there, smelling of smoke and lavender.

“Yennefer.” Jaskier gasps, but Geralt hadn’t needed him to let him know.

“Tell me, Geralt of Rivia, about the woman who broke the witcher.”

You were no longer tired at this point, truly you were nothing.

You didn’t speak, missed more meal times than not from being stuck with clients and at this point you didn’t seem to care. You were just breathing, and that was as much energy as you can muster.

Three months into this place had truly broken you.

Yennefer thought this place smelled of urine and death, and though she respected the females brave enough to work here she had absolutely no fucking clue why any man would risk stepping in here.

One look at the young girl passing her with a bruise on her cheek told her all she needed to know. The men that came here didn’t care about anything but getting themselves wet and letting off some steam.

“I have a room upstairs, I charge 50 a month in rent, half your earnings are to the house and the rest belong to you.” A voice sounds out, drawing Yennerfers attention away from the young girl with the bruise, back to the raggedy woman sitting at the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“I have a room for ye-”

“I’m not here for a room. I’m here for a girl.”

“Really?”

Yennefer slaps 2 gold coins onto the counter, a smirk crossing her face as the woman's eyes widen in greed. “I was told you had an emerald here.”

“You’re here for Y/n….only problem there is it’s double for her time.” Yennefer sighs, taking out one more coin and slapping it down. “I said double.”

“And I am willing to go and tell the town that your girls are sick.”

“What do you want with Y/n?”

“I figured you wouldn’t need me to explain how your business works but if you need a lesson in fucking then you would have to pay ME double.”

“She is in the top room. Don’t bother knocking.” And just like that Yennefer is moving, picking up her skirts to walk up the steps, trying not to breathe in the smells as she reaches your room.

Just as the brothel worker said she doesn’t bother knocking, and it was clear why when she walked in.

The beauty Geralt had described last night was still there, just one look and even Yennefer was nearly at a loss for words. But the spark, the light of you was gone. You stared at the wall before you, empty and gone.

“Y/n?” She calls, closing the door behind her. “Y/n…”

“I can’t….she said I’d have a day.” You sob, pulling into yourself.

“You’ll have more than a day, I can promise that.” Yennefer smiles, moving closer slowly. “Your witcher has sent me.”

“My witcher?” There it was, some of that spark. “He’s gonna be mad at me.”

“Now that I can swear on. Come.”

Geralt stood pacing back and forth on the pathway as he waited for Yennefers portal to open, his heart in his throat and his eyes glued to the space before him.

Jaskier waited at the inn they had found with the girl you had saved, Snae. But for now it would just be him waiting for Yennefer, far enough from the town that they would have a head start if anyone went looking for you whilst the rest would cause a stir and send them on a chase.

They had learned from Snae that Madame had sent a bounty out on her, so Geralt could only imagine what she would do to you. ‘Her emerald’.

Then it was there, forming like a cloud at first until it got bigger and bigger until it began showing like a mirror.

Then Yennefers hand came through and Geralt found himself launching forward as she stepped through, both arms wrapped around…..you.

He was there, his hands on you as soon as he could, keeping you upright as Yennefer lets go. “Y/n.”

“Please don’t be mad.” You whisper.

“What has she done to you…..”

Part 3 on October 30th

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

"Don't trust me?" "I don't even know you—" His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff. "Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we, love?"

》 WARNINGS: allusions to political corruption, mild horror (maybe??), mentions of death and murder; more banter in a pub; Price has a past

》 WORD COUNT: 8K

》 NOTES: This was originally much longer but the second part delves heavily into the mechanics of the world (we FINALLY see MC—I'm not good at creative nicknames—go into the underground/black market and it is like, a Thing!!!!) and it felt like a bit of an overload with soooo much being revealed at once. So, I split them up. More Reader x Price in a pub. Bantering. Because, ummm, I’m so goddamn creative, lads.

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS : NEXT

Makarov's outburst clots in the fibrils of your still reeling mind, replaying in an incessant loop that keeps you up into the early morning hours, unable to sleep.

Each time you close your eyes, you see the unavoidable truth in blood looming before you. Inner Circle. Inescapable.

All this time, you'd been under some false assumption that Makarov was the sole lender to whatever medical intervention was needed to bring you back from the clutch of death. It would make things easier.

People die every day.

It was the macabre ideal you clung to, digging into the notion until your nails cracked and bled. The only constant in your life that brought some semblance of hope.

After all, the dead can't collect any debts.

But a corporate entity can.

You're pulled out of your reverie when the sound of a news alert fills the silence of your penthouse. The screen flickers to life at the apex of dawn, just when the indigo sky above splits into a varicoloured smear of pastel pink, ochre, and lavender. The looming horizon—sun a hazy flaxen—swallows the tenebrous that gnaws on the skyscape outside of your window.

The vacuum fills the familiar jingle of your normal routine. A man sits behind a podium. The chyron below warns of a biblical rainstorm approaching, enough—

"—to wash the whole city away," the newscaster jokes as he jogs the stack of papers in front of him. A bead of sweat catches in the flushed light of the newsroom. The implants on his cheekbones flash; the chromatophore upgrade in his sleek skin shifting in a kaleidoscope of colour. "It comes at a good time, though, as reports of sickness are spreading through the medical bays. It must be flu season—," he titters before shifting his attention over to a man on the other half of the screen.

He wears a black poncho and a wide grin.

"A flu?" He echoes, the words swallowed by the passersby in the city square. The jumbotrons in the back bath him in a hazy, neon smear. "In this economy?"

They chatter in the background about a sickness spreading through the city, the storm looming closer, Atlas Corporation putting in a series of patents for some big, technological feat of engineering—Four Horseman has some steep competition this year! Atlas is the up-and-coming tech company that has new, innovative ideas and a focus on the environment!

It's the only mention of Four Horsemen Corp.

It doesn't surprise you.

Money is a powerful tool. Those who weren't already in their back pocket were quickly added, and those who couldn't be paid off were—

Enticed.

Whatever Anatoly—his primary enforcer—couldn't do, an encrypted file deep in Makarov's secured vault filled the gap.

The White Horse is a multifaceted venture. On its surface, a luxury club that caters to a specific clientele. Its exclusivity makes it desirable. People fall over themselves just for the chance to enter. The prestige alone from saying, "I've gotten an invitation," is worth more than money in the circle of the upper echelon. It's elusive. Draped in mystique.

Coveted.

They want to get in so bad, just for the sole purpose of throwing their weight around and saying they've been, that they don't stop and think about the potential dangers that lurk.

After all, a club funded by the Inner Circle and owned by Makarov—the White Horse—could hardly be dangerous.

It's not the club they have to worry about but the man who owns it. The one who has people in high positions of power froth at the mouth for a chance to attend.

It is impossible to convince a man with millions to risk his neck for someone else.

But blackmail does the trick.

From the utter silence of the media regarding this, barring a few fringe sites that are too small to bother with, you'd wager that your hard work was utilised now more than ever before.

"—pull out your umbrellas, because—"

You reach out, pressing the power key. It clicks off. The hologram darkens to sleek black.

Your face stares back at you, shaded in tenebrous. Empty. Vacant. Sometimes, you try to piece together what you might have looked like as a child, but all that surfaces is a void. Nothingness.

It isn't a mental block, but an absence of everything. Anything. A gaping hole.

You think of the missing man—Alex Keller—and something rotten gnarls between empty ribs.

Six days.

Three years.

You wonder if anyone is still looking for you now. If your face is plastered on the communication poles on some distant planet. If the uncanny likeness of you is whispered in a neighbourhood in Al Mazrah where your family mourns. Or if there is now an empty spot at a dinner table that will never be filled.

You doubt it.

Nothing ever appears in the searches. No one ever stops you when you wander down the streets, and belts out an unfamiliar name. The closest you'd come to some sense of recognition was that man. The closest you'd come to thinking finally, finally, someone knew you.

But he didn't. Doesn't.

He isn't combing the shady side of down for you, but for Alex. A missing man who's been gone for six days—long enough for the man to tear through the redlight district and force your hand to aid him in finding out where Alex had gone.

(You wonder if someone fought that hard for you.)

Ugly. Stupid.

No one is looking. Makarov assured you of this when you asked him.

You're a nobody, kitten. A stray. I picked you up off the streets and brought you back. You want your family? Well, all you have is me. Ain't that swell, kitten? What more could something like you ever hope for?

Worthless.

You're caged up like an exotic bird. A toy to be kept on the highest shelf until it's needed.

A pet. A plaything.

But Makarov's reach is everpresent. His eyes are everywhere.

You can run, and run, and run—

You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me.

—and he'll always find you.

You have this recurring nightmare that started a year into waking up.

Makarov's idea of avoiding the hassle of you constantly asking questions about the unfamiliar world around you was to just preemptively teach you about it all. In a single session.

Despite the hesitation from the man administering the chip that would flood your mind with knowledge of the world, he pushed for it. And really—who is going to stand up to a man who not only pays their bills, but funds a vast majority of the country?

Against all codes of ethics, you were given the chip.

There is no way of describing the pain of suddenly knowing, but it left a mental scar on your psyche, one that is fundamentally irreparable. A bruise that's always there. A sore spot in your mind as it slowly heals itself from the aftermath of information overload.

But in that knowledge, came the awakening of something else.

Something that the man touched on briefly. Your lack of implants. Cybernetics. The flesh on your body is unblemished by technology, save for a small port where your spine meets your skull. It's always been there. You woke up with it.

It is covered by a layer of tissue meant to keep debris from getting in, and most days you forget about it's existence entirely.

Until, of course, days like these.

When you remember a piece of that overwhelming puzzle that was forced into your head. Artificial intelligence. Androids.

Project Sentience.

It's now considered a cruel, awful experiment conducted by the forefathers who founded the technological epoch that bloomed, by many accounts, out of control and transformed life within a few, short decades.

The project was started with good intentions. They meant to mind the gap between the limits of knowledge and erase the blemish of human error. Where they dreamed up the impossible, the AIs were meant to fill in the missing holes in the theorems and puzzles.

Working, together, for a better future.

But there was an unseen flaw.

The sentience wasn't foolproof. The android working with the engineers thought themselves to be exactly what they were: human.

It was then that project commenced in secrecy. They led the androids to believe they were real, flesh and bone, but when the flawed aspect of the human ego (a byproduct of their tweaked code to mimic the behaviours of humans to seem more passably real) led them to declare themselves the greatest engineers of all time, it was then that human engineers made it known what they were.

It wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if they were just confined to the lab. But they weren't. They were meant to be human, and so—

They led human lives. Love, dislike. Heartbreak. Some had gotten married. Some had lobbied against AI agency.

All had thought they were human.

The ripping of the veil was a nasty one.

Their partners were ostracised. Lives ruined. Their agency was taken away from them in fear of an insurgence from the androids who were now feeling the distinctly human emotion of abject horror.

Everything they knew was culled overnight over something so disgustingly simple as human envy.

It was deemed too cruel to continue. Public outcry made it so that any android made with sentience was told they were artificial, and treated as such.

The lawing of this pulled people in different directions. Subservience. Superiority. Purist.

You think of that experiment, and then of the many markers left behind that give someone an advanced understanding of their anti-humanism. The first, naturally, being a lack of noticeable enhancements. Why would something made to be perfect need an upgrade or an implant when they can just be designed with that specific feature?

The second is a sudden awakening into cognisance.

An emptiness. Nothing. And then—

They're awake.

You think of that as you stare at yourself in the mirror, but it passes just as quickly as it came. Your attention was stolen away by flickering light overhead.

They warned of an oncoming storm, didn't they?

It draws your eye, and you watch the light recede in small bursts as it struggles through the power surge of the grid. It's a common sight. Static in the air. The taste of rain.

You've always been more attuned to the change in the weather, almost as if you could feel the building of kinetic energy buzzing across your flesh.

From the prickling goosebumps ghosting over your skin, you know it'll be a bad one. Biblical, they said.

You turn back, mind blank, sluggish. It's weird. All of this is—

The face in the mirror is not your own.

Well. No. No, it is. It's—

You.

But—

Your flesh drips. Raindrops of flesh slide down your cheeks, dripping into the porcelain basin of the sink where it hits the ceramic with a sickening splat.

(Pat, pat, pat—)

It doesn't hurt. You don't feel anything. Nothing, nothing at all—

And you should, shouldn't you? Agony over the slippage of skin falling off of your face in wet flakes until the smooth curve of metal is shown—

Metal.

Your chin dips. A mass breaks away, the ruination of Pangea, and falls into the basin with the rest until sleek gunmetal remains. Wires crossed, connected. You feel—

Nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.

Where terror should brim, you're empty. A vacuum.

(Made in his image.)

You force yourself to reel back, to fling away from the thing staring at you—the thing that can't be you, can't be, can't be, can't be—until you trip. Until you fall to the ground with a thud that you can only hear but not feel.

You know you're sitting down on the solid ground because you can feel the physical weight of gravity pushing against you, and meeting a barrier in the middle. Something stops it from sending you down, down, down.

The floor. Your fingers dig into the marble. The whine of metal across flat, recrystallised limestone meet your ears, but the breaking of your nails causes you no pain. No blood, either. Nothing. The uncapped tips of your carbon fingers leave scratches on the polished surface.

He'll kill you, you think, mechanical and distant. You ruined his floor.

It doesn't hit you the way it should. It doesn't do much of anything.

It feels like you're floating. Suspended. You can't feel the ground, or the floor, or the wall against your back. All that filters in is the knowledge that you are on a stable foundation, and not caught in a free fall.

You catch sight of yourself in the brass handle of the door.

A metal face stares back at you.

You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

A blink back into wakefulness, and you're in your bed. The mattress is soft beneath your feverish body, the sheets saturated in your sweat. They cling to your skin, trapping you. You feel the weight of gravity. The solid frame of the bed keeps you up.

Your hands fly to your face, nails scratching against your skin.

—Skin. Skin.

It takes hours to calm down, and days to shake the terror of looking into a mirror.

You sit, huddled in your room, and wonder if maybe all the signs were there.

Sometimes you wish that if Makarov had really, truly, made you from scratch, he would have given you solid gold plates for skin, and diamonds for bones, so at least every pound of flesh would be worth something.

(Worthless.

You are—)

Your loyalty to Makarov is a tenuous thread, one frayed and knotted from the inherent sense of ownership he lays on you. An obligation of recompense for saving your life—something you'd never asked of him.

And so, it doesn't really feel like much of a surprise when you pull the rim of your hood low over your brow, tug your mask high up the bridge of your nose, and sneak past your guard for the evening to meet him instead.

The place he picked is known as Industrial City—so aptly named for its abundance of postmodern buildings from somewhere in the mid-to-late twenty-first century. The crumbling ruins of an archaic homage to humanity's progress now sit abandoned in a cluster of rotting steel, cracked concrete, and mouldering asbestos.

It's a haven for small-time gangs, and at one point, was thought to be the hideout of a notorious Purist leader who tried to sever the dependence on technology, and plunge the world back into a natural darkness.

(He got as far as snipping a single wire from the Grid before he was detained for terrorism.)

Bathed in an inky black, and void of the artificial neon smear of lights and LEDs, it looks almost haunting in the indigo gloam. A graveyard of the past.

There's a prevalent feeling of unwelcomeness simmering low in the air around the abandoned buildings, one that grows ever-potent as you wander past it, and down the overgrown path leading to an old warehouse on the opposite side.

Tension thickens the air. You feel it clot in your lungs. An uncanny sensation of being watched. Hunted. Your eyes skirt the row of crumbling industrial buildings, peering into the black voids of the smashed windows. Jagged cuts of glass, opaque from a thick layer of dust, grime, and the inevitable decay passage of time brings, gleam in the pale light of the moon suspended in the aether.

It's dark. Uncannily so.

The only light illuminating your path is the jaundiced glow of the moon and the buoyant flicker of the shuttles docking on the station. An infinitesimal dot against Tycho's vast, grey dip. Barely enough to make a difference in a place that leaks a palpable sense of unwelcomeness from the tenebrous surrounding you.

Something shifts in your periphery. Your eyes dart to a third-story window of a vacant building.

The stark, unfathomable blackness gives nothing away but you still feel the unmistakable sense of something, someone, glaring back into your eyes. Eye contact from the void.

Your gaze drops to the underbrush.

The static in the air grazes your skin. You're being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

In the furze, you make out a depression in the dirt. Oval-shaped. Plain.

It's a footprint.

It rained all morning—a small appetiser to the biblical flood they promised: a looming thundercloud inched closer to the city each day—but the print in the wet ground was undisturbed. Fresh.

Above it, you find another. And another. Another. Until it disappears between a bottleneck of the two buildings.

The path leads you back to the broken window—to the vat of black.

The mini-gyrojet you stole from Yuri a long time ago sits heavy in the waistband of your trousers. Barely the size of your hand, and certainly less potent, but the laser is just as deadly as its parent. Comforting, almost.

Your fingers twitch. You stifle the urge to grab it, and force yourself to turn around. Back to the enemy. Stupid. You know better.

But whatever is looming in the shadows isn't a concern of yours.

(And maybe, maybe, if they did shoot you in the back, you'd know once and for all what your insides were made of.)

Stupid.

Nails bite into the soft skin of your palm leaving a crescent indent against your lifeline. The flash of pain, of discomfort, quells the knot in your stomach, the one that curls tight around your organs, and claws its way up your esophagus. Fear. Anxiety. They pollute inside of you with each step through the industrial mausoleum and toward the dilapidated building in the distance.

An old parking lot sits to your right. The cracked concrete is barely visible under the thick overgrowth that congeals around the space left behind. Nature reclaiming Her land. Against the hazy ochre smear in the distant horizon, slowly being consumed by the vat of indigo that follows swiftly behind it, the tangled vines of emerald green look ethereal in the gloam.

It's a vivid glimpse into the past when this place meant something to the people who ventured here. Office buildings. A parking lot where archaic vehicles using gasoline to run once sat, wheels on the concrete. Feet on the ground. They wandered to the buildings—just another cog in the machine.

You wonder sometimes what they would think if they could see the world today. The broken line between fantasy and reality where slipping a chip into their brain stem could create a gap in time, one that lets them wander through any period of history, any memory inside their head.

They called it virtual reality.

Another plane of existence they hadn't the technology to exploit fully. A digital dimension that lingered between the layered worlds.

Some live inside that realm exclusively, refusing to risk themselves in the physical plane where an errant jet could end their lives.

It's a strange juxtaposition from that to this. Where the graffiti that stains the crumbling ashlar is now considered with reverence to this world as a handprint in a cave was to that one.

A noise echoes through the vacant lot. The sound of a cut-off shout. Your eyes dart to the left, taking in the sight of two men standing outside of a Burger Town, jostling each other over the last jetbike parked in the charging dock.

Inside the restaurant, a man leans against the tinted glass, cigarette in his hand, watching the same tousle as you. Under the flickering neon sign, his lips quirk up in amusement when one of the men loses their balance, tumbling to the pavement.

It's another odd juxtaposition. A rotting graveyard of the past, some buildings salvaged and converted into a strange array of low-brow pubs, and—

Neon lips open, a pink tongue glides over the plump line of red before disappearing into a closed-mouth smile. It repeats.

—a pseudo redlight district for those who can't afford the rent on the main boardwalk.

The graffiti on the wall of the building is faded. The paint peeling, and weathered from the passage of elements. But you can still make out the shape of a yellow dick on the wall.

Bars. Fast-food. Sex. Testosterone.

The world might be different, but the people certainly aren't.

You pull your hood down lower over your brow, and quickly keep moving.

The converted warehouse doesn't have any markings on the outside to identify it as a pub, and you almost miss it until your tracker chimes, indicating your arrival.

Upon first glance, it's just a long, rectangular two-storey building made of chipped burgundy brick and scattered windows, all crusted with grime until it's tinted in a thick, opaque grey.

You check the map again—just once to be sure—and send off a delayed alert with a timer set to go off an hour from now to Yuri.

If you don't turn it off before the time runs out, he'll know where to find you.

(Or whatever is left of you.)

Everything about this, in hindsight, is pretty dangerous. Meeting a man who slings accusations at your saviour, and somehow knows about you, about your debt, in a graveyard that reeks of mildew and wet concrete is something people will hear about in passing, and wish you ill in the afterlife for being so stupid.

But you're here.

The choice has been made—whether or not it's a smart one has yet to be determined.

Military. They have power. Influence. However pantomime it might be in the face of overwhelming wealth, it's still something. You thought they were all corrupted by the Inner Circle's clandestine whispers of affluence—sign here, Colonel, and we can give you armour and weapons beyond anything you'd ever seen before (just look the other way while we sell the antis to your enemies—can't let you get too powerful, after all). It seemed like they were. The parade of men and women who congregated at White Horse, or any of the other subsidiaries around the city, the world, was a testament to that.

But he seems different.

(And really, you've always had a thing for gruff men who'll disappoint you in the end.

The heartbreak always tastes sweeter when they're worth something.)

You glance down at the screen, staring at the timer as if it was your last lifeline, and hope, desperately, that you have.

Your finger lifts. The screen fades to black. The white emblem of Four Horsemen Corp., gazes, almost accusatory, back at you.

(If anything, Makarov will kill you before the man has any chance of breaking your heart.)

Turning back now is forfeiture, weakness.

And you'd rather not walk through the graveyard again.

The door is made of rusted metal, and whines loud enough to echo through the barren landscape when you push it against the hinges. Muted gold leaks through the crack, spilling out onto the dirty pavement below your feet. Light catches on the motes dancing in the beam, and cuts through the murk of the falling night.

Inside, you hear the fading tune of an old song playing out its last chorus. The scrape of a mug being pulled across wood. A low murmur. And nothing else.

The normalcy of everything so far—or as normal as a strange retro pub in the middle of a mouldering neighbourhood could be—goes against the theatrics Makarov likes to pull, and you know from that alone that if this was somehow a trap, it wasn't his design.

Anatoly would be jeering at you from the very top of Makarov's tower, fingers pushing against your shoulders until you were forced further back with each question you didn't answer. All the way to the ledge, where Makarov would intervene—always wanting to play the part of a saviour—and spare you.

Just answer me this, kitten, and I'll put an end to it all.

But the moment you opened your big, stupid mouth and gave him what you wanted, he'd begin monologuing by the sidelines, pacing as he speaks, until—

Well. We can't all be heroes. Sometimes, we need to be knocked down a peg. Anatoly would move closer, oblivious to your pleading demands for leniency, and Makarov would smile, sharp and shark-like, and say, as if it pained him: or a few stories.

And you'd fall. Three hundred floors to your death.

By the time you hit the pavement, you'd be a wet puddle of mush. Unidentifiable. They'd ensure it by removing your identity chip, and anything else that would give the mess of your remains a name.

You've seen it play out enough times to know how it goes. The script might bend to fit the needs of the accused, but the plot was always the same.

Theatrical. Dramatic.

Your fingers curl into fists by your side, and find some solace in the fact that a two-floor drop probably won't kill you.

This is survivable as long as you're useful.

A new mantra is craved in the recesses of your mind. Useful. Useful.

You repeat it to yourself as you pull the door open wider, glancing in the room warily. Hesitant.

Whatever you expected, this wasn't it.

It's normal. Archaic in design.

Lanterns are strung across the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, bathing the small room in a muted gold. It complements the raw topaz colour of the wooden decor inside—herringbone floors, shiplap-covered walls, dark spruce tables and benches—and something about it all feels almost homey. Comfortable.

The size and cut of it err into intimacy or claustrophobia, and you wonder if that's why he picked it.

On the opposite side of the entrance is a dark hallway. A flickering exit sign glows softly in the gloom. Two darker doorways branch off on either side of the back door. Washrooms. You can vaguely make out the light spilling from the insignia etched into the wood.

It's flush against the rightmost wall where a series of old photographs sit, crookedly, on the panels. The images are too faded, jaundiced from time, for you to make out the shapes, but they all look human. Humanity from a bygone era. You catch sight of an old aeroplane, the vessel barely longer than the height of the man standing in front of the large propellers.

The rest of them are of people standing together near old landmarks that no longer exist.

Metals line the interior of one, kept guarded behind a new protective seal. They shine in the soft glow, and the label beneath reads: chest candy.

These are personal photos. Family heirlooms. Staring at them, struggling to make out the full shapes of the children, the men, and the women, standing around and smiling happily make you feel a touch voyeuristic. Gazing into a tomb not meant for your eyes.

You pull away from the wall, glancing at the one that sections off the washrooms from the main room. It, too, is decorated in photographs, but these ones are less personal. Images of long-gone celebrities. Artistic renditions of landscapes that evolved over the last centuries into something new, something different.

The theme of the wall is aerial. You make out old etchings of aircraft in all sizes. Commemorative pieces. Militaristic in its design.

Three booths sit flush against the wall, all made of dark wood, and each seat empty.

Against the leftmost wall is the bar itself, separated from the seating area by a long, oak countertop with six bar stools pushed up close. A mug sits, half-empty, in front of one. An empty glass in front of the other beside it. An ashtray in the middle of the two seats, filled with cigarette butts. One still burns away, wheedling down to a snubbed point.

The wall is lined with bottles. A tap behind it. At the end is another doorway which must lead to the back area. The sign above says employees only.

Near the only window in the room is where you find a solitary table with three chairs. In the seat facing you, back angled between the cut of the walls, shoulder turned to the bar, is where you find the man. Watching you.

A glass rests in front of him, half-empty. A burning cigar in an ashtray curls wisps of smoke over his face.

The implant in his eye glows sapphire blue, expanding as he reads the information in front of him. The other is darkened under the flushed light, almost black. Gazing right at you.

It's a contrast that makes you shiver.

"Made the right choice then," he says, words low as he lets them fade under the steady cadence of the song playing somewhere in the back of the bar.

It isn't much of a perfunctory greeting, but you take the opening all the same, and make your way toward him.

"That's yet to be determined."

"You're still here."

The wood is warm under your palms when you press them against the grain, shuffling into the bench across from him. Warm, and sticky.

You peel your fingers off, glancing at them warily. "Not much of a choice, though—" your eyes find him, narrowing into slits when he snorts, shaking his head at the disgust in your gaze. "What's so funny?"

He huffs and the blue light flickers out, fading into dark blue. "You," he offers as if it was obvious. The condescension bleeds from his lips when he speaks, and leaks into his clear eyes when you fold your hands into your lap. "Not the kinda place Makarov normally takes you, hmm? Ain't you spoiled."

"Makarov doesn't take me anywhere."

"That so? What? You his dirty little secret?"

Your brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin', love. Nothin' at all."

He's baiting you. The condescending draw of his voice, thick with derision, sets your teeth on edge, and makes the knots in your stomach tighten.

"Look," you start, sticky fists cleaned tight in your lap, irritating the indents in your flesh from earlier. It's enough to ground you. "I didn't come here for games. This is my head on the line, and—"

"Mine, too."

You scoff. "You started this."

"And it's my men who are out there, yeah?"

He leans forward slowly, the wrinkles in his brow deepening under the hazy glow until all you see is darkness cascading over a rucked canyon. Anger pinches at the corner of his eyes, the near snarl of his mouth.

He'd go for the jugular, you think. Sink his teeth into your flesh until a pound is ripped out, reaping his dues.

You wonder if his fury is as animalistic as the teeth he bares in anger, in warning.

"Gettin' injured, killed. Goin' missin'. Fighting a battle your men are waging."

"Makarov isn't waging anything. You don't know much about him, do you? The only thing he cares about is his stocks and his public image. Whatever you think he's doing, or he's behind, I can assure you—he isn't."

"You sound certain. What, hmm? Ain't the kinda pillow talk he likes to indulge in?"

"Pillow talk?" His words make you reel back until you're flushed against the chair, eyes widening. "I think there's a massive misunderstanding here."

He says nothing, merely opting to reach for his forgotten glass of scotch and dwindling cigar.

Pillow talk. "You think me and Makarov are—? No. No! That's—" you fight a shiver of disgust, knuckles digging into your thighs. "No. Makarov wouldn't—it's not like that. He's—"

"He's what?" He implores, resting his elbow on the countertop, cigar dangling dangerously between his lax fingers. The look in his eye is sharp, keen.

"He's my—"

You bite your tongue suddenly, stopping the familiar words from slipping out. It's the response you give when people ask what you are to Makarov—why he keeps you around on such a short leash.

My saviour.

The words have different connotations inside Makarov's sprawling skyline palace. Where his guards simply nod, in understanding, and accept your words as is, because he, too, is theirs as well. A common ground where nothing else needs to be explained as one word covers everything.

You won't find that here. Not with him. And maybe, maybe, some part of you is shying away in shame over the word. Saviour. You sound like the zealots running around proclaiming they heard god whispering to them in the grid, and felt Its holy touch when they plugged something in.

Electric, they say, reverently. Our saviour is stuck inside the machine—!

(You wonder, now, if Makarov chose that particular word on purpose, and know, immediately, that he did.)

"I owe him money. Why wouldn't he keep me around with such a staggering debt?"

Bringing it up gives you the opportunity you need to shift the conversation away from the game of Messiah and Disciples Makarov likes to play, and you knot your trembling fingers together tightly in your lap.

"Speaking of—" you huff, gaze fixed on him. Taking everything in. You might not have the same implant that he does, one that allows him access to the net in an instant, and feeds it right to his cerebrum, but you've always been good at reading people. Catching their tells. "Makarov isn't the one my debt is owed to. It's the Inner Circle. Still think you can erase it?"

He hesitates. Briefly, almost indecipherably, but you catch the dip of his cigar when his body tenses, fingers tightening too quickly on the stem. It twitches only once before he steadies it. His eyes cut to yours, impassive and unreadable, as he takes in the information you just offered.

The Inner Circle banking division was notorious for having contracts upon contracts to avoid buyouts without some hefty fee attached to make up for the lost interest.

It's a roadblock. Almost everyone you've met so far, ones with idealistic dreams of stealing you away from the clutch of Makarov, bulked at the number alone. This, this new piece of information, was bound to make him flee. Cut ties. Run.

Another hero with too much on his shoulders to bear another burden, leaving you behind to rot.

Tough luck, kid, one of them said after a three-week-long courting period that left you feeling moon swept and dizzy. Wide-eyed and jejune. Naïve little kitten, Makarov taunted the morning after you found yourself alone on the dock, bags packed, waiting for a man who'd never show. But Makarov met you there. Yuri, with sorrowful eyes, took the bags gently from your trembling hands, downcast as he murmured in your ear, you'll be okay, kitten.

Anatoly's biting laughter haunted you for months. Christ, he howled. You really thought there was a man on earth more powerful than Makarov? Damn, he swindled you good, dumbass. Was he at least a good fuck? I'd be so goddamn pissed if this happened to me and the idiot was lousy in bed.

But it was Makarov's palm against your cheek that broke you the most. The icy eyes never softened despite the coo of sympathy in his voice.

It hurts, doesn't it, kitten? Who knows if this is your first heartbreak, but I'm sure it feels like it is, doesn't it? Ahhh, You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me.

"Now about this betrayal…"

He had you locked in your flat for months, and everything iota of your time monitored in some capacity. The leash was shortened. The collar tightened.

The punishment for your betrayal came weeks after, when a package arrived at your flat. A golden box weighed down with precious gems and metals.

A holographic card popped up when you opened the package, hands shaking around the heavy box.

Makarov's voice flooded the room. What's more precious than gold and diamonds? The latch on the box clicked. You lifted the lid. At first, it didn't make sense. Your mind blanked, wiped, as you struggled to figure out what it was you were staring at.

A heart, kitten. His heart.

Then—

Horror. Stomach-churn terror.

Your hands snapped back, and the box dropped to the floor as mocking laughter met your ears, static and faded over the recording.

The still-beating heart tumbled out, connected to an array of small wires that kept it alive without a host. Without—

Your hand pressed against your lips as you fought the bile rising from your throat.

Betray me again, he said, and I'll make you cut it out next time.

You stare at the man across from you and know that the wishfulness inside of you will soften his flaws, blur his lies until anything he says just sounds right. A dangerous precipice. The yearning knotting around your mouldering ribcage is hungry. Wanting.

He'll ruin you. And you'll be forced to ruin him. To carve his heart out as Makarov keeps him alive the whole time. The last thing he'll ever see would be you holding his still-beating heart before Makarov makes you crush it between your trembling, bloodied fingers.

The image surfaces—horrific, garish, gut-wrenching—and you wish you were a little more jaded, a little less idealistic, to have that alone snuff the last vestiges of hope from your rotting heart.

"Doesn't change anything," he grouses, and then brings the glass to his lips. He downs the scotch in two swallows, and you can't pull your wide eyes away from the way his throat bobs, and stretches, as he tilts his head back.

When he's finished, he huffs. The glass hits the countertop with a clang that seems to shake something inside of you.

"They're all rotten," he snarls, words a rough rasp that makes you shiver. "All of 'em. Rotten to the fuckin' core."

The corruption never surprised you. Maybe the exposure to it all, feeding Makarov the names of the politicians and diplomats that wanderers through the club's door numbed you to it all, but seeing his visceral disgust over it makes something swell inside of you.

He's not too different from the heroes you've met, the ones you read about, but where they cut their anger into pieces of understanding and compassion, he wields his like a claymore. A battle-ready man brimming with a fury that leaks from his marrow and into the icy blue of his steel gaze.

He doesn't give you kind smiles or false promises. No, he gives you third-degree burns on your flesh from the molten heat of his rage.

"Who are you?" You demand, the words slipping out before you can chomp them down. "And why do you think I can help you?"

It doesn't make sense, not really.

The look he levels at you knocks the air from your lungs.

Fear curls in your gut. Wariness. The urge to flee wells, and you just barely manage to push it down.

"I told you already, didn't I?" He leans closer, drawing the cigar to his lips. "Heard about you, 'bout your debt."

"Yeah, and you thought I was Makarov's—lover—;" the word nearly makes you recoil. "But I'm not. He tells me nothing. Still so certain I can help?"

He takes a drag of the cigar, the tip burning through the dim interior of the empty pub. His eyes never waver from yours, but you know that this piece of information must, in some way, change things. He sought you out specifically because of your assumed relationship with Makarov. The precariousness of your debt has doubled into not just an inconvenience, but a legal issue with extra fees added.

You're more trouble than whatever you might be able to weasel out of Makarov.

More trouble than your worth.

The smoke curls in front of him like a hazy shroud of white. The light catches the indent in his cheekbone, and down the side of his face where his implant sits, humming with kinetic energy even while unlit.

Without the beanie on his head, you can make out more of the circular insignia on his temple, but the crest is unfamiliar to you. Unknown. You've never seen it before, and that unnerves you.

You know all the clubs, the crests, the gangs that roam the streets. From the upper echelon of the Shepherd family to the 54 Immortals seizing the power gap left behind by the fall of Brakov in a neighbouring country. It comes with knowing the underground. With making friends in the shadows.

But this one escapes you.

He shifts, moving the cigar from his lips. A waterfall of smoke rumbles from his mouth when he breathes out.

"Yes," he says, pinched from lingering smoke in his lungs. "I do."

"How?"

"Told you, love. Heard 'bout you—from many sources."

The back of your neck prickles under his reproachful stare. Something in those cerulean depths makes you tense.

"From who?"

His metal knuckles clink against the glass when he nudges it out of the way, resting his forearm down on the wood, bringing himself closer to you. With your spine flush against the back of the chair, there is nowhere to run. It hits you, then, when he draws himself into the scant space separating the two of you, angling himself until he takes up the entirety of your periphery, that this was intentional.

Of course, it was. Of course.

"Oh, from lot's a'people a lil' thing like you shouldn't be hangin' around." Despite the derision in his voice, his brows lift, arching high until his forehead wrinkles, and you catch something that seems almost impressed when he dips his chin, staring at you from down his nose. "You get places most can't. That's useful."

"Useful enough to wipe a debt? How do I know you're good for it, and this isn't some scam?"

"You don't," he answers simply, and something snaps inside you.

"Are you joking—? Do you have any idea what Makarov will do to me, and you can't even give me some—"

"Like I told you, I know people in high places." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like it isn't your life in balance. "They want to remain anonymous, but can settle your debt."

"How?"

"Don't trust me?"

"I don't even know you—"

His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff.

"Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we?"

It isn't fair. It isn't right. A part of you wants to rebel, to grab the cigar and crush it under the heel of your palm. The anger wells inside of you, white-hot and aching, and brings with it the strong urge to scream yourself hoarse.

You believed him—if only for a moment, for a single second, but it was long enough for the vestiges of hope to claw their way up the prison you kept it in, and leak back into your marrow. A pollutant that wrecks you viciously.

But—

Maybe you expected this. It doesn't sting as much as you thought it would. He's never really committed, and said—

"But," he continues, and you wish he would shut up, shut up, shut up, shut—

"I promise it'll go away once we're done, yeah?"

Fuck.

Your voice wobbles when you speak, soundly dangerously thick, and wet. You peer up at him and wish with everything inside of you, there wasn't a thin veil of tears gathering across your lash line. Weak. You haven't cried in two years—

(You look so cute when you cry, kitten—)

"You promise, huh?"

He lifts his hand to his temple and taps his index and middle finger against the strange insignia implanted there. The hard metal of the crest meeting the soft polymer cover of his fingertips makes a muted thud not at all dissimilar to your beating heart.

"On my family name, I swear it."

Why—

To go so far for someone he barely knows, and doesn't trust—

And then it clicks. It isn't about you at all, but some personal vendetta, a promise to himself, that he'll accomplish what he sets out to do, and so, making this little oath with an outsider, the pet of the enemy, is nothing to him. It's performative as much as it is sincere, and the warring contrast makes your chest ache, and heat bloom under your skin.

"You—;" you start, but stop yourself.

He's not at all unlike the heroes you've read about in fantastical stories or the ones you'd met. The one whose heart you held in your trembling fingers as it slowly stopped pulsing in the palm of your hand. Whose blood you scoured from your skin until it was raw.

But where they offered a smile at the end of the promise they swore they'd keep, he frowns.

He doesn't strike you as the type of man to go out of his way to make others feel better. He believes in himself, and his prowess, and speaks about that in clipped, gruff declarations that are not meant to sway, but reinforce what he knows.

He will win. This isn't a question or a belief, but a statement. A truism.

Hope surges. The levee cracks.

"Who are you?" You ask, dazed.

The man who cupped your cheek, and whispered to you about escaping the clutches of this festering city, of going so far away, that grasping hands could never reach you, and greedy fingers would never again touch your flesh, didn't fill you with this same sense of awe, of pure belief in the words he said. But this man, this man, makes you feel like anything is possible. Hope blooms, brims bright inside of your chest like an inflating balloon drifting up to the heavens—

His mental hand splays flat over the table. "Names John Price."

The man sitting across from you is someone you know.

It makes sense, then. The insignia on his temple is the Price family emblem—a conglomerate in its own right, mostly composed of military men with staunch, unflinching moral codes. The incorruptible. The untouchables.

They were the ones who led the counterattack on the coup that changed the political landscape from the Feudalistic tyranny of the past, to—

Well. It was meant to be free reign, or maybe democratic, but the technological boom a few years after the liberation from the iron fist made little things slip by as the world was suddenly painted a lovely shade of roseate. Why worry about mega corporations becoming richer than most of the governmental bodies, and countries, when they made this new piece of cybernetics that let you see like a hawk, that introduced a new colour spectrum to the general public, when sickness, injury, and even death itself came something that could be bartered over for the right price.

The things that they let slip stacked up. It piled higher and higher until the free future the Price family, among others—Laswell, Shepherd, Walker, MacTavish—foresaw was smothered out in favour of the blatant mega capitalism that rules.

It might not be with an iron fist, but it is with a monetary chokehold that always seems to get tighter.

Their legacy is one founded on a strong moral core that is unbendable.

It makes sense why you didn't recognise the emblem at first.

The last of their pristine lineage—tarnished.

The man responsible for the power gap left behind by Brakov. The one who threatens his superiors, and uses brute force to get his way. John Price—the one who gave into temptation and was ousted from his family, and from the military, for taking bribes from people in low places. A man who'd side with anyone—for the right price.

Political turmoil and espionage must run in the family, then, as you somehow find yourself sitting across from the man implicated in a failed coup. One that resulted in the collapse of Urzikstan.

John Price.

Disgraced former captain. Rotten to his core. There's a graveyard filled with people who died because of his choices; a massacre that made headlines just a few months before you woke up. A man you know by sordid, rotten reputation alone, who somehow escaped condemnation for the people he indirectly (and, by many accounts, directly) killed.

John Price. Swindler. Scoundrel. Swine.

"John Price?" You echo, numbed. "The John Price?"

He leans back in the chair, posture relaxed, at ease, as if this wasn't a massive reveal. As if he wasn't a war criminal who was exonerated because of those friends in high places he so casually mentioned before.

"So," he rasps, pulling his cigar back to his lips. Despite the ease in his mien, his eyes tighten. A cobra ready to strike. "You've heard of me."

(—it blooms, and then all at once, it bursts.)

Nothing says cyberpunk like a morally ambiguous character.

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #neon medusa #the smell of plot in the air #UMMM #i forgot how much i hated multi-chaps #cod price #call of duty modern warfare #cod: mw price #price x reader #price x you #captain price x you #john price #john price x you #captain john price x you #captain price #i'll come back and edit this in the AM

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bomberqueen17 · 10 days

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next project excitement

I am home for a week and a half and am determined to spend most of it sewing. OK it's not even quite a week and a half, i've just realized. whatever!! getting started now.

I have a huge number of projects pent-up and am suffering as I try to decide which to work on, BUT, the thing is! i have one i really want to start on, so I'm going to at least start on it, and that is the Loftus Bralette pattern, which it's sort of unfair to call a bralette-- it's not, it's fully a bra, it has a powerbar and everything, and nonstretch cups, it's seriously a bra but there's no wire. Which is why I think it might fit me. Cut for more wittering on this topic...

I printed it out and taped it up ages (a couple of weeks) ago when it first came out because I was so excited, but I've been traveling since then. So. Now I have laid out the pattern pieces, and assembled the notions I ordered and got and haven't looked at yet, and now am figuring out just what I need. I might write up more about this, let me know if it's something you're also interested in sewing or learning about or whatever!! I'm really comfortable with Cashmerette patterns by now and am confident I can make it through sewing this, though I am *not* confident I can fit myself well-- by sheer dumb luck I fit Cashmerette really well without many adjustments so I'm not great at fit adjustments, but I'm sure I'll need them for this, since bras are so specific. But we'll see!

Anyway to start with I just went through the whole pattern instruction booklet and figured out how many inches I need of how many kinds of elastic, and which fabrics I should cut which pattern pieces out of. I'm going to then label each of them with masking tape the whole time I'm working, because I watched the video sewalong and realized I'm absolutely going to lose track of what I'm doing. So here is my starting point:

[image description: a number of pattern pieces spread out across a countertop, and in the foreground is a list on a scrap paper in felt-tipped marker that inventories the pattern pieces, specifies which should be cut out of which fabric, and says how many inches of how wide an elastic are needed in my size for each of the neckline, underarm, band, and strap elastics.]

I measure into a 38J, and I plan to make my muslin out of some heavy-duty powermesh I got from Mood, and then some light pink stabilized nylon tricot I got from Porcelynne, and the notions and elastic I also got from Porcelynne. (Porcelynne's owner is the one who did the engineering on the pattern I think, and is certainly the person who appears in the sewalong video. I bought myself a super-nice kit from their selection, but I'm making the muslin first before I cut into the cute red and black lace from the kit.)

Ha I might actually just mark the muslin in felt-tip marker and not worry about the marks washing out or not, honestly. i need all the help i can get. i can do it right for the nice one. hopefully i will get this to work and i will make like a dozen. it would help me so much to have a TT bra pattern i can standardize off of-- I started the sloper course but looked at it and was like, there's no point getting a really good fit around the bust of any dress because I only have one each of any given bra and none of them are perfect and all of them make me a drastically different shape. I need something I have several of and can reliably get more of (alas, for when i get a good bra i love and go to buy more and it's discontinued, this keeps happening to me). so. This is like, the necessary next step to not only my life but also my sewing game.

#about the author #sewing #cashmerette patterns #loftus bralette

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boundinparchment · 9 months

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Dream a Little Dream of Me - XLVI

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Rated Mature. Rating subject to change. Mind the tags. On AO3 here.

A week was a generous window of time; in fact, it was an overestimation for a zealous designer hired to do interior work for a Fatui Harbinger. They arrived within a few days, during which you played before bed and Zandik taught you the difference between coffee brewed in Sumeru and Fontaine. He much preferred the later; your nation's palette ran far too sweet, even for him.

Zandik's obscured gaze lingered during the initial introductions in much the same way it had on you back in the House of Daena. Luckily, or unluckily, the designer's nerves were made of stronger stuff, and it was clear they spent their time dealing with precise and demanding clients. They were unbothered, both by Zandik's stare and about the fact they were speaking to a Fatui Harbinger and their presumed life-partner.

A certain level of discretion was respectable. However, you knew precisely what being in their position meant. The right things to say, not revealing too much on one’s face, timing everything just so. No one was ever certain of your true personage and everyone was happier for the work done. Information that spread from both parties as a result was a given.

The hair on the back of your neck stood up a little at the designer's passing remark about Lord Pantalone's generosity on their retainer.

"Pantalone knows who is worth the time and mora. I trust you’ll find a way to meet the needs outlined,” Zandik remarked. “Lest you disappoint him.”

The designer’s smile was stiffer but otherwise professional, even when Zandik parted and left you in the sudden silence of your shared apartments.

The space you slept in reminded you of the tiny graveyards dotting the Fontaine countryside. Pretty, in only the way a romantic notion of death allowed, time and effort and money spent on a space never seen by those who occupied it. In another life, you might have been offended that Zandik cared so little for where he slept. It was evident he valued your comfort though and what better expertise was there when Zandik held no opinion on the matter?

You led the designer through the biggest changes, namely the bedroom, right down to the thread count on the sheets and the arrangement of the furniture. New textures, patterns, wallpaper. Such a practice was common in Fontaine, especially in second or even third marriages. You didn’t care if the designer thought your initial focus on the most intimate space was strange; even if they said nothing to allude to such thoughts, their stiffness did not melt. Perhaps they held the idea that the Second Harbinger was more machine than man, a rumor that circulated less now that you were seen with him.

If your memories were fixed, changing the bedroom wouldn't matter anyway, but you would always carry the contrary knowledge, as would the walls. Spaces held memories, too.

The sitting area was next. You needed a workspace, at least a private one, and a spot by the windows afforded not only the best light but the best view of the mountains and beyond. The peaks here were nothing like the peaks in Fontaine. These were eternally snow-capped and jagged, like the teeth of a dragon, it's maw wide open with the Palace and surrounding town in the center, waiting to be swallowed.

A tale for children, Zandik had said without explanation when you first came to the land; now you knew how true that statement really was.

As you spoke, the designer suggested, and with a few quick sketches, you understood immediately why Lord Pantalone chose them specifically. From their sketch, you could only surmise that they intended to re-arrange the sitting area in the center of the room. Even back in the dreamscape, that space always seemed so insular. You could imagine Zandik with multiple Segments sitting, all being able to face one another and look over plans, never letting anyone else into the fold.

Cold and off-putting.

Exactly what you didn't want for either of you.

"A sofa this way, across from the fireplace and a table in front of it, creates a cozy space that separates itself without being too closed off. Right now, it's more of a conversation pit but there's no warmth. Might be able to flank the coffee table with armchairs if that's a must…but what to do with…"

You were shown swatches of fabric and examples of wood finishes but visualizing space was not your forte, you admitted.

Apparently, that was the best thing to say because they were immediate in rearranging the pre-existing furniture with gusto. Soon enough, you found yourself sitting on one of the sofas, maintained but worn, the low table in front of you, staring at the grate in front of the vacant fireplace.

The idea was tempting. You could imagine Zandik sprawled out in front of the fire, his head in your lap, as it had been once upon a time. That had felt so real back then. You could only wonder how such an arrangement might feel now, tangible and warm. The familiar yearning ache flared in your chest, radiating outward into your arms and down to your feet.

Somehow, parts of this were worse now that you were near one another, and yet your mind was all the clearer for it.

You turned your head towards the awaiting designer as you said, "It's perfect."

Through sheer proximity and time together, small intimate details showed themselves to both of you, as natural as breathing.

That was not to say that everything was perfect.

You overheard the way he spoke harshly to subordinates and threw daggers (proverbial and otherwise) at anyone who wasted his time. It set you on edge and scratched at the parts of your mind you wished Omega had touched. You withdrew just as Zandik caught himself, the damage done, your body present but your mind back in Fontaine. You set your mind free again with the familiar weight of your cello bow in your hands and the notes reverberated through your very being until you felt grounded again.

As of late, you had yet to hear him do more than sigh harshly through his nose. Instead, he asked about a particular detail in your composition from a previous night to distract himself from others' failures.

And Zandik, despite the freedom from his hivemind, thought himself into circles to the point where he wound himself so tight, he couldn't even sit. You caught him on occasion checking his pulse at his wrist and frowning, annoyed at the lack of control. Despite all of his own work, he couldn't discern whether he enjoyed the way you smiled because he was meant to or because you were, in fact, such a fascinating spark in his life.

It only took a few strokes of his hair to melt the unease away just long enough to get him to bed. He didn't have to sleep, you told him, but it wouldn't kill him to rest.

Enough common ground existed that you always came back into orbit of one another.

It would never be perfect.

Soulmates were never intended to be. Some had it easier than others but even then, every relationship needed work.

And neither of you were strangers to dedicating yourself to work.

You trekked down in the depths of the Palace some days after the designer's first meeting, intent on using some of the space to practice your claymore techniques using the baton with little fear of damaging anything irreplaceable. The large and open chamber that housed a half-assembled Ruin machine would do just fine; the high ceiling and open space allowed you to test the range of your motions.

Soon enough, not even the laboratories would be a sanctuary for you, not without additional precautions. Zandik's other assistants, the ones that worked beneath the Segments, had not yet returned to their assignments; that would change within the next few days. Progress had halted long enough. Plans were in motion and the remaining parts needed to be ready.

You were reminded of it as soon as you stepped foot into the workspace. Prototypes mid-construction were spread out, their blueprints on a nearby board with various notes to pinned to the main schematic. These were projects in a pipeline, years in the making and finally being brought out of theory and into trial. It was impossible to misconstrue their purpose.

And Natlan was as unstable as ever.

Retreating to a workspace far away from any current project, you called the baton and your claymore with ease, both appearing like loyal hounds at a whistle while the Meks shuddered to life at your presence. A touch of home that Zandik programmed for you. You could feel the Arkhe energy pulsing faintly, not unlike the way air tasted before a thunderstorm.

With enough practice, the weighty and unwieldy sensation was gone and you learned to control the force with minute changes in both the speed and distance you waved the receiver. Now it was a matter of hand-eye coordination to hit your targets continuously when you were no longer up close and personal in combat.

To your surprise, the diamond blades created by your Vision appeared without much prompting other than a call on your Geo resonance. They worked with the motion of the baton, crashing down like the sword dangling over a courier in an old fable who traded places with his king for a single day.

The release of Geo energy did wonders for your mood and your mind as much as playing did as of late. You still could not dream but you were far from being as disconnected as you once felt.

That counted for something.

You slammed your claymore down with a flourish, crushing the last of the Meks, Pneuma and Ousia energy cores sputtering and failing.

With the weapon in your hands, such a fight would have left you winded and struggling to retain your grip on the weapon, muscles and tendons screaming. You still exerted yourself but without the weight and momentum of the claymore to contend with, it was easier to focus on finding patterns to exploit.

"Better," Zandik called from behind you. "Much better control. How do your hands feel?"

You turned and vanished the baton with a flick of your wrist, smiling and wiggling your fingers in response.

"Nothing's locked up so far. We'll see after a longer rehearsal, though."

A slight frown tugged at his lips, gone before you could inquire further. He was, for a rare change of pace, dressed in gray slacks, with a white shirt open at the collar with a gray waistcoat to match. If you were attending a spring wedding in the hills of your homeland, he wouldn't look too out of place. Without the metallic bird on his shoulder, he seemed to hold himself even taller, if such a thing were possible.

"I might have to increase their aggression if you're going to wipe them out so quickly," Zandik teased with a smirk. "Considering you couldn't even summon your weapon not that long ago. If you're finished, I wish to discuss something with you concerning your memories. I believe I have a solution."

A solution? As you walked with him back to the office you once wandered through, you wracked your brain, your heart still pounding and breathing heavy from the fight. The last you spoke of such a thing was the first night in Snezhnaya. Reversing the tangles that Omega created was an eventual goal, you assumed, based on that conversation. One that might be obtainable when Zandik found his feet again as a single consciousness and returned to his station properly.

Part of you hoped you never had to undergo such an experience again.

Safely in the confines of the office, your eyes fell on a jar of an organ, its label illegible, before you looked at Zandik through your face covering. His mask remained in place, his hands occupying themselves with the various piles of notes and trinkets on the desk. He paused, finding what he was looking for and tucked it into his pocket before rounding the furniture to lean against it, facing you, hands on either side of him for a moment.

"I thought we agreed to give it time," you said, tone mild. "That everything might sort itself out."

Zandik dipped his head in a gesture you knew as slight agreement before he turned a point on its head and spun it like a top for a new angle. He tucked his hands into his pockets and continued.

"Time was allotted with minimal results. Your nightmares are indicative that, to some degree, your mind understands the falsehoods but cannot repress them entirely nor bring itself to let them go so the proper ones can surface."

"It's not as if we've tried to actively stimulate my real memories, Zandik. Not truly."

It came out a little harsher than you intended and carried the weight of the last couple of months since the discussion on the terraces of the Divine Tree. You watched as Zandik's lips grew into a thin line and the muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth.

Arms crossed, you pulled your gaze away from him and took in the way the pyro lamps burned and danced to a pattern of their own making. They were bright enough to work by but never contained the true brightness of the sun.

That you weren't able to rearrange the webs and put everything back together naturally, without interference, wasn't your fault but it wasn't his, either. Going back to Fontaine wasn’t an option, or at least not one that didn’t come with more problems than it was worth.

Tackling this earlier was an impossibility when he was still processing his own death, metaphorical though it was.

"Of all people, I know how difficult it is to let go when you don't have the means nor the bandwidth."

If you were anyone else, he would have spat the sentiment with venom; instead, he sounded tired, bored even, as if the words were a given you should know by now.

"That wasn't fair, I'm sorry," you conceded, setting aside your mask and opening your arms again. "The time we've had needed to be used on more pressing issues and who's to say if we did try to provoke my memories that it would have worked?"

"Music is a powerful catalyst in driving unconscious memories forward, after all." He shook his head and then waved his hand causally. "You cannot tell me you've been able to bring anything to your waking mind from playing as of late. You do not likely have a proper reference point to try to match and so you cannot know what to play to try and awaken those memories. All you have are whatever untruths Omega painted like an artist reusing canvas, and if I offer alternatives to what you could have been doing, I am imposing a bias."

You inhaled slowly and took one hand in another, rubbing your usual sore spots to soothe your own frustrations. It was all you could do. Anything else required too much attention and you wanted to know what he had to say.

Instead of speaking, Zandik unclipped his face cover, set it on the desk behind him, and pulled what appeared to be a red star from his pocket.

A Segment's Ruin core, permanently marred with the data and memories of its owner.

He destroyed all them though, hadn't he?

Your heart sank slightly as you schooled your expression. He had reasoning, he always did. Even if it didn't necessarily aligned with your view.

His demeanor fell when recognition crossed your face but he held out his hand anyway, the core resting in his palm. You crossed the room and took it. Turning it over in your hand, you immediately noticed the symbol that marked the Segment. How could he possibly have kept…

"Omega was the only one in the entire network who held extensive knowledge of the memory grafting. I reviewed what's left on the Core—long before you shook me from my stupor—and I believe there's a way to reverse engineer the process," Zandik began.

Hands cupped yours and traced your returning callouses the way one traced a pen mark they admired or a soothing fabric.

"Your memories are the last remnant of my Segments. You carry your own version of events, ones that didn't happen, that Omega saw fit to weave. I spent many, many years using any and all means to get to desirable results; I won't bore you with such details. Regret doesn't come into the equation but as I said back in Sumeru, and as I reminded you, I needed the knowledge first. Now I have it."

"Reverse engineering would require me to undergo the same process, would it not?" you asked, flicking your gaze up to meet his eyes. "Attach me to an Akasha network, push me into my own mind?"

"More than likely. Omega was thorough in his notes on the Samsara Cycle and it was easy enough to navigate the machines and network when I found you the first time. I believe this course of action is for the best. For both of us. You should be able to dream again and the remnants of my past will cease to haunt."

After a beat, you asked "Worst case scenario?"

If you went into this idea know how bad it could possibly get, you could at least be prepared. Before, such a thought never would have crossed your mind; it certainly didn't when you were asked if you wanted to seek private patronage nor when you walked with Omega under the impression the Segment was Zandik. Foolish, really, considering what you learned about those in power in need of more.

"Omega couldn't sever our connection, although he tried," he said at last. "He wasn't your proper soulmate. It is unclear if…pruning the memories and their branches will affect more than just those memories. If removing part of myself will remove the whole. He simply laid himself on top of pre-existing memories…this may have far more ramifications."

Zandik was quiet but his hands never left yours. For a moment, you were back to damp grass and bright stars, investigative touches trying to understand what instrument you played.

"If I am to be done with my past selves, I must remove these lies from your mind," Zandik said evenly. "I believe the risk is worth it."

Risk. Such a tiny word for the gravity with which it pulled on your heart. The very thing Omega set up to complete was still a possibility despite the Segment being nothing more than ash (or mostly ash). He just never took the next step, a step that was simply pulling at a loose thread to unravel the whole.

You were about to pull your hands away and return the Core to him when Zandik's fingers tightened around yours, silently begging you to stay. He looked down at your joined hands as he sighed, squeezed yours lightly, and then looked at you again.

His eyes almost burned as he looked at you, expressive in ways that only the finest minute movements allowed; before you, he stood resolute, determined, and you could understand how even the most desperate souls clinging to their last moments of life might believe he had the answer. It was easy to mistake it for charisma, for arrogance, and easier still for it to have twisted into such things.

"I do not promise anything when it comes to my work; they're nothing more than lies wrapped up with a bow and I deal only in truths," Zandik whispered. "Should that happen, it changes nothing."

It changed everything, you wanted to scream. He would finally be able to get what he wanted, free himself from one Celestial shackle, done with the circular logic of trying to make predestination make sense amid all his own work.

Omega would win.

And you would be left hollow. Again. Left with nothing but memories of what used to be possible, of the connections ripped from you, choice truly taken from you. Either way, you lost and you didn't work for close to two decades only to…

"How would it not—" you started, the words stuck in your throat like thick porridge.

"Nothing, rooh 'albi. And no one will take that choice from me. No one."

Even from across the frozen training ground, weeks later that now marked your stay in Snezhnaya at two months, you could still feel the adamant resolution in subtle waves. Your foe this time was no Mek but a suit of corroded armor brought back from the depths of a rift in the ice further north, beyond the Cryo Dragon's resting ground. The bitter cold bit through your lined pants and warm coat, your cloak held in the crook of Zandik's arm as you pressed the soldier harder.

Sunlight reflected off the snow and made everything brighter; you were thankful your mask cut down on the glare.

You pinned the joints of the armor down with two diamond blades, Geo energy pulsing in waves as you sent a third through the seam between the body and the helmet. With a gesture for releasing a note, you waved the baton in a small circle while pinching your forefinger and thumb of your other hand together, following the motion in perfect sync. Your claymore gave a final whistling note as it cut through the air and stabbed through metal and corroded flesh.

It protested still, determined to get back on its feet despite your attempts to subdue.

Over your shoulder, you heard a familiar high-pitched whine before a glowing Cryo needle whizzed past your ear and hit its target. The soldier in starlight armor fell still, finally, its weapon turning dark as the remnants of life faded.

"One day, I'll be good enough to face you properly," you said with a smile when you approached Zandik as he finished up his notes.

Before you could retrieve your cloak, Zandik draped the thick fabric around your shoulders with practiced ease. He was either uncaring or oblivious regarding onlookers and that suited you just fine. People would talk; avoiding it would only cause more suspicion and both of you were growing tired of hiding like schoolchildren.

He opened his mouth as he smoothed out your cloak's lining and you nearly jumped when you heard another voice in his stead.

"Be careful, maestra. Our Doctor never turns down a challenge and he seldom loses."

Both of you turned your heads to find Lord Pantalone standing just at the bottom of the footpath, an accompanying Agent several steps behind, bowing low at the waist. Zandik's hand grazed your jaw as he pulled away and warm air puffed out in a cloud from his nose at the interruption. You were, for once, thankful for the cold and the fight; both burned your cheeks and hid any flush across your skin.

At least it was Pantalone, you tried to rationalize, but even the most well-behaved dogs still had teeth.

"What brings you down from your lofty office, Regrator?" Zandik drawled, tilting his head slightly.

"I take it then the Tsaritsa's couriers had as much trouble finding you as I did." Pantalone replied, his tone light.

The other Harbinger's cloak was open just enough to allow him the freedom to use his hands. He steepled his fingers together but pointed them in Zandik's general direction as he smiled, golden eyes hidden, his expression congenial.

"The Knave and Marionette returned successful from Fontaine; the Jester sends his orders for an audience with the Tsaritsa."

Zandik pulled his shoulders back, his back already straight.

"And he sent you to fetch me?"

"I thought it prudent to save him the trouble."

"You think it prudent to save the Tsaritsa an entire vault of mora but he has yet to determine if you're worthy of a higher seat. Perhaps it's time to change your strategy, Regrator."

Zandik pushed a breath through his nose, another puff of warm air escaping him the way smoke lingered in taverns in the lower reaches of the Court of Fontaine. He pulled in his arms into his cloak and made to walk ahead of the other Harbinger, his strides murderous as his cloak's hem whispered against the snow.

Pantalone turned and then stopped as you stepped to follow, at least up to the Palace. You watched as his smile grew wider and you caught a hint of gold as he looked at you. Mora was never an apt comparison you realized; his gaze was as threatening as the glimpse of a bullet in a chamber, a Duelist's final weapon ready to be drawn.

"No. Not you, maestra," Pantalone's tone was sickeningly sweet, patronizing, and your stomach burned.

He nodded to the Agent, who stepped forward and bowed to you, standing only when his Harbinger gestured to do so. The distinct unspoken air of disdain you were keenly familiar reared its head as you debated, for a moment, playing into it. You hadn't missed this nonsense, toeing the line and watching both tone and words, wondering just what step led to the path of least resistance.

"I wish to have a word with my colleague. You can take the scenic route back to the Palace. Anatoly here is quite competent in providing additional security in the Doctor's absence."

You turned your gaze up to Zandik, who had since stopped and turned back, mouth set into a frown. Other than the initial meeting in his lab, you hadn't told him about Pantalone's visit while he was disassembling the Segments. That was your battle to fight first; after all, you couldn't always rely on him.

But here, he was the one with the most authority. And the Ninth knew that, too.

"Whatever you have to say can be said openly, Pantalone."

The Ninth never looked back at Zandik, his sharp gaze trained on you. "No, I don't believe it can. Do you think me such a poor friend that I would discuss private matters as one discusses the weather?"

You smiled politely and even deigned to cross one leg behind another and give the closest gesture to a curtsy you could in a heavy cloak and pants.

"I do not wish to come between you. And your work is imperative; the Tsaritsa's Will must come first." You turned your obscured gaze to Zandik and said, "Send word if you will be further delayed but otherwise you know where I'll be, my Lord Harbinger."

Not like you went anywhere else other than the Tsaritsa's music room or your quarters anyway. The latter was probably a safer option, stifling though the notion felt.

Zandik inclined his head slightly but said nothing, instead turning around and continuing up the hill. Pantalone's smile faltered for a split second, an expression between disgust and admiration dancing across his face before he, too, turned and made his way back to the Palace.

You sought another path back up to the Palace, the Agent's footsteps never far behind as a bud of dread bloomed in your chest, invading all it could.

#dottore #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #dottore/female reader #il dottore/female reader #dottore x female reader #il dottore x female reader #genshin impact reader insert #soulmate au

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astarryvamp · 2 months

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Chapter 2

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The boy, well- he’d better get used to referring to him as Halsin- shouldn’t he? Halsin was staring at Astarion curiously from his perch on a large moss covered rock. The vampire sat cross-legged on the grass in front of the rock sizing up the boy, just as Halsin was doing to him. He figured he had a better chance of getting some answers if he didn’t loom over this younger version of his friend. People had a tendency to find his height a little intimidating, not to mention his red eyes.

He couldn't be more than ten years old. So very young and already there were shadows in the boy's eyes. It would seem their steadfast druid hadn't always been that way. A shame. Halsin deserved so much better than what life had offered him. What could have possibly happened to cast such a light in the young boys eyes?

“You must have some questions.” Astarion said, cocking his head at the other, aiming a friendly smile at the other. Astarion was very careful not to flash his fangs. “Some stranger magically appears in the forest where you play and declares you’re going to be friends. I know I would have a thing or two to say.”

“Mostly trying to figure out of you’re real or if you’re going another ‘friend’ no one else can see.” There was a definite touch of melancholy to the young boy’s words. So they were in Thaniel’s realm. He had a rough idea of the ‘when’ and now a definite answer to the ‘where’.

“Ah, understandable. I do look like a dream, don’t I?” Astarion teased though he didn’t expect someone this young to quite understand the joke. “I promise you, I am as real as they come. Although, if it’s any comfort, so is Thaniel.”

Halsin visibly perked up at that, gifting the silver haired elf a beaming smile. “You’ve met Thaniel too?”

“In fact, I have.” Astarion clucked his tongue, trying to determine how much to reveal. How much would a child understand? He had almost zero idea on how to interact with children. Still, how many adults would be able to give the ‘I’m your friend from the future’ talk? No, his own plight was a rare one indeed.

“I know that Thaniel is very, shall we say, choosy about who he reveals himself to. I wouldn’t worry too much about other people not being able to see him. Being able to see him just means you are special. It’s not everyone who is able to see a nature spirit, much less able to call one a friend.” And a powerful nature spirit too. From what Gale and Halsin had told him, some nature spirits held domain over a small meadow or even a single tree. Thaniel was the embodiment of an entire forest. It was no wonder that Shar had needed to lock him away to spread her endless shadow over the land.

Halsin flicked a few pebbles off his perch as he considered the other’s words. His brows were furrowed in contemplation, an adorable little scowl on his face. “My mama says I have a good imagination. Other people just say that I’m crazy.”

Astarion couldn’t help the scoff that escaped his lips. “No, darling. You are not crazy. He’s very much real. Nature spirits have a tendency to make question reality a bit, but perish the thought entirely. You’re simply…” he waved grandly to the trees surrounding them. “- a friend of nature. Should anyone try and tell you otherwise, well, they are simply not worth your time.”

Hazel eyes peered at Astarion, seemingly searching for something. Perhaps reassurance? Whatever he was hoping for, Halsin must have found it because he nodded and gifted the vampire a relieved smile.

“He is very fun to play with. I’m glad it’s not made up. H-how did you get here? I didn’t see a portal open. You just-” Halsin broke off to wave his arms as one would when miming an explosion. “Boom! Appeared!”

“May I tell you a secret?” Astarion said, giving the other a conspiratorial whisper. The vampire grinned as the child leaned closer, hazel eyes wide. “I’m from the future.”

The child snorted and leaned away from the other as though the notion was too silly to be near. “The future?”

“Yes, the future. Or how else would I have known that no one can see Thaniel save for you? You and I happen to be very good friends when you’re older.”

Halsin aimed another scowl at the vampire. It was very amusing to see that the young elf was much more quick to let his displeasure be known than his elder self. He would have to see if he could get his own Halsin to make such precious faces. “Prove it! Name something about me.”

“I know you’ve a fondness for honey.”

“Lots of people like honey. That doesn’t mean anything.”

Hm. Was the elder Halsin so stubborn?

“Fair enough,” Astarion acquiesced with a rueful smile. “You were born in 1142. You live alone with your mother and your father. No siblings or cousins to speak of. I know you like ducks. Your favorite game to play with Thaniel is hide and seek. Though Thaniel is much better at the hiding than you are. Being a nature spirit doesn’t really make that a fair game, if you ask me. That concrete enough for you?”

The young wood elf worried his bottom lip as his hazel eyes bore into Astarion’s crimson gaze. “That is… all right…” he said reluctantly. “Still don’t know if that means you’re from the future, but… that would be a whole lot more interesting than you being a mind reader or something. So, what am I like in the future? Are we adventurers?”

“In a sense. We are currently on an adventure, your older self and I, along with some more of our friends.”

“I have more friends?” Halsin gasped. The way the child perked up at that was just a tiny bit heartbreaking to the vampire. How lonely was the druid having only Thaniel to play with?

“You do. Quite a few of them. Although, I am the very best of them,” Astarion teased much to Halsin’s delight. “What’s that look for?” he asked as the child began staring at him with wide eyes. Had Astarion accidentally flashed his fangs?

“Are you meant to be glowing?”

“What?!” Astarion’s hands flew in front of him as he stared at the familiar tendrils of green light once more crawling up his arms. “Oh hells. I’m about to be whisked away in time again. Um, well, nice meeting you. Again.”

The last thing Astarion heard as light engulfed him was Halsin’s delighted giggle.

Blinking away the spots from his vision, Astarion found he was once more on the roof top of the Elfsong Tavern. “Thank the gods!” He cheered throwing himself back on the pillows he had been laying on before this whole ordeal started. Relief flooded through him as the sounds of his beloved city once more filled his senses. He had no idea what he would have done if he would have been forever journeying through time.

“I take it you had your first adventure in the past?” said a deep familiar voice with a small chuckle.

“Halsin! You’ll never belie- Hold on a moment, the first?” Astarion sat up with a start and flung a nearby pillow at the druid. “You knew this would happen when I found this damned thing.”

The druid allowed the pillow to hit him and gave another throaty chuckle as he took a seat next to Astarion. “It’s true. I did know from the moment you brought the amulet back to our room. I also confess that I knew who you were the moment you freed me from my cell in the goblin camp. You’ve visited me a number of times throughout my life.”

“Ugh, just how many times am I going to be dragged into the past? Am I to visit all our friends in this fashion?” This stupid trinket was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.

“No, Astarion. From what you’ve told me, this amulet has made it so that my fate alone is intertwined with yours. Although, now that I am the one telling you this, I do have to wonder where this information originated.” The smile on Halsin’s face was serene enough, but there was an unmistakable light of amusement in those hazel eyes.

“And not once did you think of warning me?” Astarion cried in annoyance. “How did you even manage to keep such a secret all this time?”

“To the first, you yourself asked me not to. I am still unsure as to the intricacies of the enchantment that has bonded us. But I’ve always deferred to your judgment on these travels of yours. As for your second question; I longed to reconnect with you, but I also had my own fears that you would think me mad. Can you tell me truly that you would have believed me?”

It was Astarion’s own turn to scowl. “I hate secrets,” he muttered running a tired hand through his curls. Well, he hated not being apart of the secrets. And this was a massive one. “No, I suppose you are correct. I would have laughed at you. Tell me, just how often do I make these little jaunts back to your childhood. You were a cute little thing, I’ll grant you, but I don’t care to spend all my time with a child. No offense intended.”

“Ha!” Halsin laughed clapping his own knee. “No, I’ve known you all my life. All manner of ages. You shall not have to worry about entertaining a child the entire time.”

“What a relief,” Astarion remarked dryly, picking a piece of lint off his breeches and flicking it away. There was that little blessing then. The vampire aimed a thoughtful look at the druid as he contemplated the melancholy child he had just left behind.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, Little Elf.”

“Just thinking is all. You were playing in Thaniel’s realm. Your very first time meeting me.”

Halsin gifted the other with a warm smile. “Hm, as I recall, you had some kind words for me. Some reassurances for me about my time spent playing with Thaniel. I do owe you some thanks for that. It was- difficult knowing I had a friend no one else could see. It was a comfort to know that someone else in my life knew of him.”

“I’m- glad I could provide some consolation then. I was surprised to see how dour you looked,” he said honestly. Loneliness was a curse he knew well. It was a shame someone as good as Halsin was so familiar with the feeling.

“Mm, true. Childhood wasn’t always an easy time for me, but take heart. You and Thaniel were good friends to me. I cherish those memories. Always.”

There was a certain warmth in Halsin’s voice that gave Astarion pause. “Tell me, Druid,” he drawled, giving the other a sultry smile. “Was I just a friend to you? Or did I provide- other comforts in cold nights?” The vampire would have thought it would be a cold day in hell, before he saw the elder elf blush, and yet here it was. A spreading red that darkened Halsin’s freckles quite prettily.

Halsin cleared his throat, looking equal parts abashed and entertained. “There- was a time or two when blood ran hot between us. Things you’ll have to experience for yourself if you want the details. You were very clear on me not giving you ‘spoilers’ when you finally got a hold of your amulet.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun. Or is it that I’m not fun? The nuances of chronomancy are lost on me. Still-” Astarion trailed off, eyes tracing over the other’s form appreciatively. “I suppose that is something to look forward to.”

The look Halsin gave him was absolutely predatory and hungry. Astarion was accustomed to being chased, but the druid’s gaze was one of the few that sent a sinful shiver down his spine. “Past, present or future,” Halsin’s low timbre grew just a bit gruffer, eyes locked on the vampire’s lips. “You may have me whenever you wish.”

“Sweet bear, if I could, I’d be blushing. I’ll have to hold you to that” Maybe time travel wasn’t as bad as he thought…

#halstarion #bloodbear #bg3 astarion #bg3 #halsin #astarion

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owlespresso · 7 months

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deep sea dreaming. hythlodaeus. Tags: Ascian!Hythlodaeus, I posted the first half of this in October. Here it is, completed.

A gulp of wet, salty air fills your lungs. Above you, there is the crash of the howling tides, covering the realm in deep, dark bluish light. The sea itself is somehow suspended, as though a lone pocket of air has formed on the floor. In the distance, formations of stone and spider web coral entangle a rough landscape. The precipice you stand upon is made of dark, wet stone. Tendrils of coral branch from the walls and cover the ground.

“Incredible view, is it not?” a voice chimes, suddenly at your side. You blink. The realization comes slow as the morning fog sets in.

“Yeah, it is,” you agree quietly, sneaking a furtive glance at the figure which now stands beside you. You hadn’t heard his approach, and that alone is enough to make you wary. Long, lavender hair is held up in a ponytail, braids interspersed through the long silken strands. One is tied around his ponytail’s base, and one frames the left side of his face. Handsome. Well-dressed in showy armor you know bards have a preference for, swishing fabric paired with gilded gold and black leather. Bangles and bracelets aplenty.

“And there is so much more still to see,” the man promises, “Would you like a tour? I know well all the worthwhile sights around here.” Before you even answer, he’s already taking a small step away. He flows like he’s floating, clothes billowing in a way gravity should not allow. This is a dream, you reason.

Light catches off the gleaming gold of his bracelets as they roll over his arm, shifting with the movement of his arm as he offers a hand. Half-gloves, the kind archers of the Twin Adders adorn.

You cast a weary glance upwards and find a sea instead of a sky, air damp and salted. It makes sense, to long for the comforting dimness of the wide seas when you’re currently mired in the arid deserts of Ala Mhigo. Why not indulge in this fleeting fantasy your exhausted mind has created?

He looks tender. His smile reaches his eyes.

“I would,” you take his offered hand. “Thank you.”

You wake up.

—

The deep ocean caverns are populated by all matter of fascinating flora and fauna. The coral becomes neon in certain places, rays and pugils which roam undisturbed sport noticeable differences from their Source counterparts. A series of spread out claw marks etched in stone indicate a marked path and more interesting intelligent life. A thin, uneven stone pathway winds up a cliff face, winding behind a thin waterfall.

For once, you have no destination, only the vaguest and most easily ignored notion that something is amiss. You climb up, sticking tight to the wall as the jagged stone leads you in a spiral motion to the very top. You emerge at the current’s side, overlooking the ledge. At the edge, you spot a familiar head of hair. He’s sitting with his calves dangling over the ledge, next to where the water rolls and crashes.

You don’t muffle your footsteps as you approach, let your steel toes scuff the wet stone underfoot.

“Back so soon?” he asks coyly, tilting his head to the side. He looks up at you slyly, from underneath thick, pale lashes. They flutter against his cheek whenever he blinks.

“I was promised a tour.” you respond in kind. He smiles wider and stands, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up to reveal a slip of pale skin, right above his skinny hips.

“That you were.” he agrees, indulgent. “Though, I don’t recall the word ‘promise’ ever being said.”

“Should I go it alone, then? I would hate to bother you.” you say, and he looks down at you with wide eyes. for a moment taken aback, before his expression mellows back to that same, tranquil countenance, plump lips curved in that perfect smile.

“It was merely a jest. I would love nothing more than to serve as your guide,” he assures you warmly, beckoning with a shrug of his shoulder. “Come. There are sights most fantastical for us to see.”

And you do.

He takes you to clusters of glowing crystal formations which span up the walls of the caverns. The light glistens across the dark waters of the undersea currents as they rush and churn. He brings you to an opening in the cave where swarms of ray-like creatures chase schools of red and silvery fish, gliding through the waters with flutter

The most unique sight is a structure so immaculate that it cannot be anything but manmade. Rectangular in shape, carved of pale stone, embossed with straight lines and complex geometric patterns. Steep panes of glass are mounted in extended half round windows towards the top. In its heyday, it must have been large enough to house at least five stories. A grand tower which would have easily challenged Ishgard’s steepest spires. That must be why it feels so familiar.

“Incredible,” you breathe, wet sand crunching beneath your boots. “To think that such an advanced civilization once called these depths home.”

“A touching notion. However, when these husks were still grand towers, the waters had yet to set in. They couldn’t even be seen over the horizon,” your guide informs you, brushing a gloved hand over the stonework, streaked now with seaweed and clumps of pale coral.

“How do you know that?” you can’t help but prod, blinking.

“This is but a taste of what is to come,” he continues with a smile, blatantly ignoring your query. “Come, come now, before I lose you again.”

The twinge of irritation fades instantly. You deflate as he flounces on ahead, leaving you to stare at the opening in the back of his jacket, skin exposed by purposefully folded fabrics.

Of course, he hadn’t been able to give you an answer. This is a dream, after all. Your mind simply hadn’t been able to bridge the plot holes in the story in time. Your adventure away from adventuring in the waking world—if that’s what libering two entire nations could be called.

A brief touch to the small of your back jolts you from your stupor. You’re left to look up into concerned, amethyst eyes. He’s returned to your side without you even noticing. Certainly a dream, you decide, admiring his long lashes and soft lips.

“Are you alright? Feeling faint? I suppose the air down here can be difficult to acclimate to…” he says, tutting fretfully.

“I’m fine,” you insist, hastily starting in the direction he initially rushed towards. “Just lost in thought, is all! Everything you've shown me has been so breathtaking. It’s truly so much to take in.”

“Never been to the bottom of the sea before?” he teased, catching up with long, quick strides.

“No. This is my first time,” you reply with a smile. Slope of craggy rock lay ahead, resembling the aftermath of a rockslide. “Be careful.” you chide as he immediately begins to scale down the stone. His long, gangly legs roam over the rounded rocks and small boulders, knees every now and then scraping over rough surfaces and skittering pebbles. You take a more measured approach, following his chosen path at a slower pace. He awaits you at the bottom, looking none worse for wear. His thigh high boots are a little scuffed at the knees—better the leather than his skin.

He reaches out a hand, and you take it.

You wake up.

—

Your eyes snap open wide. A hulking monument of steel spires and star-strewn steeples looms in the distance. It is a gleaming metropolis underneath the rolling tides. The architecture is reminiscent of the crumpled tower you observed within the cave, but a newfound, brutal sense of familiarity which washes over you like a cold wave.

You’ve been here before. You don’t know how or when, but your heart aches with it. The cavity of your chest feels the emptiest it ever has, a craving for something unnamable hollowing out the space between your ribs, your stomach.

“I thought you would enjoy this part the most,” a voice chimes from behind you. Your conjured guide comes to stand beside you, staring at the splendid vista. There is a tenderness to his expression, all the world’s love crammed into that fond gaze.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe, eyes blown wide. “I can’t quite explain it, but I—”

“Feel like you’ve been here before?” he finishes for you. His grin is knowing. “Come. how about we take a closer look?”

“I would.” You reach for his outstretched hand, but you hesitate, palm hovering over his own. Will you wake up, should you decide to take it? You don’t want this to end just yet. You’re not ready to face the Ala Mhigan sun, hot enough to scorch the skin and bleach the bones. He raises his brows, expectant. You take his hand.

Your eyes snap open wide. You gasp for the salty air. The buildings now tower around you, the streets far wider than you anticipated. No city you have ever visited has been so monumental in scale.

“Ah. It’s been quite some time since I’ve visited,” your guide sighs fondly, resting his hands on his hips. “In an age long past, I would have bemoaned the long trip from my humble abode to the Bureau. But now… I think I would be glad to have as much time here as possible, to savor sights I might have overlooked. It might be cliche, but you never truly know what you have until it’s gone.”

You’re not sure how to take that, so you begin with the easiest question. “You worked here, then?” You know what Bureau is, at the very least. You can’t envision him working in an office.

A pause, then, “Lived here. And loved here.” he murmurs, eyelids lowering as he regards you.

“Truly? The other folks look a little too large for you to fit in with,” you point out. You regret it a moment later. Why poke holes in the plot you’ve made to amuse yourself whilst asleep? Must you question every obscure corner? What purpose does your questioning even serve?

“The magicks our people possess enables us to occupy a wide variety of forms. We can even shape forms which we occupy to our very will, lest you doubt. I would have alarmed you had I shown up to you as a veritable giant, would I have not?”

“Well, yes. But these magicks you speak of, they sound remarkable,” you’ve only ever heard of glamorous, purely visual illusions. What a marvel it would be if such transformative techniques actively existed in the waking world. You wonder, briefly, what this means in regards to your inner psyche and self-image, but disregard the matter hastily. The kindly traveler smiles.

“Are they not? Come. I would show you more.”

And show you more, he does. He guides you down the long avenues, dutifully explaining each building’s function with striking depth and clarity. The giants who hover about this unearthly metropolis are peaceful, if not amicable. Most wave at and greet you, speaking in droning chimes which you somehow understand. They’re kind souls; you can feel it, but they are also remarkably troubled by something called The Final Days.

“Uhm,” you clear your throat. He’s guided you inside an academy of some sort. Live aquatic specimens swim in tanks from wall-to-wall, some more familiar to you than others. A large glass window provides a few into a much larger enclosure filled with water, only populated by a circular platform in the center. And some sort of shark, judging by the massive red fin which juts just about the surface.

“Yes? If you have questions, please do not hesitate to ask. I know a great deal about most of the specimens here, having personally reviewed them myself.” he informs you, so earnestly you nearly oblige him. You’ll ask him questions until you turn blue in the face if he indulges you. Everything about this dreamscape is utterly fascinating. To think, your mind could conjure up such elaborate visions with such defined rules. You’ve never dreamt in such depth before.

“When we were touring the streets earlier, I couldn’t help but overhear some of the citizens talking about some sort of… disaster? The Final Days, I believe they called it.”

His expression doesn’t budge, while you struggle through your query. The gentle lines of his face are still fixed in a placid smile. Over the years you’ve learned how to read people beyond their base expressions. The lines of his face do not draw tight with displeasure or downcast with sorrow, but his aether does. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. You have no other explanation for the odd feeling which suddenly hangs in the air, a stillness like rancid pond water.

“The Final Days? I can’t say I have ever heard of such a thing. Sounds dreadful, though,” your guide answers after a long, quiet moment. The dim, green light casts his skin with a sickly parlor, but his eyes gleam all the brighter as he smiles. “Are you perhaps pulling my leg?”

“No, certainly not,” you assure him, all too conscious of the sudden quiet. You become all too conscious of the quiet. The soft whirring of the equipment fastened to the tanks has died down. The churning water wheels have gone dead. And the tanks—were there truly this many before? They’ve doubled in number, you could swear it. The once gentle blue becomes an abrasive cyan, a practical assault on the eyes. They grow larger, loom closer, the space of the room distorting. The floor pulls out from underneath your feet, dragging you towards that blinding glow.

You shout, casting a desperate look over your shoulder, but your guide is nowhere to be found. It’s only blue, so bright it burns at the corners of your eyes, sets your corneas alight, sears at your skin at the surface of your flesh, burning, burning—

You wake up.

The sheets are cool and buttery soft. You roll just to feel them glide against the bare skin of your legs. You toss and you turn, mind numb in the dark of the room, as relaxed as you have ever been in current memory. In the back of the mind, you are certain that this is not your makeshift camp in the Steppe, or any of the cots in Rhalgar’s Reach. This is a mattress, and a massive one at that. You would have already tumbled off the side if that were not the case.

Another dream, you assume, and leave it at that. Your limbs move sluggishly, thoughts lagged down an gooey. You release that thread of conscious, logical thought and slide deeper and deeper into the velvety dark, the blissful empty.

A muffled voice shouts in the distance, somewhere outside. Your eyes remain shut, but your ears are perked. A door slams.

“You have gone too far,” a man shouts, voice reedy with stress and exasperation. “I could turn a blind eye—” His rambling flickers in and out, some of his sentences too quiet to pick up on. You don’t really mind, you simply listen, catching what fragments you can. Which, you think, is an apt summary of all the dreams you’ve experienced thus far. Just trying to latch onto what little you can grasp.

“Tours—”

“But bringing them here—”

“Calm down, Hades, please—” your mysterious guide responds, pacifying. How curious, that your addled subconscious would choose to conjure up another character linked specifically to your guide. How curious that it would deign to give him a name, when your guide has not yet been given the honor. Hades. It too instills you with a lingering, aching sense of… something missing. You would see this “Hades” you decide.

You shimmy to the edge of the massive mattress, fighting through an ocean of blankets and pillows. You fight to part the fabric around you, emerging into an unfamiliar room. A pair of tapestry curtains is closed ight over the chamber’s single window. A chill passes over you, You anticipate the floors to be startlingly cold under your bare feet. You swing a leg over the edge, touch the floor—

You wake up.

—

Zenos is a great oak of a man, draped in ivy which slithers down his trunk and spreads across the forest floor. Grasping and venomous. You don’t know whether it emerges from him, or what he enables, but you know that it doesn’t die with him. You’ll be chasing his ghosts, machines and legions onto and over the long horizon. Maybe until the day you die.

You refuse to chase him in your dreams. One thing he will not take between his teeth or trap between his thighs.

—

Dappled sunlight says “hello” though the swaying leaves—green maples in full bloom. The pollen tickles your nose, springtime’s warning kiss. Fingers caress your cheek and rub your upper back, rousing you awake.

At the edges of your vision, the immense structures you observed prior stretch hopeful to the heavens. Grand structures of gold and bronze and impossible lengths of cut stone. How many hands must it have taken to build this in-bloom utopia?

A slender finger taps your cheek.

“Have I begun to bore you now that you’ve so much to look at?” your guide teases fondly, smile in his voice. He is grinning, when you look at him a moment later. “There you are, my dear.”

“I could never be bored of you,” you scrunch up your nose, disgruntled at the very idea. It’s likely unwise to be so attached to a vision manufactured by your idle mind, but the logic seems so distant when he’s right here, when you are laying between his legs with your head on high thigh. The modesty you would normally cower beneath has no place here, in this garden of dreams.

“T’was a jest, but I wholeheartedly appreciate the sentiment. I’m so very fortunate to have a friend who cares so much,” he muses fondly, quieter this time. He takes one of your wrist in hand. You watch numbly as he bends forward to kiss the hollow of it. “Truly, there is no greater joy.”

“Now you’re just laying it on thick,” you grumble, tugging your arm back.

“No, surely not,” he replies smoothly over the fabric of your shirt. “It’s important to let others know how you truly feel about them. There’s no telling when those dearest to you may part ways for good, and there is no sorer sting than words left unsaid.” He’s still smiling, but his eyes have gone dull with recollection. He is far away from you, all of the sudden, sent somewhere far by memories of times long lost.

He speaks back to life, tapping your nose with his finger.

“Now, I believe I promised you a proper tour of the gardens, and I am a man of my word.”

A tour of this veritable paradise sounds simply marvelous, but you can’t quite find the will to move. The very idea of budging when you are already so warm (so safe, something within you coos) almost hurts to think about. It’s a sudden feeling—a welling of panic unfamiliar, but unwarranted. The Warrior of Light, balking at the prospect of exploring new and exciting locales? Perish the thought?

Perhaps your weary mind has had enough exploring for quite some time. Perhaps you crave a respite from the chaos, from tending the meets of those across the seas. It’s only natural to crave rest, you reason, and even more natural for desires to manifest in a dream.

You’re jolted from your train of thought when your guide prods your cheek, concern nettling his fine features. You don’t like seeing him so fretful. A face like his is fit for bliss and contentedness and naught else, worn as gently as the pale lavender of his hair.

“What’s your name?” you ask. He smiles like you’ve just given him the world, eyes crinkling.

“You already know it,” he tells you, relentlessly fond. His hands return to their prior past on your upper back. You squint up at his face, try to place a name to that familiar visage. Are you supposed to name him? You can’t fathom your subconscious would turn the onus on you after holding the reins this entire time. It’s crafted an entire city without any conscious input from you.

“I…” you focus hard, shutting your eyes as the breeze kicks up. Warm spring air washes across your face, accompanied by the sweet scent of burgeoning blooms—the steam which rises from a piping hot cup of tea as he cuts through the rows of tables, carrying a saucer by its edge.

The library is closed, but you often remain after hours. He joins you in the otherwise empty space, with a smile and a cup of your favorite blend grown right outside in the gardens. You while the hours away late into the night, until Hades comes to get you. He huffs and he puffs at how easily you both lose track of time—but he always comes.

“Hades will wonder where we are,” he says, setting the cup down next to your mounting pile of tomes.

“He’ll find us eventually,” you reply. “Thank you, Hyth—”

“—lodaeus,” your eyes open as your lips form around the tail end of his name. It feels as though something’s been slotted back into place, a piece of the puzzle you didn’t even know was missing.

Hythlodaeus tilts his head back completely, so you can’t see his face. A long few moments are spent in that rare, hovering silence. Is your subconscious reevaluating? Have you finally hit a snag that will unravel this series of strange dreams?

When he looks back down at you, he’s smiling again. Or perhaps, he hasn’t stopped.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, bending over you. His breath brushes the crown of your head. The scent of him, rosehips and jasmine, washes over you. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that name again. I could spend an eternity listening to you repeat it.”

You blink, feeling slow and hazy and stupid all of the sudden. “What?”

“Or, perhaps a mere century would suffice—if only to enjoy everything else you can do with that mouth of yours,” he says, nearly giddy. “Rest assured, we will have ample enough time. So come to my room, next time, alright? I’ll be waiting.”

He kisses you on the forehead.

You fall asleep, plunged into inky dark waters.

—

“A man can only wait several hundred centuries before he assumes you’ve lost interest.”

#fathoming ffxiv #hythlodaeus/reader #hythlodaeus x reader #imagine ffxiv #hythlodaeus

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redribbonrose · 5 months

Text

A Naughty Bunny

WLW Naga x Bunny with BDSM, bratting, and other kinks

Please give me feedback, I haven't posted my writing before.

wordcount: 5,866

Cottie had worked at Paradise for a while now, though it wasn't the first bunny-bar she'd worked at. Most of them were pretty much the same. Bunny girls were given skimpy outfits and told to serve drinks and snacks to the various clients that came for whatever show the club put on. Paradise was different in two ways from the other places Cottie had worked: first, the clients tended to be a little more polite and asked before they put their hands on the bunnies. The second was the type of shows that came to the big stage.

Tonight, the iron bars and loops at the edge of the stage were bound with the webs of the drider domme that was performing. She was large and dark gray, with black markings on her abdomen and on her knees; The black leather harness she wore around her chest accented the gray as well as her musculature. She had a devilish look on her face, small bits of bun escaping as she focused on the bunny caught in the center of her web.

Bound in the gossamer threads as she was, she held the attention of almost all the guests that evening. Her arms had been tied upwards, and she tried to use those bindings to squirm away from the sensations below. She was seated in the web so that her legs spread wide, leaving her cute little pussy on perfect display, dripping onto the stage below. Earlier, the drider had pushed a vibrator into her cunt, and when she had finally calmed down from the stimulation of the stretch, she revealed the remote with a flourish for the audience before turning it on. Every so often afterwards, she would stop what she was doing to increase the speed until the bunny was screaming, before turning it back down to practically nothing.

Cottie forgot her name, maybe an Elizabeth or an Alexandra, but she was one of those picture perfect bunny hybrids; soft blonde hair, pretty features, and big blue eyes. She also had the temperment everyone expected of bunnies. With nothing more than a look she'd be down on her knees beginning to be filled. It was no wonder tonight’s performer had requested her to be her partner for the show. Almost none of the performers came with a sub, instead they would ask one of the bunnies on staff for the evening to join them and the bunnies would almost always agree; not only did they get to not serve patrons for the evening, but they also got a portion of the tips from the performance.

Part of Cottie was grateful she'd never been requested as a partner for the stage shows; another part of her was not. She never really wanted to put on a show or be in public. Even her job sometimes skirted the line of too many people watching her. On the other hand it was just more proof she wasn't the type of bunny people really wanted. She didn't want to just fall over for anyone. If this job had taught her anything, it was that there were a lot of assholes that thought they were either god’s gift to women or that a bunny would fuck anything, or both. Cottie wanted someone who had actual skill and wasn’t going to balk when she fought back a little.

A look of bliss came over Elizabeth-Alexandra as her eyes crossed and the drider turned the vibrator up again. She had each of her six spider legs on the web as well as both hands, to feel the vain struggles of the bunny at her mercy.

“Old fashioned for booth three” Arin said, breaking her from her stupor. Arin was the elf bartender and one of Cottie’s nicer coworkers. He was ace as hell, making him perfect to keep an eye on the room when all eyes were on the stage, and preventing him from caring about the preconceived notions people had about any of the species’ sex lives. The bar was at the center back of the room, with half a dozen booths on either side for people who wanted a bit more privacy than the tables on the floor could provide. Some had tables in them like normal restaurant booths, others were fully lined with cushions for guests to stretch out on. “You’ve been more out of it than normal,” he placed the drink on her tray “you gonna be okay?”

“Yeah I’m just…” Cottie made a non-committal hand motion “‘fine.” Before Arin could open his mouth to try to say more, she crossed in front of the bar to the other side of the room towards booth three and walked as quickly as she could away from what promised to be a depressing conversation about her lack of friends and fulfilling partners.

Luckily the tables towards the back were not filled, so there was no one to try to demand her attention or trip over with her giant heels on her way to the booth. She hadn’t been on this side of the room much, it was Stacy’s section tonight, but a look to one of the tables not far to her left showed Stacy was earning her own tips. None of the bunnies had to do anything they didn't want to, but most of them knew what their clients wanted to see, hear, and touch to get the best tips.

Cottie never made quite as much as her coworkers in tips, but she wasn't surprised. What did surprise her was the guest in booth three.

Lounged in the violet cushions of her booth was a gorgeous naga woman. Her tail was thick and shined in a deep emerald color. She wore a shirt like a blazer with nothing on underneath; she was fairly flat chested like most naga, but the blazer accentuated her shoulders and nipped in at her waist before swelling out into her muscular tail. She had a smirk on her lips that let one of her fangs peek out and Cottie realized it was probably because she had been staring.

“Old fashioned” She stammered out as she handed the drink over. Without breaking eye contact, the naga reached her hand out and dragged her long, sharp nails down Cottie’s arm, from elbow to wrist, before gently taking the glass from her hand.

“Thank you, pet” Her were glimmering pools of deep green, and Cottie felt more trapped than she would have if she had also been on stage that night.

“Of course, Ma’am. Can I get you anything else?” Cottie coughed and tried to regain her composure.

“You can call me Tazana,” she took a sip from her drink “or Mistress.” She gave another dark smile as her eyes wandered up and down Cottie’s outfit. “And I am sure there are many things you could give me tonight.”

Cottie knew from experience that just because they looked the part, didn't mean someone knew what they were doing. Even if that look made her tail twitch with anticipation.

And she probably didn’t want a bunny like her.

“I can bring you a menu if you’d like Ma’am, but I’m afraid all we have left this evening are the fruit plates” Cottie tried to cover her sneer with her best customer service smile. She had felt bad enough tonight, but now this woman had gotten her just turned on enough that she couldn’t fully ignore it and she knew she wouldn’t get the kind of satisfaction she wanted, that she hadn’t had any person able to give her.

An excited light came to Tazana’s eyes. “You don’t give anything do you?” Cottie felt something at her ankle and when she looked down she saw the very tip of Tazana’s tail had wrapped itself around her. “A friend of mine recommended this place; told me that the bunnies would give me anything I wanted. I’ll be honest,“ she said, her low alto getting deeper, “ I don't really like to be given things. I want to take.``

Cottie didn’t notice the woman slowly getting closer and closer until they were practically sharing the same air.

“Do you want to be taken?”

—-------

Tazana waited the rest of the night for the adorable little bunny to finish her shift. She hadn’t accepted Tazana’s earlier offer, but neither had she declined it. It seemed she hadn't noticed how far in she was drawn until the last second. Then she squeaked in that high soft pitch that only bunnies could seem to do and rushed back over to the bar. For the rest of the night, she threw a mixture of annoyed and wanting glaces into Tazana’s booth.

It had been so long since Tazana had gone out to a show. Most of the time, they would simply leave her wanting; she wanted to feel a submissive under her own claws, punish and reward them, hear them scream for her, so going home to her nest by herself afterwards was disappointing at best.

She was glad Anremha had convinced her to come watch the show; the drider was doing a fantastic job with the bunny on the stage, though they were beginning to finish up now. The bliss on the bunny’s face made her hope that she had found her own. She hadn’t lied to the cute little server, she didn’t want any easy little pet that would bend over and give her whatever she asked for. Tazana always relished the chase and the struggle the most, though a look like that of the bunny on the stage was certainly the end goal still.

The server bunny had captured her attention immediately. She wasn’t overly sweet or nice to patrons the way the other bunny servers were; she did her job and was polite, but she didn't lean all over them and giggle at all their jokes. Her hair was a dull brown, but her ears had white spots, and her tail was a mixture of both. Coloration like that wasn’t favored among many, but it seemed much more interesting to Tazana than the popular plain white or black. She seemed to be avoiding Tazana now. She would look longingly for long moments, and when she realized what she was doing would scowl and sometimes even thump a foot. The naga just sat back and watched. At the end of the night she would see if the bunny wanted to be taken or if she was going to deny both of them.

Last call rang out shortly after Anremha and her bunny made their way off the stage and Tazana realized she hadn't finished even half of her drink. She had spent all of her evening watching her bunny flit to and fro. Said bunny was finally approaching her again.

“Can I take your glass if you are finished?” it was a perfectly practiced polite tone, but she would not look Tazana in the eyes.

“May I have your name?” If the little bunny wouldn’t come home with her that night, Tazana would have to come back and nurse a $25 drink every night until she either came willingly or fully told her to leave.

She finally met her eyes, and her nose twitched quickly. “Is that what you want in exchange?” Without breaking the precious eye contact, Tazana set the glass gently on the tray filled with other half empty glasses. The bunny’s eyes flicked to her hand, and followed its path away from the tray, without so much a twitch in her direction, and she seemed disappointed. Tazana smirked.

“You only get the things you ask for, I’ve found, and you have to start at the beginning. I want to take a cute bunny, so I start by asking her name.”

“And if she says no?”

“‘Cinnamon’ tends to work better, but if you say no to me now I suppose I’ll have to simply enjoy the view for the last fifteen minutes before the bar closes and go home alone.” Tazana really didn't want that to happen. She wanted to see what shades of pink and red the little bit of ass hanging out of the bunny’s costume would turn when she took a paddle to it.

With a glance behind her to the bar where some of the other bunnies were gathering dishes under the watchful eye of the elf bartender, the bunny bit her lip “and what if, half way through, you decide you don't want the bunny anymore?”

“What makes you think that?” The naga’s coils writhed slowly; her bunny was upset, she could smell it when she scented the air.

“What if she isn’t soft like the other bunnies?” she turned her head now to look Tazana in the eyes again, eyes starting to fill with angry tears “What if she argues, she fights, wants you to hurt her?” She sniffed, “Cottie isn’t some easy sub you can gently finger-fuck and call it a night with” and turned to run back to the bar but was stopped by Tazana’s hand on her arm.

Even at only a part of her full height, Tazana had to look down on her bunny. The end of her tail started to curl around her ankles again “Cottie sounds like exactly the bunny I’ve been looking for'' Tazana had to stop herself from fully enveloping the bunny in her coils “Maybe I’ll hunt her down and tie her up, spank her just the way she needs. Stuff her own soaked panties in her mouth when she tries to tell me she doesn’t want it.” She searched the bunny’s gaze, which turned from upset to aroused in step with her scent. “Where do you think I could find her?”

“Maybe outside? Around thirty minutes after the bar closes?” There was some hope in her eyes now.

“Remember,” Tazana breathed in her ear, “say ‘cinnamon’ and it all stops.” she released her bunny’s feet and slithered around her. “Maybe I’ll find a bunny outside then” she said over her shoulder, and continued to the front door.

—-------

After waffling about it for entirely too long and making the other bunnies laugh at her, Cottie ended up changing out of her work ‘uniform’ and back into her shorts and tee-shirt. Usually, she would throw a coat over whatever she had worn for work and not worry about it for her short drive home, but she didn’t want to make it too easy for the naga woman, Tazana, to get to her. After enough failed relationships, Cottie knew what most of these were like. They said they wanted someone to fight them, but they didn’t really. Once she put up half a fight they would get this look in their eye. They still wanted to fuck her, so they’d keep going, but they didnt want to play the same game. They wanted her to lie back and scream, but they didn’t want to make her. This one was probably the same, and the night would end before it really even began. She was almost surprised when Tazana was actually waiting outside.

“I seem to have found myself a bunny” the edge of her smirk gave just a hint of a long fang, “tell me bunny, are you still interested in continuing the evening?”

“Maybe” Cottie lied. Tazana had raised to what would be her full height, and she was almost two heads taller than her. She had known she was taller in the bar but she hadn't realized just how much. “But maybe it's just as easy to go home to my vibe and the internet. Probably just as satisfying.”

The smirk on Tazana’s face dropped, and she leaned in to stare Cottie down. After a few seconds where she seemed to wait for something, a spark lit in her eyes. “Is that what you want? A vibrator and some shitty pornography?” it was half a whisper and half a hiss. “I can make that happen if you want to ask nicely, but since you don't seem to have any manners I think tonight I might give you a refresher on them, hmm? I think the first lesson will be an easy one for you.” she shifted back out of Cottie’s suddenly very pink face. “Ask your mistress nicely for the privilege of a lesson.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tisk tisk, little pet,” Tazana looped around her with the kind of grace that seems as easy as breathing for giant nagas, dragging her nail occasionally across her bare flesh, “You are already going to get a lesson, don’t make it a punishment too, don’t write a check your ass can't cash. Literally.” She spoke the last word directly into Cottie’s ear.

Cottie swallowed hard and tried to ignore that in five minutes this woman had gotten her wetter than all previous partners combined. The naga could definitely tell based on the way her forked tongue had started to flick out every so often. “I think you also promised a chase, mistress.” she tried to hold a petulant tone but it definitely fell flat.

Tazana looked around the parking lot which while mostly empty, still had some stragglers. “This is not quite the court for such a thing, pet, but you are right, I did promise. Allow me to bring you someplace where such a sport will not cause us to be interrupted. But first,” she turned back to Cottie with a knowing look.

Her face beet red, Cottie looked Tazana in the eye.

“Please.”

—-------

Tazana was beyond delighted at the bunny she had found. Just the smallest taste of her in the parking lot was enough for her to know she wanted to keep this bunny around for a good long while. As Tazana had taken a cab to the club, they took Cottie’s car. Tazana’s house at the edge of town, and they gave the address to the elf bartender who had apparently waited for them to finish their negotiations before leaving himself. As it was a smaller car Tazana was mostly coiled in the back seat, though she had made sure the very end of her tail had made its way to the front so she could run the end along Cottie’s bare leg or arm occasionally while she drove.

As they pulled into the drive she directed the bunny to park in front of the garage at the side of the white brick gregorian. After extracting herself from the car, Tazana took Cottie’s bag and led her to the back gate.

The backyard was filled with geometric box hedges leading in various maze-like paths to a gazebo situated at the very back of the property by a pond. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Cottie’s nose twitching, likely from the low white clover that replaced the grass and the stone paths that used to be in the backyard. Tazana dropped the bag by the backdoor to the house and turned to Cottie. “To be clear, the edge of the property does border the Alder Pack’s territory, so you should not pass the fenceline. They play a much less fun game with an intruding bunny.” Cottie nodded as she looked around what was probably an acre of hedges and bushes. Slowly she slipped her flats off and set them neatly by her bag at the door. Tazana appreciated the gesture, though it was probably more so the bunny could feel the clover between her toes than to prevent her from tracking gravel into the yard.

“Does it meet your expectations, little bunny? Have I made good on my promise?”

“No” Cottie took a few steps into the grass. “You promised a chase” and with that she shot off down the lines of the maze.

Tazana’s laugh took her by surprise as she chased after the bunny. Cottie was faster, but Tazana had planted and trimmed these hedges herself. She knew the layout better than anyone. And soon she had cornered her prey in a dead end where the hedges were particularly thick. Cottie froze like most prey, but surprised Tazana when she thumped at her. As she took a second to make sure the bunny was not safewording, Cottie took her chance and dashed around her. The second time around, the trick didn't work and Tazana quickly looped herself around the bunny, not quite touching her, but keeping her right where she had been caught.

“You have been caught, little pet.” She traced two claws down Cotties chin. “It is now time for the lesson.”

“Not yet!” Cottie tried to jump out of the loose loops of her tail, but before she made it more than a few inches, Tazana had wrapped an arm around her waist and threw her over her shoulder. She started slinking over to the back door of the house, intent on bringing her prize to the playroom. Cottie squirmed on her shoulder, doing her best to get out of her hold, but she was no match for Tazana’s strength, and her struggle came to an abrupt stop when Tazana’s palm landed against her ass, hard.

“That's enough of that pet. You’re lucky I've not got a leash or I'd make you walk to your punishment rather than give you the easy road of being carried.”

“Punishment? I thought you were going to give me a lesson on manners” Cottie was out of breath but still seemed eager to sass her mistress. “And who says I would walk to -” she let out another yelp as Tazana’s hand came down again in quick succession three times.

“You will get your lesson pet, you did ask nicely. But you have also misbehaved and been disrespectful to your mistress. I warned you not to go further, but that does not absolve you of the offenses you have already committed.”

—-------

The playroom Tazana brought Cottie to was deceptively simple she could tell. There was one large square mattress in the center of the floor, surrounded by loops at strategic places surrounding it. There was a closet on one side, the hook in the ceiling in the corner and a wardrobe and bench on the other. A rolling cart was next to the bench.

She really hoped Tazana was planning on bending her over that. The spanks she had given on the way up to the house had left her ass still warm, and she wanted to see if she would actually let loose on her the way she promised. Judging by the Naga’s smile from noticing her staring at it, she might be planning on it.

Pulling on all the tricks the other bunnies at the bar had tried to teach her over the years, Cottie ran her hands up her thighs, whipping her sweaty palms off on her shorts and continued up to grab the edge of her shirt. With a little shimmy it was off, and she watched as the naga’s slit pupils dilated, taking in her chest. While Cottie wasn’t super well endowed, she wasn’t fully flat chested either. And she hadn’t put her bralette back out before she left the club. Her shorts dropped right after, leaving her in just her soaked panties.

“Gorgeous” The naga breathed as she slowly looped around Cottie. Coming back around to her front, Tazana slid her hands up Cottie’s face and caught her eyes in that hypnotic green hold again. “Before we begin again, tell me, what word stops it all?”

Cottie rolled her eyes, “Cinnamon”.

“It’s important, bunny, because once I start, that is the only way for it to stop if it gets too much. You can beg, you can scream, and I hope you fight, but if you need to stop, that is the only thing that will do it.”

Cottie nodded after the gentle chastising.

“Ok, my pet, why don't you get acquainted with the bench, and I’ll grab some toys for your punishment, hmm? Business before pleasure you know.”

With Tazana’s back turned, Cottie was interested to see if this mistress ment it. The bench was the kind with a narrow top portion and a lower support on either side for her to rest her forearms and knees. Running her hand along the smooth leather, she didn’t bend over. Instead, she threw one leg over it and sat astride the bench. The lower supports under her knees gave her perfect leverage to roll her hips against the bench, giving her a little, if unsatisfying, pressure on her clit.

When Tazana turned back around from the wardrobe, toys in hand, her eyes narrowed at the bunny. “I’m acquainting myself, mistress.” she sighed, putting on a show, “It’s not the kind of acquaintance I was hoping for.”

Before Cottie could continue her act, Tazana’s hand struck out and grabbed a fistfull of her hair, thankfully missing her ears. Before her yelp had even left her mouth, Tazana had used her grip to pull her forward and bend her over so her face was right at the edge of the bench.

“What am I going to do with you, pet?” The calm tone she used was deceiving. With her other hand, Tazana opened one of the nipple clamps she had grabbed and set on the cart next to the bench and opened it in front of Cottie’s face. She slowly dragged the cold metal down her cheek and over to where her left tit spilled over the side of the benchtop. She swirled it around before putting on Cottie’s peaked nipple. She ignored Cotties gasp. “I think you just need someone to actually show you how to behave, and what the consequences are for misbehavior.” Tazana tugged on the chain connected to the clamp to get Cottie to gasp again, then hooked it on a loop on the bench. She grabbed a second clamp. “First you need to know the consequences, then, maybe, the rewards.” She didn’t draw out putting the second clamp on, or hooking it to the bench as well. There was enough give in the chains for Cottie to pick up her head and face one side of the bench or the other, but not much else.

“Do your worst.”

The laughter Tazana let out sent chills down Cottie’s spine. Tazana slid out of view behind her and before the bunny could taunt her mistress a second time,she pulled her just slightly back to bring her ass to the edge of the bench. It gave a little tug once more to Cottie’s tits before she settled where the chains wouldn’t pull.

“Oh little pet, you did ask for it, remember.” Tazana grabbed the top hem of her panties and pulled them up, drawing the fabric hard against Cottie’s sensitive pussy and bearing her ass cheeks to the room. Keeping a solid hold, the naga started spanking her. She started slow, but with hard hits that kept Cottie gasping, but occasionally interspersed them with quick sharp spanks. “Oh does that get my little pet all horny? Not much of a punishment if the little slut enjoys it.” she cooed before dragging her claws up one side and down the other hard enough to leave thin lines in their wake.

Before Cottie could come up with some sort of taunt in response, she heard the loud crack of a paddle meeting flesh, and a second later felt what was definitely a textured paddle land on her left ass cheek. She gave a shout, and a second hit landed on the other cheek. Before long, Cottie was practically screaming as the paddle came down again and again on her ass and thighs. Everytime she jerked, she would pull on the clamps, and everytime she tried to press into the bench away from the paddle, Tazana would yank her up by her panties again, holding her in place.

“Please please please,” she realized she was begging, which cut off into a high pitched squeak when instead of another hit, she got a sharp pinch to her sore and undoubtedly bright red ass.

“Please what?” Tazana leaned around to bring her face near the bunny, but Cottie had lost all thought. This was the ass beating she always dreamed of. She felt Tazan rub two fingers against her still panty covered pussy. “You're so sopping wet I might have thought you'd come already just from that, which means that wasn't much of a punishment was it? It’s so hard to discipline whores like you because any amount of attention just gets you off. But I know just what to do.” She unhooked the clamps from the bench and used her long thick tail to carry the bunny over to the floor bed, her smooth scales making sure to rub up hard against the bunny’s tender ass to get more mewls out of her.

To Cottie, after removing her panties and the naga’s own jacket,Tazana seemed to produce a set of cuffs from nowhere to chain her to the loops around the mattress, leaving her dazed in a spread eagle on the floor. She felt some things drop onto the mattress next to her, but couldn’t lift or turn her head enough to see them, so she turned to the naga draping herself loosely over the bunny.

“Did I learn my lesson, Mistress? Or do I get my lesson now?” Cottie laughed at her own incoherent joke.

“Usually it is punishment then lesson,” Tazana said as she leaned over her and started pressing kisses across her cheek to her ear, “but you seem to have mistaken what your spanking was for. So I do have to actually punish you now.” she leaned back and grabbed a rather large dildo from beside her.

Confusion written all over her face, Cottie looked up at the toy, then her mistress. “What do you mean?”

Tazana rubbed the toy up and down the bunny’s slit to cover it in her slick and to do a covert check of how stretched she was. Then she shoved the dildo in up to its hilt.

Cotties back bowed off the mattress as she screamed. It wasn’t too too much as she was beyond sloppy wet after that spanking, but the pace the naga set fucking her with it bordered on it. The hard thrusts and the bored face Tazana presented drove Cottie to orgasm faster than she ever had before, and just as it was about to start she pulled the dildo all the way out.

“What no, no please!”

“Punishment pet. That was for swearing at your mistress in the parking lot this evening.”

Ignoring Cottie’s pleas, and the tears now streaming down her cheeks, Tazana waited until Cottie had seemed to calm just a bit before forcing the toy back in her and resuming the viscous pace. Knowing what was happening but powerless to stop it, Cottie sobbed as her orgasm approached. Once more Tazana removed the toy just in time to ruin it.

“That one was for sassing me before our chase.”

On the third repeat of the punishment, Cottie screamed and thrashed against her bindings. “And that final one was for your behavior on the bench.” Tazana cooed in her ear while she calmed. She quickly unlatched the cuffs from holding Cottie down, and recurled herself on the mattress with the bunny sitting astride her and shoved her face down towards the nagas slit. “See if you can't earn yourself a reward now little slut.”

—-------

The naga’s slit was puffy and slick. She’d rubbed her pussy a bit while spanking the bunny, oh she took the hits too beautifully not to, but she hadn’t done much else. She was interested to see if her little bunny was good at using her tongue in other ways. Cottie seemed confused at first, likely due to her still coming down, but caught on rather quickly. She licked all around the edges of Tazana’s slit to gather all the slick that had seeped out, then dove into the source.

Tazana ran her claws through her bunny’s scalp and gently rubbed her soft brown ears. The bunny seemed to forget she had hands to help with her task, but she settled in with single minded intention and soon the naga found her own crest. She pulled the bunny back roughly when her continued ministrations got too much.

“Good slut” She watched as Cottie licked her lips. “Now for a reward.” Tazana grabbed the strapless strapon from beside her, and inserted her end with a sigh; the curve rested right up against where she was most sensitive. Her bunny eyed it with open hunger, and Tazana had the idle thought of making her suck it, and occasionally shoving it down her throat just to hear the sound of her choking.

But her bunny was getting tired, so she figured she’d have to settle tonight. Using the long coils of her tail, she wrapped around the bunny and lifted her up and onto the other end of the toy. She sank easily as it was slightly smaller than the earlier one, but just as she settled, pussy to pussy with Tazana, the naga flicked off one of the nipple clamps.

She felt the strap move as the bunny jolted in pain, then grabbed her hips to set a slow pace of hard thrusts. Moving in little rocking motions that would drag the toy across the sensitive parts of her inner walls soon brought both of them to little sighs and gasps, but it was not quite enough. First she pulled the other clamp off of Cottie, reveling in the squeak she produced. Then, she grabbed the last toy she had brought over, a large magic wand, and set it to where it dragged across the bunny’s clit on every thrust. She started to thrust harder into the bunny, and grind at the bottom to get the vibrations against both of them.

“Please, please mistress, let me cum, please.”

Not answering her, Tazana took her free hand to grab Cottie’s face and press their mouths into a searing kiss. Turning the vibrations up to a higher level made the bunny gasp, and gave her the opportunity to lick into her mouth. She dragged her forked tongue across her mouth, reveling in the shiver she earned. Once she had her fill she leaned back just enough to breathe in the space between them.

“Cum.”

Cottie immediately drenched the naga’s lap, squirting around the toy as it was driven into her g spot. This brought Tazana over the edge too.

She slowly brought the power of the wand down, before pulling it away. Then she gently removed the bunny from her strap, then the strap from herself. Cottie was shaking in the aftermath of her orgasm when she gave her another kiss.

“See what good behavior gets you? Or do you need another lesson, pet?”

Still reeling from her orgasm Cottie gave the naga a mischievous look. “Maybe, the punishment is always that good.”

Tazana squeezed her ass, making sure to get her claws in the sore flesh. “Then I guess I just have to keep giving you punishments until you learn your lesson, naughty bunny.”

#wlw #wlw nsft #bunny #naga #bd/sm kink #monster smut #terato #monster love #monster lover #brat #monster romance

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deepspacedukat · 1 year

Text

The Forgotten

Nobody asked for this, but I was in a mood and wanted to write some fluff about a background Vulcan. So uh...here ya go.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Tos (ST:ENT) x Reader

[A/N: I know he seems kinda biased against humanity, but if the right person showed him Humans weren’t so bad, I think he’d be soft under that prickly exterior.]

Warnings: Getting stood up, emotional hurt/comfort, kind Vulcan saves the day, pining, mutual pining, they both think it’s unrequited but it’s not, they’re idiots your honor, idiot/idiot, Tos is a sentimental sweetheart, she’s sad and it’s unacceptable to him.

~*~

Tos had never seen her looking so forlorn before. Normally, she’d at least make a few jokes with her waiter or some familiar fellow patrons, but this time Soval’s assistant was utterly silent. Her chin rested in her palm, and she was tracing the rim of her glass with a single fingertip as if the action alone could summon whatever it was that she sought. Her whole countenance practically drooped like a wilted flower.

It wasn’t that the Ambassador watched her specifically, but...well, he couldn’t help but notice her. Though she was Human, her beauty was undeniable. Whenever she was in the embassy, Tos could pick her out from the largest crowd, because she practically lit up the entire building with her smiles.

He’d made sure to become acquainted with her after the first week of distractions that she’d caused him. As their friendship formed, the Ambassador realized that they had a lot in common. They even frequented the same small restaurant. More than once he’d caught himself foolishly entertaining the notion of presenting himself to her as a prospective mate. That wasn’t feasible, though. He was much too old to be anything more than a friend to her. But he wouldn’t let that stop him from being the best friend that he could possibly be.

Tonight as she sat alone, it occurred to him that he would throw everything, even logic, to the wayside if only he could bring her out of this low mood. His internal debate lasted only a moment before he found himself standing and moving to her table with a swish of his robes.

She looked up and a flash of recognition and surprise crossed over her features.

“Forgive me for interrupting, ashaya. May I join you?” He tried to keep his voice steady and strong so that he wouldn’t show how rapidly her eyes drilled right into his brain and robbed him of all but a sliver of his control. Silently, she nodded her head, and Tos took the seat across from her. She tried to force a smile, but he knew her much too well to be fooled by it. “What is troubling you?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was supposed to be meeting someone today, but...it looks like he forgot. Again.” She must be talking about her suitor. From what she’d told Tos, the man didn’t seem fit to be in her presence. A jolt of protectiveness thrummed through Tos’s chest, and he had an idea.

“Would you consider allowing me to keep you company this evening, k’diwa?” Her eyes widened, and her lips spread into a small, teasing smile - her first of the evening from what he’d seen.

“That depends. Are you finally going to tell me what ‘k’diwa’ means?”

At least she was still in high enough spirits to tease him. Allowing her a dramatically raised eyebrow, Tos acted as though he was thinking it over, just as he always did.

“...Perhaps tonight I shall,” he murmured, and the wide grin she gave him was enough to make up his mind for him. He should tell her. He would tell her, but first he had to make sure that the pain that she had been made to feel tonight was thoroughly wiped away. “Allow me but a moment and we shall depart.”

He made his way over to the waiter, who was more than happy to assist a prominent Vulcan Ambassador such as himself, and made a very special request. The man looked at him oddly, but he ultimately agreed, which was good enough for Tos.

Instead of returning to his seat when got back to the table, he offered his lovely companion his arm. Receiving a smile that made him stand a little taller and - dare he say - prouder, he led her on a walk around the Embassy grounds. His little surprise would doubtless take a bit of setup and he wanted to allow ample time for its completion.

“Where are you taking me now that you’ve rescued me from the jaws of boredom, Mr. Ambassador?”

“First, for a walk, and then to do something you have expressed a keen desire to do.” He knew his answer was cryptic, but he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. For the moment, the idle conversation between the two of them flowed easily. He savored every little smile she gave him, because not only were they something he already enjoyed, but they were a sign of her improving mood, as well.

Tos caught sight of Ambassador Soval as they began to make their way inside, and the two men exchanged a quiet ta’al in greeting. No doubt Soval would have a few questions for him the next day about the familiarity of his contact with his assistant.

Once they reached the upper level, Tos entered his access code in the panel by the observation room door. She would normally never have cause or authorization to be here, but tonight was an exception.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered, and she followed his direction instantly. The trust that her actions implied made Tos mentally preen. Guiding her inside, Tos brought her right to the edge of the area that had been set up for them, then he made his way over to the control panel. Inputting the correct data for the display that he wanted, he looked up when a low, electric hum buzzed to life.

Perfect. He then moved back to her side and placed his hands on her shoulders, whispering for her to open her eyes. She blinked slowly as she did so, and Tos gestured for her to look upward. A gasp slipped from her throat as she took in the lowered lights and the ceiling which now displayed an exact replica of the stars above Vulcan. Typically, this room was used for strategic planning for travel through star systems or for potential defense plans, but tonight its use was purely recreational.

“Tos...Oh, Ambassador, this is wonderful!” Her amazement drew him alarmingly close to smiling, and the way she said his name...Then she spotted the picnic that he’d had the staff arrange for them. If he had been uncertain about her reaction before, the way her eyes glittered with unshed tears of gratitude made her feelings exceedingly clear.

“A picnic beneath Vulcan’s stars. You expressed an interest in stargazing on my homeworld approximately forty two days ago. As I cannot take you there this evening, I thought it logical to bring Vulcan’s sky to you,” he explained, and with barely a pause, she threw her arms around him. His eyes went wide, but he embraced her in return. Such exuberance was rare from her, and he assumed that were he to reject her now, she might feel even more crushed than she had earlier. He would not tolerate that after the pain that her former suitor had caused her. Former would be the appropriate descriptor for him, if Tos had anything to say about it. Her lips met his cheek, and that was where she seemed to catch herself.

“O-Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” She seemed mortified by her behavior, and she even began to pull away, but Tos grasped her waist to keep her where she was. No, don’t leave. You need not be embarrassed. His instincts urged him to hold her closer, to reassure her.

“There is no need to apologize,” he promised as he tried to tamp down the blush that was no doubt coloring his cheeks. Having her this close was more than he’d ever hoped for. Her lips had been warm and gentle on his cheek. Beneath his logic, the Hunger that all Vulcans kept hidden preened at her affectionate gesture. He had no right to, but he enjoyed every moment with her on a level that, truthfully, he really shouldn’t.

She looked up at him and the soft openness of her expression bored straight through the last of Tos’s mental barriers.

“Beloved,” he breathed before he could stop himself, and at her look of confusion he elaborated. “You have asked me many times what ‘k’diwa’ means. It means beloved.”

The Ambassador had never seen her so surprised. His Hunger drew back as anxiety crept in. Was he really so inadequate that the mere possibility of his affection was a shock? He should not have revealed the truth. Illogical old fool.

“I apologize. The use of such a familiar term of endearment is highly inappropriate. I intended no offen–” He was abruptly silenced by the feeling of delicate heat covering his lips.

It took him a moment to determine what was happening, but once he did, he realized that she...was kissing him. Allowing his mind to touch hers for barely a second, he confirmed that she did not hate him...that in fact, she felt a depth of affection for him that rivaled his own feelings. By the time they broke for breath, they were both blushing.

“Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim,” she murmured. There is no offense where none is taken. Surak’s wisdom from her lips was the sweetest gift she could have ever bestowed upon him.

Beneath the simulated light of Vulcan’s stars, Tos cupped the back of his love’s head and kissed her so tenderly that even the deepest, loneliest depths of his Hunger purred in satisfaction. When she hummed against his lips and looped her arms around his neck, the Ambassador was certain that her former suitor would soon be all but forgotten.

~*~*~

Vulcan Words:

ashaya = love

k’diwa = beloved

Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim. = There is no offense where none is taken. (Surak)

#deepspacedukat fic #Tos x Reader #Ambassador Tos

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boliv-jenta · 10 months

Text

Joel Miler x f!reader

WC:2.8k

Warnings: character death, angst, virginal fingering.

Summary: Finally getting back to Joel, you witness events that shake you all to your core.

More of Us Part 6

Masterlist

Coming to, your body checked in with your brain. Head, throbbing. Legs, aching. Hands, pins and needles. Mouth, metallic taste. Blood? No, not copper, something else. As your brain started to be more aware, your surroundings became apparent. Grey walls covered in dirt and mould. The smell of damp, dust and decay. The tiles and fixtures of the small bathroom, damaged and cracked. Broken, just like the rest of the world and the people in it. You were back in their nightmare world.

When you reached for the towel rail to pull you up, it came off in your hand with a clang. A clang that alerted Joel. His pistol came into view before he did.

"Joel! It's me." In a panic you tried to shrink away from him.

"Shit." Tucking his gun away he made his way over to you. "Baby. You're alive. You're here. I…" he blinked tears away as his hands skimmed over you, checking for injuries. "I thought I'd lost you. It's been days."

"I know. I thought I'd never get back to you. I kept moving forward though." Clinging to him, having his arms around you, even with all the insanity of the last few days everything felt right. No matter what universe you were in. In Joel's arms was where you belonged. The notion made you laugh, you barely knew the man but somewhere in your heart you knew it was the truest thing you had ever felt. You knew it with such conviction and clarity that it was actually more terrifying than anything you had been through the last few days. Now, you had something to lose that you valued more than your life. If you died, that was it. There was no pain. If Joel died, that pain would be worse than death. A loss that would leave a wound inside of you that would never heal.

"I'm so glad you did. Come on, let's go wake Ellie. She's been asking about you nonstop." Giving you one last squeeze, he helped you up from the floor.

The moment held so much joy and promise and that all changed in the blink of an eye. Joel opened the door then bolted out across the room. Henry stood in front of you, his gun at his side, his eyes wide in terror. The sounds of a struggle, of Ellie struggling, moved you forward. Standing just behind Henry as he moved forward you saw what was going on. The whole scene had you rooted to the spot. Sam. The little boy you'd met a few days ago. The one with bright brown eyes full of concern as you lay on the floor. The one who still hadn't seen enough in the cruel world he lived in to be desensitised to it all. The one who looked afraid for you, a stranger he had just met. That boy. He was attacking Ellie.

"Shit. He's turnin'!" Joel rooted for his gun.

Henry shot it from his hand before he got a chance to use it. "That's my fucking brother."

As Joel dove for his bag again, Henry raised his gun. Just as you stepped forward to try to protect Joel, Henry fired. This time at his brother. The boy choked on his own blood as Ellie crawled away from him to the safety of Joel's side. There was so much blood. It spread over the floor so quickly. He was only a kid. How was there so much blood?

"Sam?" Henry took in a ragged breath. "Sam?"

"Henry?" Joel stepped towards the younger man. "Henry. I'm gonna get that gun from you. Okay?"

All the while Henry had been muttering while softly sobbing. It took everything you had not to reach out for him. You couldn't imagine what he was going through. The cruelty of this world held no bounds. To lose his brother twice in mere minutes. He posture folded with the weight of it. It only straighten when Joel moved to take his gun. "It's your fault!"

Joel bowed his head. "It's nobody's fault, Henry."

"It's all your fault!"

The tension rose in the room, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, electricity zipped underneath your skin. No. Not now. You weren't going anywhere. Unless. Maybe you could take Henry with you so he couldn't hurt Joel? Your whole being felt like it was being split in two, the part of you that wanted to get as far away from here as possible and the part that wanted to stay with Joel. The sound of a gunshot merged the two back together. They both stood just behind Henry's dead body.

There should be so many emotions inside your chest. Fear. Sadness. Regret. Not one made an appearance. There was just a cold void. Looking down you saw your hands shaking. Hands that Ellie was soon grabbing at. "Take us back! Take us to your world. Do it!" Her anger at you soon melted into her sobbing in your arms. The two of you slid down to the floor. Numbly, you tried to soothe her while you watched Joel.

The deep brown eyes showed so much sorrow looking at the two dead boys in front of him. To Joel, Henry was still a kid himself. Joel didn't blame him for not being able to handle it. Shit, Joel himself had…his eyes landed on you and Ellie, looking even more sorrowful. For a moment, he stood over you. His hand hovered over Ellie's head as if he was going to offer the comfort of his touch. Clenching his fist, he thought better of it. Deciding to offer a different type of comfort he moved to Sam's body.

From your position on the floor, you watched as Joel lifted the young boy. He cradled him as if Sam had just fallen asleep on the couch and needed to be carried to bed. That's all Joel was doing, just letting the child finally rest. Tears flowed from your eyes, your grip on Ellie tightened as the shock wore off. You could have stopped this, you should have.

"Your turn." Ellie nudged your arm.

After nearly a week of spending most of the day walking, Joel decided you all needed a rest. He'd seen your reluctance but he hadn't addressed it.

Tapping the tiny pencil against your paper, you looked at the word staring back at you. "I really suck at this game. I'm gonna get some air. Maybe that will help me think." With the best smile you could muster, you made your way to the door.

Ellie silently urged Joel to follow you. While he did she looked down at your Boggle sheet. 'Fault' was neatly written at the top of the page.

"Hey. It's getting cool out here." Joel draped his jacket over your shoulders.

"Thank you." Tugging it close you revelled in the scent of him for a moment.

This past week, you'd kept your distance. He'd held you, as he'd escorted you out of that room. The room with their blood still fresh on the floor. Past their fresh graves. He leaned you against a car as Ellie went back to pay her respects. She returned looking just as determined as ever. He gave you a comforting squeeze as he helped you up then that was it. If Ellie can stand on her own two, you could too. The weight of feeling responsible for the loss of Sam and Henry was taking its toll. How long until something happened to one of them that you could have stopped? That thought kept you up at night. Then it branched out, spread like an infection. What if, just by being there, you changed everything? The game was based on a future that someone saw. What if that future was changing more and more with each second you were with Joel and Ellie? What if you caused things to deviate so much that you got one of them killed? Or both of them? What if it was left up to you to keep Ellie safe? What if Ellie dies because of you? It was all too much for you to take.

After a while passed in silence, Joel gently lay his hand on your shoulder. "What's going on in that beautiful head of yours? Talk to me."

"I…I need to leave Joel. If I stay I could get you or Ellie killed." Heartbreak laced your tone.

"I could get me or Ellie killed. He'll, chances are Ellie will be the death of me. Whether by running off and getting into trouble or her attitude, I don't know." He leaned on the railings next to you, looking out onto the deserted motel parking lot.

"Joel. I'm not joking!"

"Neither am I."

"The game in my world is one possibility of your future. What if me being here changes that? What if I change what happens and you get hurt?"

Joel cupped your face in both of his hands. Flashes of raw emotion crossed his face before he setted on a smile. "What if you change it for the better?"

The kiss he pulled you into was all consuming. It pulled you out of everything. Out of your head until all you could think about was Joel.

A dull thud from inside broke you two apart. Ellie's face was in the window. Giving it a hard tug, she slid it open."Sorry. I knocked over a lamp. Anyway I'm going to my bedroom on the opposite side to yours. With me headphones in so I won't be able to hear any…stuff."

"Ellie! There won't be anything to hear." Joel authorities tone was undercut by the blush of his cheeks.

"Do you need one of Bill's magazines to remind you how to…?" Ellie had the good sense to retreat as she made that comment.

The two of you laughed, when it petered out there was a comfortable silence. Joel had made you feel comfortable since the moment you met him. Tugging the lapels of his jacket, he pulled you in for another kiss. Just a soft, fleeting touch of his lips.

"Come on. Let's get you inside."

Joel went around securing the room, some previous occupant had already done a pretty good job. Ellie was already asleep when he came to your room.

"You alright? Do you need anything?" The room was relatively clean. It felt secure. The mattress on the floor could have been thicker but it was better than the floor.

"I'm okay. I don't think I need anything." One thing did occur to you. The comfort that Joel brought. "Can you sleep in here?" Joel had planned to sleep on the sofa in the living room.

The room you were in was at the end of the first floor. Ellie's room was on the outside, the windows were all barricaded. The window of your room was right next to the front door. It would be safe enough for him to sleep in here. More importantly, he wanted to be in here with you. It had been a long time since had let himself want anything.

He let that want reach out for you. He kissed like you were the last good thing in this world. His hands trembled as he he used them to memories your curves. Nothing good lasts in the world. Joel understood your fears about getting him hurt. He carried the same one's about you. Was it him that was keeping you trapped here? He saw the weird energy snapping around you when Henry had his gun pointed at him. He saw you take a breath and it dissipated. It was something he was going to have to face but not right now. Not with you, warm and eager under his touch. Not while cock swelled so quickly at your soft gasps.

"Can I touch you?" His warm breath tickled the hairs on your neck as he kissed up it.

Your breathless reply of "God, yes." pulled a chuckle from him.

His wide palm slid down across your stomach until his fingers smoothed across your pubic hair. Suddenly, thoughts of your personal grooming invaded your head. It's been a while since I neatened up. The man lives in the apocalypse. I'm sure he's seen worse on other women. I wonder how many? Will I compare…ooh.

Joel's finger tips parted your folds. They found the slick gathered at your entrance before spreading it around. He lightly traced your lips to warm you up, before seeking out your clit. Softly circling it until he was satisfied, he dipped his fingers lower, finding you open for him. Two thick fingers searched for your sweet spot as his thumb swiped your clit. There was nothing else you could think of in the world. No one had ever touched you like this. It was perfect. He was perfect.

Your shoulders lift off the thin mattress as your orgasm rolls through you. Turning your body towards the source of your pleasure, you covered your mouth with Joel's broad shoulder to muffle the sounds. When he didn't stop his movements, making every delicious feeling even more intense you bit down on the soft flannel of his shirt. The europhia caused you to giggle uncontrollably.

"Better?" Joel asked, kissing your temple. Easing his hand out from between your legs, he did your jeans back up. Then he pulled you closer. Close enough for you to feel him heavy against your thigh.

"Much. Do you want me to…?" Your fingers traced the outline of him straining against his denim while stifling a yawn.

"Not tonight. You just sleep."

#the last of part 1 #the last of us au #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you

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doberbutts · 1 year

Note

A lot of arguments I see against people with PCOS + hyperandrogenism calling themselves intersex is due to PCOS being a chronic illness, which is honestly very strange to me. Intersex conditionals also being chronic illnesses is far from exclusive to PCOS, but it's an argument I see used against it often.

Like you said, I often see TERFs and radfems arguing against it too. Mainly because they believe that being considered intersex would make them less of women. Whenever I look through the tag or look into online PCOS spaces, I see cis women angry in droves against the idea of being considered intersex because it means (at least in their mind) that they're not women. Femininity and honestly (as much as radfems would hate the idea) gender dysphoria from said perceived loss of femininity is so common in these spaces. Being seen as intersex in their eyes seems like another way their womanhood and femininity is being stripped from them.

I'm genderqueer so not having a connection to womanhood or femininity has never really been a problem for me (I'm personally much more concerned about my risk of cancer, diabetes, and heart disease due to PCOS). But it is a struggle for a lot of woman to lose that femininity (especially woman of color in these spaces since they're often hyperfeminized or hypermasculinized due to race/ethnicity) they desire and being called intersex can often add salt to that wound.

Their hated of PCOS + hyperandrogenism being considered intersex comes from intersexism + transphobia and how rampent they unfortunatly are in PCOS spaces, but it also tends to come from dysphoria from being defeminized due to things such as body hair, weight, wide shoulders, longer clitorises, and deeper voices that all come from hyperandrogenism (doubly so if you're not white). I think education on what being intersex actually entails and how it doesn't take away from your gender would be incredibly helpful and take away from the stigma in these spaces. A lot of people who say that PCOS + hyperandrogenism can't be intersex are radfems yeah, but a lot of them are also women who struggle with their connection to womanhood/femininity and feel like being intersex would just be a further attack on said womanhood.

Even though I no longer identify as a woman and haven't for over half a decade, I struggled a lot to fit the mold of womanhood and femininity due to being a PoC with pretty severe hyperandrogenism. And for people (especially WoC) who want to be seen as feminine and as woman, PCOS can make that struggle much more difficult. I've been diagnosed for a decade and this has been my observation in these spaces. Hopefully this can give some perspective.

Eh, like the discussion regarding MRAs, I'm not so willing to let terfs off the hook that easily.

If radical feminism had not spread the poison that gender ambiguity, masculine traits on women, intersex as a condition period, and higher amounts of testosterone were somehow "un-womanly" or "mannish" in the first place, we would not be here talking about this today. If they had instead chosen to embrace their transgender and intersex sisters, there would be no "de-feminizing" of intersex women. But because they have decided to instead vilify traits associated with trans women at the cost of implying (or sometimes, outright stating) that intersex women are not "real women", they're now forced to eat crow as their theory is working against them and, really, against up to 10% of all cis women.

If they had chosen inclusivity, they would not have to worry that being labeled intersex takes away their womanhood. Their own theory has blown up in their faces, and they're mad about it.

And because these radfems have spread this poison, now we have other cis women who are not radfems who still believe in what they have spread, who are now also harmed by this notion that they may be "lesser" "fake" "half" women due to a circumstance they were born with.

All they had to do was accept trans and intersex women and not vilify masculine traits on women.

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ghosting-medium · 6 months

Text

・❥・ Cartomancy ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🃏 ꒱

Cartomancy is a form of divination with playing cards, not tarot cards.

Divination is the practice of seeking knowledge by asking questions, and receiving an answer. There are many different types of divination, and there are different ways to divine that aren't with tarot cards. Divination is a wide section under witchcraft, and if you don't practice divination that's valid too. It's not necessary in your practice!

I started out with reading playing cards, Cartomancy 🃏, similar to that of Tarot cards. Each card has a certain meaning, and there are 4 suit similar to Tarot Cards. They both related to each other, in that one suit in cards could be easily translated to tarot card suits. I found that it was easier to bring a deck of cards everywhere with me than tarot cards. Plus, when I first started I was a broom closet witch, so not having a tarot deck was my only option for card divination. I found numerous other ways to divinate, such as clouds, sticks, books, numerology, and shuffling my playlists.

The main difference with tarot and cartomancy is that a deck of cards has less cards. Tarot typically has 78, opposed to a standard deck having 52. I found it was harder to be intuitive when reading cards since there wasn't much imagery, but it helped build valuable skills. Such as knowing to trust my intuition, and building clairaudience skills by having to stop to listen to the message. Since imagery was obsolete, I truly relied on my "gut". When it came to getting my first deck I found that being able to trust my intuition was easier, and my reading style was already semi-developed. Therefore, when it came to finding a flowing style of reading cards it was easier to transition into! If you're wanting to give yourself more of a challenge with divination, I truly suggest cards! You still have a wide variety of options, and it'll help build some foundational skills (also it's a little bit less intimidating). Treat your deck of cards the same way though, still cleanse them, bond with them, find more about the deck and its boundaries with readings. Is the deck okay with love readings? Or, do they prefer not to do love readings, and prefer career and path readings? Each deck is different, and there's a beauty in bonding with decks.

Below I have some resources linked, they explain their interpretations for each card, suit, and color. The meanings aren't elaborate, as cartomancy isn't knowing for story line building like tarot is. With tarot you can build off each card with ease, and it flows like a story. With cards it's a little bit harder, however, not impossible. The subject of your question is going to change the meaning of the card, so it's best to get a general gist of each card and its respective meaning. Spend individual time with each card, and get your own feel and meaning behind each card; record your personal meaning for the card in either a physical or digital notebook! Notion is amazing for a digital grimoire/notebook. Anything can work to jot down an idea! I find that I have numerous miscellaneous notebooks, and random sticky notes. Anyways, once you have a general feel for each of the cards, and after they've been cleansed, then it's time to shuffle that deck and pull some cards!

People pull cards differently, and it's truly based on the reader. Some shuffle and let the cards fall out, some spread the cards face down and intuitively pick. Personally, I don't have a set pulling method. Sometimes I flip the top and bottom card, other times I pick cards from the middle of the deck. Truly it depends on my mood, and what feels right in the moment. It wasn't always like this for me, truthfully, I had a hard time shuffling the deck. I started out with spreading the deck face down in front of me and picking 2-3 cards at a time, and then checking with a pendulum if those cards were "correct".

I had a lot of fears when starting with divination. Was I divining correctly? Were the cards supposed to be upright, reversed? There were a lot of learning curves, but with time and patience I eventually got more comfortable. Moral of the story don't allow your fear and confusion to overtake you, take it slow and easy. No one expects anyone to become a master overnight, it takes time to build a foundation. Don't rush your building skills, as you'll rely on them as you go through life. It's truly not a marathon, and no one is judging and criticizing you more than you are judging yourself. One can be their own harshest self critic, it's okay to make mistakes. Mistakes show growth, don't project your fears on your learning. It happens, but like I said it gets better, and then everything will be okay <3

Later I might make a smaller post on what each suit is, and cards are but right now the links do explain a bit! I'm hoping my next post can be more about Tarot & Oracle Cards. Then, heading over to some other more uncommon forms of divination!

Sources:

https://www.mindbodygreen.com/articles/cartomancy

https://www.alittlesparkofjoy.com/cartomancy/

https://newworldwitchery.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/the-new-world-witchery-guide-to-cartomancy.pdf

Signing off ... Ghost ˚ · .

#divination #cartomancy #witch #cards #witchy

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piermanwalter · 1 year

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I had a dream I woke up in the middle of a parking lot with the asphalt and cars reduced to razor-sharp flakes around me. I knew what was up because it’s common knowledge there are tiny glittering dust motes that when touched, would fuse to you and make you transform into a creature with strange powers.

Most people died in the process, but because I survived, I got transferred to an incredibly underfunded Area 51 type facility in the middle of the Nevada desert run by a 30-foot-wide flying disc of tentacled brains, President Over Mind, who beamed knowledge on how to transform into and survive as a creature directly into our minds.

At any given time, there were at most 6 actual students, which rapidly cycled through from all the deaths and graduations. Since my creature form, Perfect Sharp, a giant pillar of druzy quartz that sharpened nearby minerals and influenced causality so there were always minerals nearby, was completely mindless and immobile, I didn’t like transforming. I had no control over transforming back into a human, but I was never in a perilous situation afterwards, so presumably Perfect Sharp had good responses.

Fusing with a mote was much more survivable for children, so I was the oldest student there. The next oldest student was a 15 year old who could transform into a brain pod with 5 skittering limbs, Bold Brain. Everyone else ranged 5-12 years, and immediately lapped up all the notions of specialness and superiority President Over Mind beamed into their minds, so Bold Brain and I had a hard time integrating with them. We all slept in a room with way more bunk beds than were needed.

I’m pretty sure Bold Brain’s personal life was pretty bad even before he transformed into a creature, because he preferred going by Bold Brain instead of his given name. Even though he didn’t buy into most of President Over Mind’s teachings, he was still desperate for its approval and saw his creature form as an infant version of whatever type of thing President Over Mind was. President Over Mind was capable of imitating pride towards promising students, but treated Bold Brain indifferently.

If you and Bold Brain learn the same new fact at the same time, he knows everything you know. Bold Brain used to wander the halls with a Guinness World Records book to spring random facts on anyone in his path to take their knowledge before he learned something really scary so he stopped doing it as much.

President Over Mind spent most of its time negotiating with authorities of our world and whatever greater beings it served deference to. President Over Mind’s goal was to find and protect creatures trapped in our universe like insects in a screen door until they could no longer return to human form, meaning they were strong enough to escape to the higher plane. In practice, most people suffered horribly from creature transformations and power side effects, and most of the building was devoted to bedridden failed students.

The only other faculty was Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer, four green stone cylinders of decreasing size bound together by copper strips and putrid feculent black sludge like a clogged shower drain or vegetables molding in a plastic bag, who took care of bedridden people. One of Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer’s favorite activities was walking up and down the long rows of hospital beds, shrugging off creature powers and conventional attacks, killing people on a whim. Each time it killed someone, it stopped to do a little dance. It kills and knows.

Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer used to be a Walmart manager before fusing with a mote in 1993. It got paid an actual salary by the government, and spent its mandated free time blasting Freebird on a boombox while eating discontinued candy and crying. If you interrupted Death Scryer during this, it killed you. Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer spread rooms and hallways with chia seeds. If you killed a chia sprout, it knows. Death Scryer’s definition of death is broad and vague, so if a lightbulb dies, or your ambition dies, or the night dies when the sun comes up, it knows.

Professor Duthumakan Death Scryer regularly left the facility to kill unaffiliated creatures. Unlike President Over Mind, who is omniscient all the time, Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer has to engineer specific situations to become temporarily omniscient. Also unlike President Over Mind, it couldn’t beam thoughts directly into our minds and had to speak to get its point across. Everyone tried to avoid it if possible.

Since Perfect Sharp was completely mindless, President Over Mind didn’t see fit to teach me anything aside from the bare minimum to survive and encourage me to transform as often and as long as possible. Vast ever-growing knowledge or not, it didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do, so I’d just hang out being disappointingly human while everyone else ran cool obstacle courses and achieved esoteric goals in the Nevada desert.

Eventually President Over Mind found better uses for me to do household chores and entertain and reassure new students. As an otherwise normal adult, I could make coherent phone calls to electric companies and greet delivery drivers. Since President Over Mind was beyond menial tasks and Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer was a health hazard, I was put in charge of procuring and preparing food from fresh ingredients, a vast improvement from the wildly inconsistent leftovers we were getting from a nearby army base.

Since Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer and I were both in the garbage room so often, eventually it started teaching me things President Over Mind deemed pointless, like how to use creature powers without turning into a creature. The knives stayed sharp.

I also learned there were two types of creature: the knowing ones who are mobile and conscious, compelled to gather knowledge through esoteric means, and the doing ones who are like a device or implement that facilitates processes around them. It seemed a vast majority of creatures were knowing.

Technically, we were supposed to get regular government inspections, which would immediately catch halls filled with chia sprouts and the nightmare hellscape of the hospital area, but whenever inspectors came, President Over Mind blasted them with mind powers until they left satisfied and unknowing.

Bold Brain was my only real friend. When class was over, he would tell me about a guy he met in the desert who joined the army to avoid becoming a murder suspect in his hometown even though he didn’t do anything and was desperately afraid of becoming a real killer to escape being seen as a killer while I kick the sand around and find a statistically unlikely number of tektites, fulgurites, and calcite desert roses.

There was one 6-year-old girl who ran away, and it turned out she was waiting at the finish line of a big exam obstacle course weeks before President Over Mind even had the idea of making an exam there.

It was easy for students to feed their egos from how disappointing Bold Brain and I were. We are better than grown ups and big kids! There was definitely a lot of drama and adventures going on I didn’t care about, but being excluded from it was getting to Bold Brain.

One time I went into the hospital area because I felt the people there would benefit from being treated by someone who didn’t smell like hell and kill them on a whim, but it turns out all of them were furious at being unable to reach the greatness President Over Mind promised them and they sacrificed their humanity for. To protect myself, I transformed. When I turned back, the lights were off. Everyone was laying quiet and motionless on collapsed beds whose frames were reduced to metal flakes. I got out of there before they woke up, and also before Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer arrived because it would definitely kill me for being in the way.

Later Bold Brain told me everyone in the hospital died from being cut apart from the inside from their own broken bones. When I took out the kitchen trash, I noticed personal belongings from successful graduates and failed students who died in the hospital ended up in the same garbage bins.

One night, Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer dragged Bold Brain and I into the desert and I thought we were going to get killed. Death Scryer said there was a bus with a dead battery down the road and we needed to board it before it got fixed. It said President Over Mind just made a deal with the U.S. military for more funding to cure more of the bedridden people instead of waiting for them to die, take in even more students, improve general quality of life, etc. In exchange, President Over Mind would lend students out to do whatever the military asked. Death Scryer said it thought it was better to die as a human than leave this universe as a powerful creature. So Bold Brain and I left on the bus.

I woke up on the bus and it was still night. I found two small slabs of nephrite in little plastic bags wedged between the seat cushions. Their edges were knapped like caveman knives. The bus driver was checking passengers for tickets, which we didn’t have. Bold Brain borrowed the bus driver’s phone to check our location on Google maps. He and the phone knew where we were at the same time, so he knew everything the phone knew, including ticket purchase confirmation numbers from people who missed the bus.

We ended up in Las Vegas. Using Bold Brain’s knowledge stealing abilities and me being an adult, we cheated in casinos and were able to afford a little apartment. We lived like that for around 2 months, being careful to not get too rich. We got a phone call from President Over Mind, and it said how worried it was and asked where I was and when I was returning. Bold Brain asked me to blindfold him and drive him somewhere in the desert before calling it back. President Over Mind asked where I was. I told it. Bold Brain and President Over Mind knew where I was at the same time. Bold Brain knows what President Over Mind knows, but it paralysed the left half of his body. Bold Brain immediately tried to beam what he just learned into my head and I passed out. I was unharmed. Bold Brain said I transformed into Perfect Sharp to avoid knowing. Bold Brain struggled to dumb down what he had to say so it wouldn’t make me pass out.

Bold Brain told me President Over Mind was basically a military recruiter who was raising and brainwashing creatures for some ongoing extradimensional creature conflict. Millions and millions of lesser dimensioned universes were being mass-produced like pages in libraries with engineered host species to mature motes into creatures, but our universe was a naturally occurring one that the librarians caught and used like an air filter to prevent special motes from leaving the library and random motes from outside contaminating the special universes in the library. Hence why there were so many types of creatures and why fusing with motes usually killed people. We were not designed to survive.

Apparently the amazing powers we had were tiny slivers of how they will manifest in higher dimensions, and once we left, knowledge was literally power. Like you could use your understanding of the multiplication table to power a lamp, and the whole purpose of the ongoing conflict was to generate as much historical minutiae and information about discrete events as possible to prevent complete societal collapse.

There were millions of universes in our library, there were millions of libraries, there were millions of factions jealously guarding their libraries. And this is only what President Over Mind was aware of! The gist of it is factions physically range from solely accumulating knowledge to solely being lifeless processes, and politically range from killing little disposable underlings to generate infinite knowledge to being lifeless processes.

President Over Mind was at least 3 million years old and stunningly attractive by the standards of its type of thing. Regardless, it was considered a second class citizen from being a fused mote made in an engineered universe. The military recruiters in our library were in bitter competition with one another. Considering some recruiters were the leaders of multiverse-spanning empires and President Over Mind was struggling to maintain influence in one single nation, you’d expect it was doing a terrible job. But its overseers were impressed how well President Over Mind was doing, since our universe was naturally occurring and thus had tons of weird extraneous shit going on, not to mention the 0 quality control of what motes were getting caught in it.

President Over Mind’s initial task was to “clean the filter”, but most creatures were amazed that any useful creatures could arise from it. One reckless maneuver the librarians regularly did was detaching the filter from the library and waving it around dangerously close to enemy factions to catch secret controlled motes. Perfect Sharp was one of these secret creatures used as some kind of weapon, so President Over Mind’s superiors were seriously bugging it about freeing me from the filter as soon as possible.

President Over Mind was constantly (constantly by creature standards so like once every 200 years) reprimanded for holding onto rare creatures for too long. Even with unfathomable numbers of universes, Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer was some sort of crazy rare thing made from six motes fusing to the same being. It forgets. I asked Bold Brain what the big deal was but he said if I didn’t get it I didn’t get it. I figured it had something to do with me turning into an object to protect myself from knowing, but stopped thinking about it to avoid passing out again.

Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer already had several prestigious titles waiting for it to leave our universe, but didn’t care that much about it. Or maybe Death Scryer slavered and yearned to leave this universe but President Over Mind still felt it didn’t show sufficient fervor. It’s all relative. A key indicator of its status is how it has an actual name, Duthumakkan, in a culture where creatures can build hundreds of libraries each containing millions of universes onto a single colossal structure and wear handfuls of such structures like sparkly cocktail rings, yet still be unworthy of a name. Apparently in our faction, conflating size with authority was considered primitive and stupid, but this was a pretty unpopular view overall, so there were entire genres of enemy propaganda making fun of us for naming microbes.

Bold Brain’s health was rapidly declining, and since I had driven into the middle of the desert, we couldn’t get medical attention. To survive, he turned into creature form. He hid in the trunk of my car. If he turned back, he was sure he would die. But the longer he stayed a creature, the stronger he got. A few days later, he left.

I was alone in Las Vegas, coasting off gambling savings and finding loose diamonds on dance floors. I thought about finding Professor Duthumakkan Death Scryer, but decided against it. At some point, I’d permanently turn into an object and then I’d leave and be used for something I’ll never know and was incapable of caring about.

#personal #weird dreams #lovecraftian #eldritch #graphic injuries #medicine

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