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sshbpodcast · 4 months

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Character Spotlight: Worf

By Ames

It’s an honorable week here on A Star to Steer Her By because we’re shining our character spotlight on the show’s first Klingon main character, Worf, Son of Mogh! He’s also the first specifically main cast member to span two different series (sorry, O’Brien), so we’ve got glimpses from both The Next Generation and its films and also Deep Space Nine to cover. Worf might get the most time of any character to truly develop, growing from the guy who gets thrown across the room by the baddie of the week into the complex warrior who, for just a moment, wears the robes of the Chancellor of the Klingon High Council. Go Worf!

So put on your baldric, grab your bat’leth, and top off your mug of bloodwine as we give Worf all the honor he deserves (which every so often, isn’t very much, but other times is a lot!). Read on for the commendable battles below and listen to our death yells over on this week’s podcast (fight your way to 55:39). Today is a good day to die.

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

Best moments

Bloodwine is red / Andorians are blue… While we gave Dr. Pulaski lots of props for whipping up an antidote so she could participate in Worf’s version of a tea party, it’s also just lovely that Worf honors her by performing the ceremony in the first place in “Up the Long Ladder.” Deep down under the head ridges and scowl, Worf is just a poetry-reading, tea-sipping teddy bear and we love it.

Klingon paper dolls Star Trek characters jump at any opportunity to play dress up, and we get a good instance of that in “The Emissary” when Worf and K’Ehleyr put on their warrior garb to trick a crew of Klingons in cryostasis into thinking they represent the Klingon Empire. As always, this episode gets some extra points for featuring K’Ehleyr, and it turns out Worf’s pretty good at improvisation too.

We have bonded and our families are stronger While we’re certainly going to give Worf some shit for how badly he parents his biological son, his connection with Jeremy Aster in “The Bonding” is actually quite beautiful for the both of them. Each an orphan, they are able to form a familial-type relationship together, and it’s really touching when Worf invites Jeremy to join him in the R'uustai that will bond them as brothers.

He has claimed the right of vengeance A trend emerged in our Best Worf Moments when they tended to fall into the “killing the fuck out of some jerk who deserves it” category, and the first to really deserve it is Duras in “Reunion.” Duras has been begging to get murdered since we first heard his contemptible name, but when he killed Worf’s mate in cold blood, Worf knew exactly what he had to do with his bat'leth.

You may now give birth Despite the fact that it resulted in adding a baby to the cast (blech), we have to give some credit to Worf for delivering the O’Brien baby in “Disaster” in a way that only he could. We’d need a whole additional blogpost for all the great Worf one-liners throughout the two series, as Michael Dorn’s delivery is always gold, but “Push, Keiko, push” has got to be pretty high up there.

Doesn’t gik’tal mean to the death? Worf sees so much potential in Sito Jaxa in “Lower Decks” and spends most of the episode arguing on her behalf for a promotion. So when we see Worf testing her with the made-up gik’tal martial arts to teach her to stick up for herself, we can’t help but see in her just what Worf sees. Ya know, until Picard totally gets her killed.

Assimilate this! Sure, it’s a soundbite-y line designed to be marketable in the trailer, but when Worf survives getting his EV suit punctured by tying it off with some Borg bits and then blows up the interplexing beacon in First Contact, it just feels right. Maybe it’s that Michael Dorn can get away with cheesy lines like “Assimilate this!” or maybe we just love watching Borg explode.

If you were any other man, I would kill you where you stand While the movies are mostly showcases for Picard and Data, First Contact gives some great moments to the other castmembers. Worf’s standoff with Picard is nothing short of chilling. Borg are overrunning the ship and Picard orders Worf and his security team to what is almost certain to be their deaths. Lucky for us, Worf doesn’t actually mutiny, just threatens to a little bit.

And in this corner… While we spent most of The Next Generation watching Worf getting knocked around as shorthand for “the alien threat is strong,” by Deep Space Nine, we don’t really get that anymore and instead he actually gets to kick some ass! In “By Inferno's Light,” Worf is forced to battle Jem’Hadar after Jem’Hadar in the fighting ring, and he refuses to quit even when he has every right to.

Help me fight again, Worf You’ll see in a second that sometimes when Worf tries to help another Klingon die with honor, things can get complicated, but when Kor asks for help going out in the warrior fashion, Worf is totally a good guy about it. He gets the old legend a place on Martok’s ship in “Once More Unto the Breach” even though it’s not Martok’s favorite thing, but in the end, Sto’Vo’kor gains a new warrior.

Seven down, one to go We still have more “killing the fuck out of some jerk who deserves it” mentions to bring up! What list would be complete without the murder of at least one Weyoun on it? In this case, Worf straight up snaps the neck of Weyoun 7 in “Strange Bedfellows” when he has the opportunity and it is a thing of such beauty that it gains Damar’s respect.

What I have done was for the Empire Finally, our last jerk who needed to get killed the fuck out of is that bastard Gowron in “Tacking into the Wind.” Gowron was going around making terrible decisions, rewriting the history books, and trying to get Martok killed in various ways, and Worf finally has enough and kills him in honorable combat. He gets the cloak of the Chancellor for it but selflessly passes it to Martok, like an absolute boss.

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Worst moments

I would rather die than pollute my body with Klingon filth While Geordi is putting racism aside to be able to coexist with his new BFF Bochra in “The Enemy,” Worf takes the opposite path. By refusing to let Crusher give his blood to Patahk, Worf condemns the injured Romulan to death just because of his race. And then the show takes some of the guilt off Worf by having Patahk refuse treatment anyway, leaving Worf’s hands clean, I guess.

This is not unlike a drumhead trial Worf is also quick to fall in line with Admiral Satie’s Red Scare of a trial against crewman Tarses in “The Drumhead.” He gets so infatuated with dispensing justice that he jumps past “innocent until proven guilty” and determines that Tarses is guilty of treason because he’d lied about his alien heritage, when the two things aren’t even related.

Would you further dishonor our family with your disobedience? It’s a running joke in the Star Trek community that Worf is a terrible father and… well, he is. To his defense, he did have Alexander sprung on him when K’Ehleyr died in “Reunion,” and he did try to pawn the little brat off on the Rozhenkos, but that was a terrible move too. So when we watch how clueless he is trying to parent in “New Ground,” we cringe hard at how Worf just doesn’t get it.

Donkey Kong: 1. Worf: 0. A lot of Worf’s decisions about how to deal with his paraplegia in “Ethics” are complicated and problematic, but the way he ended up in such a state is what we’re really here to roast him on. My dude got bitched by a big blue plastic barrel in the cargo bay, and that is downright dishonorable for a Klingon warrior. Battle, sure. Explosion, fine. Spat with Spot, of course. But not blue barrel!

How could your mother mate with a Romulan? Worf’s prejudice against Romulans comes out again in “Birthright” when he learns that Ba’el is half Romulan and he starts spouting racist accusations at her when he’s already seen what kind of a person she is, and even what kind of person her father is. Since his father’s death at Khitomer, it’s a long road for Worf to accept that all Romulans are not that same, and it’s unclear if he ever gets there.

Tell him he is a pretty cat and a good cat All your hosts here at A Star to Steer Her By are ride-or-die cat people, so when Worf refuses to tell Spot he’s a good cat and a pretty cat in “Phantasms” when Data asks him to look after the feline, we take it super personally. Frankly, Data should have looked elsewhere for someone to catsit because what’s supposed to be a humorous moment in the show just makes us angry at Worf. Hiss!

I believe the Ferengi bartender is plotting something By the time Worf joins Deep Space Nine, his racism against Romulans doesn’t come up, but his racism against the Ferengi sure does. Ever since “Hippocratic Oath,” Worf refuses to call Quark by name, instead calling him “The Ferengi bartender.” We joke sometimes on the podcast that the only race it’s okay to be racist against is the Ferengi, but you know what? It’s really not okay.

My life is in your hands Sure, we can argue that Kurn coming to Worf for the Klingon rite of Mauk-to’Vor in “Sons of Mogh” is messed up and puts Worf in a tough position, but Worf manages to pick an even worse outcome for his brother. Instead of killing him and sending Kurn to Sto’Vo’kor with his honor intact, Worf does the least honorable thing and has Bashir wipe Kurn’s memory. Without Kurn’s consent! Eeesh.

Everything you do reflects on me There were a bunch of times during DS9 that we really thought Jadzia could do better than having Worf as her mate, and “Let He Who Is Without Sin” is the chief offender. Worf starts the episode arguing about Jadzia consorting with other men even though she’s with him now, gets jealous of the Dax’s previous relationships, and generally poopoo’s Jadzia’s streak of individuality like a toxic boyfriend.

Have you accepted Kahless as your lord and savior? And that’s not even the worst thing Worf does in the abysmal episode “Let He Who Is Without Sin.” He spends the rest of their vacation on Risa palling around with the New Essentialists who’ve decided that people enjoying things is bad form, which is just Worf being petty. So when he goes out of his way to help them literally rain on everyone’s parade, it’s super damaging to his character.

I do not know you, nor do I wish to know you After Jadzia’s death, Worf utterly fails as grieving in a healthy, productive way and instead opts to take it out on Ezri during “Afterimage.” Just because she’s not Jadzia, Worf treats the poor Trill with disdain, ignoring the fact that she too is living through the trauma of being joined to the symbiont. None of this is her fault! Don’t yell at the innocent cupcake!

If it looks like a Dax and it quacks like a Dax… Worf and Jadzia had chemistry like whoa and we were here for it. Worf and Ezri… just don’t. So when they bump uglies in “Penumbra,” we just find it kinda gross and distasteful. My dude, that is not your wife anymore, and she’s in a very vulnerable state having had the Dax symbiont thrust upon her, so it strikes us as kind of problematic that they go to the bone zone (and I don’t mean Worf’s calisthenics program).

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Qapla’! Now that we’ve got our honor back, take the R'uustai with us and subscribe so that you can see our next batch of character spotlights as we segue smoothly into our crewmates from Deep Space Nine! On the flip side, you can listen along to our dishonorable rewatch of Enterprise over on SoundCloud or wherever you podcast, challenge us to a bat’leth fight on Facebook and Twitter, and join us for some good tea in a nice house.

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knightsofrayx · 1 year

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Sneak Peak: Once More (unto the breach)

Ava grasps the wooden staff in her hand, twirling it around experimentally. Then promptly loses her grip and plays a game of hot potato with herself trying to catch it before it hits the floor.

"So," she starts after finally getting a hold of it again. "How are we supposed to do this?"

Lilith gives her a dead-eyed stare.

"It's a stick."

"I know that," she grouses, "but how exactly does whacking each other with sticks tell us who our soulmate is?"

#ava silva #sister lilith #warrior nun #save warrior nun #Warrior Nun x Pacific Rim AU #kwoon #drift compatibility #my fic #Once More (unto the breach)#ao3: Once More (unto the breach)#my series #disaster ava silva

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hadesdancehall · 9 months

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the amount of bsing i'm doing for this brry fic is insane and i feel like i'm channeling the meiji king of bsing, ryunosuke naruhodo himself

#still working away on brry week drafts and i feel like i'm going nuts lmao #can't wait to unleash the disaster unto the world

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rageserenity · 2 months

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It's 2024. Are you still thinking about movieverse!Cherik? Because I am.

For the past several months, there's only been a very slow trickle of posts/fics in the xmcu cherik tag. Let's try to breathe some life back into this incredible pairing!

With one clear winner of my poll, here's thirty prompts for the thirty days of April. (This is a super chill, laid-back event---do these in any order, interpret them as loosely as you like! Create in any medium! Fic, art, gifs, meta, incoherent screaming about the otp…all winners in my book.)

The only rule here is to cherik too close to the sun. Alright. Here are the prompts.

Mutual Pining

Doesn't really even need elaboration! Write that horrifically slow slow-burn. Gif every time McAvoy made insane fuck me eyes on screen. Make a playlist of songs about impossible love.

2. Alternate Meetings

There are endless quotes about how these two complete each other in a way no one they'd met before or after ever did. How else could they have met?

3. Erik Has A Telepathy Kink

This is basically canon. Let my boy get freaky!

4. Canon Fix-It

All the times Fox fucked it up. There are endless options.

5. Hurt/Comfort

Put them in that Situation. Put them in that Blender. Break them apart and put them back together ❤️‍🩹

6. Canon Compliant

Draw that missing scene! Gif your favourite cherik moment!

7. Beach Divorce

Make it worse. Make it better. Show it to us exactly how it was. Break it down in a 3,000 word meta. Go wild!

8. Domestics

Sometimes you just want to see them doing normal couple things. Erik put the gun down.

9. Found Family

The real heart of x-men!

10. Time Travel

There are SO many possibilities here. Stick them in a time loop. Give them a chance to change their past.

11. AU

Love a good AU!

12. There Is Only One Bed

Had to get this one in here. What better way to amp up the tension?

13. Genosha

By some miracle, cherik actually did end up together at the end of 2019s trash bag disaster Dark Phoenix. We aren’t making a big enough deal about this.

14. Declaration(s) of Love

Who says it first? How do they say it and when? Have they said it…without saying it?

15. Jealousy

Need I say more.

16. Reunion

These two have absolutely no chill.

17. Soulmates

Classic prompt, had to get this in here too.

18. The DOFP Aircraft

The TENSION here. Break it down for me. How does Charles feel about his injury? How does Erik feel about his injury?

19. Gay Mutant Road Trip

You already know.

20. Body Swap

SO fun when people have superpowers.

21. First Kiss

When? How? Who initiated it?

22. The Mansion

Mansion!content is a genre of its own.

23. Conflicting Ideology

Give me your theses. Who’s right? Can they ever reconcile completely? Write a fic where it drives them apart.

24. Sebastian Shaw

A trope unto himself.

25. Team As Matchmaker

They had to have known something was going on, didn’t they?

26. Cooking

Charles deserves a good meal. Also, imagine Erik using his powers in the kitchen. The sheer domesticity…

27. Hurt No Comfort

Plenty of scope with these two 🥲

28. Growing Old Together

Giving Sirs Ian Mckellan and Patrick Stewart their props as well!

29. Making Up

*pushes chess board across the table* sorry babe

30. Charles Xavier Did More For Mutants Than You'll Ever Know

Rising to each other’s defense. Only I can insult this man.

I will be tracking #revivecherik to reblog stuff! Here’s a fic collection for the same. Let’s get this ball rolling! Please feel free to send me an ask if you’ve got anything to say! And most importantly, let’s all have fun 😁

*I know a few of you preferred something like a gift exchange because of the commitment factor—I’m super down to organise a tiny one for the handful of us! If this promptathon doesn’t flop horribly, we can hopefully do a whole bunch of stuff :)

If you read this post all the way through, please reblog for reach! Thank you! Hoping you participate come April.

Shoutout to @inmymagnetoera for reaching out and helping with this!

#revivecherik #cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #xmfc #james mcavoy #michael fassbender #x men days of future past #x men #charles x erik #magneto #professor x

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swingingthehatchetnow · 6 months

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You know what I find really interesting about Nerdy Prudes versus the other Hatchetfield shows?

In TGWDLM and BF, the events were set in motion by the lords in black. Wiggly and Uncle Wiley unleashed the doll unto the world, causing chaos and calamity. Pokey sent the meteor (? Is that what happened? bc that was Pokey's whole shtick) that caused the Apotheosis.

But in Nerdy Prudes, the events of the story were set in motion by Steph cheating on the quiz. Or by Pete agreeing to help Steph cheat. This could very much have been a timeline/universe where everything went right. Sure, 'right' means nerds still getting picked on, and Pete and Steph probably wouldn't've ended up together, but Max, Ruth, Richie and everyone else would still be alive. The LiB wouldn't have had to be summoned, and Grace would've never gotten her hands on the book.

What caused me to think about this is the scene with Paul and Emma. That scene happens on what would've been the day of the Apotheosis, evidenced by Pete being there, waiting for his hot choccy and Paul and Emma finally taking steps towards a relationship. Pete is now wearing a sweater instead of the suspenders he wears in TGWDLM because of his conversation with Steph. Paul is joining the neighborhood watch because of the increase in killings.

This means that Pete and Steph doomed their universe. And I think its interesting that this musical shows that, because its not just the LiB that have sway over if everything falls to shit

Pete and Steph: Disaster Couple Extraordinaire

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carionto · 7 months

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What Humans call the "Thousand Yard Stare"

As more and more Humans interact with and integrate within Coalition stations, reports, closer to hushed whispers really, began to circulate of some Humans being... discomforting... to be around.

Initially we thought it was just rudeness or passive aggressive behavior or any number of subtle actions or choice of words, no matter how advanced or civilized there will always be some assholes.

However, when some of these "offenders" were presented to us peacekeepers, we found them to be perfectly polite and reasonable. As our conversation continued and shifted topics, whenever there was a lull or the focus was on another speaker for a longer time, the Human's gaze drifted somewhat.

Sometimes she would look to the side and it was harder to tell what her exact expression was, but every so often she would be looking at one of us, but... not. It was as if she was staring at something behind us, through us even. Beyond the walls of the station, it even felt as though beyond space and time itself.

It was one of the most unnerving and chitin-chilling feelings we've ever felt, but then the Human seemed to notice our change and became that friendly and cheerful person once again:

"Sorry, my mind drifted there for a bit. What were you saying?"

And the conversation continued as if nothing was out of the ordinary for the Human.

Upon our return to our office, one of the Human peacekeepers heard about our impromptu assignment and offered this explanation after we told him what happened:

"Oh yeah, I think that person was a retired firefighter or rescue worker of some kind. Professions like that can be dangerous and you'll eventually encounter something horrible at a disaster site or crime scene. Probably saw someone die, or a person they rescued later didn't make it, or it was a kid... It's the toughest when you're the last one a child sees before..."

There it is again. That look, but with a tinge of sadness this time. We didn't know he was carrying such memories. The untimely death of anyone is a difficult time for those that survive, especially when it is the young whose life was still just starting. It seems Humans with their heightened senses and sensitivity to the feelings of others these kind of experiences imprint a far stronger memory than for most.

"Anyway, we've got a bunch of names for such things, but typically we call it the thousand yard stare. It's an old measurement unit, don't worry about it. I think the meaning may have changed a bit over the years, but basically some people go through traumatic stuff and they decide, consciously or not, to sort of... detach themselves from reality. It's a coping mechanism.

A few people thrive on horrible things, but they're the exception. Most of us would go crazy or depressed or any other infinite bad possibilities our brains can go in if we don't find a way to separate ourselves from certain realities. It can get real bad otherwise. It's rare, but a few go truly nuts and try to inflict their pain unto others. Most end up suffering alone for a long time. And some can't take it anymore and decide to end it themselves.

Thankfully therapists and support options are widely available, so those kind of scenarios are really rare, like... suicide accounts for about three out of a hundred thousand deaths last time I saw those charts. Plus drones and automation take care of most of the dangerous tasks, leaving the vast majority of cases to be caused by interpersonal relations actually. A broken heart is one of those traumas we'll never get rid of it seems. That's just life, I guess."

#humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are deathworlders #humans are space australians #I don't know if these tags are actually appropriate for this one #it feels weird writing about depressing adjacent topics like that #one one hand #I don't feel good about it #on the other #I feel I have to put it into words or it'll leave a stain in my brain #sometimes words are more like a tumor #and the only way to get rid of it is to transfer them to a public space #carionto

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romanoffsdarling · 7 months

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Time To Say (Goodbye)

Pairing: Daughter-in-Law!Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s something that should have never started in the first place, something you should have stopped long ago. Why does something so wrong have to feel so right?

Word Count: 3,339

Warnings: G!P Wanda, cheating/infidelity, slight daddy kink, oral (R and Wanda receiving), possessive sex, angst. 18+, Minors DNI.

Author’s Note: Sorry if this is trash… I haven’t really written for G!P before.

“How did your date go?”

It’s an innocent question, borne out of genuine interest in your personal life, but you couldn’t stop the smallest of winces from flitting across your face. The feeling of burning eyes boring into the side of your head doesn’t help things, but you meet the gentle gaze of your daughter steadily, a wane smile curling your lips upward.

“It went fine,” you reply, placing your fork back down on the placemat. Lest she notice the shakiness of your hand. “I had a great time.”

“Will you be seeing him again?”

The husky voice, made even huskier by the accent slipping through the cracks, interrupts whatever your daughter had been about to say. A certain note of sharpness laid within it that you could pick out instantly, but your daughter seemed wholly unaware of. Instead, she offers you an encouraging smile too, clearly agreeing with her wife. Knowing that if you didn’t look at her, if you didn’t even try to create a semblance of normalcy, then your daughter, for all of her obliviousness, would pick up on something— that being the last thing you want.

Meeting darkened emerald with your own steady gaze is a test unto itself— staring into the eyes of Wanda Maximoff, your daughter’s wife, and answering a question about your dating life is one thing, but staring at the woman you’ve secretly been having an affair with?

An entirely different matter.

“I don’t know.” Honesty is the best possibility, right? Even though you think that scheme of rules had abandoned you long ago. “He was nice, but I don’t know if he’d want to see me again.”

Your daughter scoffs. “Please, he’d be an absolute idiot to not want to take you out again.” She shifts in her seat, gesturing towards her wife. “Right, Wanda?”

Wanda, who had been staring at you with an unreadable expression, seemingly softens, but you could see the war being waged within her eyes, as she smiles gently. “An absolute fool.” Emerald eyes trace over your face. “Only an imbecile would be able to let you go.”

You shift in your seat, well aware of the double nuance hidden within her words, but your daughter continues forward with the conversation, easily switching subjects to something that happened to her at work the previous week, and you’ve never been more relieved for a shift then right now.

Even though, as you begin to slowly finish your dinner, listening half heartedly to your daughters rambling, you could feel Wanda’s gaze still steadily boring into you. A heat building between the two of you that you know she wouldn’t let go of— no matter what.

You should have known that she’d corner you when your daughter was otherwise preoccupied upstairs, your own attention being on finishing up the dishes.

A warm body suddenly pressing you into the counter, heated lips tracing across your neck, almost makes you drop the plate in your grasp, but you’re able to steady yourself just enough to stop that inevitable disaster from occurring.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you went on a date?” The words are snarled against your pulse point, teeth digging into the sensitive flesh there. No doubt leaving a mark that’d you have for the next few days as a reminder. “That you let someone else ever think they’d be able to have you?”

A small sound escapes your throat before you can stop it. The feeling of Wanda pressed so firmly against your back: hands gripping your hips, a familiar bulge making its home against your ass, and the soothing tongue that’s gently lapping over yet another mark she had just made.

“Answer me,” she hisses, warm breath hot over the shell of your ear. “I want to know why the fuck you thought I’d ever let anyone else have you?”

You shake your head. “We can’t do this, Wanda. What we’ve been doing—” A gasp is wrenched from your lips when Wanda grinds her erection against you, her blatant need for you apparent. “It’s wrong. What we’re doing is wrong.”

Wanda huffs out a laugh. “That’s not what you were saying when I had you screaming on this very counter last weekend. In fact—” She steps closer, pulling you impossibly tighter against her body. “I think you wanted nothing more than for me to continue.”

Turning in her grasp, you’re soon face-to-face with Wanda’s smoldering gaze, the darkness from earlier making its appearance blatantly known. “My daughter, your wife, is upstairs right now.” You glance up, trying to hear any note of disturbance. Fortunately not finding any. “We can’t do this anymore, Wanda. I can’t keep betraying my daughter like this.”

“How many times have I told you that I’d divorce her for you? How many fucking times have I told you that I’m completely in love with you?” She steps forward, forehead pressing against your own, voice dropped to a heated whisper. “You’re the love of my life. No one, not even your daughter, will ever be able to compare.”

You flinch at the reminder of your child. “We’ve been over this. You love what I do for your body, Wanda. You don’t love me, I’m over a decade older than you, much more than that let’s be honest, and there’s nothing you can say that’ll change that fact.” You run a frazzled hand through your hair. “Why can’t you accept that?”

“Because you mean everything to me.”

“And she means everything to me.”

A snarl curls her lips upward, clearly displeased by the turn that this conversation had taken, but you’re well aware that Wanda wouldn’t simply let this be— that she wouldn’t just let you go. Not after everything you’ve been through together.

While you firmly believed that Wanda didn’t love you in the manner she said she did— however much it may cause your heart to flutter whenever she said it— you do believe that she felt a bone-deep attraction to you. That she craved you in the same exact way that you did for her.

Instinctually.

Carnally.

Like the very basis of your beings were meant to be united in an intrinsic way— hence the passionate love affair that you’ve been part of for the last two years.

“Get on your knees.” The command shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, not with how worked up Wanda clearly was, but you still couldn’t stem the shocked expression from making an appearance on your face. “You heard me, baby. I want you to get on your knees for me.”

“Wand—”

A snarl interrupts your rebuttal, surprisingly strong hands gripping your biceps in an iron hold. “No,” she hisses. “This is not the time to argue, this is not the time to make up fucking excuses on why we shouldn’t do this, we only have a little while left before she comes back down here. I’m not going to waste the time I have with you by fighting over something we clearly both want.” Wanda tugs at your arms, showing you clearly what she wants. “Get on your knees. Now.”

Knowing that there’s no use in denying her any further, not with the way your own arousal is currently painting you thighs beneath your dress, you follow her command, eliciting a contented sigh from her. With slightly shaking hands, you quickly make work of both her belt and shimmy her tights jeans down her legs, instantly being met by her hard length.

“Come on, baby,” Wanda coos, threading her fingers through the strands of your hair. “You know what I want.”

Without preamble, or any form of warning, you take Wanda completely into your mouth— from tip until your nose brushes across her pubic bone— delighting in the harsh gasp she lets out, the hand not in your hair steadying herself on the counter behind you. The taste of Wanda, her familiar scent, entrances you completely, surrounding you wholeheartedly. Bobbing up and down, mindful to keep your lips completely sealed to deter any possible noise from escaping, the feeling of Wanda stretching out your throat due to her girth is a heady drug you’ve grown addicted to.

“Fuck,” Wanda curses, hands tightening in your hair. Dragging you up and down her cock, forcing herself further into the back of your throat. “You’re doing so good, baby. Taking me so well. Better than anyone ever has.”

Your nails dig into the backs of her thighs, tongue lashing across the sensitive head, tasting the pre-cum that’s been steadily escaping since you started, the familiar salty, and somehow slightly sweet, flavor making you suck even harder. The action causes Wanda’s hips to jerk harshly, gagging you due to how deep her cock goes, but only a filthy groan is what she gives you in form of an apology— darkened emerald eyes watching you with rapt attention.

Feeling the way she’s beginning to jerk, the way that her hips were beginning to stutter in their momentum, causes you to become aware of how close she is to cumming. Which is why, when Wanda pulls out of your mouth entirely, a small hiss leaving her lips due to the difference in temperature, you’re fairly confused.

With a hand on your neck, Wanda drags you upward, lips descending to filthily meet yours in a twisted embrace. Her tongue meeting yours in a tangle, getting reacquainted with one another, before her teeth nips at your bottom lip when she pulls away. A thin trail of saliva connects you both, so close to one another you weren’t even sure whose air you were breathing anymore.

“You’re so perfect for me,” Wanda murmurs, slender fingers trailing down you face. “The perfect girl for daddy.”

Your thighs clench together at the nickname— one that isn’t used often, as you’re still embarrassed by it at times, but you’ve slowly come to terms with it, how hot it makes Wanda feel, and the erotic thrill it sends down your spine whenever you utter it in the heat of passion.

Wanda’s hands snake down to the back of your legs, placing you so you’re seated on the cold, marble countertop, dark emerald eyes tracing over the expanse of exposed skin that’s at her disposal. Hiking up your dress until it’s situated around your waist, Wanda drinks in the sight of your bare legs, until they settle on her prize. A heated expression taking over the briefly surprised one.

“Not wearing any panties, baby?” A slender finger trials down your slit, parting your folds and barely dipping into the wetness she finds there. “Naughty girl.”

“Only for you.”

A wordless cry is ripped from your throat when Wanda descends onto your clit with a ravenous hunter, tongue lashing against the bundle of sensitive nerves. Drinking you in as if you were her favorite drink, hands making sure you were kept wide open for her. When she lowers herself further, giving her the perfect angle to dip her tongue into your opening, a small keen escapes you. Brief panic settling within your chest as it echoes across the kitchen— not that it stops Wanda in the slightest. In fact, at the confirmation that she was making you feel good, she sped up her movements. Working further and further into your tunnel, small noises of her own, muffled by your cunt, showcasing how affected she is by your taste and the feel of you.

Your climax washes over you quickly, both by how long it’s been since she’s touched you, and the fervency in which she’s currently doing so. Barely being able slap a hand over your mouth before you scream out your release, gushing into Wanda’s waiting mouth, hips flexing and bucking against her solid hold, you feel the tremors make their way down your spine, sending a pleasant chill through you.

Wanda only pulls away once she’s helped you through the aftershocks, face slick with your wetness, but the familiar fire once again scorches you through you at the look she levels you with.

“I need to have you,” Wanda murmurs, standing to settle between your still parted legs. Her cock, that looks almost painfully hard, resting against you, rubbing slightly against your clit, as she situates herself. “We don’t have a lot of time left. Not enough for me to worship you the way you deserve to be worshiped.” She looks almost put out by that. “But, I’m still going to fuck you in a way that only I will ever be able to replicate. Make you mine in the way that you’ve made me yours. Think you can handle that, baby?”

As an answer, you loosely wrap your arms around her neck, tugging her into a brief kiss. You’re well aware you didn’t have enough time left, that idle chitchat would only shave it sway, which is something Wanda seems to register at last. Within the next moment, she’s buried to the hilt in you, your walls stretching to accommodate the familiar length. Tucking your head into her neck, to muffle some of your moans as Wanda begins to thrust, you grapple at her back, nails digging into the leather of her jacket, as Wanda seems to lose herself in the feel of you.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh permeates the air, an occasional grunt or moan intercepting it, and you’d normally be concerned by how much noise you’re making, especially since your daughter is still in the house, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when Wanda fills you so completely, when she plays your body like her favorite instrument.

“Keep fucking me, baby,” you whine, grappling her shoulders, a small tremor making itself known. “I’m so close.”

You were drunk on pleasure as Wanda kept driving her hips forward, one slender finger roughly rubbing your clit in time with each thrust. It’s of no surprise that you find your release quickly after, gushing over Wanda’s cock.

Something that causes her to groan, no doubt feeling the way your inner walls began to constrict around her, trying to milk her for everything she’s worth.

“I’m not going to last much longer, baby,” Wanda gasps, lowering her head to your shoulder. Hips flexing as she tries to stem her climax to extend her pleasure just a bit more, to keep feeling you for just a bit longer. “Going to fill you up.”

With a stuttering thrust, a sharp groan escaping her, Wanda bites down onto the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck, as her climax hits her— jets of her cum painting your inner walls white, warming you up.

Once her own shuddering dies down, when she’s resting limply against your body, your hands gently tracing down her still quivering back, does her voice finally break the silence between you. “I don’t know if I can give this up.” She pulls you back, emerald eyes pleading with you. “I don’t know if I can give you up.”

A bitter smile twists your lips upward, the reminder that Wanda wasn’t truly yours, and that you weren’t truly hers, leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“It’ll be best for everyone,” you reply, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ears. Heart cracking at the way she leans into the gentle touch. “You owe it to yourself, and my daughter, to try and make your marriage work.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“It will.” It’s an affirmation, one you didn’t particularly put your entire heart behind. Something you didn’t want to dwell too much on. “Anyone would be lucky to have you, Wanda.”

Tears gather in emerald eyes eyes, her head dropping to rest against your chest, as sadness swells between the both of you.

“The only person I want to have me is you.”

You press a kiss to the top of her head, closing your eyes to abate your own tears. “I know.”

“Are you going to come up and visit us during the holidays, mom?”

Your daughter’s hopeful face twists the knife deeper into your heart, but you offer her a gentle smile in return.

“If my schedule allows for it.” You open your arms to accept the final hug she wanted to give you, thankful that you had half a mind to clean yourself up further after you tryst in the kitchen. “I’d love to come visit, you know that.”

At her happy squeal, she finally detached from you, shifting to fully stand on the other side of your doorway, where Wanda had been silently waiting for the last ten minutes, emerald eyes never straying far from you, and you offer her one last smile.

“Drive safe you two,” you warn, what you hope is a good natured expression on your face. “I want you two to be intact when I see you next.”

Your daughter laughs brightly at that, already moving to unload all of her bags in the car, leaving just you and Wanda standing on the porch. A tension falling between you two instantly.

“It was nice to see you, Wanda,” you say, trying to be diplomatic about this entire thing. “I hope the journey back won’t be too long.”

Wanda’s lips thin. “Don’t—” She turns to look back, making sure your daughter is still getting situated in the car. “Don’t treat me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re saying goodbye.”

You shake your head, a bitter feeling welling within your chest. “Aren’t I?” At the clear look that she’s about to rebuke your statement, you continue. “We’ve both agreed that you need to work on your marriage, Wanda. That you need to try and fix what’s been broken. To do that you can’t see me, and I can’t see you. It’d only end us right back where we started.”

“No,” Wanda hisses, making sure to keep her voice low. “I can’t not talk to you, can’t not see you, I won’t be able to survive.”

Your hand twitches at your side, wanting nothing more than to reach out and caress her cheek. Take away the anguish, the grief, that’s slowly settling over her beautiful face. “You’ll have to, Wanda. For the time being you’ll have to.” Taking a step back, deeper into the house, you almost sob at Wanda’s innate need to follow you. “We’ll see each other again. Once we’ve gotten one another out of our systems, once we’ve learned to be near one another without being together, we’ll see one another again.”

Wanda’s anguish is palpable to you, the pain shown so clearly within her emerald eyes, but you can’t back down. Not from this, not when you’ve finally found the strength to do what you should have done from the start.

The honking of the car in your driveway pulls your attention from her to your daughter’s impatient face. “You have to go.” You don’t turn back to her, knowing that if you saw her pain again you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself. “You have a long drive ahead of you.”

There’s a brief best of silence, wherein Wanda clearly waits for you to look at her, to do something, but you can’t. Not now. So, after another moment, she makes a noise low in her throat, almost like a wounded animal, and barely mutters out. “Goodbye.”

Something begins to rot in your chest, but you only allow a sad smile to twist your lips.

“Goodbye, Wanda.”

And, with that, she steps away from you, getting into the car, and driving off, disappearing down the road and out of your life for the foreseeable future. It’s only once you’re sure they’re gone, when you’re safely hidden behind the closed and locked door of your house, that you allow the tears to come, for your own anguish and grief to come to the surface.

You know what you did was the right thing. That it’d be better for yourself and Wanda for the long run, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Nor did it stop you from wishing that she’d come back.

#wanda maximoff x reader #avengers imagine #mcu imagine #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #time to say (goodbye)

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two-white-butterflies · 9 months

Text

archer | c16

Description: "All of my enemies started out friends, help me hold unto you." After a series of instagram posts - your ex-friend fabricates screenshots that almost end your career.

Author's Note: Inspired after listening to reputation.

natacha_ziguerra added to their story!

caption: y/n nation, this yo girl?

replies

ultraviolencekanada: CHAT, IS THIS REAL?

DARKLINGHOMIE23: She is messy

yourusername16: i never typed this thing before, tacha wtf ⁉️

yourusername16: ur broke ass got nothing to eat anymore? 💀

natacha_ziguerra: Ya'll may have seen my story and I just wanna let ya'll know that this girl has done so much worse... all the deets are in my patreon ... ya'll help a girl out. (Prices start at $5 Dollars.)

liked by 324,239 others

comments

yourusername16: what is this broke-ass behavior? boo i can pay for you and ur patreon, this isn't sum wattpad social media au bs.

yourusername16: trust, i will be in contact with my lawyers. - natacha_ziguerra: BABE you've been talking shit about so MANY popstars, Ari, Sza, Lehlani, Lana... you can call your lawyers but this aint slander because I'm telling the truth. ❤️ - yourusername16: @natacha_ziguerra 💀

yourusername16: your nemesis will defeat themselves before you get the chance to swing. now he's passing by, rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky. camera credits to my baby: @Charles_Leclerc16

liked by danielricciardo and 1,293,012 others

comments

ohnoloveme3: YN IS OVER PARTY

righthere99: YN IS OVER 🐍

Charles_Leclerc16: I'm proud of you for being strong ❤️

danielricciardo: You are one of the strongest women that I know. - heidiberger: 💗 stay strong yn!

kellypiquet: True power comes from the truth. You can do this! ✨

Charles_Leclerc16: I will always support, love and respect you. ✨

liked by kellypiquet and 1,394,192 others

comments

maxverstappen1: ❤️

charlottehope8: Never believe posts that are evidently edited. Some people will use you for clout 💯

pierreGASLY: 💪🏽💗

yourusername16: Likewise, Mr. Leclerc

comments have been restricted.

TRENDING TOPICS ON TWITTER.

Y/N and Lana

Queen of Disaster

Reputation

Natacha Ziguerra Patreon

Y/N LECLERC

Y/N L/N TALKS ABOUT CANCEL CULTURE AND CYBERBULLYING.

Y/N L/N: I remember waking up - completely clueless as to why my phone was blowing up and apparently an ex-friend of mine decided to forge screenshots of me saying nasty things. And that opened up a realm of so much bullying.

Y/N L/N: I didn't love myself, I had a pretty low self esteem. While, the things that she shared weren't true - I thought that the critiques about my looks, my personality and my voice had some truth. When you don't love yourself, it's pretty easy to see your flaws.

Y/N L/N: My boyfriend, actually recommended that I take a social media break just to tune everything out. And that proved to be successful. I left the public eye for a year. I wasn't physically seen for more than a year and i't's been a wonderful journey of healing.

yourusername16: maybe reputation was the friends we made along the way...?

liked by charlottehope8 and 5,182,192 others

comments

Charles_Leclerc16: The Power of Friendship 👊🏼

charlottehope8: I love this picture

kellypiquet: We should be on the album cover. @maxverstappen1 @charlottehope8 - charlottehope8: Ditto 🤣

Charles_Leclerc16: My baby's fit like a daydream ☀️

liked by danielricciardo and 1,282,192 others

comments

yourusername16: Walking with his head down, I'm the one he's walking tooo....

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amarisrosalette · 5 months

Text

His Body (Yandere!Venti x Yandere!Artist!Immortal!Reader)

author's note: contains angst and dark content, hurt/comfort, yandere themes, manipulation, venti being a nasty boi, unhealthy relationships, obsession, mentions of stalking, tyranny, war, abuse, and disaster, mentions of body worshipping kink, reader is immortal, reader and venti are obsessed with each other and are delusional, slightly suggestive (especially at the end), proceed at your own risk!

synopsis: you are an immortal artist who has been with venti for the longest time. venti and you have been obsessing with each other for over a millenia as he finds out about your adoration for his body... and your lingering guilt issues for knowing the true story behind his form. but he's here to reassure you that you don't need to feel guilty, he is as obsessed with you as you are with him.

you are just so in love with venti's body. you are so in love with the kind of grace and elegance he has, with every curve of his limbs and lean posture effortlessly making you want to crumble to your knees because of how pretty he is. he's just so beautiful it hurts. it makes you ache. you don't know why; was it from jealousy? pure and utter admiration for him? you don't know. and sometimes, it's frustrating. from the way his hands smoothly hover his lyre before he strums it with his slim and calloused fingers, to the plumpness of his thighs and limbs, to the way his skin looks so soft and dewy you think of it as a better pillow than yours to the point that you'd much rather dig in the oppurtunity to get a closer taste to his wine-covered scent... through his skin. it's becoming addicting. to the way he forcefully digs his heels unto the ground when giving all his force in combat, you can feel the force he exerts in his body to the point you can see a glimpse of his slighty muscled body from his profound skills in archery. although you'd rather chew on your right leg that admit it, you want to see him in action. in battle. in his raw fierceness and emotion. you wonder just how graceful his moves would be. his face is quite youthful too, and his eyes.

oh, his eyes.

how you feel so jealous but so enamored of him, you start to absentmindedly doodle him on the sketchbook on your lap when his body is completely still. it wouldn't hurt if you just stole a teeny-tiny gaze to look at him while his eyes reflect a serene expression, his brows relaxed as he hums a tune. he is leaning against a tree as he is gently weaving a crown made of cecilias before he finishes before his near-triumphant tone of his voice makes you smile like an idiot. you were among the forests in mondstadt during a quiet day of hanging out with him.

"all done! my love, come look what i've made for you," you snapped out from your trance as you look down at what he has made for you.

oh, and it's beautiful. a piece of art from his skillful hands, you wanted to say. you are so trapped in admiring what he has made for you that you practically forgot the essence of reality for seconds that feel like hours.

and before you knew it, venti balanced himself on his knees as he hovers on top of your head to gently fit the crown in your head.

"oh, it fits perfectly on you, windblume!" he gestures to the nearby stream before he urges you, "take a look at yourself."

it's a calm body of water, and it's clear enough for you to get a perfect look at yourself. you lean forward as you see yourself bathing in wonders of your own reflection.

you are speechless as you turn around and finally muster what you wanted to say to him for the longest amount of time, but they are the words that cannot fully express what you wanted to tell him. you wanted to praise him for his skillful hands, his work of art, everytime he sings you love-laden songs of poetry, everytime he plays his lyre with melodies that make you swoon. you want to praise him for everything. you want to adore him to the ends of the earth, until your own pen and hand is sore and tired and breaking from how much you drew the every part of his body that you deemed was beautiful of him, until you couldn't physically do it anymore, which you never could be. for you loved him more than you loved yourself. you loved him more than you loved your own skill in art, you loved him so much that he was able to command every piece of your drawings and sketches to revolve around him and him only. forget about the other subjects you could draw, he took the mantle of being your only subject, your inspiration, your muse. you could paint an enormous canvas of every detail of his face and body that you would never forget nor stop loving about him, you could find a way to immortalize him through your unspoken skill that expressed your love for him that no other skill could have ever done.

you turn your head back to him as you stroll to him. you kneel beside him and softly thank him for the cecilia crown he gave you.

but you feel that he just can't see it in himself. it felt like he couldn't see the true beauty he held, how he truly has so much power over you. despite his playful braggings about being the best bard in the world, you knew that he was a lonely soul in person. he was too humble, you reason to yourself. you desperately wish you could give him a comfort that could soothe his worries about himself, that he was truly special, beautiful, and precious. if your art didn't work for him, you would find more ways to comfort him and his worries if it meant letting him use your body for a while, you told him in a dream once. but that was only a dream. you wanted to tell it to him, but for archon's sake did you consider yourself a shy coward.

he lets out a hearty chuckle as he gives you a warm you're welcome, my dear. his hands trace over the sketchbook that you set aside earlier before you headed to the stream to look at yourself. you panick.

sadly, you were more of an artist than a poet. you are one that expressed through art than their words. you were not very good with orally expressing your feelings, much so with words. talking was overwhelming for you; you didn't want to burden him with your difficulty in handling your feelings for him before it all threatens to spill out one day. but you hoped that day wouldn't happen. you weren't as expressive as he was, and that was something that you envied him for. you want to curse your introverted self for every missed opportunity to use your words to express every ounce of your immense love for him. it was always the same cycle; whenever venti does something, or even just the tiniest thing that makes your heart swing and your body twitch with excitement, your words feel stuck in your throat. but sometimes it would always be too late before venti would have to leave or either look like he didn't notice how awestruck you were. and there you were, left dumbfounded and alone with your awkwardness in emotion you can't help but feel like you weakly told him only a small percentage of how much you really love what he does for you. a pathetically small one, you might say. it doesn't quite express how much you really do love him. you want to give your all, but oh, curse you for being such a shy little melted puddle around him. people say an artist loves too much, but most of all they disregard any warnings before they throw themselves in the endless ocean that we call obsession. and in that obsession, you can see it clearly in every artwork they do. and that obsession happens to be that bard you fell madly in love with, who is no other than the venti you love.

he catches a glimpse of your in-progress sketch of him. "ohohohohoh! let's see what you've managed to sketch of me, hehe," normally, you wouldn't even let anyone see your sketchbook. not even a peek. but if it was venti, you'd make an exception. but at the same time, it still makes you nervous when he traces his eyes over your art. but you're glad he always asked for your permission to do it until now. "may i look at your drawing? i'm sure there's a lot of talent you haven't shared with me!"

you nod shyly and give him a look that tells him: of course, he can do it.

but little did you know, he can see how much you adore him. the body doesn't lie, after all. your trembling lips when you shyly utter his name doesn't lie, your twitching fingers at the mention of his name doesn't lie, the way your eyes avert their gaze from him when he approaches your direction doesn't lie, the way your legs instinctively cross and attempt to rub that spot of yours when he leans in closer to you after you press your sketchbook against your chest as you meekly hope that he doesn't see what you're drawing of him doesn't lie, the way your ears flash red when he tosses teasing remarks that not-so-subtly hint to your raging obsession of him doesn't lie, the way he can hear your heart beat within a moment's notice as he makes provocative hints to your big fat crush on him doesn't lie, the way your back muscles spasm and limbs convulse as his hands pin you hard down on the floor during that one time he tells you to keep quiet as he rails you in your awfully detailed daydreams of him doesn't lie.

venti is not stupid; and you knew that.

it makes him want to smirk with how cute you look like trying to hide your obvious obsession with him. he flips to the page where you last left off thanks to the pen you inserted in between the page. he grabs the book by one hand before he observes it closely, a clear look of pleasure in his face.

"oh my..."

as you've finally sat beside him, you perk your head to look at him. before you can say anything, he goes,

"my goodness, windblume. you are truly talented," he grazes his fingers over the sketch, careful not to smudge it. "i can tell you're not done with this yet, but..."

you wait for him to finish. he looks at you with appreciation.

"you've gotten all of my features right! my hair is just the right length, my eyes are the correct shape, and my clothes..." he laughs to himself, but you catch a distant and wistful look in his eyes. you can tell he was thinking of something else, but you didn't want to inquire him about it. but you can feel something was up by that look. you knew his body did not belong to him, and that's what made you extremely guilty for loving his body. his body wasn't his, it belonged to that boy from the rebellion. the boy who took down that ruler who once ruled over mondstadt. the boy that venti did not want others to forget about. your admiration for him had never felt so wrong and disgusting for yourself, you were lusting over a body that wasn't his. you were craving to be touched by the body of a boy who lived from many a millenia ago, and yet you couldn't force down the irrepressible obsession you had for the bard that was staring at the body you drew of that boy. you knew it, and it made your stomach churn at the thought of venti discovering how much you loved his body. the feelings of guilt devour and chew you away. how disgusting of you, [y/n], you reprimanded yourself. your last bits of rationality tugged at you, it begged you to keep some form of dignity with yourself. but every touch from venti is sending you to commit sin with him, not like he was already a sinner. a god for a sinner, and you, his angel. it felt like you only lusted over him, not loved him.

and you didn't want that to be the only message that you would give him. you loved him so much more than just that, but damn your cluelessness in how you wanted to say it to him. damn it all.

you wanted to convince him that he is his own person. that he wasn't a reflection of the one who took on so many burdens as he did. that he was just a statue carved from the harsh hands of the past. that he didn't have to be tied down to the solid pole of his tauma.

you wanted to love him in a way that didn't disgust him; but you weren't sure of what reaction he would take if he would ever find out.

but you didn't know how. he always kept to himself, despite his expressive personality, he held so many secrets about what he truly feels and you could sense that. so, would the same thing happen if you were to profess the love you had for him?

he sighs, than he proceeds to close his eyes for a moment before looking at you. "you are truly one of the most unique of artists i've ever met," he spoke in a somber tone that made you wonder what made him come up with that tone all of a sudden. "tell me, why is it that you love drawing me so much?"

"i..."

the silence was louder than it should've been. but you braved yourself to continue.

"i... i've always thought you looked beautiful," you admitted, "and.."

"hmm?" his silence in listening to you made your heart pound at such an intense rate. you couldn't recall that one time where someone had listened to you like this.

"and your... body... is something that i admire. it's part of being an artist."

"part of being an artist? what do you mean?" he shifted his somber expression to a curious one, hanging on to your every word. it made you feel like you were held on a pedestal, his eyes were on you. it took all of your willpower to not stutter and lower your voice.

"you see, venti," you clear your throat. "when an artist loves you, you will live forever. your image is something that will be imprinted in the pieces of art they commit to. i'm sure you can understand this as a poet and musician."

venti nods. "of course i do. but from what you've said, you hint to say that you love me?" he chuckles lightly once again. he knows your passion for art, and that is something that he has always encouraged from you time and time again. he cheered for you endlessly, and he is what kept you going. "that's very sweet of you, my muse. but why the shyness in admitting this? is there something you want to take out from your chest?" he noted on your rather... extreme shyness than your usual air around him. you open up to him more than you do to other people, and that was something that he had always taken pride in for. you trusted him more than you trusted others, for he had a place in your heart that none could compare.

"it comes from a place that i wouldn't like to admit to anyone else but you." finally. you've gotten a sentence out. but you haven't watched the other words you wanted to say to him, until he asked you.

"oh? and what is it?" that's it. you've piqued his interest.

"that i love your body."

venti pauses. he has never heard someone regard him in such a way. in all his years he has never had someone admire him like this. more so to the point that they admit it like that. it's all so... sudden, so... casually. he is used to people worshipping him in different ways, and he had heavy responsibilities bequeathed unto him from it all. he was loved and worshipped, but not in the way a lover or a friend would do for him. no, he was loved and worshipped like they clung and prayed to him for their dear lives and whispered to their anxious companions that their diety, their god, might save them all. that their salvation may arrive to appease the disasters and protect them from everything that slowly destroyed their lives. that hopefully, just hopefully, his touch would strengthen the weakened soldier who clasped his hands together and murmured prayers where, amongst a war, his knightly comrades had fallen. that his gentle voice would soothe the crying infant whose mother couldn't comfort as she cradled it, shielding its head with her trembling hands as she stuck her eyes to the fiery clouds above and the looming dark dragon that ravaged the city. that his return will bring hope to the ones who lost it. the songs of their worship was whispered and cried in moans, wails, and pleads as they endured floggings from their oppressors. but they didn't stop, no. they didn't stop. they didn't stop until they preached about how lord barbatos will come and guide them.

but he saw them all.

and he failed them. or so that was what he believed. he failed them so terribly that the marks of how they clinged unto his arms and legs left scars that couldn't heal on his body. he watched his children's lives wither under the evil hands of war, tyranny, and disaster. whose lives were crushed under its sharp nails. in a life where he is used to religious adoration, one that had mercilessly thrown such pain, guilt, and responsibility unto his shoulders, never would he have thought that someone would fall in love in the form he took. the form of a friend.

venti hid the spiraling thoughts under a well-played mask of carelessness and naivety that was even better than the best of performers in teyvat. for you had not seen what his looks had told you. he remained as intrigued as he was seconds ago.

but you can tell he felt something that was more than just curiosity. but you didn't quite know what it was. but all you knew is that you can tell it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

and now that friend crossed his mind now that you've mentioned his body. that friend...

he knows he loves you too, he loves you to the moon and back and he would sing songs of his love for you until his throat bled and his voice was hoarse. he, just like you too, was madly obsessed with you. you were there with him for the longest time, when all fell down, you were the last one standing, you were the one who still extended your arms to him in an open welcome. you loved and welcomed him time and time again. your loyalty to him was as unbreakable and ran rapid and free in every corner of teyvat like the wind. like the wind, it was always there and flowed in every manner of direction; from the way you would defend him against anyone who had dared to harass and misjudge him when he was only but a new god, to the way that you would softly hold him in your arms as we wept onto your shirt until it was wet from his tears from all that he had been through, to the way that you would carry him sturdily when he was passed out drunk until you got back home, to the way you took care of him and fed him during the days he neglected himself when no one else did, to the way you kissed him more fervently than he thought he could do, to the way you had done everything for him. you stood beside him in transforming mondstadt to the way it is now, when his friend could not see the fruits of his labor in the country that he protected, you were there. you were there for everything. and he was for you, too.

but he could sense a pang of remorse in your voice when you admitted that.

"but venti, please, listen. i don't mean it in that way, i just-" you spoke after a few seconds of witnessing his expression form to that of pensiveness. "i don't want you to be scared, or disgusted when i say this-"

"scared? disgusted? who said i'd be?" venti did not even know where the sudden urge of his words came from. maybe it was from the intense emotion of confusion when you spoke those words, but he could never imagine himself being scared or disgusted at you. not when you admitted how much you loved his body. he felt complimented, in a sense. it meant you loved the boy whom he had taken the form of. you honored him the same way he did. at least, that's what he deluded himself to think. he would've cringed at how sudden he spoke those words, but there wasn't anything that could be done. the words have been spoken, there was no need to push them back once it had already gotten out.

"no one. i just felt scared the moment i told you that..." you answered him in a flash to quell the worry you heard from his voice.

"scared?" he repeated, "w-why?"

"because your body doesn't belong to you. i didn't know what you'd think about me loving the..." you trailed off, before taking a deep breath, "form that you took."

his eyes relax in realization, but his gaze was still on you.

"i did not want to make you feel like i only lust for your body, but i just love you, i really do. i don't love you for your body, i love you for being you." you couldn't handle it when the word lust left your lips. it felt disgusting to you, but you also craved a form of it. you wanted to be touched, held, kissed, and adored by him. you craved those intimate moments that you were sure you wouldn't ever get from him. at least, not until now.

you winced at the image of lusting for his body, but you couldn't help it. you remember all the nights you had spent obsessively doodling him from memory on your sketchbook, remembering all the curves on his smiles and the bright sparkle in his eyes. you drew his hair hanging on the air so gracefully, and his clothes were painted as if they were so real. to say that you were a talented artist would be an understatement. but on some days it had gotten worse, where your obsession would get the best of you. all those suggestive and lewd sketches were torn and tossed into the trash, you were confident no one would see the fantasies that ran around your head when you drew suspicious poses of his hands and body languages that hinted all the things you wanted him to do to you.

but they weren't safe. thanks to him.

surprise, venti was obsessed with you to the point that he would stalk you sometimes. much to your obliviousness, each night he would follow you home and watch your behavior from your window. you'd always assume that he's out performing, but sometimes he can't help it. he just wants to admire his pretty little songbird, so it wouldn't hurt if the bard did not appear to the plaza. afterall, he doesn't have a set schedule that he's obligated to follow. instead, he goes back to your shared home and sneaks in by the window when you weren't there. sometimes, he was left alone in the house during his freetime. and he takes advantage of this time by snooping around your items, checking them all without leaving a trace. you think you've kept them all safe, but little did you know that each of your drawing was seen by him. even the ones that were thrown in the trash, oh boy! it was a ride for him to see. although it took him moments, agonizing moments for him to process what he saw, he remembered that he was obsessed with you, too. so he wasn't alone. but he was delighted. and from then on, your drawings became a favorite part of what he likes to browse in your room when you were gone. regardless if they were torn, he would persistenly find the other paper to piece them together to reveal the full image.

and someday, he would turn those drawings into a reality.

but he would never force his hand, no, you're his angel! how could he do such a thing? he would never force you into doing such things of him, he would consider it very unbecoming of him to do this to his own precious significant other. unless of course, you initiated it. this just so happens to be the day where he is so happy!

hiding behind mixed emotions, he is a guilty boy behind all that. he feels thrilled, delighted, shocked, surprised, but also... guilt. and he knows why and where it came from. he had taken the bard's form for a thousand years, and when he had committed actions and left blood stains on his hands for the ways war had cursed him, and he wondered to himself what the bard would've thought and what he could've done if it weren't for him. would he approve of the things he had done now? he was carrying his image, after all. the people, unbeknownst to the past with his body, will strongly associate his actions to that of the bard. or maybe, they will forget about his friend one day. as a result, he was always careful of what he did, he did not want to be some brutish, warmongering god that handled situations with physical violence, for he did not want violence to be associated with his friend's name. it's no wonder pacifism was his strong suit, he was a gentle god, after all.

but to picture himself indulging in sexual acts with his friend's form... it left such mixed feelings inside of his stomach. he couldn't shake off the pitting feeling in his belly at the imagery of linking his lips with yours as a string of saliva between the both of you drips to your chest when he pulls his lips out from yours, bare skin to bare skin. the moans he emits from his own friend's voice, him making you moan because of his- no, his own friend's body thrusting into you, the confusion in him spiraled him into insanity. he did not know wether it was his or his friend's body anymore. but oh... how much he wants to curse you for making him fall in love with him. but at the same time, it's hard for him to be so mad at you, when you're so angelic, compared to his sinful desires. but alas, he had been victim to the hypnosis of temptation. he was no longer the holy god of freedom, for he was bound by the chains of lust when he fell in love with you. the dilemma was truly hard to figure out.

but now he's given up on that a long time ago, due to how long he had been in love with you.

"oh, my windblume," he cooed. the sudden tilt of his voice made you think again. first, he was somber, and now, he was... becoming affectionate to some degree? you hoped that this was because of a positive change in his realization and understanding of your words. you gulped, hoping that this conversation would lean to a better turn.

"you do not need to be so guilty," he spoke in a reassuring tone, caressing your cheek and pressing soothing circles around it. "but you must know..." his grip grew firm on you. "that i love you regardless. even if you think your love for me to be revolting, please know i do not-" his voice starts to become serious, yet tender. "and i mean do not ever think that i would be scared or disgusted of you. i love you so much, i can't ever see myself to be that way around you, my angel."

his words left you speechless, for a while. making you inwardly sigh a breath of relief. his free hand gently places itself on top of yours that is resting on the ground, he lifts your knuckles and kisses it. "but i do take flattery after you admitted that."

"hmm? y-you think so?" you look at him with a perplexed look, the pink in your cheeks becoming amusingly obvious to him. "but i thought-"

"ah, ah, ah." he shushed you with the hand that was previously caressing your cheek, "i know what you're going to say. that you thought i was going to be offended at the fact that you love the form of my friend?" you were surprised at the way he read into your mind so well. you nodded vehemently at the isn't that the answer, hmm? look he gave you.

"thought so. in that case," he leaned in foward, his hand was still in yours.

aaannnd that bastard was back into his usual tone, you thought.

"it's only fair if i..." he breathed into your neck.

the hand that held yours was now pinned unto the grass, your hand unable to move because of just how strong his hand was in pinning it down, you did not expect that. it wasn't like you wanted to resist, anyway. before you knew it, he props himself up from his knees until his chest was until your eye-length to head-length and uses the hand that previously shushed you into forcefully pushing your shoulders down to the ground in a split second, your chest was heaving up and down from the tension.

all while keeping his eye contact with you with those lovestruck, half-lidden eyes. and that smug smirk.

how on earth did he?- you stare at him with wide eyes, completely motionless.

your breath hitches and your heart is running a marathon from the feeling that you got on your waist.

it was venti straddling to position himself on top of your hips.

"...show you how i'm not the slightest bit offended, but honored."

"i- venti-" you couldn't comprehend how all this happened in a flash, well, venti did have a feat for taking you by surprise on multiple occasions, but not this one, no.

"but first!-" went on, completely ignoring your protests. "let me have a show of demonstration for my..." he presses his lips threateningly close to yours, "gratitude to your gratifying confession."

"or should i say," he lilts, "confession to your god?"

"and that is?" you rasp. suddenly wanting to defy and challenge him. venti rolls his eyes, he was used to your sudden spouts of defiance and sassiness towards him. but this wouldn't stop him now.

"you'll see, my dear," he continued on with his 'show of demonstration', proceeding to press unexpected kisses from your collarbone after pulling away the collar of your shirt to kiss your bare skin. his kisses were something that you were used to, but they were always the ones that make you fall for him over and over again. you can feel the lust between them, each kiss having a whimper or a moan from either of you. he slowly progressed to nibbling, to licking, to biting. you felt his hard-on from his shorts rubbing against your clothed area. but you didn't care. you didn't ask him to, but you don't feel the need to ask him for him to do it anyway. it began for what feels like minutes, until hours. he went from your collarbones, to your shoulders, your neck, then finally, your lips. he did not miss a single spot of your bust, no. you were quite literally a whimpering mess under him; unable to control your noises any longer. you were sure you felt like you weren't so sweaty, until you felt his saliva marking you from his lust, which made you go crazy even more. now you weren't only covered by your sweat.

he drove you insane, but you drove him insane even more.

although him kissing your lips felt light, now, they felt like it was devouring you. even if he gave you a few seconds to breathe in between kisses, now it felt like you had only one before he dove in for the next kiss. he kissed you until he was tongue-deep into your mouth, both of you making a moaning mess of each other. he was biting your lips playfully at first, but now it was no longer a joke. it stung. but you loved it. you wanted it, anyway.

so who were you to deny him?

"you know," he whispered, "all those drawings you threw away didn't help in covering your secrets."

you were sure you felt your eyes widen at him, your heart going evern crazier by the second.

"those what?"

"come on, you heard me." he teased, "go on, would you care to explain?"

"i..."

he laughs, "i was only kidding! you don't have to justify yourself in front of me."

and there he goes, saying things that put you on the spot, only to have him say it was only a joke or a prank. that bastard. or maybe you were just reading in a little too deep? maybe you don't have to take him seriously. but how did he find out about them anyway?

"but... how did you find out about them, anyway? i thought i-" you pause, "wait, you did not sneak into my trashcan, did you?"

"heheh, what else could i have done? you're not very good at keeping secrets, you know." he sighs, "honestly, you could've done way better than that."

"but why would you do that, anyway?" you hissed.

"because i couldn't help myself! it's not like your drawings totally didn't stick out from the trashcan that i completely did not notice them at all!" he sarcastically fought back.

shit. you swore you kept them well. but now you've come to the conclusion that you lacked better foresight, but you knew that there was no getting out of this situation. not when the cat's out of the bag.

"fine. i... i really did draw them all," you admitted. venti was still giving you your well-deserved love marks, but he paused.

"of course, i know you drew them! who in mondstadt could ever draw like you? much more even live in the same house as me?"

you gulped. you realized you just stated the obvious to calm the tension that was building in the air. talk about your social skills, you remarked yourself.

venti laughs, amused by your dumbfounded expression. "there's no getting out of it, windblume," he taps your cheek in a reassuring manner. "for now, let's enjoy the moment we have. but you did say you love my body?"

"yeah."

"well, seeing that you always admired me in my pure form as barbatos," he sighed dreamily. "maybe i'll..." he lifted himself up, hands below the hem of your shirt, cold hands rubbing on your bare belly. he positioned himself comfortably as he unclipped his cape and untied the back of his corset. he grunted as he set aside his cap. but you did not stop him.

there was no stopping him from the depths of lust that he reached, all just for you.

forgive me, my friend, he tells his body, ...for what i am about to do.

he has finally made his decision.

"...reenact all those drawings of me with you."

TAGLIST: @ventiscumdump @ventishipwindows @ventisslut @dearestxiao @carmendeiact2whenplz @lanternlightss @cinnabell2 @honorary-fool

callling on all venti fans! i'd love to hear your thoughts on this fic! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

#and yeah they fucked #genshin impact #venti #venti x reader #genshin x reader #venti genshin impact #venti x you #yandere venti x reader #yandere venti x you #yandere barbatos x reader #lord barbatos #yandere venti x yandere reader #yandere venti #yandere #genshin venti #genshin impact ventu #genshin impact x reader #genshin x immortal reader #venti x immortal reader

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opencommunion · 2 months

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"Dead are my people, gone are my people, but I exist yet, lamenting them in my solitude. Dead are my friends, and in their death my life is naught but great disaster. The knolls of my country are submerged by tears and blood, for my people and my beloved are gone, and I am here living as I did when my people and my beloved were enjoying life and the bounty of life, and when the hills of my country were blessed and engulfed by the light of the sun. My people died from hunger, and he who did not perish from starvation was butchered with the sword; and I am here in this distant land, roaming amongst a joyful people who sleep upon soft beds, and smile at the days while the days smile upon them. My people died a painful and shameful death, and here am I living in plenty and in peace. This is deep tragedy ever enacted upon the stage of my heart; few would care to witness this drama, for my people are as birds with broken wings, left behind the flock. If I were hungry and living amid my famished people, and persecuted among my oppressed countrymen, the burden of the black days would be lighter upon my restless dreams, and the obscurity of the night would be less dark before my hollow eyes and my crying heart and my wounded soul. For he who shares with his people their sorrow and agony will feel a supreme comfort created only by suffering in sacrifice. And he will be at peace with himself when he dies innocent with his fellow innocents. But I am not living with my hungry and persecuted people who are walking in the procession of death toward martyrdom. I am here beyond the broad seas living in the shadow of tranquillity, and in the sunshine of peace. I am afar from the pitiful arena and the distressed, and cannot be proud of ought, not even of my own tears. What can an exiled son do for his starving people, and of what value unto them is the lamentation of an absent poet?

Were I an ear of corn grown in the earth of my country, the hungry child would pluck me and remove with my kernels the hand of Death form his soul. Were I a ripe fruit in the gardens of my country, the starving women would gather me and sustain life. Were I a bird flying the sky of my country, my hungry brother would hunt me and remove with the flesh of my body the shadow of the grave from his body. But, alas! I am not an ear of corn grown in the plains of Syria, nor a ripe fruit in the valleys of Lebanon; this is my disaster, and this is my mute calamity which brings humiliation before my soul and before the phantoms of the night. This is the painful tragedy which tightens my tongue and pinions my arms and arrests me usurped of power and of will and of action. This is the curse burned upon my forehead before God and man.

And oftentimes they say unto me, the disaster of your country is but naught to calamity of the world, and the tears and blood shed by your people are as nothing to the rivers of blood and tears pouring each day and night in the valleys and plains of the earth. Yes, but the death of my people is a silent accusation; it is a crime conceived by the heads of the unseen serpents. It is a sceneless tragedy. And if my people had attacked the despots and oppressors and died rebels, I would have said, 'Dying for freedom is nobler than living in the shadow of weak submission, for he who embraces death with the sword of Truth in his hand will eternalize with the Eternity of Truth, for Life is weaker than Death and Death is weaker than Truth.' If my nation had partaken in the war of all nations and had died in the field of battle, I would say that the raging tempest had broken with its might the green branches; and strong death under the canopy of the tempest is nobler than slow perishment in the arms of senility. But there was no rescue from the closing jaws. My people dropped and wept with the crying angels. If an earthquake had torn my country asunder and the earth had engulfed my people into its bosom, I would have said, 'A great and mysterious law has been moved by the will of divine force, and it would be pure madness if we frail mortals endeavoured to probe its deep secrets.' But my people did not die as rebels; they were not killed in the field of battle; nor did the earthquake shatter my country and subdue them. Death was their only rescuer, and starvation their only spoils.

My people died on the cross. They died while their hands stretched toward the East and West, while the remnants of their eyes stared at the blackness of the firmament. They died silently, for humanity had closed its ears to their cry. They died because they did not befriend their enemy. They died because they loved their neighbours. They died because they placed trust in all humanity. They died because they did not oppress the oppressors. They died because they were the crushed flowers, and not the crushing feet. They died because they were peace makers. They perished from hunger in a land rich with milk and honey. They died because monsters of hell arose and destroyed all that their fields grew, and devoured the last provisions in their bins. They died because the vipers and sons of vipers spat out poison into the space where the Holy Cedars and the roses and the jasmine breathe their fragrance. My people and your people, my Syrian Brothers, are dead. What can be done for those who are dying? Our lamentations will not satisfy their hunger, and our tears will not quench their thirst; what can we do to save them between the iron paws of hunger? My brother, the kindness which compels you to give a part of your life to any human who is in the shadow of losing his life is the only virtue which makes you worthy of the light of day and the peace of the night. Remember, my brother, that the coin which you drop into the withered hand stretching toward you is the only golden chain that binds your rich heart to the loving heart of God."

Gibran Khalil Gibran, "Dead Are My People," written during the Great Famine of Mount Lebanon, in which 200,000 people were starved to death by a blockade imposed by European forces to weaken their Ottoman opponents in World War I. The man-made famine killed one in three people in Beirut and the surrounding Mount Lebanon Mutasarrifate (which encompassed today's North, Keserwan-Jbeil, and Mount Lebanon governorates). This peasant population was strangled by threefold oppression: from the European imperialist war machine, Ottoman Turkish imperial oversight, and the local capitalist class. The boom and bust of the global silk industry, monopolized by France, destroyed Mount Lebanon's silk-centered economy shortly before the war, leaving the population impoverished and vulnerable. The famine was key to the European victory which led to the occupation and partition of the Levant and enabled the colonization of Palestine. The partition placed Lebanon under French control, fulfilling a longstanding French colonial desire for Lebanese land and labor.

Further reading/listening: Graham Auman Pitts, "Was Capitalism the Crisis? Mount Lebanon's World War I Famine" and "A Hungry Population Stops Thinking About Resistance: Class, Famine, and Lebanon's World War I Legacy" Kais Firro, "Silk and Agrarian Changes in Lebanon, 1860-1914" Melanie Tanielian, "The War of Famine: Everyday Life in Wartime Beirut and Mount Lebanon (1914-1918)" and The Charity of War: Famine, Humanitarian Aid, and World War I in the Middle East The Fire These Times, Lina Mounzer and Timour Azhari, Legacy of the Great Lebanon Famine (audio)

#lebanon #history #colonialism #imperialism #maronite #syriac

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seananmcguire · 11 months

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I gave my dad (a middle school English teacher with A Thing for post-apoc/disaster flicks) Feed for Christmas figuring he would get a kick out of it when he got around to it. Received this first text on Sunday

And this one this afternoon.

So. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!! Together!! I have successfully pspsps'd him to a new prolific author. He's having cataract surgery this month so we have some casual recovery reads on his way :)

I am giggling.

This is very pleasing unto me. Thank you for sharing!

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cipheramnesia · 10 months

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tell me how people are wrong about griddle and harrow! i need to know your thots!

I'm waiting to finish all three current books but I haven't managed to stumble across any fandom material, aside from one extremely excellent piece of fan art, that feels correct so far. Which is perhaps on me, because I don't really go far ranging looking for fan works. But everything I manage to find feels refracted through trope lenses into digestible bites with all the crunchy delicious spice sanded off.

Harrowhark becomes like this manic pixie taxidermy girl instead of a person with severe complicated PTSD covered in blood and trying to bury her life and future under crags of necromancy to find a way to resurrect the self that died when she was too young to have to understand. Gideon is some butch himbo instead of completely adrift and clinging to her own sarcastic front against a world that refuses to either accept or reject her, demanding her body and soul without ever acknowledging her existence as an individual because it can't, because none of them can or everyone's horrific trauma and complex mental illnesses explode into so much dust and bone, y'know?

I dunno if it's just being in relationships with people who have personal histories that would peel the wallpaper off the yellow room, but it feels like there's a vast gulf between "enemies to lovers disaster gays" and people with centuries old rust-covered locks for hearts that have grown unto each other, black flaking metal chains twined up in their chests. If they can't open the locks they're bound in chains forever, but if they try they might just crumble and break.

And it's not that I need everything to be a nightmare of death and pain but that Gideon and Harrow of the books are entertaining personalities out front, while the totally fucked up people lurking behind are the machine that makes those sweet sweet personalities tick. Not to say people need trauma to be interesting, but Gideon and Harrow don't feel right if they aren't broken, and that feels missing everywhere I look.

The fandom versions I see are very neat and tidy, but these blorbos should not be rotating in your mind without leaving a big old mess.

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morkanslily · 9 months

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(I.) In the End You are a Shell, and Nothing More.

summary: Two little dolls who lack a heart. While the first believed it was only he out of you two who lacked it in the metaphorical and literal sense, he came to learn that so too, did you.

notes: puppet!reader & scaramouche, where reader dies. In this, the Balladeer harbinger rank actually has two lords, with Scaramouche facing as its face, and you being considered in equal ownership of the role. Basically 2 lords in one

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

He truly did love you.

And oh, how he wished he didn’t.

Prior to this disaster, the herald of indignation was performing his required duties as harbinger. Tasks that were nothing more than mere inconveniences that only served to pull you further away from his grip. Excruciatingly long visits to lands beyond Snezhnaya, such as the country of Freedom and that of Contracts. And even then, these nations felt just as bitterly empty and cold as the former was without your presence. It anguished him to no end, how he agonizingly longed for you by his side. Not only because he yearned to see the way how your lips would curve humorously when your eyes caught his, but also how he found such desires childish—and maybe even embarrassing to an extent. He was a poet of ire, and you, his beloved, were his muse of recourse. After all, he is The Balladeer, is he not? In his long and miserable existence, he had sought solace amongst humans when the gods had forsaken him. But for every time he chose to, it would come back to bite him. What did he even expect, being so naive? Offering your hand to vicious and cruel beasts will only leave you without it.

Nevertheless, you are an exception it seems. Exceptions… Ah, quite a rare occurrence indeed. For gods see no worth in him and neither does he sing their praises, and humans are too far beneath him to matter. In this perpetual purgatory of living, never once had he expected to come across you. You, yes, you, bear the same mark of mechanical existence as he. Destined to live an outlier amidst gods and men, you are the only being blessed with sentience who he deems his equal—his other half.

It always mystified Scaramouche how even the knowledge alone that you are indeed of his kind brought him reassurance for the eternity he had yet to spend with you. He would never admit it of course, but deep within the confines of his soul, he is elated to bask in your familiar presence and his thoughts of you. Just as a sunflower(despite him being the farthest man possible from said plant)will always bend towards the sun for dear life. To know that there is someone in this world whose touch is as cold and devoid of warmth as his, sends him into repose--where for just a brief moment, he is allowed to forget the veil of his burdens that trail behind. If the people of this world have turned their backs on him, at the very least, he has you.

And even then, you…

…

“God, why me…” the Fatuus underling muttered under his breath.

He tried, oh how he tried his best to not tremble as he treaded anxiously towards his superior. Genuflecting, it took all of his willpower and dried up hopes to not mistakenly stumble and humiliate himself. He would much rather endure the violent winter of his homeland than have to accomplish this task. But can you blame him, really? Nobody, and no one has ever wanted to face the ordeal that is Lord Scaramouche. Especially not this guy, with the message he was ordered to deliver. He couldn’t shake off the memory of those sympathetic looks and shaking heads behind him as he departed. Practically everyone agreed that this mission bestowed unto him was a death sentence. And what was that mission, exactly?

The harbinger donned a scornful look of malevolence as his impatient eyes scrutinized the poor fellow. His head was raised, perhaps to further incise the fact that he was echelons above. The subordinate knelt before him, preparing to deliver the news. The messenger shrank under his senior’s watch, with an unshakeable spine-chilling cold running through him. Though he dared not to gaze back, he felt the crushing weight of irritation scanning him, unpredictable and utterly terrifying. He shuddered to think that if he just so happened to breath, this behemoth of inhumanity could erase him from existence with a snap of a finger.

“Speak.” The Balladeer demanded, narrowing his eyes in anticipation.

“Yes, my lord.” the subordinate replied. He cleared his throat, and carried on. “Er, one of our m-main base camps in Snezhnaya—specifically one that you direct has… formally requested for your immediate return. They ask that y-you may personally provide assistance."

“...And what for?” the harbinger scoffed. “Are the fools that I specifically assigned to do their own jobs that worthless?” he crossed his arms, clearly exasperated by such an outrageous demand. “Hmph, the audacity to bother me with such menial affairs. I almost feel insulted by their ineffectiveness alone.” The lord fell silent for a moment, which sent the subordinate into panic. What more did his superior want? Was he contemplating, or purposely engraving anxiety onto his soul to taunt him? He cringed, awaiting what would entail from this deathly silence.

The Balladeer turned his back on him, striding ahead, then coming to a halt. All that was left was a silhouette cloaked by darkness in the dead of night, as his diaphanous veil served to shadow his figure further. All the minion could see was the giant kanji on its back, echoing the words in his mind. 悪. Evil.

What a savage man he is, the underling thought. His future would be on the line, very soon. If he wanted to live, he would need to successfully get ahold of his own strings in this puppet show of life and death—and choose his next words wisely. As the sixth slightly turned his head, his veil followed, swaying in the breeze, slow and elegant such as the pirouette of a ballerina. Above all else, the most accurate way one may describe him would be an angel of death. Sent straight from the thunders of heaven, to forever damn and blight Teyvat. The subordinate gulped, and braced himself for the punishment to come.

“You aren’t stupid enough to have traveled all this way to waste my time, are you?"

“No sir. Actually, the camp that called for your backup was ravaged and left in ruin by a currently unidentified criminal. Most of the survivors were successfully evacuated, but the location remains unsafe.” He held his breath. “I’m afraid that… the 'other half’, was last seen there, and went missing.“

Silence, again. The Balladeer turned to face him, the wind coming to a startling halt. In that very moment, the world felt as though it was in stasis. Stasis that hid the imploding pressure underneath the surface.

“What did you just say?”

“The situation is urgent. So far we have not been able to find the ‘other’ Lord Balladeer, due to complications. I will elaborate further, but as of now I advise that you may depart as soon as possible.” the Fatuus finished. The overlord lowered his head, his wide brimmed hat concealing his expression.

“Hmph. Is that so?

“Uh...yes my lord?"

“Oh, but when did you have the authority,” he raised his head, revealing a wry expression. “...to make demands of me as well?” he sneered, looking back at the subordinate.

Shit.

“No, I..."

A bolt of lightning immediately vaporized the ground nearby, almost missing him. The impact left a painful singe on his side, with parts of his garments chipped and burnt off. He clutched his side in pain, fully collapsing to his knees. His ears rang painfully, and his vision blurred as he coughed on the ground. Fire bloomed in the grass, the embers alive and sizzling. Lord Scaramouche’s finger was still smoking, an expression of pure wrath plastered upon his face. His eyes wide, crackled and seethed with anger. Even the wind picked up, furiously blowing at his hair and garments.

“You humans are always so dreadfully annoying.” He muttered, gritting his teeth whilst smoke seeped between. His words were lacquered with acrimony. The harbinger strode forth with celerity, trampling weeds in his wake. “Useless.” he rubbed his hands together to stop the smoke. “Inefficient.” He shook his head. “Ugly, worthless specks of dust.” In his eyes, humans were no more than unsightly weeds that spread too fast and too far in the garden to be plucked. The only situation? To burn it all together. He looked down on the recuperating man, and grabbed him by the collar. “You vile vermin fail to do the one thing you are asked, and still have the impertinence to come back crawling to me for help? Tsk, how amusing.” When the Balladeer raised his other hand to strike once more, the pest scrambled to make his final move.

“ W-wait, my lord-"

Only then did the subordinate truly learn, that sinners never gain redemption in the eyes of gods and angels alike.

@mhiieee @rainxiaower ⭐️

#the balladeer #genshin impact #scaramouche x reader #my fic #kunikuzushi x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #this is why he has an anemo vision now guys he's the air we breath now #next part will probably include the reader haha

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