We can meet again somewhere, Grace
Project Hail Mary fanfic
Let me present you with Afterlife AU in which Grace is a fox in unfamiliar yet familiar world. Completely lost but hears a beckoning sound.
After watching Project Hail Mary I was just too overwhelmed by how much I loved Grace and Rocky. Wanted them to be happy together forever, one way or another. And since their life span is so different and I'm not the biggest brain with science, I leaped straight into the limbo in afterlife.
Sorry, I promise it's gentle... ish.
I'm new to this Andy Weir's masterpiece and based all purely on the movie and wonderful fanon that this community has come up with. So if something is amiss, I'm sorry.
Adrian's appearance being one.
But yeah, tried to cram in as much references as I could.
Thank you @Lucianhuntress for supervising this wreck of a journey.
Same thing in AO3
A series of chittering scrapes echoes. It starts higher before turning lower and then repeating the pattern. At first, it reminds me of a woodpecker working on a tree trunk, but the rhythm rises and falls in a way no bird would. Then a sound. Notes that I can't place or make sense of. But it feels too familiar. As if meant for me.
The sound lingers before fading slowly as though reluctant to let go.
Then silence.
As I wake up, or come back to awareness, the surroundings seem empty but at the same time so loud. My ears perk up first, catching up on the hum of the life that surrounds me. I’m in a forest. Deep in a dense forest with trees so big that their foliage covers any possible sky, leaving rare openings for stray rays of lights to peek in between. It isn’t cold but I can’t say I feel comfortable even with my copper fur. As I lift my head and look around it seems that I’m alone. I stand myself on my all fours, shaking off the sleep and stretching my limbs all the way to the white tip of my tail. With that down I look around myself more closely.
I have woken at the roots of one of countless grand trees. Looking around they seem to repeat themselves without giving me any clue of direction. It is shaded but not dark. As I pointlessly try to look around myself, trying to catch any clue of where and why, my ear twitches at a faint sound of a branch breaking somewhere above me. Not a second later, the said branch hits a ground not a few trees away. The fur on my back stands up involuntarily as I frantically try to look up to see what or who has caused it. Sadly I can’t make out anything. With my tail tightly pressed down by hinds I try to approach the spot to see if the branch was there. That I didn’t just imagine it as a delayed leftover of a dream. But I hear a new break instead. This time on the grown level.
Someway behind me.
I instantly jump around, taking a sturdier stance. Paws and claws digging in the soft flora covered ground. Snarling, exposing my teeth to possible threats. But my boast is short-lived as I come more and more aware of other animals around me. The breathings, the shadows, the pairs of gleaming eyes that stare back at me. All threatening. All overpowering.
I’m not alone here.
Yet I’m on my own.
I let my stance drop to submissive one, tail back to the ground, ears folded against my head. Hoping that this would be enough. I’m about to lower my body back against the ground in total surrender when a deep growl echoes towards me. At that point I abandon any hope of a peace treaty and bolt in the opposite way from where I heard the closest sound. The second I sprint away, the others follow.
Some footfalls land heavier than mine, shaking the ground with each stride, while others match my own light rhythm. I swear I could even hear the flap of the wings. But there is no chance to take a look behind or above. Only forward. Only to get away.
I pour everything into my sprint! With each passed tree my tempo sharpens and what was first a frantic dodging became more fluid weaving between towering trees and dense thickets. The rhythmic thud of my paws hitting the ground, breaking and throwing dirt in the air behind me gets faster and faster, but is getting outrun by my own heart beat that I feel ringing in my ears. It is warming me up. It is getting hot. I let the tongue lull out of my mouth as I keep the frantic breathing as even as I can. Where am I running to? I have no clue. But it’s clear that it is not safe to stay. So anywhere else would be better.
I try to change direction, hoping desperately to find a place to hide when a sharp pain tears through my left hind leg. A bite. Someone bit me! Ignoring the pain I adjust my course away from the other animal. It doesn’t take long for a bird to dive from above and dig its talons into my hide, scratching me. I let out a yip, more from startle than pain. At this point I’m in too much panic to register the latter. It dawns on me that they are able to catch on to me easily. This is all just a thrill of a chase for them. A game. And I’m the prey.
Why me?
I feel like crying, or screaming but I’m even more afraid of what they will do once I give up. So instead I just run faster. Fast enough that branches that hit me, the bleeding paw and burn in my lungs don’t affect me.
I just want this to end!
As the tears escape my eyes, blown down my face by the wind from the run, I see a light in front of me. Something else but more trees peeking in the tree line ahead. And without anything to lose I head towards it, praying that the predators behind me won’t try to throw me off the said course.
With the goal visible, so close, the steps become agony. Trying to push myself there with all the might that I might not even have. Just away. Just to possible safety.
I finally break the tree line and the ground under my pawns turns into boulders. The light I saw was not light but thick white fog that is bright in comparison to where I came from. The new space is completely empty without any vegetation, so dash turns into hopping from one stone to another. After a few leaps I realize I don’t hear the chase anymore and finally dare to slow down, coming to a stop on a slightly higher boulder.
I turn around and true to my instincts, other animals haven’t left the forest. The forest itself ends up abruptly where the rocks start, creating a vision of a massive wall of dark brown and green. From where I stand I’m not sure there is any entrance or exit. The fog is dense enough that even from this small distance the colors are slightly muted. With dumb braveness I reach back towards the tree line, maybe to see any of the chasers. Why would I want to see them? To rub it into their faces?
I bark towards the trees, my own echo bouncing back towards me quickly. I wait for any type of response, shaking at fear that someone would bite at the taunt and come out after all. But no. There is no response. I sit with it for a moment as a thought sinks in.
Maybe they weren’t hunting me… but chasing away?
I bark again, this time I sound more desperate. I am a fox. Forest is where I belong too? Why can’t I stay like other animals? Have I done something? All I remember is just waking up!
My third bark is more of a yap, more sad.
Answer me!
I approach in hope of entering the forest again but after stepping on the second boulder a sharp bark stops me. It’s similar to me, a fox one.
The message is clear. They see me. I’m not welcomed. I have no way back.
My tail, ears - whole posture drops as it sinks in. I really am now alone. I let the dread and sadness wash over me. Out of breathiness switches into sobs. The whole ordeal crashes down on me as immediate danger is over but fear of the unknown looms over me. Not having any heart to look at the betrayal of a home I drag myself towards the closest higher boulder, its peak sharper and not climbable. Walking around it I plop my body down, pulling my hind legs closer to lick the bite wound from the chase. Surprisingly, there isn’t much to nurse even though I swear I still feel the pain from the fangs. With a deep sigh I rest my head on my paw and tuck my tail as close as I can to myself. Stupidly hoping it would hide me. But all it can do is to cover my shameful tears that exhaust me enough to fall asleep again.
___
A series of chittering scrapes. Fading familiar notes.
When I wake up again, I’m at the very same rock. Not sure how long I have been out but it takes me a few blinks to realize it is not my vision that is blurry, but the fog. The crust from dried tears is short lived as I blink it away and unenthusiastically get back up. Peeking behind the tall rock reveals still the same, unapologetic grand forest but this time I don’t dare to approach it.
Instead I look the other way, towards what seems like never ending whiteness. All I see are the rocks. Bigger and small. Uneven and with smooth surfaces. When I look down under my paws, more closely, I see that the rock I’m sitting at isn’t your ordinary rock I would see in the forest. It isn’t sharp, neither is it smooth as one polished by water. More as if well worn out. There are lines, some straight, some curvy. At times crossing each other.
And dots!
I bring my face closer, snout almost touching the surface while inspecting all of the carvings. It is at that moment that I see a color difference in one of the circles. The rock itself is of a darker side, but then there is a sudden pop of a clear sandy color. How interesting. It looks so nice, even pretty. It seems that one patch has opened my eyes, because suddenly I can spot the same sandy color all over the boulder. I spin around myself trying to find if I missed any other interesting patterns just to hit the still tall standing greater rock. Coming face to face with it I stare at the same type of patterns again. But the rare splashes of colors are reversed with the neighbouring rock that I'm perched on. I do a few double takes to make sure the colors really match. And they do, which is fascinating.
Before I get a chance to start exploring other rocks around me, my ear picks up on a barely audible sound. I swear it’s the same one I have heard before! It is quick to fade away but I do think I managed to pick up on its direction? Maybe. Because the direction I’m staring at is opposite to the forest.
I’m staring into a never ending fog, and it is unsettling.
I take a step on the next rock in said direction but hesitate with the next one. Paw hanging in the air mid step. Why would I want to go towards it? Didn’t the chase from the forest teach me anything? I can’t be stupid enough to be lured in by yet another danger. This time however I don’t even know what could be waiting for me there.
What if I just imagined the sound too? I bark into white emptiness and unlike last time there is no echo that bounces back. It has nothing to do so from. My voice gets eaten by a vast emptiness of an endless field of rocks. Without echo. Without an answer.
Doubt takes a proper root in me. As the coward that I clearly am, I take my step back and sit again against the tall boulder. It’s not worth the risk. Here at the border of two biomes I at least have a choice. But if I go into the unknown there is no way for me to find my way back. I will be completely lost at that point.
As the decision was settled in, the same sound carries itself again. The same melodic notes! I could swear I hear it as if it is doubled? Sung by two instead of one. I can’t help but jump this time taking a few leaps towards it instinctively. As if pulled by it. The sound fades away once again but this time I'm sure it was there! My heart swells leaving a pain of longing in my chest that I can’t explain. I want to go towards that sound. I want to hear more of it. It isn’t hostile, nor is it a scream or a warning. It is more like…
A call.
<Grace.>
And so I run. Before the fear or suspicion can creep back in. Before I can question myself for yet another time. Before I realize that the forest behind me has now become just white fog and the way back is gone.
Before I forget the direction of the sound... No, where the voice came from.
I run because it is beckoning me to come home.
___
I have no clue for how long or how far I have been running. Hours? Days? Maybe weeks? It doesn’t occur to me to keep count but it also doesn’t matter. I just keep going, hopping at this empty beach, how I like to call it now. Secretly I hope to find water. It would be nice. The hunger or thirst have yet to disrupt me even once. I have stopped more times than I can count whenever a particularly interesting boulder catches my eye. And boy, there are a lot of them!
There is no end to them, all having different colors, shapes and sizes. All of them are unique with their own patterns and at most of the times - pairs. That is the best explanation I can come up with when boulders have pieces intertwining colors. There is another pattern, too. The same colored rocks always come in clusters. Usually, there's one large boulder in the middle with smaller ones clustered around it. Sometimes the central one is so massive that even the smaller stones are enormous, piled high enough to form little caves beneath them.
Those are my favorites. Potential dens for me!
The so-called surrounding rocks usually have the most interesting markings on them so I easily end up with my tail up leaning down to have the closest possible look. Good thing there's nobody around to witness the spectacle I'm making of myself.
Whenever I make one of those stops I tend to lose direction. But now all I have to do is let out a loud bark into the fog and it doesn't take long for the sound to answer me back. Just like now.
<Grace.> A curt note echoes back.
I yip back gratefully knowing that there won’t be a response and back I am on my ‘mary’ way! Though I swear this one sounded louder. As if closer. I don’t dare to get my hopes up even if my heart flutters harder for a beat.
Somehow it hasn’t really occurred to me to wonder, what is at the end of that sound? I shake my head, surprisingly not causing myself to misstep in the process. Whatever it is, it knows me. And at this point it's a better option than nothing.
___
I was right about the sound getting louder because I swear that fog is getting thinner too. I have been seeing much further boulders for quite some time now. It's not much, but it's something. More importantly, I'm getting somewhere. Eventually I hope at least. And with that thought still distracting me I almost miss a really familiar sound. No, not the one calling me. But the one I for some reason can tell right away that I love.
A quiet swish… A water lazily hitting on rocks and retreating back.
This is a beach after all!
I don't let myself divert. still heading where I’m called. But now my steps feel even lighter as I joyfully challenge myself to hop on even higher boulders, hoping to see just a little further. Gosh, I’m really impatient aren't I? If things progress in the same way as they have so far I’m sure I will eventually see water. But if I manage it just a little bit sooner… That would be awesome.
So I keep going. Every so often, the fog lets me hear another surf. And for reasons, I can't explain why, I'm certain that two of the best sounds I've heard here are coming from somewhere up ahead.
___
Once more, the passage of time fails to register with me. At some point, I realize I'm no longer heading into endless whiteness. It has become dark, and yet I see everything clearly.
I look up.
Everything…
I come to a stop as I understand that I’m gazed down by an endless amount of stars from above. So many, so bright against the black sky. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed, a breath caught in my throat. I feel small, like a spec of dust. Even less than that. The boulders under me stay strong, keeping me from falling even lower. While in fog I saw too little, now I feel like I see too much and can’t decide which is scarier.
The stars, some brighter, some dimmer pulse beautifully, none hurting my eyes. Illuminating. After giving myself a moment, the panic in my body steps back. Somehow they remind me of the boulders of the beach. They are many, they are stoic, yet in a way… they support me. This odyssey of mine. As ludicrous as that doesn't sound.
The calming echo of waves has become more defined and also ground me nicely. So with reassured bravery, I look up once again. More ready. More steady. With eyes now more adjusted to the vastness of the sky I pick up a pop of color, just like I did with boulders.
A red line.
It stretches across the sky directly above, continuing the way I was pretty sure heading. And so I follow it. Because, somehow, it feels like this thing ties everything together. As I pick up the pace, on instinct I let out a bark and the answer echoes back almost instantly. A tear dreads to collect itself at the corner of my eye as I understand that I’m close. I’m almost there.
I push forward, more desperate than ever, silently begging my paws to carry me just a little faster. I bark again and the answer comes back at once. They know I'm close. Somehow, I'm sure of it. At some point my own barks start echoing. Water.
A shoreline emerges on my left side, dark as the sky above. If it weren’t for occasional lazy waves it would look as if the blackness of the sky has taken over the ground too. Edge of the cosmos. A fresh rush of excitement runs through me but I can’t let it take over me. I barely spare the view a glance. The shoreline can wait. Whoever is calling me can't.
Yet again I go, follow the red thread in the sky, it being the trusty guide. I keep my voice to myself, fearing that I might over use it with constant barking. In my mind however I keep repeating I’m close. Almost there. Like a mantra. Though there is no question in that anymore. The doubt is gone. It isn't long before the red thread starts bending downward towards the dark edge. As if reaching its end even though it is still far away and most likely forever unreachable for me. But when in my view it finally seems to dive beyond the horizon I stop. The view is breathtaking. For a second I can’t help but admire it.
The voice reaches me, pulling me out of my thoughts. For the first time since my break down at the forest’s tree line it called for me first! Not as an answer for my plea. And gosh, it is close because… It’s not the echo that reaches me, but the direct notes. I take a few steps and almost forget to bark back. Real classy of me.
In front of me one of the boulders towers clearly taller than others, and its color is almost surreal. The rock is a mix of blue and green. Turquoise? Or cyan. Or teal. Can’t say as I have never been greatest with differentiating colors by names. Certainly around that spectrum. Whatever it is, it reminds me of ridiculously clear lake water and polished glass. But the thing is solid, and no light comes through it. As I approach it a way of nostalgia wash through me, pushing away all the unpleasant feelings that have been gnawing on me through all the time I have been here. Suddenly I’m exhausted, all the miles catching up on me.
<Grace>, comes the voice. I approach, walking around the pretty colored boulder just to find its cluster of smaller rocks creating a small cave.
It isn’t however what called my name.
I hop on a neighboring boulder with a flat surface. Its comfortable warmth welcomes me, seeping into my tired paws as if begging me to relax. It is darker, of warm earth brown with small specks of the teal. Companion of the massive rock. Yet regardless of that, I don’t feel like being the odd one out with them. As suddenly, we are complete. I plop myself down on the rock and let out a quiet chirp. The rock doesn’t call back, but I swear I feel him… Him? Yeah him, vibrate back, as if humming or purring. The bigger pretty boulder does the same and I can’t help but cry.
It is happy crying. Finally a place for me. My rock. My home.
All the things that I had to run, hop and dash through, suffer through, suddenly felt so worth it. Clearly I don’t need much for complete happiness. Being at the possible edge of the world, resonating with two boulders out of the billions… I am finally at peace.
Nothing can take this away from me.
Not being able to do much with myself I roll on my back and to the other side, trying to get all over my rock, to mark it with my scent. I feel him chuckle at me and I don’t care. Let me have my moment. The warmth of him feels like a hug. And I know, if I’m to go into my den that massive boulder so generously provides, I would get another even tighter embrace. I wish I could do the same for them.
At a loss of better options I give the rock under me an affectionate lick. An attempt at grooming him. Nuzzling myself to it in a futile attempt of being just a little clearer just how much they mean to me. The surface is clear of any dirt, mildly salty if anything. I feel rather silly when the hum comes. It almost sounds… pleased? A chuckle like yip escapes me. I guess he understood.
A lower note purrs. The call from the bigger rocks is inviting so I don’t fight it and drag myself in the small cave. I make sure to give its wall an equally affectionate nuzzle before settling against its protective walls. Another soft vibration travels through the rock and into my chest. Slow. Steady. Content. It is perfect.
A yawn escapes me as sleep is clearly creeping on me. I let it as I have nothing to fear.
I press myself into the warmth and close my eyes. I have my rock. I have my den. I have home. I can rest.
Ashveil x Reader: #45: “I wouldn’t mind an excuse to see you again.”
Thank you @vizell for helping me come up with the setting for this one, my brain really refused to work with Ashveil, but at least I wrote... yeah. It got long by accident once more. I swear I can't write short drabbles this summer it seems.
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The front desk at the headquarters of the Department of Aberration Defense rarely knew a moment of peace. From the second the doors opened each morning, a steady stream of people queued for assistance, to the point where their faces barely registered anymore.
Someone always needed help filling out paperwork. Someone had misplaced a report. Someone needed access to the archives. Between retrieving old case files, brewing fresh coffee for the staff, and calming anxious visitors waiting for their turn, your days blurred together into an endless cycle of paperwork and polite smiles.
So when a man in a white sleeveless coat, fedora, and cane approached your desk, slid an identification card toward you, and requested access to archived files, you didn't spend more than a fleeting moment appreciating his handsome features.
Besides, it would've been inappropriate. Probably.
"Case number?" you asked, keeping your tone politely neutral while already wondering when you'd be able to sneak away for your next break.
"I believe it was..." He frowned thoughtfully, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Twenty-eight seventy-six... F? Or was it C?" He let out a weary sigh before snapping his fingers. "No. Seventy-seven F."
You typed the information into your computer, verifying the request.
"Mister Ashveil of the Ashen Detective Agency?" you asked, making sure everything was in order before handing sensitive files over to a complete stranger.
"That's me," he replied with an easy chuckle, his gaze lazily wandering around the lobby.
"Everything checks out." You stood from your chair. "I'll retrieve the files. Please have a seat while you wait." His eyes drifted toward the coffee station tucked into the corner of the lobby. "You're also welcome to help yourself to some coffee."
The offer earned you an appreciative smile. It seemed Mister Ashveil was incapable of refusing a free cup of coffee.
By the time you returned from the archives carrying the requested file, he'd already poured himself a cup and made himself quite comfortable in one of the waiting chairs. The case was still ongoing, but his authorization was genuine. He was evidently collaborating with the Department's investigators.
Eager to move on to the next person in line, you handed him the case file, wished him a pleasant day, and almost immediately forgot about the private detective.
⋆.°𖦹⋆✮⋆.°
A few days later, you found yourself assigned to the reception desk once again.
You didn't realize you'd seen him before, not until he slid his identification card across the counter with his metallic, nail-pierced hand.
"Mister... Ashveil of the Ashen Detective Agency?" you read aloud as you entered his information into the system, noticing it had only been a few days since his last visit. He certainly stood out, even among the imagenae and that was an accomplishment in itself.
"Yes..." he hummed, leaning casually against the counter. Then he fell silent for just a moment. His eyes lingered on your face a little longer than they had the last time. Maybe it was simply a detective's habit and he was trying to read you. "Case forty-two B."
You entered the case number. "It's still ongoing..." you murmured to yourself before spotting Miss Kuchiba's authorization attached to the request. "Looks like everything checks out."
The detective straightened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
You nodded toward the self-serve coffee station. "Coffee's over there."
His eyes widened slightly before an honest, surprised chuckle escaped him. You offered him a polite, reassuring smile before stepping away from the front desk to retrieve the requested file.
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A week passed.
You'd forgotten about the mysterious detective once again… Until he appeared at your desk. As casually as before, he slid his identification card across the counter while in his other hand, he was holding a banana.
You quirked an eyebrow at the fruit but quickly decided that whatever the banana was for… was none of your business. "Case number?" you asked, already knowing why the detective had come.
"Efficient," he laughed softly, a hint of pleasant surprise coloring his voice. "I think it was... 145911019..."
Your fingers froze above the keyboard. "We don't have case numbers that long."
"Ooh, my mistake." He casually twirled the banana before slipping it into his coat pocket, your gaze following the bizarre movement despite yourself. "I must've mixed it up with..." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, the file I need is case eighteen K."
You entered the number and checked the authorization. "...Are you sure?" you asked, glancing back at him. "This case was closed over a year ago."
"It's connected to another investigation," he explained smoothly. "I just wanted to verify a detail, if you'd be so kind."
People rarely asked you for anything so politely, so you felt warmth creep up the back of your neck. "Of course." You cleared your throat, hoping he hadn't noticed. "I'll be right back."
"Has the coffee been relocated?"
He leaned comfortably against the counter, resting both forearms on its polished surface and for some reason he reminded you of a dog waiting patiently for its owner. You decided not to dwell on that comparison for too long as it probably wasn't very professional.
"No?" you blinked.
Mister Ashveil chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. "Thought I'd better make sure."
⋆.°𖦹⋆✮⋆.°
Another week drifted by, fleeting as a furbo being chased by intergalactic heroes.
Then he appeared again. He waited patiently in line while you caught yourself stealing glances at him. Entirely by accident, of course. When he noticed and smiled, you found yourself smiling back before you could stop yourself. By the time it was his turn, you already had the database open.
"Morning, Mister Ashveil," you greeted, typing his name into the system.
"Morning," he replied, reading your name from the badge pinned neatly to your uniform.
For a moment, he simply watched you type, an unreadable yet strangely gentle expression resting on his face.
"So," you said at last, glancing up from the monitor, "what's the case this time?"
You were mildly surprised by how easily you'd remembered his name, identification, and detective agency. Somewhere along the way, he'd left an impression.
"I..." He hesitated. "I've forgotten the case number."
You looked up. "What?" And your lips twitched despite your best efforts. "How?"
"Hey, don't ask me." He let out a sheepish laugh. "I mean... yeah, I'm the detective. I should know, but..." He trailed off, seemingly distracted by a thought —or perhaps by something else entirely.
"...Alright," you said slowly. "Could you at least tell me what you're investigating? Maybe I can figure out which file you need."
"Nothing."
His answer came quietly, one hand curling into a loose fist atop the counter and you stared at him like someone had hit you with a baseball bat.
"...Nothing?"
Your brain immediately began trying to solve a mystery of its own; why was a detective standing in the lobby of the Department of Aberration Defense if he wasn't investigating anything?
"I finished my last case yesterday," he admitted, his voice softer than usual.
"Then..." You glanced briefly at the growing line behind him before looking back at him. "Why are you here?"
Ashveil let out a slow breath and he removed his fedora for a moment, absentmindedly adjusting the brim before settling it back on his head.
"I was hoping I'd remember on the way here."
You waited patiently, but your heartbeat had begun to quicken ever so slightly. "...So," you asked, "did you?"
A small smile curled across Ashveil's lips and his silvery eyes, tinged with the faintest hint of violet, met yours. "I wouldn't mind an excuse to see you again."
"So..." you exhaled, feeling warmth bloom across your face. "There's no case?"
He shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him.
"How about coffee?" You nodded toward the self-serve station.
Ashveil tilted his head in its direction, visibly tempted by the mention of free coffee and then his gaze returned to you. "I was actually hoping you'd join me this time."
Katsuki Bakugo x Izuku Midoriya: #11: “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?”
I've never posted mxm fics/drabbles before, but I tried my best cause I really love these two. Also ofc my random number generator would match a prompt like this with these two 😌 They have been aged up for this one.
It was one of those slow mornings at the agency. So slow that time itself seemed to be crawling backward. Yet Katsuki was already elbow-deep in dull desk work. He'd rather be out blasting villains into cinders, but someone had to handle the paperwork too, and he knew damn well nobody could do it better.
Just then, the agency doors slid open with a soft swish and Deku... no. Izuku walked in.
He shuffled past a row of desks and headed straight for the corner workstation Katsuki had unofficially claimed for him whenever he dropped by the agency to work on whatever the hell the damn ner... newly appointed U.A. teacher needed to do in his spare time.
Katsuki had been on his way to his office, but seeing Izuku stumble in looking half-dead made him stop mid-step.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His shoulders sagged and he looked exhausted.
Katsuki wasn't entirely sure when he'd started paying attention to things like that, but he had. He noticed when life seemed to have been wrung out of the seaweed-haired idiot. He noticed the way Izuku yawned into his fist and nearly nodded off the second he sat down.
And he'd noticed other things, too.
Like the way Izuku's face lit up whenever he checked his phone. The smile that spread across his face looked like a kid unwrapping an All Might figure on Christmas morning.
It was suspicious. Frustratingly suspicious.
Normally, Katsuki wouldn't have cared as it wasn’t really his business. But lately, the sight made something unpleasant twist in his stomach and it was something he would rather pretend didn't exist.
Clicking his tongue, he stalked over to Izuku's desk. "You didn't sleep much last night, did you?"
Izuku had been staring at his phone, completely oblivious to Katsuki's approach. The idiot nearly launched the thing across the room. After a brief and embarrassing struggle, he managed to catch it before it hit the floor.
His reaction did absolutely nothing to ease Katsuki's suspicions; if anything, it made them worse. Why the hell did he even care if Izuku was seeing someone? It wasn't like he couldn't find someone too.
He was just busy. That's all.
"A-Ah! K-Kacchan!"
A pink blush spread across Izuku's cheeks, making his freckles stand out even more. Katsuki immediately regretted noticing that. Why did he notice that? He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
The freakin’ nerd was so… so… fuck. Nope. He wasn't finishing that thought. Not even in his own damn head.
"Who's got you smiling so early in the morning, 'Zuku?" he asked, masking his curiosity with an uninterested groan, as though he were merely entertaining a stupid bet.
Subtlety had never really been Katsuki's forte, but he wasn't about to let Izuku think he was interested. Because he wasn't.
Izuku jumped in his chair, his face somehow turning an even deeper shade of red. Adora… Get a damn grip. Katsuki clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"N-Nobody!" The young man answered immediately, his freckled face flushed strawberry-red beneath a mess of fluffy seaweed hair. Suspicious. Very suspicious. Izuku was painfully easy to read; whatever had him smiling like that was clearly something he didn't want anyone else to see.
"Bullshit," Katsuki scoffed, feeling a victorious grin tug at the corners of his lips.
"It's... uh... you know, Kacchan..." Izuku sputtered helplessly. As usual, once the nerd started rambling, Katsuki's brain automatically filtered out half the words. "I spent all night looking at it and..."
Katsuki nearly choked on air. All night? His eyes narrowed.
"All night," he repeated flatly. Sure, it would've made sense if Izuku had spent the night staring at an All Might documentary. But Katsuki knew damn well that wasn't what he'd heard.
Did someone send him a dick pic? Was that it? He could… No. Absolutely not.
"Yes," Izuku sighed, sounding oddly relieved.
"You serious?"
Their eyes met. Red locked onto green. Despite the blush still staining Izuku's cheeks, there wasn't a trace of hesitation in his gaze.
"I wasn't sure at first, but after looking at it from every angle..."
Katsuki responded with strained silence. Something unpleasant twisted in his chest and he didn't like it. Not one bit.
"Show me." The words came out lower than intended. Dangerously quiet, primed for something. An explosion, maybe.
"What?"
"Show me what's so fucking interesting." His patience had officially run out and his heart hammered against his ribs for reasons he understood perfectly well and absolutely refused to acknowledge. But he wasn't backing down now as he wanted to know what had Izuku smiling like the damn sun.
Izuku hesitated —only for a second. Then he handed over his phone completely unlocked and everything.
Katsuki braced himself for a photo. A chat. A dating app. Something. Anything.
Instead, he found himself staring at a twenty-page analysis. A fucking twenty-page analysis on none other than Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight himself. He stared at the phone screen as though it had suddenly gained consciousness and started chanting in Latin or something equally ridiculous.
"Kacchan?" Izuku's voice cut through the silence, full of concern yet annoyingly sweet.
"What the fuck is this?" Katsuki finally managed.
He wasn't entirely sure which was worse: the fact that the damn ner... Izuku wasn't secretly dating someone. Or the fact that he'd spent the entire night obsessing over Katsuki Bakugo instead.
Katsuki hadn't even been there.
"I watched a documentary about you yesterday and I just..." Izuku trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Then he smiled. A bright, proud smile that made Katsuki's eye twitch. "...had to do a comparison."
Because of course that’s what he would do. "I found so many errors, Kacchan." The idiot looked genuinely excited as though staying awake all night to fact-check a documentary wasn't completely insane.
Wriothesley x F!Reader: #14 “Don’t play coy with me.”
This one is heavily inspired by Bridgerton Season 4 (and Cinderella). It also got out of hand is way too long for a drabble, but it is what it is. 🐺
Quartier Lyonnais within the Court of Fontaine buzzed beneath the golden hues of the setting sun as people poured into operas, theatres, restaurants, and bars. The city itself was a spectacle, one you had rarely been granted the chance to enjoy. Most of your scarce free time was spent tucked away in your room at your master's estate.
Now, dressed in garments unlike anything you normally wore, you felt as though you stood out like a sore thumb. In reality, however, the elegant gown allowed you to blend seamlessly into the crowd, another grain of sand among hundreds as you stepped into the beautifully decorated ballroom.
The only downside to your disguise was that you had absolutely no idea how to behave like a proper lady. You could sew well enough, certainly, and you occasionally enjoyed a book, but you knew noblewomen rarely spent their days scrubbing floors or carrying laundry baskets.
Fortunately, tonight was a masquerade and no one knew there was an impostor among them.
The ball was hosted by Lady Navia, a woman you had only glimpsed from afar before. You were curious to discover whether she truly matched the rumors and gossip that followed her name. The same could be said for the many nobles, bachelors, and debutantes filling the ballroom.
Even if such people remained entirely beyond your reach, at least you would leave with the memory of one unforgettable evening.
The dress, jewels, gloves, shoes, and mask you had "borrowed" from your mistress drew a few curious glances as you entered. You tried not to attract attention. The moment someone attempted a conversation, your carefully crafted façade might crumble and one misplaced word could expose you immediately.
So you remained near the edge of the ballroom, watching guests laugh, dance, and mingle while you quietly sipped your punch.
Unfortunately, your blissful evening was interrupted.
"You don't often see a lady standing alone in the corner of a ballroom dressed in her finest."
You nearly choked on your drink. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with a tall man sporting dark hair and a wolfish smile. You didn't recognize him. His black mask concealed much of his face, revealing only his lips and an ice-blue gaze that seemed far too perceptive for your liking.
"So either you're new and have lost your chaperone," he continued smoothly, "or you weren't invited in the first place."
"Yes." You cleared your throat, attempting to mimic the refined way your mistress spoke when entertaining guests. "He must have been whisked away by beautiful debutantes. Or friends. I should probably go look for him."
The masked man chuckled. The sound sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. He reminded you of a wolf stalking through tall grass, patient and entirely too interested in its prey.
Muttering an excuse, you hurried away to the opposite side of the ballroom. And for some reason, you suddenly did feel like prey amidst the sea of billowing skirts, polished shoes, and glittering jewels.
Determined to ignore the feeling, you sought refuge behind an ivy-covered trellis. It provided an excellent view of the ballroom while concealing your presence from wandering eyes.
Gradually, the music and lively atmosphere drove off your worries. You reckoned you'd be fine in solitude.
You watched as the person you assumed was Lady Navia drifted through the crowd, laughing alongside her dear friend, whom you dubbed as Lady Clorinde; according to the rumors they were nigh inseparable. You couldn't help admiring how carefree they seemed and knew you could never fit into a world like theirs.
You were only a maid. A maid whose mistress had no idea she'd kindly borrowed her dress, jewels, shoes, gloves, and mask for the evening.
Not to mention the invitation.
Your coworkers had insisted you use your mistress's name if anyone became suspicious.
“Only for emergencies.” They had said.
Unfortunately, if anyone connected you to Madame de Rochefort, you'd be in considerably more trouble than if you simply admitted the truth.
Especially considering the invitation tucked away inside your tiny handbag belonged to her as well.
At least your mistress remained blissfully unaware, confined to bed with a sudden fever while her husband was away on business in Liyue.
"You look like you're planning an escape route."
You froze as the familiar voice continued.
"Or an assassination."
Once more you turned, only to find the same dark-haired man leaning casually against a nearby pillar, as though he had appeared there by magic.
"Now the question is," he mused, "which one is it?"
Heat crept into your cheeks. "And you look like someone who enjoys tormenting lone ladies whenever they try to catch a break from dancing."
It was a complete lie; you hadn't danced once all evening. Your lack of dancing skills had seen to that. But he didn't know that. Or at least, he shouldn't. To him, you were simply another masked debutante. A somewhat antisocial one, perhaps, but a debutante nonetheless.
His smile widened. "Interesting."
"What is?"
"I haven't seen you on the dance floor yet."
Your stomach dropped and before you could think of a suitable response, the music abruptly ceased and the ballroom quieted. Mere seconds later, several members of the Marechaussee Phantom entered, announcing the arrival of Lady Furina.
You seized the distraction immediately. Before the wolfish stranger could speak another word, you slipped into the crowd and disappeared among the sea of masks and silk.
Lady Furina delivered a rather pompous speech, her voice rising and falling dramatically like the tides themselves.
While everyone's attention remained fixed on her, you managed to slip past a lady who smelled wonderfully of expensive perfume and made your way upstairs to the upper gallery. From there, you'd have a better view of the ballroom.
More importantly, you hoped the wolfish stranger wouldn't find you.
Eventually, the speech concluded and the music resumed. Lady Furina settled into a seat at the far end of the ballroom, from where she could observe the debutantes and bachelors alike. Her laughter rang through the room, bright and clear as spring water.
To your relief, the dark-haired man didn't appear and for the first time in a while, you enjoyed a moment of peace.
A gentleman approached and requested a dance, but you politely declined, claiming you'd misplaced your dance card. A lie. You hadn't misplaced it; you hadn't collected one in the first place.
Had you actually belonged to high society, such a thing might have been scandalous. Though, considering your circumstances, your mere presence at the ball was probably scandal enough.
As the clock crept closer to midnight, unease began to settle in your chest. Soon, guests would remove their masks and reveal their identities and you had no intention of being among them.
"Already leaving?"
Your heart nearly stopped. You had barely lowered your guard and turned toward the staircase when that familiar voice found you for the third time that evening. Closing your eyes briefly, you took a steadying breath and attempted to compose yourself into the image of a proper lady.
"Yes. I'm afraid I must catch an early ship tomorrow morning." The lie slipped from your lips with surprising ease as the man approached at an unhurried pace.
"That's a shame," he said smoothly. "I'd hoped to steal at least one dance."
Heat immediately crept up your neck and you hurried to construct another excuse.
"I'm afraid I must decline. I seem to have sprained my ankle on the stairs." Your lips pulled a weak smile, hoping he’d leave you alone with that. "I wouldn't make a very pleasant dance partner."
"An unfortunate injury." He chuckled, and you hated how charming the sound was.
You quickly shoved the thought aside; the man was entirely out of reach for someone like you. Entertaining fantasies about him would only leave your heart bruised in the end.
"Yes, quite."
"So which ankle was it?" he asked, his ice-blue eyes gleaming with curiosity. "The left or the right?"
You hesitated and it was only for a moment. Unfortunately, it was a moment too long.
"You didn't sprain your ankle."
"And you ask far too many questions, sir." With a huff, you turned away, fully intending to leave him standing there. You were running out of time, after all. Before you could take more than a step, a warm hand closed around your gloved wrist.
You froze. Even through the fine fabric of your glove, the warmth of his touch seeped into your skin and your pulse immediately betrayed you— it was fast. Far too fast. You feared your heart might burst out from your chest. And judging by the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly, he noticed.
"Don't play coy with me."
His voice had changed. Not by much. But enough for you to notice the difference. The amusement was still there, lingering beneath the surface, yet something more serious had slipped into his tone.
"I'm not," you insisted, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then another announcement echoed through the ballroom. Midnight was approaching. The distraction lasted only seconds.
And it was enough. You twisted your wrist free from his grasp and hurried toward the staircase. A sharp intake of breath escaped you as cool air brushed your bare hand and arm.
Your glove remained behind, caught in his hand. Panic surged through you but there was no time to retrieve it. Gathering your skirts, you rushed downstairs and disappeared once more into the sea of masks, silk, and candlelight.
Pantalone x F!Reader: #17 "I didn't do it; I swear."
I tried something new in this and wrote the reader in third person and from Pantalone's POV. It also escalated and is slightly(??) angsty. I hope you guys like it as much as I do 💖
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･
"Delivery!"
Pantalone was walking past her desk when he saw a massive bouquet being set down upon it, only a few feet from the door to his office. He paused, wondering if the medicine he'd received from Doctor was making him hallucinate.
But no. Someone had actually sent flowers to her workplace at the Northland Bank.
"Who could have sent me flowers?" She stared at the bouquet in awe, searching for a message, a note, anything that might reveal the identity of her admirer.
Just as curious, Pantalone approached her desk, masking his interest behind an unreadable, cat-like smile.
"Who indeed?" he mused smoothly. Frankly, he was baffled that someone had the audacity to send flowers to his secretary.
And not just any flowers. Pink camellias and white lilacs. What a banal combination. His jaw ticked almost imperceptibly as he watched her untie the ribbon with a faint flush dusting her cheeks.
"There isn't a message or anything," she frowned.
She carefully removed the flowers from their elegant wrapping before proudly showing them off to her coworkers, who appeared just as astonished as she was. No one received flowers or gifts at work unless it was a holiday. Even then, such gifts usually came from their superiors.
Yet Pantalone knew perfectly well what message had been woven into the bouquet.
Someone was courting her.
"They're so pretty," she chirped to her coworkers, blissfully unaware of the hidden meaning behind the flowers.
Unfortunately, her coworkers seemed just as oblivious.
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A few days later, another delivery arrived.
This time, the Regrator was seated inside his office, sipping tea. Even so, he heard the commotion through the slightly ajar door. Curious despite himself, he rose and stepped outside with the teacup still in his hand.
There she was, holding yet another bouquet.
"I didn't expect to get flowers again." Her eyes were practically sparkling as she admired an assortment of forget-me-nots and gardenias. "I wonder what this means?"
Pantalone nearly choked on his tea. Fortunately, he managed to disguise the fit as a cough. His subordinates had heard him cough often enough lately that it attracted little attention.
"I haven't the faintest idea," he lied smoothly.
Apparently, this tacky admirer remained determined to court his secretary through flowers alone.
Remember me.
My secret love.
Honestly, how was she supposed to remember someone who refused to include a name? Courtship standards had clearly deteriorated.
She turned toward him with a smile that somehow made his lungs ache less. At that moment, Pantalone decided he would be investigating.
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Several uneventful days passed before another bouquet arrived. Again. This time, Pantalone had been waiting.
Seated in his office with a cup of tea and the door left conspicuously open, he kept one eye on the entrance. He had already arranged for several agents to follow the courier after he left the bank.
Meanwhile, she remained blissfully unaware of the quiet conspiracy unfolding around her.
The latest bouquet consisted of pink roses, white roses, and jasmine.
Pantalone hated how delighted she looked as she arranged them in a vase on the corner of her desk.
"Do you like them?" she asked as he wandered closer.
"They're poor quality," he replied mildly.
An innocent smile remained fixed upon his lips even as he imagined setting the entire arrangement ablaze.
What he hadn't expected was the look of surprise that crossed your face. "Do you know if they mean something?"
Yes. He knew exactly what they meant: Pink roses for admiration. White roses for devotion and worthiness. He nearly scoffed at that one. And jasmine for deep affection. He remained silent.
"Pantalone?" She leaned slightly closer, trying to catch his gaze.
"Yes," he sighed at last, turning away. "Flowers have meanings."
"Well," she pressed, clearly determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, "what kind of meanings?"
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Romantic ones."
Her cheeks immediately flushed. And she stared at the bouquet as though seeing it for the very first time.
"Someone's been confessing to me?"
Pantalone hummed. "For days."
"Did you send them?"
For perhaps the first time all week, genuine surprise crossed his face. His cat-like smile vanished entirely. He hesitated before answering; not because he wanted to lie, but because he wished he had.
"I didn't do it; I swear." His answer seemed to satisfy her, and she returned to arranging the ridiculous bouquet, a joyful smile dancing across her lips.
Yet Pantalone didn't retreat to his office to finish the tea that had long since gone cold. Instead, he lingered for a moment. Then another, watching her smile at a confession someone else had made.
Strange.
Pantalone had never considered himself a jealous man before. After all, there had never been anything he couldn't acquire if he truly desired it.
Later that evening, as he strolled through the streets of Snezhnograd, he found himself pausing in front of a florist's shop.
Only for a moment.
Long enough to wonder which flowers he would have chosen for her. And he wondered if she would have smiled the same way.
Phainon x F!Reader: #37 “Okay, that’s messed up… When are we doing it this again?”
Summer drabbles continue: I made a prompt list! So if you feel like you want to request a drabble, don't be afraid to send those asks!
Fluff with Phainon. I can't get enough of it 💖
When Phainon asked you to act like his girlfriend, you figured it would be easy. Being by his side had always felt like a cakewalk, and you genuinely enjoyed his presence, maybe a little too much. Still, you didn't want to destroy your blooming friendship by giving in to your budding feelings.
"Aglaea thinks I have a girlfriend, so... could you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for one evening?" he had asked, blushing and scratching the back of his neck, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips.
You had assumed fake dating would consist of standing close to Phainon, exchanging meaningful glances, and smiling as though he made you feel special. You'd expected the occasional question from his friends and family, too.
What you hadn't expected was for Phainon to throw himself into the deception with frightening competence, something you hadn't even thought possible. In hindsight, you should have known he'd overachieve even in a fake relationship.
For some reason, everyone bought into the lie. And, for Kephale’s sake, even you sometimes had a hard time remembering it wasn't real.
"Love?"
He grabbed your wrist just as you finished your cup of pomegranate juice and were about to get another. Hearing him call you "love" out of nowhere made your brain short-circuit.
Fortunately, no one else seemed to be paying attention to the two of you. The Tribios were showing off their handcrafted birthday card to Aglaea while buzzing around like little bees.
"What did you just call me?" you gasped, walking back to him. His warm hand was still wrapped around your wrist.
"Love," he repeated without hesitation.
"I didn't know we were that far along in our relationship," you replied, your throat suddenly feeling rather dry. Your heart, meanwhile, was doing delighted backflips.
"It's a nickname." A tiny smile curled at the corners of his lips, making you swoon inwardly. "Couples have nicknames."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop yourself from smiling back. It was very difficult to stay annoyed with him and, unfortunately, he had a point.
His fingers slid against yours, lacing together with ease, and your heart skipped a beat.
"You're holding my hand again."
"Yeah," he said quietly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.
"And no one's even watching us." You motioned toward the center of the room, where Cipher had caused a ruckus by stealing something from the buffet table and Aglaea was shaking her head like a mother about to scold her child.
You squeezed his hand in return, drawing a startled breath from him.
"Seems like it," he said.
He didn't let go. Instead, he kept staring at you with those sky-blue eyes. You couldn't have looked away even if you'd wanted to.
"Okay, that's messed up."
His brows shot up. He looked genuinely alarmed and maybe slightly anxious as the redness on his cheeks spread even further.
He finally glanced away, and you felt a hesitant squeeze on your hand. Your stomach betrayed you with a nervous flutter.
Goto Ryuji x Reader: #50 “Have you seen yourself?”
Time for summer drabbles is here again and I even made a prompt list myself! So if you feel like you want to request a drabble, don't be afraid to send those asks! 😊
Background for this drabble: Reader is an European "exchange hunter" and is "working" for the Draw Blade Guild. This drabble is slightly suggestive. Thank you @vizell for feeding me the idea for this one. 💖
☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆
The atmosphere in the Draw Sword briefing room started to feel suffocating after sitting at the table for over an hour. Back in Europe, in your own guild’s briefing room, you had never felt so out of it. Or maybe it was the fact that the guild master, Goto Ryuji, was sitting just across from you; despite him being the strongest hunter in Japan, an S-rank, and practically royalty, to you he was just Ryuji.
You really should have acted more professionally and paid attention to whatever hunter Hanekawa was explaining while motioning at the slideshow projection on the wall, instead of staring at your boyfriend’s handsome face.
Ryuji’s gaze was deeply focused on the presentation—unlike yours. His eyes were narrowed and his arms were crossed, making it look as though he were analyzing something incredibly dull. You really should have been doing your best to take notes to bring back home, or offering a European perspective on their tactics like an attentive exchange hunter who totally wasn’t sleeping with the Draw Sword Guild’s boss.
Unfortunately, you had neither the will nor the energy to listen to Hanekawa’s speech on mage formations. You wanted to go outside and inhale some fresh air instead of straining your brain to fully comprehend Japanese.
So, you slid your feet out of your heels and stretched, extending your leg under the table. The tips of your toes brushed the hem of his tailored trousers, but he didn’t react. His attention remained glued to Hanekawa’s presentation, but you caught the microscopic tick of his jaw in the dimly lit room.
Encouraged, you lifted your leg higher, now brushing along the line of his calf with your toes while leaning back in your comfortable leather chair. You propped your chin in your hand with a look of sweet innocence mixed with sheer boredom.
Hunter Shimizu asked Hanekawa a question that you failed to understand—purely because your attention was entirely on your extended leg, which was now sweeping over the curve of Ryuji’s knee under the table.
Then, a sudden snap tore across the room, interrupting Hanekawa and Shimizu’s conversation. Everyone turned their attention toward their guild master, who heaved a heavy sigh.
“Apologies. Please, continue,” he said smoothly, his tone entirely void of emotion.
You saw that the pen he had been holding was now snapped cleanly in half, and it made something warm flutter inside your chest; even the strongest hunter in Japan could be completely distracted by a mere A-rank exchange hunter.
Hanekawa nodded and continued. As everyone returned their attention to the presentation, Ryuji locked his dark eyes with yours. If looks could kill, you’d already be a ghost, but the heat in his glare told a completely different story. You offered him a sweet, vixen-like smile as your toes wiggled softly against his knee. The sharp clench of his jaw gave away exactly how much trouble you’d be in after the briefing.
Eventually, the meeting came to an end. You discovered that you hadn’t written much of anything in your notebook, having spent the rest of the briefing teasing Ryuji under the table while he was completely unable to stop you without drawing attention. He kept glancing your way with an unreadable expression, but you could see the fire burning in his eyes, completely undone by you.
As everyone filed out of the room, Ryuji ordered you to stay. You obeyed, smiling innocently at hunter Tawata as she gave you a puzzled look before leaving.
“What were you thinking?” he hissed the moment the door clicked shut behind the last hunter.
“Nothing,” you lied calmly, knowing he didn’t believe you for a second. “I was just stretching.”
“Stretching?” he almost growled, stepping forward to press you back against the briefing table. He towered over you, and the powerful aura radiating from his frame should have made you behave. Instead, it only turned you on. “Have you seen yourself?”
You draped your arms over his shoulders as his body pressed flush against yours. “Every day,” you murmured with the exact same sweet innocence. It made him completely forget the fact that you were still at work, and he kissed you with an unexpected, ravenous hunger that was definitely not fit for the office.
I made a list of prompts that I will, most likely, use during the summer when I start writing silly summer drabbles again. Thanks to @vizell for throwing me some suggestions. 😊 Feel free to use these if something catches your eye.
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“I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“But we just got here!”
“This is a trap, isn’t it?”
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
“Who told you that?”
“Are you sure? ‘Cause it seemed different to me.”
“You're the one who decided to have dirty thoughts.”
“Did you just eat the last cookie? Seriously?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh? So it’s my fault?”
“You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?”
“Why do you do this to me every time?”
“Where did all these sprinkles come from?”
“Don’t play coy with me.”
“Who are you trying to seduce? A potted plant?”
“Can you wait for a bit? I’m in the middle of something.”
"I didn't do it; I swear."
“I should go.”
“You had me in the first half, not gonna lie.”
“Why can’t we do this right now?”
“You’re just saying that because you want something.”
“Please, don’t ask about my day.”
“Where were you last night?”
“There’s too much cake. Way too much.”
“Oops, I guess my hand slipped.”
“I thought today was your birthday.”
"So, I just came back from a funeral and this is what you've been doing?"
“I got two tickets. Just for us.”
“You’re not going anywhere until I’m done with you.”
“I think I’m still sore from last night.”
“Can I get a kiss before you go?”
“Do you even know which way to drive?”
“Vampires, werewolves… What's next? A genie?”
"First of all, rude. Second of all, how dare you?”
“There’s no manual for that.”
“You should have seen the other guy.”
“Okay, that’s messed up… When are we doing it?”
“That was worth the risk.”
“There’s no way I’m going.”
“So… what are you going to do about it?”
“I think you’ve got the wrong person!”
“That was your idea, not mine.”
“I’m glad you didn’t do it.”
“And just like that, the magic was gone.”
“I wouldn’t mind an excuse to see you again.”
“No. You don’t get to be angry about that.”
“You’re asking what I want? What I want is right in front of me.”
Hiya!
This had been in making for over a year. So even though it has been beta read by amazing @lucianhuntress few times, please forgive for possible grammar errors.
My Rook, Shuraya, was older Lord of Fortune lady, but decided to go with general fem!Rook. Mourn watcher however, as said in tags, doesn't really work well in this set up.
As Emmrich is such a sophisticated gentleman and it is his POV, tried to write it as fancy as could. If some wording felt funny, sorry, English is my third language.
You have been warned.
“Come again?” Emmrich asked, his brows knitting together. He was trying to figure out what his newly appointed disciple meant.
“Downstairsss!” the bones hissed back while possessively holding on a small closed urn, origin of which was unknown and thus concerning. Even after spending a few months practically living at the Lighthouse one should still be wary of the Fade and what it can hold. Especially knowing who the original landlord was.
Emmrich let out a sigh that had been building up in his lungs. Manfred had been showing off more and more independence ever since after their last run in with Hezenkoss. And well, his second birthday as Rook called it. A choice that he didn’t regret in slightest, yet at times dared to question. Especially when this precious soul started to misbehave like a child. It had always been in its nature to display curiosity which, as a professor, Emmrich was more than ready to satisfy. He understood and shared it with him. But even he, in his youth, had not been so recklessly curious as to trespass into the most forgotten, dust-choked corners in pursuit of relics after being told not to.
Four times.
Alas, he was a patient teacher. Curiosity needs to be embraced and guided to the right channels. Maybe one day it might evolve into something great. That would be a real dream come true for him. So instead of continuing this interrogation Emmrich held out his hand, requesting the urn. Manfred held onto his master’s gaze then looked at the expecting palm then back up to him. His shoulder bones dropped as he unenthusiastically gave the vessel to his teacher.
Emmrich gave the item a quick look from all its sides, noticing some symbols that he wasn’t able to read. Elvish presumingly. The item wasn’t completely without magic either, so opening it without deciphering its writings first was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.
A sound of boots creaking broke his concentration as Manfred was impatiently moving from one leg to another while waiting for Emmrich’s verdict.
‘Patience will be a hard skill for the skeleton to master.’
“Downstairs, I see.” the man repeated. “This urn is clearly old, Elven in nature. Could be part of some kind of ritual based on how it's sealed with magic.”
Manfred held his breath, so to say, not making any sound and letting the professor go on.
“Opening it would be quite foolish.”
With that Manfred let out a clearly disappointed hiss to which Emmrich couldn’t help but smile a little.
“We could, however, ask Lady Bellara about this later. I’m positive she will have much more to say regarding the relic.”
His student brightened up, ready and eager to run out of room to ask their Elven expert for help but was stopped by the man’s stern voice.
“No no! Later.” Emmrich said. “She must be in the middle of her own research as of now and we don’t want to interrupt her. I will ask for her time tomorrow at breakfast.”
This time his student accepted the reasoning rather easily and nodded in agreement. He was about to reach for the urn once again, but the man shook his head, gently.
“I will return this to its rightful place at ‘downstairs’. Just to make sure it stays secure. And you Manfred, meanwhile, are to shelf all the books back to their rightful shelfs. Respecting alphabetical order and editions,” he added sternly.
The tone didn’t faze the skeleton at all, as he clapped his bony hands and headed towards the stacks on the study table.
“Booksh! Booksh!” he echoed.
Emmrich observed his disciple’s doings for a moment, making sure that he stuck to the punishment, that clearly wasn’t punishment at all. He gave it a satisfying nod and headed out of his quarters with the item of interest in his hand.
“Still cowards, as always,” an annoying voice of Hezenkoss followed him into a corridor.
“Rightfully cautious,” he corrected, letting her comment slide off him.
Once Emmrich was out of his quarters and into the open space of the common hall slash library, he was once again facing the dilemma of where this mentioned ‘downstairs’ was. He ascended the stairs where the eerie hum of the levitating bookshelves was the only sound he could pick up. It seemed like there wasn’t much of a company around this hour in the common areas. Everyone most likely catching up on their private time, defusing since the moment was permitting it. Which was perfect, sparing him the possible needs of explaining what he was snooping around for.
He approached the bookshelf behind the round table, the one that so graciously decided to stay put on the ground. It sadly had more than a few empty shelves so there was no clear spot missing its content. Even dust has been wiped clean here along possible prints in it. Whoever had the cleaning duty here recently was diligent and not slacking. Yet Emmrich could only let out a disappointed sigh.
What other options were there? His gaze drifted towards another set of stairs that went even lower. Towards the Eluvian room. Emmrich let the thought form in his mind, analyzing the probability of Manfred actually venturing out to the Crossroads by himself.
“No, there is no way he would have.” He reassured himself yet his voice lacked certainty. Where else would the skeleton have gotten the ancient elven relic.
Emmrich gave the room one more look around before it clicked.
The round golden ornaments on the wall, lightened up by crystals, were more than meets the eye. He remembers it being mentioned that the library had two additional side rooms, yet to his own embarrassment he had never found time or reason to explore them. It seemed like now was a better time than ever to see what the rooms held. Surely it couldn't be worse than the alternative.
Giving both walls a glance, Emmrich decided to approach the right side’s hidden door. Unconsciously augmenting it by it being right under his quarters. His side so to say. The door stayed closed, not reacting to his presence in any way. That didn’t discourage him, whatsoever. With a sharp gaze he eyed the ark over, looking for any possible press plates or symbols that could work as a lock. Without luck in that search, he switched his attention to pale yellow glowing crystals. He barely managed to reach one of them to touch and the door slid down, opening yet another well lit corridor.
“Ah,” the professor exhaled, glad it was as simple as that. With the door now open, Emmrich quickly stepped into the passageway.
With a few steps into the corridor, the door slid close as swiftly as it had opened. Emmrich barely spared it a glance over his shoulder, as he went on straight to the other end. He was sure there won’t be any problem with getting back out later on.
The door at the other end was old fashioned, not enchanted in any way and operated by good old manual push. Heavier than Emmrich had anticipated, but it did give in fairly easily. Before he even managed to step into the room he was blinded by the rays of the fade’s imitated sun. They were pouring in mercilessly through the windows that were framing the whole opposite wall forcing the man to squint as he stepped into the shaded side, off the path of the closing door.
After his eyes got a moment to adjust to the room’s brightness, Emmrich let himself acclimate with the new found room. The corner in which he stood had many crates and boxes, stacked up carelessly. Barely any of them were properly sealed, clearly being searched through. With that all the content, or mostly lack of it, was on display and easy to scan through. It was not even a minute later that the man spotted a box with identical urns to the one he was holding himself. The crate was separated into six sections by wooden dividers, filled with straw to guarantee safety of the fragile vessels. Of which one was missing.
He placed his disciple’s booty back where it belonged. Carefully. With the collection now whole, his lips tugged into a smile, glad with his little mission complete.
With that out of the way Emmrich let himself turn towards the room again, ready to face the light that painted the space in warm tones.
A grand spinet stood proudly in the middle of the room, keys exposed. That did spark a question of who could possibly be musically gifted in their group. His eyes drifted past the instrument, scanning other walls that were partly or mostly too occupied with old furniture, or items that haven’t found use anywhere else. As his eyes followed up, up the walls… He froze, the air in his lungs stuck.
Murals. Murals of what seemed like grand events of the painter. The man didn’t need to guess who’s work he was witnessing after facing the telltale symbol of the Inquisition.
‘And now this is reduced to a dusting storeroom’ he frowned to himself, eyes landing on a palette and brushes. Paint dried, never cleared as if abandoned mid-work. Their so-called host, despite being the source of their troubles, was also providing them help and thus Emmrich found it hard to outright discard him completely. A sentiment that barely anyone else shared with the necromancer. With hints of Fen’Harel all over the Lighthouse, it was a challenge to keep thinking of him as a God and not a man. This room reinforced his vision once more.
A silent yet clear flutter of paper carried to Emmrich’ ears, petrifying him for a second. He wasn’t alone in the room. How did it take him so long to notice? Was he noticed? Shaking off the feeling of unfounded guilt he straightened up before turning once again to face the piano occupied space.
“Hello?” he asked calmly, not giving voice to any awkwardness.
Silence didn’t offer any answer back.
Emmrich tried to look around, in case he had missed someone or something that could have made a sound.
Then the sound repeated itself. It came from across the room, hidden from sight by the instrument that stood right between him and the source. Emmrich quickly took a few steps around the spinet just to find his dearest companion reading a book while curled up on a chair that almost resembled a throne. The tenseness instantly melted away as he let out breath, a smile returning to his face. It was, however, surprising that she was yet to notice or acknowledge his presence.
“Rook?” he asked carefully, not wishing to startle her.
No reaction. Whatever was on those pages had her full attention to the point the rest of the world had seized to exist to her. Eyes ran through rows quickly, brows lightly knitted, finger pressed to her lips. Emmrich couldn’t help but adore her enthralment.
Leaving her with the book as company would have been the right thing to do, considering she had deliberately gone to the most forgotten corner of the Lighthouse to read in peace, but… He couldn’t shake off the curiosity. What was she reading?
The necromancer walked closer, his steps light, sparing the towers of cheese wheels a quick questionable glance before focusing back at Rook. With the positioning of the windows, he didn’t cast any shadows towards her that could visually alert her of his approach. So now he stood right next to her chair, still unnoticed.
With one last attempt, he cleared his throat, a sound that came out mixed with amused chuckle. As he had expected, it was futile. Without other options he reached out for her.
“Dearest?” he leaned in and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Waaah!” Rook shouted instantly, recoiling from sudden touch into a further corner on the throne, sending her book flying.
Emmrich instantly took a step back, hands half heartedly up in surrender. Face masterfully masking his amusement as remorse. He knew it would come to this but couldn’t blame her. There had been way too many times when he was in the same situation but in her shoes.
“Emmrich?” She breathed out heavily a few times before letting it even out. “Maker, you almost sent me to an early grave.”
The comment made him frown.
“Let me assure you, that is the furthest of my intentions,” he said seriously.
Picking on his tone instantly, Rook’s shoulders slumped a little and she shook her head. “You know what I meant.”
“In my defence I did call out for you a few times just to be ignored,” he let his arms drop to be crossed over his chest. The statement was barely accusatory.
Rook met his eyes, stunned for a moment before letting out an awkward laugh. “I might have been slightly preoccupied,” she states the obvious. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
The apology was meant for both of her ‘faults’. It was genuine.
Emmrich kept her gaze for a moment longer before dropping the sentiment and the stern facade. “I, too, apologise for startling your readings.” His attention switched to the book that had landed between them. “Let me…” the man kneeled down to pick it.
Before he got hold of the book Rook had stumbled out of the seat, rushing to be the one to pick it instead. “W–wait! I can myself—” she almost screamed. However, Emmrich was first to have reached it, her hand ending on top of his. The callous skin of her palm lingered just for a second, before she snatched it back to hold it against her chest, visibly… flustered? Gaze was averted as if in shame.
Emmrich couldn’t help but let his brows rise in bewilderment as he stood up. She followed his suit, but was yet to shake off the blush. Rook was far from innocent, that had come clear from her stories and… actions that they shared. She had never shied away from his touch nor had problems in approaching him once they made their intentions toward one another clear. So this type of reaction was very new for him.
The attention switched to the book in his hands; clearly old and well read. The back of it was bent-broken and the cover worn to the point that the possible title and author were long gone and unreadable. Emmrich turned it around, trying to see any telltale signs of its content.
“Is this book of the Lighthouse?” he asked.
Rook faced him quickly before looking away again, shaking her head. “No… It’s from a personal…” she went on, but before she could even finish her sentence, he had opened the book on a random spread.
To. her. indescribable. horror.
It took a few overly long stretched seconds for Emmrich to register what he had skimmed through. As his luck, or Rook’s unluck would have it, he was taking in a very bold and detailed description of sensual interaction of two, hopefully, fictional characters. At its very peak with no details disclosed.
A gasp followed with horrified ‘No’ was the only warning of a pouncing leader Emmrich got. But years of being a professor had his reflexes sharp so the arm with the book in had shot up and back. High out of the Rook’s reach while his other hand held her back at her shoulder.
“Don’t you dare! Give it back!” she demanded. This time even the points of her ears were covered in blush. An adoring sight for the necromancer that he couldn’t fight his lips from tugging into an amused smile. But far from judgemental. Somehow such an unexpected turn was not so surprising for him.
This didn’t go unnoticed for Rook’s desperate gaze turned into a sulking stare. Hands went from reaching up over him to crossing under her chest. “That is my personal read,” Rook stated. Sternly.
“It clearly is,” Emmrich confirmed with a nod. “And it seems like it's not your first journey across its pages?” he inquired, challenging her stare. She however did not avert her eyes this time, holding it unshaken.
“Exactly. I do enjoy myself some romantic fiction and won’t deny having a favorite one. Spent my own honestly earned coin for that one too before you question.”
Emmrich squinted at that, tilting his head a tad, not appreciating such an assumption. Rook continued before he could.
“And I’m oh so sorry to disappoint you for delving into a writings that are at the opposite side of your top shelf educational topics like ‘mimicking fusions’, ‘volatilely enkindled runes’ and ‘lost forms of spirit communication’.” Rook’s voice didn’t shy away from the mockery while parodying him.
“‘Mimetic transfusion’, ‘votively enkindled runes’ and ‘lost forms of spirit communion’, Rook.” Emmrich couldn’t fight the urge to correct her.
Rook’s brow shot up, gaze even less so impressed. “Bless you,” she deadpanned. This stung him a little, as he had just proved her statement right, even if unintentionally. That deflated his demeanor a tad, as he brought the book back down from the mocking highs.
“Not quite sure what made you assume I wouldn’t appreciate romantic literature.”
Rook’s waiting hands dropped from her middle, as they found a new place at her sides, weight leaning to her right. “Oh I don’t know. Got a picture that fantasy in all its forms was not your cup of tea when even Harding’s gruesome novels were too much for you due to incorrect anatomical descriptions,” she rolled her eyes.
Emmrich couldn’t help but sigh, his banters with Lace catching up on him. Or how he and Taash had butted heads about not understanding each other’s passions. It would be hypocritical of him to try and deny his own words but… Maybe he could ease it out a notch. As this was not a faculty or defence of a thesis in Nevarran academy. They all came from completely different backgrounds and it was foolish of him to view them only through his own narrow standards.
His eyes landed down on the book in his hands, gripping it more tightly. It was something important to his dearest. Yet he had behaved in a way that gave an air of judgement and arrogance towards other’s preferences that she now assumed Emmrich saw her as less because of that. To the point that she would try to hide her favorite book from him instead of sharing it.
A wave of shame and sadness washed over him.
“I… I can see what you mean.” His lips tightened in a line and he tried to plan out a proper approach. “I might have been stubborn and blind to other ways but my own,” the necromancer admitted. He dared himself to look back to Rook just to see her being baffled by his admission, clearly not expecting one. Emmrich gave her a pathetic attempt at a smile.
“Emmrich, I didn’t mean to…” Rook was ready to diffuse the moment as she usually did but he just shook his head gently.
“It’s quite alright. It’s good to be knocked down a step or two, I’m sophisticated enough to take it. I wouldn’t want our crew to see me as presumptuous, alas it might be too late. But,” he continued his voice, picking up a higher, more positive note, “I believe it’s never too late to fix your ways.”
Rook's dumbfounded stare didn’t last long as she couldn’t help but crack into a chuckle. “Humble much?”
“I surely strive to be.” Emmrich admits, this time more aware and playing off sarcastic comments. “Look, I’m sorry for being harder to tackle at times. I never meant to shame your choices. There are as many preferences as there are individuals and it was lapse in my judgement to bring it all down to my own. Quite a rookie mistake.”
Rook’s features softened before gaining a sharp, mischievous gaze as she took a step towards him. Barely any space left between them. Her hand went to his forearm, giving him a gentle squeeze. Reassuring him that it was quite alright.
“Don’t shame yourself too much, handsome. You are one of my choices too after all,” she cooed at him. Her eyes dropped to his lips just for a quick second before being back at his. A suggestive gesture. An invitation.
“Oh you…” Emmrich breathed not being able to deny her praise and plea. A pure bliss bloomed in his chest as he leaned down to meet her expecting lips. A kiss sweet and heartfelt. He almost expected for the kiss to deepen before feeling a tug on her possession. Sneaky little thing, he thought and straightened back up, breaking the kiss. And no, he still didn’t let go of the book.
“Almost,” Rook purred like a satisfied cat. “May I have it back, please?”
Her request was hard to fight. And even though it would have been the right thing to do, Emmrich couldn’t do it just yet. He gave her a quick follow up peck to the lips, surprising her enough that her hold on the books eased and he could take a step back. Rook’s ways had been rubbing on him so he was proud to be able to put them to good use.
“Certainly. Though I would love you to indulge me with one request first,” necromancer said, his words careful. A smile on Rook’s lips remained unchanged as she brought her chin up a little, giving him a hooded look.
“Do I have a choice?” she joked, then followed by a small nod. “Shoot”.
Emmrich eyed the book, biting his lip before he had enough courage to air his wish. “Would you please show me what part you were reading?”
The coy facade vanished quicker than Emmrich would have loved it to as Rook asked quite dumbfounded.
“The what?”
The man cleared his throat, fighting not to give up on the topic and instead pushed forward. “The chapter that got you so fascinated. I truly wish to know what had you so enchanted and captivated. What made you hold onto your breath and bite on your forefinger as you tuned the page even though it is an old read.”
Rook looked away, hand going up to her neck as in an attempt to smooth away the blush that was once again creeping up her skin. Her hesitation was obvious. Once again embarrassed. A groan escaped her. “Do I have to?”
Emmrich smiled sadly at her, not too surprised by her disdain. So he shook his head and finally offered her book back. “You don’t, dearest. Of course not. I would never force you to.” But throws in his last stitch attempt. “Still, I would be delighted to learn of your loves and favorites. Dislikes and turn-offs alike. I wish for you to know that you don’t have to feel conflicted about pouring yourself out to me. Maker knows you have done so much of that to me. So… As subjective as I might have presented myself, I will not ever belittle you or your thoughts. Of that I promise you.”
A silence stretched out between them and was becoming awkward to the point of casting a shadow of worry on Emmrich’s resolve. Had he overstepped? Pushed a little too hard? Just as he was to give up and ask to pay it no mind, Rook shot him a glance from under a brow and quietly asked.
“Even if it’s dumb and pointless?”
“Even if it is written in poor grammar!” He reassured her.
Rook held his gaze, trying to find something, any sign that would revoke all what he just had said. Strain in his expression or twitch in his lips. Anything!
But found none as he was honest with his words.
“Page 98,” she sighed.
Emmrich’s face melted into an adoring smile and he gave her a nod of thank you. Even if it seemed like a little meaningless thing, it meant a lot to him. So without further ado, he again opened the book but this time searched for the addressed page. As he carefully shuffled through the pages, he unconsciously wagered to get the same type of a scene as he had accidentally stumbled on the first time. ‘Could be possibly taken in as reference for the future,’ he mentally noted to himself with a smirk.
‘92, 94, 96…’
The man reached the right spread of pages and began to read. It was the beginning of a chapter and with every row did his assumption get proven further from the truth. A heartfelt and raw moment between two lovers meeting secretly, only witnessed by lights of the night sky. Based on what Emmrich caught from their conversation they had a romantic history, but the other one was questioning if there was a future for them. The difference in statuses and duty.
‘It was a mistake to come here tonight. This only makes the inevitable so much worse.’
‘Don’t call this… us a mistake! I am leaving so there is a chance for us after this whole mess is over.’
‘Arranged marriage with the other side is more than just “a mess”! Tensions are sky high as they are and you not wanting to “tarnish the family’s honor” put you into a position where you have “no other choice”... once again.’
The dialogue suggested that it was not their first argument on this topic. Emmrich frowned and turned a page.
‘Please. It’s temporary as I have explained it many times…’
‘Yes, you have, and I understand! But who will understand me if not you? For whom my worries and my wants will be a priority? Why don’t you see I don’t want you to go out of fear that you will return feet first…’
‘My love,’ they tried to ease the other’s worries only to end up with a handful of sobbing lover against their chest.
‘If it comes to worst… I won’t be able to go on. I don’t want to know life without you.’
‘I promise, you will not find that out.’
The lovers melted into a desperate embrace. The touches, trying to memorise everything of one another before the night would fall short and it would be time for them to go their separate ways.
It didn’t take Emmrich long to finish the whole episode. His breathing was slow but deep, as if any of the intakes weren’t enough to fill his lungs properly. A struggle to compose himself. He felt slightly lost by what this all meant. What did it say about Rook, if the scene of lovers parting ways on this bittersweet note was her favorite.
He looked up from the book, eyes instantly finding Rook. She had moved towards the window, now looking out into the bright sky like space of the fade, her back turned to him. Hands hugging herself. She hadn’t made any comments or sounds, letting him read uninterrupted. When the soft thumb of book closing echoed through the loud silence of the room, she turned her head exposing her profile to him.
“Cheesy, wasn’t it?” She asked with a forced highnote at the end.
Emmrich stayed silent.
Rook let out a chuckle, turning back to face the windows. “Don’t get me wrong, the whole book is great. It is the author’s one of the first published books. Second one I think. They have gone to write series after but have nailed the smutty parts ever since the beginning. Like the one with a semi-public sex scene in the alley next to the busy street when they almost got caught by—”
“Rook.” Emmrich interrupted her rumble, his voice gentle. It sounded to him like an attempt to hide behind a raunchy and bold facade. Trying to change the topic as if regretting revealing the true pages.
She continued, now less enthusiastically. “What I meant to say… A good fuck is easier to land compared to such lifelong devotion. That is my comfort novel that I have reread countless times yet every time I open it again, it's like for the first time. Even when I know the ending.”
She turned around to face him, a sad smile on her face “A happy ending.”
Emmrich held her gaze and let her continue.
“All the arguments, the struggles, the pain. They all are easier to tackle and experience when you know it all will be figured out. I like that part ‘cause it is when all is going to shit. It is the storm that you felt was coming because everything before that was way too good to be true. It gives me freedom to experience this crumble and heartache knowing that there is a safety net written to catch me.”
That sent a wave of goosebumps down the necromancer’s skin. The fact that Rook had been worried about the team, their mission and its progress was obvious. But for it to be to this extent? She had held herself fairly strong, being the leader that they needed. Lending everyone her time, ear and shoulder when necessary. Yet, in the whole Lighthouse the only one to whom she felt brave enough to pour out her own fears was this nameless novel?
Emmrich’s brows furrowed as eyes filled with worry. “So you get reassurance from it and try to mirror it to our current dilemma?”
Rook shrugs. “Pretty much.”
The necromancer couldn’t help but let his shoulders fall at her admission. Heart bleeding for her fears and burden that they all knew she was shouldering yet failed to see how they were eating on her. She had always presented herself with such an air of nonchalant ease that he had taken it as given. But it was just a well crafted mask that Rook has learned to pull on to face whatever cards fate decided to deal her. And this round was looking especially dire.
A sudden realization struck the man. The just read chapter had also born an unexpected concern in Emmrich in regards to them. Of ‘us’. Blight, gods, battles had people around them step into the Veil with frightening rates. So was she seeing any bright future? Was Rook redying herself for the worst possible outcome as inevitable? The book was a form of mental preparation for her so was this their calm before the storm? That from here it would be a downfall into the dark without knowing if they manage to break the fall before hitting the rock bottom.
And his aspirations to ascend to Lichdom…
Emmrich bit on his own teeth, not ready to delve into possible ripples that might had brought. This moment wasn’t about him. This was about her and him trying to help her ease her mind. Even if coming second to the un-named novel.
The man finally took a step towards his companion, offering the book back to the rightful owner. Rook gave him a sympathetic look before accepting it back, bridging it to her chest. Hugging it dearly like a kid's favorite plush. Pure and sincere. That brought a smile to Emmrich’s lips, washing away the darker thoughts.
He let his hand find her cheek, giving it a gentle caress. Rook nuzzled into it, so naturally as by an instinct before looking again up at him.
“Darling. Know that I’m here whenever you feel heavy at heart or want to pour your thoughts and worries out. It would be an honor to be of any help.”
“I know,” Rook breathed out softly.
“And worry not of it being a burden! I have had plenty of pedagogical years behind me to learn to navigate even the most trivial of worries that all mattered none the less,” he added, trying to lighten the tone. Even if they both knew it was in vain.
Rook, mostly out of pity, let out a small chuckle. She then took a step closer and let her head press against his chest. Emmrich welcomed her by bringing her into a tight embrace. His head dropped on top of hers, placing a kiss into her hair.
They stood like that for a few long stretch moments, as the heartbeats echoed loudly as in sync. Basking in each other’s warmth and presence.
“I won’t promise you the happy ending like in the book,” Emmrich’ broke the silence, “as we are not given the fortune to know for sure and I refuse to be the reason for a broken promise.”
Rook didn’t say anything, only hid her face against the man's chest.
“I will, however, promise you that I will do whatever it is in my power to push through for us to meet on the other side of this all. How and how successfully, that is for us to find out.” The necromancer whispered into her hair. And much as it was a promise for himself as was for her. He wanted to see this through and welcome the new dawn with Rook by his side.
Despite his reassurance the air has become poignant as the end of the Rook’s favorite chapter. Emmrich, feeling guilty yet again, refused for their day to end on such a note.
“How about during the next full moon, we visit the Memorial Gardens? Have wine and I will share my favorite romance poems with you. To make this fair, so to say.”
His dearest partner leaned back enough to be able to look up to the necromancer. She gave it a moment of exaggerated thinking before asking with a cheeky smirk and shine in her eyes.
“Will they make me yawn or yearn?”
Emmrich let out a surprised laugh, as she had struck him once again. He couldn’t do much as to shake his head, pleased that Rook was now in a higher spirit than a moment before.
“Ah-a, no spoilers, my love. You will have to wait and hear,” he teased and leaned down towards her lips once again.
“Seems like I have no choice then,” she answered with fake disappointment and welcomed the kiss.
The bliss of that sweet moment was not meant to last as it won't be long before the sky turns blood red in a God forced eclipse.
Bob x Reader: "I don’t care if the lights are uneven or the star’s a little crooked. All that matters is that we did this together."
Merry Christmas Toastie 🩷 Bob and I did our best here 🥹
It is your first Christmas together with the newly found Avengers. The top floors of the New Avengers Tower are decorated with lights, garlands, and baubles of every color, mostly thanks to the Red Guardian; He has been overly excited about the newly formed team and has given his everything to “boost morale.”
Despite his enthusiasm, the decorations feel more like an experiment in chaos than a cozy holiday atmosphere. It looks as though he walked through Costco and bought one of everything. Val must be thrilled to foot the bill.
One day, when everyone else except you, Bob, and Ava has gone out on a mission, you find Bob staring at Aleksei’s decorating efforts. Something clearly bothers him, his expression caught in quiet internal conflict. He has kept his thoughts about the garlands, lights, and baubles to himself, but now he finally has the chance to do something about it.
He notices you approaching and turns to you with a fleeting smile, unsure how to explain what’s bothering him.
“The… the star is crooked,” he says before you even have the chance to ask.
You take in the scene. “Yeah. And not just the star,” you agree, though you don’t feel quite entitled to complain. You haven’t decorated nearly as much as Aleksei. No one really has. Yelena tried to hang a bottle of vodka on the tree, but someone must have taken it down already. Bucky claims he’s “too old” to decorate, and Ava… well, you don’t even know where she is, despite knowing she’s somewhere in the tower. You haven’t actually seen her much lately.
Bob has helped where he could, but Aleksei’s overwhelming presence has mostly kept him on the sidelines. Until now.
He takes a tentative step toward the tree, glancing around as if Aleksei might suddenly appear from behind one of the massive glowing reindeer.
“I could fix it,” he says, uncertain, as though asking permission to straighten the crooked star.
You step closer and offer him a small, reassuring smile. “We can fix it together, if you’d like.”
He swallows, hesitates, and then nods cautiously before lifting his gaze back to the star. He can reach higher than you, so you steady the tree while he adjusts it carefully.
The star wobbles in defiance, then settles, just as crooked, maybe even more so than before.
He sighs, a self conscious chuckle slipping out.
“Bob,” you say gently, taking his hand in yours. He’s warm against your skin, sending butterflies through your stomach. “It’s okay. I know this—,” you gesture to the overly decorated room, “—is a little outrageous. But I don’t care if the lights are uneven or the star’s a little crooked. All that matters is that we did this together.”
He lifts an eyebrow, and you laugh softly, feeling heat creep up your neck.
“Okay, Aleksei did most of it,” you add quickly, “but we’re a team. And we tried to fix it together.”
Bob looks up at the star again, then back at you, and you realize you wouldn’t mind fixing it together again next year.
Sylus x Reader: "Is it too much if we synchronize the lights to music? Nah, definitely not too much."
Merry Christmas @owldearest 🩷 I originally wanted to write about Zayne, but this prompt was so much better for Sylus so here you go. I hope I didn't butcher him too much.
You’ve spent your days off decorating and cleaning your apartment. Just a few decorations here and there. You want to keep it minimal, knowing you’ll be buried in Wanderer cases right after New Year’s Eve, and taking everything down later will be a hassle.
Sylus has invited himself in for reasons known only to him. He doesn’t lift a finger to help, claiming it “looks more amusing when you’re tangled in garland” or that you’re “as sparkling as a snowglobe” after opening the decoration box from the wrong side and sending everything spilling over you. Instead, he lounges on your bed, sipping wine and enjoying both your decorating efforts and the music playing in the background.
He watches you knowingly, clearly enjoying the way his comments make your cheeks glow. Out of frustration. Mostly.
“You know what would make your apartment more grand?” he asks lazily, tilting the wine glass in his hand as he props himself up on one elbow.
“A lot of things. Is it low effort?” you reply, keeping your tone stubbornly disinterested. He seems to enjoy that too.
“It’s basically no effort at all,” he muses, reaching for the coat he’d tossed onto your bed when he arrived.
You raise an eyebrow, already certain it will be anything but.
“Here,” he says, pulling a tiny box from his coat pocket and tossing it to you. “A little gift.”
The smile never leaves his lips as you catch it and examine the contents.
“These are lights,” you state flatly.
He tuts and rises, setting his wine glass on the small table nearby. “Those are not just any lights.”
You hand him the box. His fingers brush yours, almost deliberately, and you fight the urge to flinch. That would only amuse him. He pulls the lights free and plugs them into the outlet, the strand coming alive in a soft glow.
“Those are lights,” you repeat, earning a smug smirk. You roll your eyes.
“Now, that would be too predictable,” he murmurs.
And then he snaps his fingers.
The lights begin to dance, pulsing perfectly in rhythm with the music playing in the background.
You open your mouth, momentarily speechless at the sight in front of you.
“Is it too much if we synchronize the lights to music?” he asks, turning toward you with that familiar, infuriating smile.
Before you can answer, he adds, “Nah. Definitely not too much.”
Dan Heng x Reader: "It’s funny, every year, I say we’ll keep the decorations simple, and every year we go all out."
Merry Christmas @vizell 🩷 This isn't specificly Permansor Terrae Dan Heng and reader can be read as Stelle, but I kept her vague enough so you can shamelessly self insert too 😌
“This year we’ll do simple decorations in the Parlor Car.” You inform Dan Heng and March 7th. You three are responsible for decorating the Parlor Car, while Himeko, Mister Yang and Sunday handle the Party Car.
March pouts; she wanted to go all in with the decorations but understands your reasoning that you’re also in duty to take them down after Christmas, and Dan Heng stares at you with a deadpan expression. His judging gaze makes you scratch the back of your neck and chuckle nervously.
So when the time to decorate the Parlor Car came, you split the work evenly and started out with well thought decorations to match the theme with the Party Car; March dances around, hanging just a few garlands here and there, you are in charge of putting lights and Dan Heng… he carries the decoration box, clearly unimpressed by his role in this.
But if he was allowed to decide, the Parlor Car would look even more barren than it does with the minimal decorations you have decided upon. Besides, after Amphoreus you can’t help but to notice the muscle he has built. His body is literally made for carrying heavy boxes!
“You know, we could hang lights on your tail,” you casually suggest to him as you plug the rope of lights into an outlet.
“No,” is his reply— curt and simple.
“Okay, how about hats on your horns?”
“That is also a no.”
“Guys! Look!” March exclaims across the Parlor Car, sounding rather impressed with herself. You and Dan Heng turn your heads to look at the very unevenly hung garland hanging above the massive windows revealing dozens of stars outside.
You snicker quietly, impressed by March’s skills, but Dan Heng… He stares. And he keeps staring. You can almost see the inner struggle going in his head.
Then, he sighs and places the box of decorations on the nearest table surprisingly gently. He then walks over to March and tugs on the garland, fixing the unevenness of it.
“Oh, so you’re decorating now?” you grin at him, having proof of him doing something else than carrying a literal box.
“I’m not,” he says, his tone still as disinterested as before, “it was uneven. I corrected it.” He turns around to let his gaze sweep across the car, eyeing the garlands March has hung; all of them more even than the last one.
March and you exchange smirks behind his back and continue on with your decorations, while Dan Heng walks around fixing March’s decorations first, then yours. Then he suddenly is adding ribbons, baubles and whatnot.
At some point he even helps you hang a glowing Hamster Ball Knight onto a window. His hands cupping yours, like he is teaching you how to place a simple hanging light. His touch makes you gasp inwardly, but he remains stoic and unbothered by it. Almost determined to place the light correctly.
When the three of you are finally done, you stop at the end of the car, admiring the glittering view. You're almost unsure whether there are any benches underneath all the glow and dazzle.
Dan Heng seems conflicted and he sighs, but you catch something akin to a smile on his lips as he says: “It’s funny, every year, I say we’ll keep the decorations simple, and every year we go all out.”
March takes out her camera, snapping plenty of Christmas themed photos of the car, while you and Dan Heng admire your work in silence.
Eventually, his fingertips brush against yours, sending a small jolt through your nerves. You glance at him, but he keeps staring at the decorations, conflicted. When you wrap your hand around his, he doesn’t pull away. Warmth spreads from him to you as his fingers curl around yours, silently accepting that some traditions were meant to get out of hand.
Caleb x F!Reader: "Here, let me help you with that garland; unless you want to end up tangled in it again."
Merry Christmas to @creative-frequency 🩷 I haven't written LADS stuff before, so please have mercy.
With a purple garland in your hands, you balance on a step ladder, trying to spin it neatly around the Christmas tree. Caleb tried to offer his help earlier, but somehow you ended up telling him that you’re a strong, independent woman and don’t need his help with everything. Besides, this isn’t your first Christmas decorating a tree.
Now he stands off to the side, eyes half squinting as your attempt at wrapping the garland around the tree is nothing short of a safety hazard.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks, not bothering to mask the amusement in his tone. You’ve let him hold a bunch of decorations in his arms so you don’t have to climb down every time you need more.
“Oh, I’ve done this before,” you scoff, determination sharpening your voice as you try to free the fluffy, sparkly garland after it gets stuck in the needles.
He sighs, shaking his head, and a silvery bauble floats past your eyes.
“Hey!” you protest.
“I could make this so much easier for you,” he muses as the bauble lands gracefully on a branch.
“Show off,” you grumble, tossing part of the garland toward the back of the tree. It lands unevenly. You sigh. Maybe you should have accepted his help after all, but you’re too proud to back down now.
You give the garland another tug, just sharp enough to send it flying back toward you and make the ladder wobble beneath your feet. The garland lands on you, wrapping around your arms and shoulders like a sparkling snake.
Caleb has already stepped closer, one hand steadying the ladder, making sure you stay upright. He’s close enough now for you to smell him; gingerbread cookies you baked earlier. Your cheeks warm, glowing just a tad hotter in his presence.
“Careful.”
“I’ve got it.”
You try to wrestle the garland free, but it only seems to tighten its hold. It finally loosens just enough for you to tug at it gently.
Then you feel his hands, warm and sure, easing around you as he reaches for the garland. The heat of him radiates through you.
“Here,” he says softly, a smile in his voice. “Let me help you with that garland… unless you want to end up tangled in it again.”
If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…
Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.
Including (sigh) the em dash.
There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.
A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.
No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.
You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.
Defend the em dash.
(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)
I know I should have done this like a week ago or something, sadly I've been running around doing other things.
I have been away from publishing writings for such a long time it feels like a miracle to be back in action and I enjoy every moment of it. Thank you for following my chaotic writing blog. Truly. 💕
I've been trying to come up with something suitable to celebrate this joyful moment! And I hope I can blurt it out at some point, autumn looks kinda packed for me at this point but I do still want to continue writing all the lovely things I have piled up in the back of my head. 🥰
I still haven't caught up with the main story, but I got this idea from somewhere along the way and I just had to treat myself more fluff with Phainon. 🥰
Whoever thought Tales of the Dolos Rogues would be an easy read was clearly wrong. You can’t seem to focus on the book at all.
Or maybe it’s the company you’re with.
You'd often come visit him to read or play games and he'd sometimes come visit yours. This time is no different… much.
Your eyes keep drifting—more often than you’d like to admit—to your snow-white-haired friend, who seems entirely absorbed in whatever it is he’s reading. The two of you sit on the couch in his small living room, in perfect silence. Well, almost, perfect; you keep shifting your legs like folding or straightening them would help you focus better.
It’s his fault for being so distracting.
Phainon sits in perfect stillness, brows drawn in a focused furrow, eyes tracking each line like he’s absorbing every ounce of information from the pages—though the cover of his book is obscured by his hands, so you can’t make heads or tails of what it is.
What is he even reading?
Maybe he wouldn’t notice if you peeked over his shoulder. He seems completely lost in his own world, but there’s a protective way he’s holding the book. Maybe it’s something embarrassing… like smut?
He doesn’t look like someone who reads smut. And he’d probably tell you if he found a good smut book.
You squint at him and set aside your copy of Tales of the Dolos Rogues. He doesn’t blink. You’re not even sure he’s breathing.
So you rise—silently as possible—and tiptoe around the couch, prowling like a tiny chimera.
Once you’re behind him, you hold your breath and glance over his shoulder.
And he’s reading something that is not smut, not even a heroic tale, but…
The Golden Yield: Maximizing Output in the Age of Trade.
“Seriously?” You can’t hold it in any longer. “I was expecting epic heroes, sword fights—maybe even some cheesy romance—but money? You’re sitting here reading about… numbers?” The disappointment slips out before you can stop it.
Phainon jumps, snapping the book shut probably louder than he originally intended and snapping his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. You lean against the backrest, arching a brow.
He’s close, you realize—and his cheeks are rapidly turning the soft pink of cotton candy.
“I—” he stammers, “it’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder.”
“It’s not like you’re reading erotica,” you groan, hopping over the backrest to sit beside him.
But he’s already shooting to his feet.
“I’ll read in my bedroom.” His voice is tight, and he doesn’t even look at you. A sharp pang of guilt tugs at your chest.
“O-okay,” you murmur, watching him stride away. He leaves the door open, flopping onto the bed with his book like nothing happened.
You awkwardly pick up your own abandoned novel from the table and try to read. But after the sixth time of staring at the same sentence, your eyes drift back toward him.
Phainon looks completely relaxed, nose buried in that ridiculous finance book.
Why is he so secretive about it? You’ve been friends for ages—you tell him your secrets. You thought he told you his, too.
Curiosity over his secrecy is the only reason your feet carry you to his bedroom before your brain can catch up. You soon find yourself at his doorway, hesitating for a second.
Would he really get mad at you for following him—let alone stepping into his bedroom uninvited? You’ve never been this deep into his apartment before.
You take a step inside and quietly tiptoe again. He doesn’t notice you at first, his back turned toward you, body stretched out and propped on one elbow as he devours the contents of his book.
You peek over the edge of his mattress. The Golden Yield: Maximizing Output in the Age of Trade is still in his hand.
You bite your lip to stifle the laugh bubbling inside you… and fail.
A tiny snort escapes. “What is so important in there—”
And for a second, you lose your balance. The mattress dips beneath you, sending you tumbling forward. Your face lands on his elbow, and when he jolts in surprise, you end up partly sprawled across his chest.
A very firm chest, you notice, heat pooling low in your belly. He goes perfectly still, but the warmth radiating from him could fry an egg.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he stammers, clearly flustered—but he doesn’t try to move you.
You’re not sure you want to move either; he’s warm and… unexpectedly comfortable.
“Well, I was trying to understand the book you’re reading,” you murmur, “but right now—” you can hardly believe yourself—“I’m enjoying a Phainon pillow.”
He blinks at you in horror and disbelief. “A… Phainon pillow?” he repeats, like he’s testing how ridiculous it sounds. “That’s, uh… that’s new.”
A cheap grin tugs at your lips, even as you try to hide your own embarrassment. “You’re unexpectedly comfy. Would’ve never guessed.”
You should get up—this is hardly the position to spend the rest of the evening in. But you don’t… and he doesn’t make any move to push you away, either. Odd.
The laugh that escapes him is short-lived, maybe even a little dry. “I mean…” His cheeks somehow grow redder, and he turns his head slightly, as if he can’t quite say it while looking at you. “You can stay there as long as you like, but…”
“What?” You find yourself holding your breath without even realizing it.
Another burst of nervous laughter slips out. “You’re… kind of distracting.”
Then his blue eyes finally meet yours—and he actually bites his lip.
Your throat tightens.
“The book was boring anyway,” you murmur, your brain focusing entirely on the curve of his mouth now.
And his gaze drops—not completely away, but flickers to your lips. You feel his breath fan against your skin, heavy and hesitant.
Your name falls from his lips like a soft, reverent whisper, sending goosebumps racing across your skin. Somehow he’s nearer than before, drawn in by some unspoken gravity. Neither of you pulls away, but neither closes the last inch, suspended in that impossible space between.
His eyes dart back to yours, lips already parted—so close to bridging the gap—when he suddenly blurts,
“I think my face is red?”
The words come out nervous and low, his breath stuttering in time with his racing heartbeat. His hand twitches, as though he’s fighting the urge to cup your cheek… or the back of your neck.
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