Semi-retired fanfic writer with too many ideas and too little time.
Do not ask or demand updates. Do not use AI to finish my stories. I will feed your soul to the abyss.
COMPLETED:
Dream a Little Dream of Me
In Power We Entrust The Love Advocated
WIPS:
Blasphemous Rumors
The Heretic and the Forsaken Series
Vertigo Eyes
all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, repost, modify, copy, or translate my works on here or any third-party site, including reading as asmr. I do not consent to my fics being fed to AI or lore.fm; I will hunt you down for sport. thank you & enjoy!
I own nothing except my reader insert characters who are easily recognizable, such as Maestra of Dream a Little Dream of Me, and my original characters.
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Nine Inch Nails was formed in 1988 and did not have any releases until 1989, making it unlikely that Auntie listened to them before this time. Lara was 21 when she crashed in the Himalayas and got disowned by her family. Since she was born in 1968, this happened in 1989.
This means that Lara must have spent time with Auntie after she came home from the accident. Possibly she still lived in her mansion several years more and Lara could stay with her between adventures before she became the full owner.
Hi there!! Do you have any updated advice/ tips on how to characterize Dottore (especially the original) with all the new story? I’ve been wanting to write for them but the characterization is just so difficult and you do it so incredibly well. Thank you <333!
Mmm, important to remember that we don’t fully know the consequences of splitting one’s soul (or if we do, I don’t know it because zero time for lore diving). Based on old voiceline leaks, as Dottore got older, he was more akin to an old professor who pushed students towards the trains of thought that would answer their questions. More patient, not necessarily willing to spare feeling. You know this type if you ever had one.
Not to mention that he lost his empathy at eight years old and by eighteen his entire worldview was transactional.
By the time he’s 85, it’s one of two paths:
The old man grumbling about the Heavenly Principles stuck in a cycle because he surrounded himself with stagnant perspectives.
The old man who shook off the worst parts of himself and was able to transcend as far as a human could with a fractured soul.
He isn’t getting very far with number 2. OG Zandik is going to be selfish, arrogant, observant, all the things Omega is, but he’s soft with his approach when we combine these two concepts. And by soft, I mean subtly manipulative to the point where you think you’re making your own choices kind of thing.
My stories explore his character under certain lenses, often through relationships. It’s more narrow and the stories are short enough where there’s no long term development.
I think he’s capable of having learned how to process certain emotions and behaviors and knows the right thing to say. I cannot see him being vulnerable with anyone other than Pantalone or a partner who has long since proven themselves to be on his level. His transactional worldview is not for the faint of heart.
OG Zandik may or may not feel like his work is complete. He’s human. The very thing that was meant to buy him time doesn’t work on him. It is unclear if he ever managed to make peace with that. Judging by the way he spoke to Omega and begged for help, I imagine he actually died not only alone, but scared, and feeling as if he did not accomplish what he wanted.
(Omega did and that’s why all of them had to die but that’s a different post.)
Ultimately: this will depend on the purpose of the story, the ideas involved, etc. OG Zandik is just Omega but with more time to stew, ruminate, and refine himself.
Zandik's hands weren't what they used to be. You find a different way to comfort him.
Established OldZandik/reader. Reader wears dresses. Inspired by a post on twitter from psychxbby about nail painting and old Zandik wanting to be useful again.
On AO3 here.
It was almost done. Weeks of studies, months of pain.
His joints never cooperated anymore.
Trembling, he inhaled and exhaled slow as a single grain of sand through an hourglass before gliding the thin brush over the canvas. The brush jittered, as it always did, and he cursed in old Sumerian as he tried to scrap off the excess with his knife, leaving a scar on your dress.
The lighting that day had been perfect. Deep red satin shining in the afternoon. A perfect, shining gem coveted for its luster and cut.
His days were numbered. So many patients said they felt their body failing them. Feofan had confessed as such over the decades.
His hands had always been so steady, so capable. Surgery was nothing more than child’s play. Fine motor work that was second nature, honed and refined in long hours few ever bothered with. Painting was your forte, your second love, but you’d taught him with patience that almost outpaced his own.
How did someone barely in their third decade be so willing to wait? At that age, he was only patient when it mattered, but you?
You felt at ease in this world. He didn’t so much envy you as he did long to capture it, understand it, so he too could feel it, one day.
Zandik stepped back from the canvas, brow furrowed as he forced his bad eye to focus. Depth perception was difficult and his heart sank.
Nothing but a shadow. Colors stood too sharp against one another, his fingers having been too sore for longer blending periods. It was obvious he’d had more energy for your face, the finest part of the entire masterpiece. Ten years ago, this would have been so easy.
Useless.
Old.
Decrepit.
Why did you bother with him, he wondered. This was meant to be your birthday present, the way he saw you and what you meant to him.
Would you feel compelled to fix it? Straighten the lines, smooth the colors, make quick work of his shaky splatters?
He couldn’t hold a wrench anymore, nor were his eyes good for small mechanisms. With all of the major projects outsourced to the better and more capable parts of himself, this was all he had left. How else did one capture their world visually?
He sat down, palette knife in hand, contemplating just slashing the thing to pieces.
“Zandik?”
Your voice, a melody.
One he didn’t deserve, not right now. The sentiment must have shown or you would not have hesitated as you said, “I can come back.”
He held out a hand, dropping the knife and beckoning you. You took it upon reaching him, fingers finding the sore joints you always worked. So warm, like morning sun on dewed grass.
Your appraising silence was a strange comfort to the voice in his head.
“You are unhappy with it, I take it?” you asked, nestling onto his leg, skirts rustling as you pulled the palette knife from his other hand.
“I can’t do anything anymore,” Zandik whispered. “What good am I, when parts of me are so much more efficient, quicker witted, not prone to failure? What do you see in me?”
You pressed a hand to his cheek and he turned to look at you, still barely halfway through life and full of vigor. Eyes that spoke far beyond their years. Those were always his favorite part of you, so expressive, vibrant.
“I see a man determined,” you started. “Who sacrifices himself in hopes of breaking a wheel he may not be around to see shatter.”
You picked up a brush and without breaking your thought, mixed colors nearby.
“Who looks at the world and understands he still has much to learn, even now.”
Skilled hands filled in the space above your shoulder, painting hands, a jacket, red eyes.
“Who looks at me as if I am a marvel despite having experienced every cruelty this world has to offer. Who has let me chip away at the rational transitional walls that stood between us for many years and given me a treasure unimaginable.”
His eyes stung but through a fog, he saw a soft expression, watched as you turned your pose from a stoic mirror into a dynamic, private moment. Your pose originally involved looking off to the side, away from the viewer, but now you looked at the new figure.
Him.
Two styles, not quite clashing but not blending together, either. Faces the only parts in focus.
“I see a man who loves me, Zandik. And that has always been enough.”
He pulled you closer once you put the tools aside, burrowing his head against you. Other parts might say he grew sentimental in his old age despite ripping apart his soul. Perhaps he had. What else was there for the world to teach him?
It was a lesson he was grateful to have finally learned.
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Zandik's hands weren't what they used to be. You find a different way to comfort him.
Established OldZandik/reader. Reader wears dresses. Inspired by a post on twitter from psychxbby about nail painting and old Zandik wanting to be useful again.
On AO3 here.
It was almost done. Weeks of studies, months of pain.
His joints never cooperated anymore.
Trembling, he inhaled and exhaled slow as a single grain of sand through an hourglass before gliding the thin brush over the canvas. The brush jittered, as it always did, and he cursed in old Sumerian as he tried to scrap off the excess with his knife, leaving a scar on your dress.
The lighting that day had been perfect. Deep red satin shining in the afternoon. A perfect, shining gem coveted for its luster and cut.
His days were numbered. So many patients said they felt their body failing them. Feofan had confessed as such over the decades.
His hands had always been so steady, so capable. Surgery was nothing more than child’s play. Fine motor work that was second nature, honed and refined in long hours few ever bothered with. Painting was your forte, your second love, but you’d taught him with patience that almost outpaced his own.
How did someone barely in their third decade be so willing to wait? At that age, he was only patient when it mattered, but you?
You felt at ease in this world. He didn’t so much envy you as he did long to capture it, understand it, so he too could feel it, one day.
Zandik stepped back from the canvas, brow furrowed as he forced his bad eye to focus. Depth perception was difficult and his heart sank.
Nothing but a shadow. Colors stood too sharp against one another, his fingers having been too sore for longer blending periods. It was obvious he’d had more energy for your face, the finest part of the entire masterpiece. Ten years ago, this would have been so easy.
Useless.
Old.
Decrepit.
Why did you bother with him, he wondered. This was meant to be your birthday present, the way he saw you and what you meant to him.
Would you feel compelled to fix it? Straighten the lines, smooth the colors, make quick work of his shaky splatters?
He couldn’t hold a wrench anymore, nor were his eyes good for small mechanisms. With all of the major projects outsourced to the better and more capable parts of himself, this was all he had left. How else did one capture their world visually?
He sat down, palette knife in hand, contemplating just slashing the thing to pieces.
“Zandik?”
Your voice, a melody.
One he didn’t deserve, not right now. The sentiment must have shown or you would not have hesitated as you said, “I can come back.”
He held out a hand, dropping the knife and beckoning you. You took it upon reaching him, fingers finding the sore joints you always worked. So warm, like morning sun on dewed grass.
Your appraising silence was a strange comfort to the voice in his head.
“You are unhappy with it, I take it?” you asked, nestling onto his leg, skirts rustling as you pulled the palette knife from his other hand.
“I can’t do anything anymore,” Zandik whispered. “What good am I, when parts of me are so much more efficient, quicker witted, not prone to failure? What do you see in me?”
You pressed a hand to his cheek and he turned to look at you, still barely halfway through life and full of vigor. Eyes that spoke far beyond their years. Those were always his favorite part of you, so expressive, vibrant.
“I see a man determined,” you started. “Who sacrifices himself in hopes of breaking a wheel he may not be around to see shatter.”
You picked up a brush and without breaking your thought, mixed colors nearby.
“Who looks at the world and understands he still has much to learn, even now.”
Skilled hands filled in the space above your shoulder, painting hands, a jacket, red eyes.
“Who looks at me as if I am a marvel despite having experienced every cruelty this world has to offer. Who has let me chip away at the rational transitional walls that stood between us for many years and given me a treasure unimaginable.”
His eyes stung but through a fog, he saw a soft expression, watched as you turned your pose from a stoic mirror into a dynamic, private moment. Your pose originally involved looking off to the side, away from the viewer, but now you looked at the new figure.
Him.
Two styles, not quite clashing but not blending together, either. Faces the only parts in focus.
“I see a man who loves me, Zandik. And that has always been enough.”
He pulled you closer once you put the tools aside, burrowing his head against you. Other parts might say he grew sentimental in his old age despite ripping apart his soul. Perhaps he had. What else was there for the world to teach him?
It was a lesson he was grateful to have finally learned.
say my name like a scripture - old man!Zandik/Reader (18+)
They said necessity was the mother of invention, but in your case, all it bred was resentment and monotony.
You hadn’t wished to join the newly-blossoming Fatui. Not because you stood against its vague goals, but because the life of a menial had not been alluring to you. Still, for the underlings of the Tsaritsa - those with no Mora, no power, no ability to say ‘no’ - you did not bite the hand that fed you, no matter what its political stances were. This was the best of bad options. The Akademiya had scorned you; the back-breaking work of most merchants and labourers in Snezhnaya did not suit you.
And that was how you found yourself a domestic within Zapolyarny Palace, assigned to cleaning the quarters of the Harbinger known as Il Dottore, ‘The Doctor’.
Continue reading on AO3.
This work is 18+. Do not interact if you are a minor.
Zandik's hands weren't what they used to be. You find a different way to comfort him.
Established OldZandik/reader. Reader wears dresses. Inspired by a post on twitter from psychxbby about nail painting and old Zandik wanting to be useful again.
On AO3 here.
It was almost done. Weeks of studies, months of pain.
His joints never cooperated anymore.
Trembling, he inhaled and exhaled slow as a single grain of sand through an hourglass before gliding the thin brush over the canvas. The brush jittered, as it always did, and he cursed in old Sumerian as he tried to scrap off the excess with his knife, leaving a scar on your dress.
The lighting that day had been perfect. Deep red satin shining in the afternoon. A perfect, shining gem coveted for its luster and cut.
His days were numbered. So many patients said they felt their body failing them. Feofan had confessed as such over the decades.
His hands had always been so steady, so capable. Surgery was nothing more than child’s play. Fine motor work that was second nature, honed and refined in long hours few ever bothered with. Painting was your forte, your second love, but you’d taught him with patience that almost outpaced his own.
How did someone barely in their third decade be so willing to wait? At that age, he was only patient when it mattered, but you?
You felt at ease in this world. He didn’t so much envy you as he did long to capture it, understand it, so he too could feel it, one day.
Zandik stepped back from the canvas, brow furrowed as he forced his bad eye to focus. Depth perception was difficult and his heart sank.
Nothing but a shadow. Colors stood too sharp against one another, his fingers having been too sore for longer blending periods. It was obvious he’d had more energy for your face, the finest part of the entire masterpiece. Ten years ago, this would have been so easy.
Useless.
Old.
Decrepit.
Why did you bother with him, he wondered. This was meant to be your birthday present, the way he saw you and what you meant to him.
Would you feel compelled to fix it? Straighten the lines, smooth the colors, make quick work of his shaky splatters?
He couldn’t hold a wrench anymore, nor were his eyes good for small mechanisms. With all of the major projects outsourced to the better and more capable parts of himself, this was all he had left. How else did one capture their world visually?
He sat down, palette knife in hand, contemplating just slashing the thing to pieces.
“Zandik?”
Your voice, a melody.
One he didn’t deserve, not right now. The sentiment must have shown or you would not have hesitated as you said, “I can come back.”
He held out a hand, dropping the knife and beckoning you. You took it upon reaching him, fingers finding the sore joints you always worked. So warm, like morning sun on dewed grass.
Your appraising silence was a strange comfort to the voice in his head.
“You are unhappy with it, I take it?” you asked, nestling onto his leg, skirts rustling as you pulled the palette knife from his other hand.
“I can’t do anything anymore,” Zandik whispered. “What good am I, when parts of me are so much more efficient, quicker witted, not prone to failure? What do you see in me?”
You pressed a hand to his cheek and he turned to look at you, still barely halfway through life and full of vigor. Eyes that spoke far beyond their years. Those were always his favorite part of you, so expressive, vibrant.
“I see a man determined,” you started. “Who sacrifices himself in hopes of breaking a wheel he may not be around to see shatter.”
You picked up a brush and without breaking your thought, mixed colors nearby.
“Who looks at the world and understands he still has much to learn, even now.”
Skilled hands filled in the space above your shoulder, painting hands, a jacket, red eyes.
“Who looks at me as if I am a marvel despite having experienced every cruelty this world has to offer. Who has let me chip away at the rational transitional walls that stood between us for many years and given me a treasure unimaginable.”
His eyes stung but through a fog, he saw a soft expression, watched as you turned your pose from a stoic mirror into a dynamic, private moment. Your pose originally involved looking off to the side, away from the viewer, but now you looked at the new figure.
Him.
Two styles, not quite clashing but not blending together, either. Faces the only parts in focus.
“I see a man who loves me, Zandik. And that has always been enough.”
He pulled you closer once you put the tools aside, burrowing his head against you. Other parts might say he grew sentimental in his old age despite ripping apart his soul. Perhaps he had. What else was there for the world to teach him?
It was a lesson he was grateful to have finally learned.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Got pushed a trailer for The Death of Robin Hood or whatever it’s called and now I’m just thinking of Old Man Zandik getting rescued before Omega got to him and smuggled out into a priory or some shit and having to recover in a divine space oh my god Canonness would rule at that —
I want to add that I have read some fic that I felt were bad but they had something about them - story, theme, a specific moment, etc. - that was so interesting or chewy that I think about it to this day, even years later.
So what if you're not someone's next great author? You could also haunt their dreams and nightmares simultaneously, and be the ghost in their daydreams. Don't ever give them peace.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
