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quizzicalwriter · 7 months

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Riverside

Pairing: Dallas Winston x Fem!Reader

Summary: Abandoned party turned impromptu river plunge, what’s not to love?

Warnings: None, ‘cept for some kissing and slight touching. And possibly some teensy bits of angst, just a bit.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Part two here! (Fair warning there is smut in part two.)

Parties in abandoned warehouses were normal; well as normal as normal could be for a pack of delinquents and whatever friends they could scrounge up to steal some beer and cigarettes from local sellers. There’d be roughly a four-hour window where everyone could enjoy themselves, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and marijuana before the police showed due to some nosy neighbor filing a noise complaint.

You, of course, had been to every party your pack of friends had attended since your initiation into the gang; which had been you following Ponyboy and Johnny around long enough to be considered close friends. Of course, some of the Greasers flirted with you, it was all in good fun, it wasn’t anywhere near as severe as they’d be with passing women or the occasional Soc they’d run into along the streets of Tulsa, but enough for you to shove them away with a grimace whenever they didn’t lay off quick enough.

The only one who didn’t seem to flirt, at least not in the traditional sense, was Dallas. It struck you as odd, given the fact that Dallas was fairly known for his inability to keep his tongue still whenever a woman was about. Maybe it was your friendship with Ponyboy and Johnny? Maybe it was the way Darry and Sodapop both looked over you as if you were their younger sister? Whatever it was, Dallas only spared you the occasional side glance and snicker, his eyes filled with a deep mystique that left you pondering his every move as you lay awake at night.

On one particular night, you found yourself waiting by the front gates encircling an abandoned warehouse, some old shoe factory that Sodapop and Steve had come across on their ventures after work. The two had seemed oddly excited about it and its remote location, it wasn’t often they were right about potential party locations, but this time they were. It seemed as though Sodapop and Steve had gone overboard, inviting damn near every living person in Tulsa.

Everyone bordered on the precipice of overt inebriation or were already slumped against the cold cement of the factory floor. The party was busy enough to leave you feeling claustrophobic, wanting desperately to see those all too familiar dark brown eyes.

“Where is he?” You cursed out to yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your middle as you leaned against the rusted front gates of the factory. Despite the full moon overhead, the roads were still incredibly dark, leaving you squinting out into the night hopeful you’d see Dallas amidst the dark.

“You need glasses.” Came a gruff voice from your side, the suddenness of it causing a scream to erupt from your lips, soon followed by a genuine laugh from none other than Dallas himself. “Scared you?”

You frowned, swatting at his chest in a manner only you seemed to get away with as you huffed out a lungful of air. Sure, you were jumpy, but you didn’t want to be known as a jumpy girl. Not to Dallas, anyway. He’d tease you endlessly for it just as he had when you’d tripped over your own two feet all of three years ago.

“No, I-“ You started, quickly sighing and giving into the embarrassment as Dallas continued to laugh around his cigarette. “You did. I was looking for you, it’s not too often you’re late to a party. I mean, shit, there’s even weed in there.”

You looked him over, noticing the tired haze in his normally lively eyes, the bruise that lingered under the cusp of his jaw. He looked like shit, battered and tired shit. It made you wince as you took in his appearance, lifting a hand to cradle his cheek without realizing it, only to have it quickly swatted away by Dallas who ducked away from your hand as if you had the damn plague.

“What?” He murmured out, brows screwed together in frustration. “Ain’t seen a man busted up? You’ve hung out with us for years, this ain’t nothin’ new.”

He pushed past you then, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette as he made his way through the front gates, only casting a singular glance over his shoulder to ensure you were following. You were, you always would.

“Fuck me for caring.” You grumbled out, shaking your head with a sigh as you jogged a bit to catch up with him.

You could hear him stifle a laugh as you both entered the warehouse, a mess of lights strewn about the walls and older light fixtures. The place looked like a tetanus shot waiting to happen, but it beat the old falling apart school you all near desecrated the last time you partied there. You could still remember the loud sirens of police as you all hauled ass out the windows, shouts from both your friends and police alike.

The only thing that snapped you out of your daydream was Dallas, a small smile toying with his lips as he held out a cup to you. “Drink?” He said simply, nudging your chest with the cup.

“What is it?” You asked with a subtle grimace, lifting the cup to your nose to sniff at it, causing Dallas to laugh again.

“It’s alcohol, who gives a shit what it is?”

You had to agree, all you wanted to do was be buzzed. So you tilted the cup back, welcoming the acrid taste into your mouth like a long-lost friend. It burnt going down, the feeling spreading to your chest, leaving you coughing a fair bit as you met Dallas’s amused gaze.

“That tasted bad.” You laughed out, smiling up at him as you wiped your lips with the back of your hand. “Really, really bad.”

Dallas shrugged, throwing back his cup with not so much as a slight wince. You’d never understood how he could drink so easily, both he and Two-Bit had gotten into enough drinking contests to last the pair a lifetime, maybe that had something to do with it.

He grabbed your arm then, the touch much gentler than the one he displayed with Johnny or even Ponyboy, always grabbing the boys rough enough to make them cuss out at him or yank their arm away. But with you it was different, his hand trembling somewhat as though he were terrified of accidentally injuring you.

You two walked over to the front doors, the large metal propped up with some nearby cinderblocks Steve had found. The air felt nice, cold, and crisp, it filled your lungs, awakening you from the inside out. Your eyes cast to the side then, taking in Dallas as he looked up toward the stars, a somewhat childlike wonder lingering behind his eyes. It was a look you’d never seen before, always used to the grimace and scowl he wore more often than a smile.

Instead of saying anything you looked to the stars as well, lips parted as you rested your head against the cool metal of the doorway. Chaos and laughter radiated from behind you, nearly deafening, but for some reason your ears only focused on the deep breaths coming from Dallas.

“Sorry I tugged ‘ya over here, kid.” He stated, looking over to you for a moment before looking back to the sky. “I- well, I know you like the stars. Johnny mentioned it to me not too long ago, said you two watched them together.”

You nodded in return, smiling softly at the fact that he’d remembered your love for the stars. It hadn’t been anything romantic, Johnny and you, you’d simply bumped into him. Both of you’d had enough of your parents and decided to go to the nearby park, lying against the picnic tables and watching the night sky.

“Were you watching them on the way here?” You asked, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I mean, you noticed them enough to know it was a clear night and I’d like to see them.”

He nodded, looking over at you for a second before reaching behind himself to grab a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “I noticed. ‘Bout a thirty-minute walk here from Buck’s. Had to entertain myself somehow.”

You waved away the cigarette smoke as he ignited the end with his lighter, never having been one for smoking in the first place. Dallas noticed this, mumbling out an apology as he moved to the other side of you where the wind wasn’t blowing the smoke.

“You don’t seem much in the mood for partying tonight.” You stated, turning to rest your back against the metal doorway. “Do you want to go on a walk?”

He smiled at that, a short yet noticeable smile as he took in another lungful of smoke, exhaling it to the side as he slowly made his way back toward the front gates. You followed, just like you always did.

“Got anywhere in mind?” He asked around his cigarette, brown eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the broken-apart road beneath his feet.

“The river?” You chimed, tone bright as you smiled. “It’s real pretty this time of year, no beer bottles from summer parties. Cold, but pretty.”

He nodded at that, slowing his pace to match yours. It was a small act, but you appreciated it nonetheless given the fact that you were shorter than the rest of the Greasers.

The walk there was quiet, the only noise filling the air being the crunch of broken-apart asphalt underneath your shoes and the sharp inhale Dallas would take off of his cigarette. The bruise along his jaw still bothered you, causing you to steal a glance over at it every few seconds. It looked like it hurt, but you knew Dallas well enough to know that he’d hate for you to start babying him - even if he needed it.

As the sounds of the part grew quieter, the gentle hum of the nearby riverbank grew louder. It wasn’t often you found yourself here without Ponyboy or Johnny, you three practically lived there in the summer. But it felt nice being there with Dallas, his hand wordlessly extended out to you to help you step over bare roots as you two walked down to the shoreline.

There was a shared silence between you two as you gazed out at the river, the moon overhead casting a beautiful glow down below. After a moment you turned your head to the side, a slight frown evident on your face as you looked at Dallas.

“Got that on another run for Buck?”

The question made him jump, not having expected you to speak up so suddenly. He looked down at the pebbles lining the shore, moving a few around with the heel of his shoe as he flicked off ash from the end of his cigarette.

“Can’t say I didn’t deserve it.” He grumbled out, the words causing you to huff out in annoyance. It was too common for Dallas to say something so self-deprecating in a sarcastic manner.

“You don’t.” You remarked, tone snappier than you intended for it to be. “Sorry, I just- shit, Dallas. We care about you, we all do. I know we don’t talk about things like this, but that doesn’t mean we don’t notice. You know how often I have to calm Ponyboy or Johnny down when you come back covered in bruises and cuts?”

The thought of Ponyboy and or Johnny worrying over him made him visibly tense, hand fumbling with the denim of his jeans as he continued to smoke from his cigarette. “I can handle myself.” He responded, brown eyes flickering over to you, a silent warning hidden in their depths.

“Can you?” You replied, tone wavering as you turned to face him. “I worry about you, Dallas. You aren’t invincible, shit! I’d have thought you’d know that after what happened with that church fire.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your chest, worried that Dallas would simply turn on his heel and make back for the party, probably get drunk and wobble his way back to Buck’s only to not speak to you again until his anger had subsided. But he didn’t, he stayed, his head turned toward you as smoke rolled from his lips.

“Never seen you so worried.” He laughed out, the noise gentle enough to be barely audible. “You do this often? The whole worrying bit?”

You moved toward him then, close enough to smell his rich cologne paired with the menthol cigarettes he was damn near addicted to. Your hands found their way to his chest, gaze turned toward the fabric of his jacket as you took in a shuddering breath.

“I know you joke ‘cause you don’t want to talk about serious stuff, but I care, Dal. I care a lot, I get worried sick that you’ll disappear one day, only for me to find your name in the paper in a damn obituary.” Your words become hushed as you took in a shaken breath, your eyes closing momentarily as you tried to think straight. “Buck has you doing these things ‘cause he knows you will, nobody else is as reckless - careless when it comes to their life like you are.”

The words were harsh, but he needed to hear them. If none of the others would tell him, you would, at least you could live with yourself if God forbid something did happen to him. You felt him take in a deep breath, not moving your hands from his chest as he looked down at you.

“Don’t want to talk about Buck right now, kid.” He murmured around his cigarette, his eyes focused on your face as he exhaled smoke to the side. “Came here to have some time with you, not to talk about my life. Not that I don’t like your voice, but- I don’t want that right now.”

You sighed then, nodding as you backed away. From his tone of voice, you could tell that he appreciated your vulnerability, something Greasers didn’t show to each other often. It was a rarity, a welcome one at that, even with Dallas who didn’t so much as talk to himself whenever he found himself alone.

“Want to swim to take your mind off of all this?” You asked, although as soon as the words left your mouth Dallas looked over to you as though you were possessed - an idiot possessed at that.

“The fuck? No, it’s March. Do you want to freeze to death?” He replied around his cigarette, shaking his head in discontent as he looked back to the river. As soon as his gaze moved back to the river you moved from where you stood, lifting your shirt up and over your head before letting it fall to the soft earth beneath you.

“What- hey! No!” Dallas clamored out, quickly moving to snub out his cigarette on a nearby rock in hopes of catching you in time before you did something stupid. Unfortunately for him, you’d always been the quicker of the gang, something he found himself pissed at as you threw your jeans at his chest, sprinting into the water as if you were on fire.

In truth, the water was frigid, far colder than you could’ve ever expected it to be. Each step you took into deeper water caused your breath to lock in your chest, your teeth chattering together in a manner so violent you were worried you’d chip a tooth. But you kept going, ignoring Dallas’s shouts from the shoreline as you waded deeper and deeper.

With an indignant grin, you turned to face him, extending your arms out to your side only to fall backward to let yourself sink fully underwater. Just as your head sunk beneath the murky depths you heard a cursed out shout from the shore, making you laugh internally as you pushed your feet down against the riverbed, moving to stand upright only moments later.

You arose with a gasp, the noise completely involuntary at the cold night air and the frigid water combined, your normally rosy lips a slight blue hue. You ignored the temperature, wading through the water back toward the shore as Dallas stress-threaded his fingers through his hair, brow furrowed in a manner you’d only seen directed at Ponyboy or Johnny - until now that is.

“You stupid?” He called out, grimace clear on his face as he moved into the water himself. “Stupid.”

You couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled from your chest as you neared him, finally making it to waist-deep water. You’d failed to notice that your white underclothes had gone all but transparent, a fact not lost on Dallas in the slightest. His lips parted as his eyes drifted over your form as you moved toward him through the water, droplets cascading down your form.

“Had to show you I wouldn’t die.” You replied, tone sarcastic as you moved to stand in front of him. “I ain’t dead, see? We don’t have gators in Oklahoma, Dallas.”

Another laugh passed your lips as you met his gaze, or more so looked toward his eyes only to notice them glued to your body. You decided to act boldly then, grabbing one of his hands before placing it against your chest, just above your breasts. You were sure he could feel the steady thump of your heartbeat through your chest, his gaze finally lifting to meet your own.

“See? I’m not so cold.” You whispered, ignoring the faint shiver spreading through your veins.

“You’re freezing.” He retorted, doing nothing to remove his hand from your chest. “Your heart is racing.”

There was a pregnant pause between you two, your lips parted as you begged your mind to conjure anything for you to say - anything to not lengthen the silence, but you couldn’t. Dallas’s hand moved then, thumb brushing against your clavicle as his eyes wandered down your neck.

“Dallas-“ You whispered, only to be cut off by his hand moving to cup your jaw, his lips finding yours a second after. He was warm, incredibly warm. The taste of his lips combined with the comfort he brought made you sigh into the kiss, back arching as you leaned into his touch.

You’d kissed before, hell, every Greaser had. But this felt different, intimate on a scale you’d never experienced before. It left you breathless as his lips parted against your own, tongue seeking yours as his head tilted to the side. You eagerly accepted it, welcoming the taste of menthol cigarettes and bitter alcohol as if it were honeysuckles on a warm summer day.

While his right hand stayed against your jaw, his thumb pressing against the pulse point on your throat, his left hand smoothed down your side to grab at your hip. His warmth spread with his touch, goosebumps arising along your chilled flesh wherever his hands went. However wet you were getting Dallas’s shirt by pressing yourself into him didn’t seem to bother him, the two of you only parting when he finally decided to breathe instead of tasting you.

“Still stupid.” He mumbled, taking a moment to wet his lips as he looked down at you, seemingly savoring the taste of you on his lips. “If it weren’t so damn cold I’d have gone after you.”

You nodded at his words, laughing quietly as he smiled as well, thumb brushing away a few stray droplets of water from your face. “Never said I was smart.” You whispered sarcastically.

“You are.” He replied, not so much as waiting a beat to speak. “You’re right, y’know, about Buck. Can’t promise you I won’t be doing runs for him, guys gotta make a living somehow.”

As if sensing your impending words, he placed a finger over your lips. “But- I’ll be safer, alright? That satisfy you?” You nodded, smiling against his finger before he pulled his hand away, smiling down at you himself.

“Good, let’s get your damn clothes.”

You moved from the water after Dallas, following him toward the shore where your discarded clothing laid abandoned. As he dusted off your shirt and jeans you removed your bra and underwear, knowing if you wore both you’d soak through your clothes and look foolish. Dallas didn’t bother looking away, he was still Dallas after all. His eyes raked over your nude form with a smirk, although he didn’t reach out to touch you, instead giving you his shoulder to lean against as you dusted your feet off before pulling your jeans on.

“Surprised you didn’t grab at me.” You chuckled softly, pulling your shirt over your head before moving to wring your hair free of water as best as you could.

“Grab at you? Nah, I’ll save that for later.” He responded, his New York accent ever-present in his words. “Don’t like touchin’ until you’re begging for it, y’know?”

All you could do was laugh at his words, shooting him a glance as you shook your head, but you’d be lying if you said the words didn’t send a wave of arousal through your veins. It was bold, bold in a way only Dallas could pull off. As soon as you were dressed he freed the last few strands of hair still stuck under the collar of your shirt, placing a short kiss on the back of your neck as he did.

“C’mon, let’s head back to mine, got better things to dry you off with.” He murmured out against your skin, only pulling away to wrap his arm around your back, pulling you close to him as you both began making your trek to Buck’s.

Dallas could feel you shiver beneath his touch, but instead of ridiculing you for jumping into the river he simply removed his jacket, wrapping the warm leather around you as you two continued your walk.

After a while he’d give you his necklace, mumbling something along the lines of how it’d look better on you anyway. Who better to wear a pendant for Saint Christopher than a woman who willingly ran into freezing water? Beneath it all he wanted everyone to know you were his, but he’d save that talk for later too.

AN: My first ever writing shared on Tumblr! Hope you all like it, I’m all up for requests! I’m also heavy in TLOU 2 fandom sooo… if y’all want some Abby or Ellie writing let a girl know! I’m also working on uploading my work to my ao3 account: Unscriptural. Catch me there too if you want to! Anyway, I love Matt Dillon and all of his characters - peace!!

#dallas winston #dallas winston imagine #dallas winston writing #dallas winston drabble #dallas winston x reader #dallas winston x y/n #the outsiders #dally winston #dally winston x reader #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders fanfic #the outsiders writing #fanfic #writing #fanfiction #fluff #angst with a happy ending #light angst #my work

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monstersandmaw · 8 months

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Snowfall - a polyamorous m/m/m fantasy story ft. an elf, a vampire, and a draugr/lich (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

I had a random and vivid dream about a draugr/lich with a secret, living in an old tomb in Skyrim and meeting a twinky, kinda foul-mouthed elven adventurer and his snooty, grumpy, (not-so-)secretly adoring vampire boyfriend. This was the result.

Daethir is pronounced 'day-theer', Nyr 'Neer', and Karsi 'car-si' (with a short 'i' like 'hit').

If you’ve not played Skyrim, none of the lore is needed to enjoy this story. It’s just someone else’s sandbox I’m playing in for some handy, pre-existing lore.

Content: Brief/passing mention of enslavement and mass sacrifice, genocide of an entire species, a tiny bit of blood and threat to life, and Daethir’s inner (and outer) monologue which includes a fair few uses of the word ‘fuck’.

Wordcount: 7589

Despite what the tattered remnants of his pride were trying to tell him, Daethir was most definitely, one hundred percent lost.

He was completely fucking disorientated in this dilapidated shithole of an ancient Nord tomb. He was also incandescently furious about that fact.

His sense of direction was fucking legendary. He must have explored a hundred underground tombs and dwarven cities, sunk deep into the earth as well as forgotten places consumed by rambling forests, and never once had he got lost before. He’d even been to bloody Labyrinthian! But no. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere maybe three or four hours back, and now he was balls deep in skeever shit and cobwebs, and couldn’t find the way out.

“Oh man, Karsi must be going berserk out there,” he muttered through clenched teeth, breath billowing in the dark, cold tunnel.

The draugrs’ strange compulsion to keep the tombs somewhat maintained for their slumbering master meant that there was nearly always light flickering in the sconces on the walls, and braziers were often found burning at the intersections of the tomb’s warren of passageways, and he found himself pathetically grateful that he wasn’t lost in the pitch black at least.

“Hold on, love,” he added as he set his jaw and tried to strain his senses for the faintest lift of a breeze in the stagnant air of the tomb. “I’m coming.”

He hoped the vampire didn’t hurt himself trying to break through the unique enchantment that seemed to stop the undead from passing through it. Gods, Karsi had practically been spitting venom when he’d discovered he couldn’t enter the tomb with Daethir, no matter what spells he hurled at the doorway. Daethir, as usual, had slipped gleefully through in the blink of an eye and without a backward glance.

“I didn’t even say goodbye,” he thought bitterly, and the pervasive fear of dying alone in the dark crystallised into something sharper and edged with guilt when he realised that Karsi would never know exactly how he died, and would never be able to recover his lover’s body. “Shit.”

Something moved up ahead and he froze.

Blue eyes in the dark.

Shit.

A draugr Death Lord from the size of it, and from that ugly horned helmet.

Before he could formulate any sort of plan, hands reached out from the darkness behind him.

One clasped right over his mouth to form a perfect seal against the scream that rose unbidden from the pit of his stomach, and the other wrapped around his waist, and he found himself lifted bodily off the floor and into an alcove.

Naturally, like the well-trained, level-headed, and seasoned rogue he was, Daethir thrashed in blind and abject panic, lashing out with his heels until a hoarse, scraping voice rasped in his ear, “Auri-el have mercy, stop! I’m trying to save your life!”

Deciding that his luck might have been on the cusp of changing, or that he was about to become easy prey for some maniac who apparently lived down there in the dark tunnels of an ancient Nord tomb, Daethir went limp. He was not put down.

For a long few minutes, neither of them dared move in case the slightest sound attracted the Death Lord who was patrolling the corridor up ahead. Like an extremely loyal but not terribly bright guard dog, it swung its head back and forth, growling and snarling to itself and adjusting its grip on the enormous ebony war axe in its right hand. At the way the light played along the black blade of that axe like firelight on oil, Daethir shuddered involuntarily into the grasp of his mysterious rescuer.

“Easy,” the voice breathed, right in his ear. His tapering, sensitive, elven ear.

He shuddered again and tried not to gasp for an entirely different reason this time. Funny how terror and pleasure seemed to go hand in hand for him. After all, he was dating a vampire, and the two of them frequently mixed feeding and fucking, so he was no stranger to a healthy dose of of fear lacing his pleasure. But now was absolutely, categorically not the time to start getting turned on by a strong stranger manhandling him in a dark tomb. Gross, Dae, get it together.

The hand across his mouth was warm and leathery and strong, and by the faint glimmer of torchlight from beyond their shadowed alcove, he could see the faintest flash of bone-white flesh. Strange, but not totally unusual. People were born without pigment in their skin, after all. Heck, he’d spent an entire summer with an orc carpenter who had the most beautiful red eyes and skin so pale he couldn’t go out in the sun for long without burning. Caedrak hadn’t been able to see more than a foot in front of him, but he’d made the most beautiful things with his big, sensitive hands…

Dammit, Daethir, pull yourself the fuck together.

In the distance, the Draugr Death Lord huffed in irritation, then shuffled away in the opposite direction, and the figure behind him relaxed.

“Before I let go of you, I need you to swear something,” the voice said.

It was a strange voice. Although it was as dry as the coarsest sands from Elsweyr, the consonants were crisply articulated, and it had a strange lilt to it, as though the speaker was used to the music of another language from another age. Karsi spoke a bit like that too, though nowhere near as much as this. Daethir, raised in the Ratway of Riften, spoke like a gutter-skeever with the brash accent to match.

Still with the person’s hand clamped across his mouth, he couldn't do much to respond beyond a little noncommittal shrug, and received a dry chuckle in response.

“Fine,” his saviour said with an evident smile, “When I release you, walk forward and do not look back.”

That… That was not what he’d been expecting. And the way the person spoke seemed so heartbreakingly sad that he felt his own chest constrict for a moment. He floundered a little, and, perhaps mistaking the movement for panic, his saviour set his feet back down on the ground.

Slowly, hesitantly, those spider-pale hands drew back, and of course, Daethir immediately turned around.

And screamed.

Flailing, he staggered back into the corridor that had so recently been vacated by the Death Lord, and fell hard onto his backside, sprawled on the damp ground and staring up at the emaciated corpse of another draugr.

Searing, sapphire blue eyes blazed out of a face devoid of all colour, so much so that for a heartbeat, Daethir thought he was looking at a skeleton, except this person still had flesh and muscle on their frame, even if it had all been withered away over time to white leather stretched over bone.

Pale lips pulled back off perfect teeth in a grimace, and white, barely-there eyebrows tugged into a hurt expression so profound that Daethir found himself suddenly silenced by it.

Then, because he was apparently pathologically incapable of keeping his mouth shut, he blurted, “Shit, I’m sorry, I just –”

At a croaking shout of triumph from the connecting tunnel, the pale draugr’s head twitched around and it let out a snarl of its own. “No time. Come on,” and with that, it surged forwards, grabbed Daethir by the wrist and hauled him to his feet with a strength that he would never have expected from a creature so thin.

Unlike the other draugr he’d encountered on his way down into the depths of the tomb – the ones who’d stumbled around and dragged their bare feet along like stiff, empty Dwarven automata – this one was nimble and lithe, and it wore a loose, undyed linen shift that was belted at the waist and fell halfway down its emaciated thighs. Its feet were bare though, and as it turned and yanked him down a corridor, Daethir had to duck beneath a long, white plait that swung behind it like a flailing ship’s rope in a high wind.

“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming, ow!” he yelped, trying to keep his feet in the same frantic rhythm while also attempting to twist free of the vice-strong grip of the creature’s fingers.

“Do not fall behind,” the draugr rasped, and then let go.

“You’ll show me the way out?” he chirped hopefully, and the draugr glanced back over its shoulder.

“I’ll take you to –” its eyes went wide and for a moment, Daethir thought the creature had tripped because it turned back abruptly and shoved him hard in the chest, sending him reeling. Daethir’s shoulder struck the tunnel wall and he let out an ‘oof’ of surprise on impact, but a second later, an ebony war axe embedded itself in the damp, softly crumbling stone of a mortuary shelf.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, staring at the weapon.

“Run! This way,” the strange, pale draugr gasped, and Daethir followed blindly.

Something seemed to ripple and shimmer in the wall up ahead, and a blue light pulsed in the draugr’s hand as they charged towards the rockface. The creature seemed to be running straight at the section of wall that was warping disturbingly and Daethir’s feet slowed.

“Don’t stop! Through the doorway, quick!” the draugr barked.

“What doorway?!” he yelped, skidding to a stop a few paces behind the apparently mad draugr. “You’re nuts. This place has sent you round the bed. That’s a solid fucking wall right there, I’m not –”

“Come on!” the creature hissed in obvious frustration. It was unnervingly similar to the tone of voice Karsi took with him when he was exasperated, and Daethir was being stupid or stubborn (or both) about something.

When Daethir didn’t move, and the footsteps and continuous cursing in a language he couldn't understand drifted round the corner from the fast-approaching Death Lord, the odd, silver-haired draugr rolled its eerie, blue eyes and snatched his hand again.

With a yell of horror and surprise, Daethir was tugged forwards into the wall. He closed his eyes, expecting to be slammed into solid stonework, and was amazed when he found himself staggering right into the chest of the draugr, who nudged him to stand behind its back while it worked some kind of magic on the wall or portal.

“The fuck…?” he breathed, chest heaving.

The draugr, still holding his right hand, worked a spell with its left, and the doorway in the wall vanished and returned to looking like uninterrupted rock.

“That’s never going to fool a draugr,” Daethir said, eyeing the spot sceptically.

“Fooled you,” the creature quipped and turned to face him, releasing its hold on his hand.

Daethir opened and closed his mouth like a landed carp for a good three seconds before heat flooded his tanned face and he looked away. “So, what, we’re safe now? And what the fuck are you?”

“Direct, aren’t you?” the creature said archly, and hell, if it didn’t remind Daethir of Karsi’s dry sarcasm.

At that thought, another bolt of guilt lanced through his chest and he looked up at the draugr. It wasn’t surprising that the draugr was taller than he was – it was hard not to be taller than Daethir, provided that one was over the age of about fifteen. He tried out his best smile and hoped it stuck. “It’s one of my many charms. Please, don’t let it stop you from showing me how to get out of this charming tomb you call home.”

The draugr’s soft laugh was like a handful of dry, autumn leaves, rattling around the narrow space that surrounded the two of them. It soon died though, and he let out a long, heavy sigh.

“Oh no,” Daethir said, backing up a pace. “I don’t like the sound of that. You are going to show me the way out now, right?”

Slowly, the creature nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Great. Let’s move the fuck along, shall we? I’ve got a vampire waiting for me outside who will probably thrall me into complete obedience for a week for disappearing and scaring him witless, and I’d rather not make it two if I can help it. Not that I mind him thralling me, quite the contrary actually, but two weeks is a long time to spend as a puppet, even if I do get the most toe-curling orgasms out of it. Fuck, I’m running my mouth. I do that when I’m nervous, and the way you’re just staring at me like I’m some kind of hitherto-unknown species of cave mushroom that’s suddenly gained sentience is unnerving. Also you never answered my question: what the fuck are you? And are we safe now?”

The draugr blinked. “Did you hit your head?”

“Beg pardon?” he asked, and reflexively brought his hand to the back of his head to search for blood or injury in his light brown hair. When he found none, it dawned on him that the question might have been rhetorical, and he pouted. “Oh, it’s funny too. Great. I found the only draugr in all of Tamriel with a sense of humour. You are a draugr, right? Because the whole ‘mummified and still walking around’ thing is usually a dead giveaway. If you’ll pardon the pun. Man, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” the draugr said. “And yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you are, and yes, I am.”

“I am what?”

“Running your mouth again, as you put it. And I am a draugr.”

“Oh. Fuck. Well, let’s crack on then, eh?” he chirped with a nervous little laugh, gesturing behind him up what appeared to be a narrow, upward-sloping tunnel. “Lead on to freedom, and all that. You can fill me in on the way.”

The creature gave a little snort of laughter and shook its head. Sections of white hair had come loose from its braid and dangled down into its glowing, blue eyes which gave it an altogether softer, dishevelled look. It cast a couple of glowing balls of light, with which Daethir was familiar from Karsi’s magic, and they floated away up the tunnel like dandelion puffs on the wind.

Following the magelights, the draugr stepped around Daethir in the narrow tunnel, and as it passed, Daethir caught the soft scents of leather and parchment and incense, and the faint crackle of ozone that hovered around Karsi too.

“You’re a mage?” he asked to break the thick silence that had flooded into the tunnel when the draugr had fallen quiet again.

“Mm.”

“And you are definitely a draugr?”

“Mn.”

“You’re… different… from the others…” he said, inviting the draugr to expand on the statement.

“Mmm.”

“You suddenly run out of words? What happened to Mr. Funny Undead from a minute ago? Wait, that was rude. I have no idea whether you’re a ‘mister’ or something else entirely. I’m sorry.”

At that, the creature gave another grinding chuckle and halted to look back at Daethir. “I am male, if that’s your question. My name is Nýráðr.”

The way his tongue trilled over the ‘r’ and ‘th’ sounds sent a thrill through Daethir’s whole body. “Neer-ath-ur,” he repeated, frowning. “That’s… It sounds elven, but… I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s old,” he replied, and Daethir got the impression that there was some dark humour in his tone that was lost on the relatively young Bosmer. “If it’s too much of a mouthful for you, you can just call me Nyr.”

“Right. I’m Daethir.”

“You are a Wood Elf, are you not?”

“Yup, though I’m not the ‘live in the woods in my underwear and commune with squirrels’ kind of Wood Elf, so don’t go making assumptions.”

The laugh that fluttered out of Nyr was like ripping parchment, but it sounded full of unexpected delight all the same. Centuries, even millennia, as a slowly-desiccating draugr had wrought a heck of a lot of damage on the creature’s whole body by the look of it, and from the sound of things, his vocal cords hadn’t escaped unscathed either. Daethir mused that perhaps he would have had a voice as smooth and haunting as Karsi did when he had been fully alive, and something twinged in his chest at the creature’s loss.

“Well,” the draugr said, “Since we’re not making assumptions about each other, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t assume I was a mindless drone like all my fellow animated corpses down here.”

“I thought I’d already made it abundantly clear that I don’t think that,” Daethir scowled. “And you were the one who implied I had no more brains than a Death Lord…”

“You were the one who thought I was going to ram you into a wall,” Nyr countered, glancing back over his shoulder. This time, as he moved, Daethir caught sight of his pale, very tapered ear and his footsteps halted abruptly.

With his eyes wide, he stared at the elven shape of the draugr’s ear and his jaw dropped.

“What?” Nyr asked, stopping too and turning properly to face him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re… an elf,” he blurted stupidly, and then went on in a slightly hysterical ramble. “I mean, the name should have given it away, but… holy shit, you’re an elf! I thought draugr were all human. I mean, the Nordic kings who built these tombs were… you know, humans, and they were famous for killing everything that didn’t have a perfectly rounded ear, and they had human courts and human servants and subjects, and what the fuck?” His voice ended in a little squeak as he ran out of breath.

A slow, sad smile crept onto Nyr’s sunken features, and he sighed. “I am an elf, you’re right. Are you so far removed from my time that our story has been forgotten? Did not the Atmorans start out as our friends and allies only to betray us and subjugate us instead?”

“The Night of Tears,” Daethir exhaled, reeling.

In the cold blue glow of Nyr’s magelight, the draugr’s face settled into a frown. “I… I don’t know what that is.”

“You must have died before that all went down then,” he said, trying to scrape together what he remembered of it from Karsi’s impromptu fireside history lessons. “Shit. It was a massacre. Snow Elves descended on the human city of Saarthal in the north one night. After years of uneasy peace, they slaughtered everyone and, rumour has it, took or locked away something of great power beneath the city. After that, the humans retaliated and began the systematic genocide of all the Snow Elves in Tamriel.”

The draugr swayed and staggered, catching himself with a hand on the wall before he could collapse completely, and he stared wild-eyed at him. “They’re… They’re all gone?” he hissed, his bony chest rising and falling in fast, shallow gasps. “There are no more of us?”

“Us?” he asked, and then he really saw the white hair and colourless skin, and he understood at last. “Holy shit, you’re a Snow Elf?”

Mute, he just barely managed a nod.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I should have realised and told you more gently. Karsi would have realised what you are immediately. I’m sorry,” he said, and stepped closer, closing his hand around the bare, bony forearm of the elven draugr.

“None of us…?” he asked, unable to finish the question.

“Not as far as I know,” Daethir said, much more gently this time.

He squeezed Nyr’s forearm and felt the bones shift beneath, and barely resisted the urge to jerk away in surprise. Even with his small hands, he could close his thumb and fingers around Nyr’s emaciated forearm. This close up, he could also see the way his collarbones stuck out beneath the open ‘v’ of his linen tunic’s neck, and his hollow cheeks looked all the more gaunt in the blue light that cast harsh shadows down over them. Even so, there was a cut-glass beauty to the creature with his high cheekbones and elegant jawline.

“I’m sorry, Nyr.”

The Snow Elf swallowed, blinked glassy eyes, and looked down at the point where Daethir was touching him. For a long moment, he stared, and Daethir wondered if he shouldn’t have been so forward, but the draugr gave another wheezing sigh and placed his left hand over Daethir’s and squeezed gently.

“Nothing lasts forever,” he whispered. The sound of it was like a winter wind in bare branches, and Daethir shivered. He felt like cold hands were scraping down his spine.

“What will happen to you now?” Daethir asked, still holding onto the draugr. Nyr’s body was warm – far warmer than Karsi’s undead vampire body – and his skin was supple and unbelievably soft. He’d always expected draugr to be fragile and papery, like mildewed parchment, or slimy and rotten, but Nyr was neither. He had just wasted away over time. Daethir wondered exactly how much time he’d spent alone in the dark down here, with nothing but shuffling, insentient corpses for company, and his heart went out to him. The last of his species, and confined in the tomb of his oppressors for generations while the world went on without him. “Nýráðr?”

At the sound of his full name on Daethir’s tongue, the draugr startled softly and offered him a smile that went all the way up to the corners of his kindly eyes. “If I am not caught in the next few days, the Death Lord will forget about all of this. They’re not terribly bright, after all.”

Daethir narrowed his eyes. “That means you think I’m not terribly bright, if I was as easily fooled as a fucking draugr. No offence, you know,” he added with a pointed look up and down at the draugr in front of him.

Nyr’s grip on his hand tightened for a fraction before he let go and dropped his arm, laughing quietly, that autumn rattle back in his voice. “None taken,” he said, turning to continue leading Daethir up the passage. “And in my defence, you should have been able to see through that enchantment. It really wasn’t very strong. It doesn’t have to be to keep the majority of my fellow tomb-dwellers out.”

“I’m not exactly proficient at seeing magic,” Daethir mumbled. “Can’t cast a spark myself, and scrolls are… unpredictable. Even the ones idiot Nords with no magic are supposed to be able to use,” he added morosely.

“Elves with no magic whatsoever were not common in my time, but not unheard of. I apologise. I shouldn’t have made fun of you for it.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he huffed. “Karsi is always taking the piss out of me for it. He’s pretty adept at magic – could run rings around most of the stuffy old mages at the College of Winterhold. Even the Archmage, if you believe him. He does think quite highly of himself though, so it’s hard to tell.”

After a lilting pause in which only the sound of their soft footfalls could be heard, Nyr said, “You’re fond of this ‘Karsi’.”

“Fond? Fond doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m besotted. Head over heels. Enraptured by. Enamoured of. Utterly fucking smitten.” He did his best to emulate, and perhaps exaggerate, Karsi’s refined, educated way of speaking while he rattled off a list of synonyms for ‘completely fucking whipped’.

Again, Nyr gave a rasping chuckle. “You don’t sound terribly thrilled about that.”

“Of course I’m ‘not terribly thrilled’ about that!” he exclaimed, gesturing up in the air with his hands. “The bloke’s a century-old vampire whose more educated than most princes, he’s elegant as fuck, can talk me into a stupor in a single sentence, and is more beautiful than all the Divines.”

“How is any of that a bad thing?” Nyr asked, still sounding amused by Daethir’s petulance over the matter.

“Well, you might have been starved for beauty down here in the dark for a billion years, so I can see why my face might look like it was carved by a devotee of Dibella, Goddess of Love and Sex and Beauty,” he said with deep sarcasm, “But if you’d seen a single other living soul that didn’t resemble the back end of a raisin, you’d realise that next to literally anyone else, I’m about as ordinary as it gets. I’m ignorant as fuck about lots of things. I can’t do magic. All I’m good for is sneaking about, cutting purses, breaking into places I shouldn’t be, and hitting a target dead-centre at a hundred paces with a tiny piece of steel.”

It was only when he’d finished insulting the draugr that lived down here that he remembered who and what his companion was, and he fell into an awkward silence. Then, because he couldn’t bear it a second longer, he tacked on an apology that was way too late. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you’re like them. You’re not.”

“It’s alright,” he said softly. The sound was like a stone dragging across the tunnel floor. “I know what I am and what I look like by now.”

“Yeah, but you’re not like the other draugr I’ve seen.”

“Oh, goody. What a comfort it is to know that I’ll win the Annual Draugr Beauty Contest for another year in a row,” he said with caustic sarcasm.

Before Daethir could recover from the unexpected and well-deserved reprimand, the draugr rounded the corner in the steadily-rising tunnel and they came to an elaborate, carved stone door that abruptly halted their journey.

Pressing his emaciated palm against a point at the centre of the labyrinthine tangle of patterns, the draugr let his icy blue magic pour out of him and it ran through the channels of the maze like water, flowing all the way across to form a tapestry of blue and grey until, with a dull, grinding noise, the door opened slowly outwards, and a blast of freezing, snow-filled air rushed in.

The wind lifted Nyr’s white hair off his face and Daethir stared as moonlight inked silver brushstrokes across his high cheekbones and down his straight nose and delicate jawline.

For a moment, neither of them moved as the night opened up around them, but Daethir knew he had to make up for his inadvertently cruel comments, so he stepped close to the draugr and reached his hand out to cup his colourless cheek.

Nyr’s searing blue eyes fluttered closed and he sucked in a sharp breath, going rigid beneath Daethir’s touch. He traced his thumb across the Snow Elf’s high, arching cheekbone and murmured, “You really are exquisite.” He meant it too. “Thank you for saving my life, Nýráðr. I will never forget you, nor your kindness to me.”

Like a cat long-starved of affection, Nyr tipped his head into Daethir’s palm and nuzzled him once. The longing in his gaunt face cut Daethir to the quick, but he stepped back and opened his eyes. “Nor I you, Daethir,” he said in a scraping rasp.

Then his blue gaze sailed over Daethir’s head – not exactly a difficult task, given how much taller the Snow Elf was than the diminutive Bosmer – and he smiled. “Karsi, I take it?” he said dryly.

Daethir turned and had the fleeting impression of a figure standing beside a small, smouldering campfire outside the main entrance of the tomb, eyes blazing red, before the image disintegrated into a twisting swarm of black bats and Karsi reappeared right in front of Daethir, his face burning like a vengeful spirit.

“By Molag Bal’s unholy blood,” he cursed, gripping Daethir by the shoulders and lifting him away from Nyr as though he were a child that had strayed too close to a firepit. “Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?!” His tone was frantic and his eyes blazed red as he unleashed all his pent-up rage and fear. Then he turned with a snarl on Nyr and bared his fangs at him, putting himself between the two of them.

Magicka boiled to life in his hands, scarlet as blood and shifting eerily in the icy moonlight, and Daethir thrashed in his grip. “No! No! Karsi, no, don’t! Don’t! He saved my life, Karsi, don’t hurt him! Shit, Karsi! Fucking listen to me you overgrown, underfed leech!”

Karsi’s head snapped back to Daethir and he froze, then loosened his grip on Daethir’s leather jerkin. “That’s a draugr,” he said flatly, as if Daethir had lost his wits down in the tomb.

“Ten out of ten for observation,” Daethir sneered, looking around Karsi’s figure to meet Nyr’s gaze. “I told you he was the smart one.”

“So you did,” Nyr said dryly. He swallowed and stepped back into the shadows of the doorway, and Karsi flew at him.

The moment he hit the threshold, Karsi collided with a magical barrier and rebounded as if he’d hit a solid wall. He grunted and hissed like a wet cat, shaking himself out and rounding on Nyr again. “Why would a draugr help an intruder instead of attacking?”

Daethir blinked. It had never occurred to him to ask that question. He really was fucking simple.

Nyr’s lips twitched into his sad smile. “I couldn’t bear to see a fellow elf spend his eternity in the tomb of a human king who had been so cruel to our kind. Take care of him, Karsi,” he said, and turned away.

The door didn’t immediately close, so Daethir did something that was so perfectly in-keeping with his track record of uninhibited stupidity, and darted after him before Karsi had realised what he was doing.

The vampire snatched for him and roared in wordless fury when Daethir’s jerkin slipped through his fingers behind the impenetrable barrier and he heard the weight of compulsion in Karsi’s words as he added, “Daethir, come back here right now!”

“Doesn’t work if I'm not looking at you!” Daethir shot back merrily over his shoulder and was answered with another impotent yowl of fury from his lover.

Nyr had stopped and was frowning in confusion at him. “What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was even softer now, as though talking so much had strained his fragile vocal cords to their limit and even Daethir’s sharp ears nearly missed the question.

“I… I’m not sure,” he said honestly.

“Go, Daethir,” Nyr said gently. “Go with Karsi and put this place out of your mind.”

“I’m not sure I can,” he breathed. “I… Do you have to stay here? Are you trapped by the barrier that’s keeping Karsi out? Wait, no, you just passed through it. Fuck, I’m so stupid sometimes,” he said, smacking his forehead with his palm.

Nyr stepped closer and drew Daethir’s hand away from his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Karsi roared at him from the mouth of the tunnel. “Get your filthy corpse hands off him! I swear by all the blood in my body and all the blood I’ve ever taken in the unholy sacrament of feeding that I will rip you apart and scatter your remains to the wolves if you don’t unhand him!”

“Ignore him,” Daethir snorted at Nyr without looking around. “He’s always had a terrible flare for the dramatic, and it only gets worse when he’s like that.”

“He’s worried for you,” Nyr smiled, and he let go. “Cherish it.”

“Tolerate it, more like,” Daethir said with a sigh. “But yeah. Do you have to stay here?”

“Look at me, Daethir. Where else could I go? I’m the last of my race, if what you say is true, and you will probably be the first and only person not to take one look at me and decide I must be destroyed on the spot.” He jutted his delicate chin towards the tunnel mouth where Karsi was pacing and snarling with bared fangs, his eyes locked on the pair of them. “He’s already proven my point.”

“Pfft, you’re not that special. He’s like that with anyone he thinks is a threat to me, and with how often I get myself in a pickle, trust me, that’s quite a lot of people. It’s nothing personal.”

“It very much is personal, you dim-witted Wood Elf!” Karsi spat, though it came out as affectionately petulant now, rather than truly fearful. “Would you please, darling, love and light of my life, back away from that thing and come back out here to join me?” Sarcasm dripped so tangibly off his tone that Daethir could practically taste it.

He sighed and continued to ignore the vampire.

“Come with us. If you’re not bound to this place, come with us.”

“Why?”

“See the world? See what’s changed since you went in there,” he said, jerking his thumb down the passageway. “Get away from the shitty Nords who imprisoned you in there for all eternity –”

“-- Nords aren’t shitty anymore?” Nyr asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, they’re shittier than ever, especially to us elves, but –”

From behind him, Karsi sputtered. “‘Us’ elves?”

“Shut up. You’re a Nord, Karsi, so you don’t get a say in this,” Daethir barked without bite.

They heard Karsi’s inhalation of surprise, even above the wind that whistled around the mountaintop tomb. “He’s an elf? Daethir, the Nords who made the draugr would never have used elves for draugr servants. They thought they were animals!”

“Worse than animals, actually,” Nyr said with a sharp smile. “They enslaved us. We weren’t even afforded the same dignity you’d give a dog.”

Karsi fell still and silent at that and stood staring for a long time. Finally, he breathed, “That hair…” He let his red gaze slide up and down Nyr’s skeletally thin body and then added, “You’re a Snow Elf.”

With a quiet dignity, Nýráðr bowed his head with closed eyes.

Daethir watched his lover for a long time, sensing the kind of thoughts that would be racing through that scholar’s head of his. Making a silent ‘wait there’ gesture to Nyr, he turned and went back to Karsi.

The vampire’s eyes were unfocused, now staring unseeing at the floor near the doorway to the tomb.

“Karse…?” Karsi truly hated that nickname because it was the word for a small, edible plant that went well with egg sandwiches in some highborn circles, and sure enough, it snapped him immediately out of his reverie.

His upper lip twitched but his eyes faded from red to gold. That he wasn’t bothering with the glamour which he usually wore around himself like an old cloak was testament to how rattled he was. He sighed and lifted his eyes from Daethir to Nyr, who was still standing, much to Daethir’s relief, in the tunnel, watching them and silent as a silver spectre.

“Think of all the questions you could ask him, Karsi,” Daethir insisted quietly. “You could annoy him into a second undeath with them all.”

Karsi’s mouth lifted at one corner into an amused smile despite himself. Then he looked down at Daethir and his eyes filled with tears. He brought both hands to Daethir’s jaw and choked, “You scared the shit out of me, love.”

“I know,” Daethir replied, placing his hands on Karsi’s waist. His heavy, wine-red robes were lashed around his slim middle with a thick band of black silk, into which was tucked a ruby-hilted dagger, and Daethir felt its cold bite against the bare inside of his wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m here though, and it’s entirely because of Nyr. He saved me from a Death Lord, and then when I freaked out over him being a draugr too, he saved me all over again and led me through a wall and then up here. To you. I’m alive because of him.”

He paused and tilted his head sideways in a way that he saved for special occasions just like that one: unfortunate situations (usually of his own making) when he needed Karsi to be thoroughly wrapped around his little finger and eating out of his hand and helplessly unable to say no.

Karsi swallowed.

“I owe him my life, Karsi. You owe him my life. Shouldn’t we give him another chance at living too? Let him come with us…”

Karsi’s right eyelid twitched, and although he hadn’t uttered a word, Daethir knew he had him.

He popped up onto his tiptoes, pecked the vampire on the cheek, and scuttled back to Nyr in the dark tunnel.

He took the draugr by both hands and backed up towards the doorway, and to his surprise, Nyr followed. His movements were soft, graceful and fluid as a dancer, and Daethir thought again how strangely beautiful this creature was.

Nyr stopped just shy of the threshold though, and met Karsi’s eye. He let go of Daethir’s hands and lowered his arms to his sides. Something wordless seemed to pass between the two that Daethir couldn’t unpick, and he looked from one to the other in helpless confusion.

“Kay?” he chirped after a moment. “Nyr?”

Finally, Karsi drew in a long breath, held it, and then let it go in a rush. “Do you have anything you wish to bring with you?” he asked and Daethir almost yipped with the sudden rush of joy that bubbled up inside him. He hadn’t quite dared believe it until then.

It was the same kind of excitement and trepidation he felt at the start of a new journey. No matter how many times he and Karsi had set off to find some new book or scroll or sacred offering pot, he felt the exact same flare of unbridled, effervescent joy, and now as he looked between the two undead creatures before him, he felt it again.

“If I go back down there now, I will not come out again,” Nyr said in a barely there rasp. “The Death Lords will all know by now what I did, and how I betrayed them to get Daethir out. They will forget in a week perhaps, but I would have to conceal myself, and Daethir would freeze to death up here waiting, even with a fire.”

Daethir paused and watched Karsi’s expression as the realisation dawned on the vampire of the risk Nyr had taken to get his lover out alive. Then, he surprised Daethir by raising the inside of his left wrist – the side closest to his now-silent heart – to his canines and biting his own vein, sending droplets of his precious blood spattering onto the snow rimed stone at his feet. With ritualistic intonation, he said, “You’re right. I owe you the life of my beloved. By my blood I swear to do you no harm, and to protect you to the best of my abilities until my death or such time as you release me from my oath.”

Daethir’s eyebrows shot up. He’d never heard Karsi speak like that, and he’d certainly never given a blood oath to anyone, not that Daethir knew of anyway. Astonished, he looked at Nyr.

The draugr stepped out of the doorway and around the small pool of blood that sparkled like a handful of rubies cushioned on the snow. He tilted his head slightly to one side, and smiled. “I shall do my utmost to be worthy of such an oath, vampire.” The word came out like an honorific, not an insult.

For the space of ten heartbeats – twenty, if Daethir’s pounding pulse was the cadence by which such measurements were to be judged – no one moved or spoke. Finally, Karsi turned away and walked towards the fire, his long black hair blowing loose in the wind. He looked softer now, the tension melting from his shoulders, but Daethir knew his lover to the core, and he still bore some internal struggle.

Daethir made a mental note to question him about it later, and then turned to Nyr. “Where to now?” he asked.

“I will follow where you lead, Daethir.”

At that, Daethir sucked air in through his teeth in a comical grimace. “Terrible choice,” he grinned. “Luckily for you, I follow where Karsi leads, and Karsi is full of excellent ideas and great judgement.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Karsi said over his shoulder as he stalked six paces ahead of them. “I just gave a blood oath to a draugr. You’ve rotted my brain with your company, Dae.”

Daethir grinned again and elbowed Nyr in his ribs. “You’re gonna fit right in, I just know it.”

Nyr smiled faintly and it was only then that Daethir realised that the draugr was still wearing just a linen shift and no boots.

“Shit, Nyr, you must be freezing!”

“I’m not going to die of exposure, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Karsi snorted faintly, looking surprisingly amused until Daethir told him to take his own coat off and give it to Nyr, which he flat-out refused to do.

“You can’t expect him to walk around barefoot, Karse!”

“He can strip one of the bandits in the entrance for armour,” Karsi shot back, gesturing at the main door to the tomb. “It’s not like they need it. I swore to protect him, not divest myself for his comfort.”

Without a word, Nyr left in the direction Karsi had pointed, and a few minutes later, he returned wearing the black mage robes of one of the frozen corpses just inside the door, with a long fur-trimmed cloak that caught the wind and flapped like bat’s wings, and tall, black leather boots cuffed with soft fur. The cloak had a hood, which he pulled up over his head, and with the shadows it cast, he almost looked unremarkable save for that long, silver braid that hung elegantly down over one shoulder. With those new clothes on, he looked thin, yes, but not undead. Until Daethir met his blue eyes.

“Karsi, can you cast a glamour on him or something? Like the one you use? He shouldn’t have to worry about every last person we meet trying to hack his head off.”

The vampire nodded, and crossed their frozen campsite to meet him halfway. “If I may?” he asked, raising his right hand. Black and red magicka bubbled into his palm and Nyr eyed it warily, but nodded once.

“I can do it myself,” he added, “But I think you’re a stronger mage than I, and you have more experience with alteration magic, I’m sure.”

Karsi just grunted something and circled his fingertips over Nyr’s face. In place of the haunted, sunken eyes and gaunt, hollow cheeks of a corpse, a beautiful, porcelain face stared out from under the hood, and the undead, blue glow of his eyes faded to the forget-me-not blue of a wild meadow in summer.

“Holy shit, Karsi,” Daethir exhaled. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

The vampire rolled his eyes and cast the same spell on his own face, and the black sclera faded to white, and the gold deepened to a warm brown, and Daethir tried not to mourn the loss of the ‘otherness’ in his two companions.

“Karsi?”

“Mn?”

“Can you… Can you make it so that I can see you both?”

“Without affecting the way others view us?” he clarified, and Daethir nodded. He looked to Nyr for his opinion, and when the draugr just shrugged, seeming almost curious about whether such a clause could be written into a spell like that, especially after it had already been woven, Karsi took it for the challenge it undoubtedly was, and made another gesture at the side of Nyr’s face.

The face of a draugr stared back at him once again, and Daethir beamed. “I fucking love magic,” he laughed, and to his surprise, Nyr laughed too, shaking his head. “Do you mind? I mean, I was pretty rude about draugr a while ago, but I really didn’t mean to include you in it.”

“What, when you called my kind ‘the wrong end of a raisin’ or thereabouts?” he said, arching an eyebrow.

Karsi burst out laughing, and the sound was so loud and honest and off-guard that all three of them began to laugh. It took a lot to make Karsi laugh like that, and the sound of it filled Daethir’s heart to bursting.

He looped his arm through Nyr’s elbow and then dragged him round so he could stick his other arm under Karsi’s, and he dragged the two of them towards the fire and their discarded travel packs.

“Come on,” he said, glancing up at the two of them. They were almost a match in heights, he noted from about a foot below them. “Let’s put this place behind us. Karsi, what was the next item on our list?”

“The Lunarstone Chalice,” he said dryly. “Last rumoured to be in a ruined temple in the mountains north of Markarth.”

“Ooh, Markarth. My favourite place in all the world,” Daethir chimed sarcastically, unlinking both arms so he could gesture grandly while walking backwards. “Second only to Windhelm in its snobbery towards elven kind, and the whole area is bristling with rabid, frothing lunatics called the ‘Forsworn’. Can’t think of a place I’d like to start Nyr’s tour of Tamriel more than bloody fucking Markarth.”

And then he caught his heel on a flagstone and pitched backwards with a sharp cry of surprise, only to find hands shooting out to catch him on either side.

Nyr and Karsi hauled him upright before he landed ass-first on the icy stone, and Daethir grinned up at both of them.

“Alright,” Nyr said in his hoarse croak. “Let’s begin.”

If there's interest in these three, I'll happily add it to my 'to work on' list. Consider letting me know you enjoyed it by reblogging it or leaving a comment/ask.

Take care of yourselves, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

(if you enjoyed this draugr/lich boy, you might also like this story, featuring an altogether more shy and retiring draugr named Kalle, and the adventurer who falls in love with him over several visits to his tomb - m/f pairing).

#lich #draugr #vampire #elf #wood elf #bosmer #skyrim #skyrim story #skyrim oc #you don't need to know skyrim to read this though #polyamory #m/m/m

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00127am · 3 months

Text

@ adroitbeloved kim doyoung & gn! reader about mundane love, strangers to the loose term of lovers, snippets of initial meetings and budding affection, crush at first sight, lower-case intended word count 1.4k

💿 now playing ... dancing in the rain meaningful stone

the first time you ever saw kim doyoung, it was raining.

and perhaps that's why you love the rain. because you saw him. black hair matted and suit jacket catching on the cusp of his nape. the same jacket that was soaked with rainwater, tugging strong shoulders to the ground with every shift in his stature. black dress shoes swamped with water, matching the lens of his glasses--smothered in kisses of droplets, clinging to the glass as they watched him during their dutiful descent. and much like those raindrops, you stared. until your hair was sticking to your lashes and your clothing made an uncomfortable squelch each time you moved.

and then you joined him underneath that arching bus turn out. a companionship met in silence and the ever so slight widening of his eyes as he encapsulated your drenched disposition. a silence only to be consumed by the pitter patter of rain and the passage of passing cars. one only to be broken as you reached your hand out from underneath the overhang and onto the oncoming onslaught of outpouring.

despite being already soaked to your core and despite any prior memory of being caught in the rain, you left your hand there for a few moments. lips caught in a grin, beads of water spinning pirouettes across your outstretched fingernails. in this moment, this partial prominence placed in the latter half of a minute, you began to hope that in your next life, you too would be reborn as rain. so perhaps, you too would also hold the pleasure of consuming each and every detail of kim doyoung.

a thought met with extension of your throat, leaning forward and dipping your head into the shower. hair upon forehead and lashes upon cheeks, corner of your mouth curved into the beginnings of a childish grin. and despite any preconception of politeness, kim doyoung laughed.

a sound nearly drowned out by the rhythmic drum of the rain and a sound to be revisited by you and you alone, until it was all but washed away with the end of the rainy season. you're not sure if he was laughing at the sheer absurdity and nonsensical nature of your actions or something utterly unrelated but it doesn't really matter.

you just really hope that you're reborn as rain. it's only fair, right?

the fourth time you saw kim doyoung, you had one hand clutching onto the grab rails on the bus. the same bus where you met at the turn out, a bus that you both take to and fro work. a bus you have come to appreciate (when it's on time) for giving you the opportunity to run into the black haired office worker not once, not twice, but four times.

it's rush hour. five or six at dusk, with a packed bus and the quiet conversations of co-workers. a bus that slices through the summer heat with a squeal of the breaks and an easygoing push on the pedals. it's crowded, shoulder to shoulder and chest to chest. and you've somehow found yourself pressed up against your new found crush, bowing your head with a sheepish turn of your eyes as you steady yourself on the balls of your feet.

suffocated by humidity and the nauseating stop and go of the bus, you find solace in nothing but the beat of your music. a steady pulse that panders through your ears and lands on the tip of your tongue, mouthing every syllable and every word. pretty lips poised in perfect pronunciation as you bob your head back and forth.

it's only during the bridge that you catch his eyes on you through the reflection of the glass door, a translucent depiction wavered by every bump in the road. his features are soft, lips quirked into a tender smile and eyes pulled into amused crescents as he watches you. the same eyes that dart away when they meet yours, blinking down at his hands as he looks absolutely anywhere but your returned gaze.

it isn't until six blinks later and a nervous gulp from both parties (to be frank, you can't be sure if it came from you or him) that the awkward tension is broken. parted easily with a quiet input, one that could not be mistaken for any such speech from yourself. a series of words, drawn out in a low, hushed intonation that made your face feel hot and your stomach drop.

bottom lip pulled in between his teeth and cheeks dusted a prepossessing pink. a pink that most certainly became your favorite color. each sonant emphasized with the flick of his tongue and the fidget of his fingers, rolling over each knuckle in a hesitant habit.

"i really like that song,"

you're not sure that those would be considered the most romantic first set of words spoken in any such universe. but in this one, one which you find yourself insensibly smitten, they prove to rival any such harked verses taken from romeo and juliet.

the sixteenth time you saw kim doyoung, you finally earned his name. stolen from the minuscule text of his ID badge. a lanyard that hung precariously around his neck, laying against his chest in the manner of a second tie. tight around his collar and loose upon the buttons of his dress shirt. a consummately composed photograph lying in the middle, depicting the stranger in all his handsome splendor. one that you find doesn't come close to rivaling the real thing. you're not sure that any camera could properly capture him after all.

you're leaning over your feet to get a better look at it, hair hanging in front of your face and eyes drawn in a concentrated squint. there's nothing subtle about it. certainly not with the way your pursing your lips, beginning consonants sitting on the tip of your tongue. or perhaps with the way you're tracing the characters on your thigh, each stroke undertaken in a clumsy authenticity. as if the movement is foreign yet softhearted.

he observes you, lost in your own world, with a similar gentleness. one curated with the unbalanced sway of your stature and the unconscious push of your tongue against the inside of your cheek. one that begins and ends with an unwilling and unrelenting affection. an endearment that only solidifies as you nearly fall flat on your face.

but you don't. catching yourself with flailing arms and the repetitive click click click of your dress shoes. and then you straighten up, clearing your throat and avoiding his stare (one that seems to bore a hole straight into the side of your skull). and despite the embarrassing nature of your near accident and the heat creeping up the nape of your neck, the only thing you can focus on is his name.

kim doyoung. it suits him.

the thirtieth time you saw kim doyoung, it was raining.

for the never ending rainy season seems to have set upon you, dosing every being and every thing in a dampened haze. including him, a similar reflection to your first meeting, though this time significantly less soaked. you, however, were preforming a perfected rendition--having forgotten your umbrella and once again finding yourself distracted by the beautiful stranger. thus forth leading to the only conclusion which you seemed to be able to muster, one which involved you being wet from head to toe.

and so, you trecked over to the turn-out, meeting him with the squeak and squelch of your coat and slacks. a noise only accompanied by a hint of entertained laughter coming from his direction, one quickly stifled by an all but obvious faux cough and interrupted by an amused huff from yourself. and then a familiar, but comfortable, silence. shortened only by the slush and slur of the bus wheels as it descends upon the curb.

despite the somewhat state of dryness on his part and the clear, slight resignation of being caught in the rain. it's your counterpart who, this time, outstretches his hand. slender fingers and delicate wrist outstretched beyond the overhang as he takes a single step out into the downpour. this hand, smothered in passive fondness from the oncoming droplets is gestured in your direction. tips of his fingers bent in a natural curve, eyes patient and expression painted with a nervous smile.

and when you take it, hand in lovable hand, you find yourself thanking your lucky stars that you were reincarnated as human this time around. though, you suppose it wouldn't be that bad to be born in your next life a droplet of rain. as long as you got to meet him thirty times over.

taglist. @evilsailorsenshi @firstdonutllamafarm @222brainrot @scinclaitnoir thank you for supporting me! ♡

🗯️ CRIED. i cried. oh, i like him so much! so, so much! oh to be a girl and meet a man like kim doyoung ... (ME WHEN) anyway! hope i did him justice for his birthday. i love writing every day type love (if it wasn't obvious) and i feel like doyoung just fits that trope so well. there's something about him that is so endearingly ordinary, i love him (and the rain) TT

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leighsartworks216 · 5 months

Text

I Come With Knives Pt12

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Had this idea out of nowhere, and I thought it would be a good filler so I'm not jumping super far ahead very suddenly. I may do another part with the love test, but I wanted to go ahead and share this bit

Also, I know this is not at all like the fair or w/e in-game. I haven't played the game yet (😔) and so I based it mostly around my ren fair experience(s)

Warnings: food, eating, reference to starving, references to past abuse, references to emotional abuse, hints at torture methods, social anxiety, crowds, mentions of loud sounds and strong smells, honestly very fluffy I promise

Word Count: 1,906

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

The sights and sounds and smells were overwhelming. Crowds of people, young and old, wandering from stall to stall for food and merriment. Barkers beckoned them over for games, promising prizes for any who dared to test their luck.

It made your head spin. You stepped closer to Astarion, tentatively brushing your hand against his.

It was supposed to be fun - it was fun. Karlach had bounded on ahead with Wyll in tow, eager to test her skills at one of the games with loud proclamations of her imminent victory. Gale and Shadowheart were tempted by the wine tasting, whether to find the best of the bunch or to drink as much as possible before getting kicked out, it was impossible to tell. Lae’zel was particularly intrigued by a display of Dwarves demonstrating how they build weapons, the best way to sharpen them, and how to care for them so they last a lifetime and a half.

And here you were, at the very cusp of it all, seeking safety in Astarion.

“Ah, another first?” he asked, taking your hand in his and running his thumb along your knuckles. He wasn’t so bothered by the loud body of people or shouting and laughter - he’d been in the thick of it back when he sought victims for Cazador. Besides, he found it rather easy to blend in… And slip some tokens from the pockets of unsuspecting passersby.

You let out a long breath. “I don’t think so,” you admitted. “I feel like I’ve been to one of these before, but it’s all fuzzy. Maybe I just dreamt it.”

You both watched, amused, as Karlach cheered and whooped, excitedly taking the stuffed toy from the vendor, before turning bashful as she handed it to Wyll. They made a rather cute couple. Certainly the most normal of the bunch - and that was saying something.

Astarion snorted. “It would be rather difficult to dream up a place like this out of nothing.”

A couple passed by, brushing against your shoulder as they did. You instinctively stepped closer to Astarion to avoid the strangers’ touch, squeezing his hand. He frowned down at you.

“We can always go back to camp, love. They know the way back. And we’d get the whole place to ourselves.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully.

You chuckled, slightly strained. “You just want to read Shadowheart’s diary.”

“She has a diary?” he gaped, overemphasizing his words and pretending to be shocked. “Why, I had no idea! We should ensure it doesn’t get stolen by any unsavory types that might be lurking about.”

“You can’t read her diary.”

He sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Spoil sport.”

The idea was tempting, though. It would be quiet. There wouldn’t be people to bump into you or crowd you in. You could spend an entire day forgetting what lay ahead of you, what trials you had to face, what foes were sharpening their swords and awaiting your arrival.

With a deep breath, you took a hesitant step forward. And another, and another. Your friends were enjoying themselves… surely you could too, right?

“Let’s just… look around.”

Astarion followed along, close at your side. As you began wandering, glancing at stalls that offered handmade trinkets and jewelry, ciders, and even face painting, he worked to make the experience more bearable. This meant subtly directing you out of the paths of heedless fair-goers. Every now and again, he’d whisper snide little comments in your ear; snickering observations of an obviously rigged game upsetting a child who screamed for their parents to let them try again, remarks on intriguing tidbits of information overheard from loose-lipped conspirators, scowling growls at annoying vendors who tried to get your attention to look at their random nonsense.

He was your anchor, grounding you to the experience. His comments eased your anxieties little by little. Your shoulders relaxed, you looked around with wide eyes that sought to capture everything going on. You didn’t feel the need to run. Not with him there. You wished you could show how truly grateful you were for it.

You stepped into a tent toward the center of the fair. Immediately, a flood of smells hit your nose - smoked meats, tart fruit, something floral you couldn’t quite pin down. Chatter filled the air until it devolved into a wordless humdrum, buzzing ceaselessly in your ear like a persistent bug, but there seemed to be enough space to walk about. Astarion followed as you followed the empty space like a path.

Stalls all aligned against the walls presented various foods from all over Faerûn. Delicacies, both appetizing and slightly disturbing, sat next to chef specialties. Wood elves and druids with various prepared mushrooms and herbs, orcs with meat piled high, farmers from the surrounding area that gathered with their fresh-grown crops. There was something for everyone here, guaranteed.

You leaned closer to Astarion to speak without shouting over the noise. “Shall we find a booth for you?” you teased.

He laughed. “Darling, this is a veritable buffet. None quite compare to you, however,” he flirted with a seductive grin. He reveled in the way your heart skipped.

You both scanned the stalls a bit longer, until something caught Astarion’s eye. Excitedly, he tugged you along. “What is it?”

He grinned over his shoulder. “Something as sweet as you, dearest.”

At the end of the row, tucked away in a corner, was a mess of hobbits, cherry-cheeked and full of mirth. Their entire stand was full of baked goods, from cakes as tall as Astarion with a multitude of layers and intricate detailing, to itty bitty cakelets that would be the perfect size for a mouse decorated simply.

“Ah, here we are!” He plucked up a tiny cakelet and tossed a coin to a hobbit that was all freckles. When they thanked him, the rest piped up to thank him, too. He paid them no mind, instead tugging you somewhere quieter and more private, despite the bustling people that filled every inch of this tent. He held it up to you between his fingers, an offering. “A sweet treat for my sweet treat.”

You laughed despite the corniness of it, cheeks warming with affection. There was something about hiding away in a dark corner that felt like some cheesy romance novel directed to young teens. But you liked it. A rare moment of peace away from the world, with Astarion and his rounded eyes and his charming grin. “You don’t even know what it tastes like,” you teased, eyeing the cake warily.

He hummed as though the thought had never crossed his mind, but his smirk said otherwise. “Well, I had rather hoped to try it myself.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in until his breath brushed your ear. So close to your neck, and yet… you didn’t feel the need to pull away. “From your lips, of course.”

His words had an immediate effect on you - your heart raced wildly, your breath hitched, your thoughts spun. His red eyes watched you intently as you looked at the little cakelet. It was innocently iced white with a small red berry on top. But it wasn’t what it could taste like or what it could be laced with that made you hesitate. Hells, it could be fish paste and roe and you’d try it if he looked at you with those big, pleading eyes.

When you were behaving, when she acted like you were her most precious thing, she would feed you. Countless fruits and sweet meats had passed from her long fingers to your mouth, and now here Astarion was, doing much the same.

But it wasn’t the same.

She adored you as an item - a little plaything she could dote upon and torment as her mood dictated. Astarion truly cared about you, in ways unique to him. He was rude and demanding, but you never had to do anything. He’d be horribly needy for a hug or a cuddle, with no proper, easy way of asking, so he’d demand it, lamenting about how terribly lonely he was. But even then, despite his theatrics, you could turn him down with no consequences. No dark rooms or scold’s bridle awaited you. Even now, you could refuse entirely and he’d smile politely and tug you back into the throng of people. You could even feed yourself the cake and still accept his kiss. She would never be so kind. You would eat what she offered, or you would starve.

He could almost see the mental war you fought written on your face. The slight crease between your brows, the way your throat bobbed with an uncertain swallow. After a second too long, he panicked. He’d done something wrong, overstepped or ruined this entire relationship altogether. Whatever it was, he was about to step back and make a witty remark to laugh it off, and pray to all the gods who cared enough to listen that whatever he did the relationship was still salvageable. But you looked at him, and he froze, waiting for you.

You inhaled, gathering yourself. When you exhaled, you smiled, soft and sweet at him. “I trust you,” you whispered.

Somehow, by pure accident, he’d uncovered something horrible. And yet you seemed to be willing to press through it, to experience it anew with him. He was honored. Truly, genuinely, honored. You’d trusted him with so much already, and here you were, doing it again. Oh, he could kiss you without need of the cake to bolster his intentions.

Still, he held it up to your lips. The world around you disappeared as you glanced at the cake again, and opened your mouth. He watched your mouth attentively as you bit down, the juice of the red berry on top staining your upper lip. It was sweet: A vanilla cake covered in white chocolate with a tart red filling. But what truly made it wonderful was Astarion, when he tilted his head and slotted his lips with yours.

His tongue was quick to slip out and lick your lips, seeking the flavors you’d just experienced. You opened your mouth to him with a soft sound that made his undead heart seem to beat once more. His tongue dipped inside to taste more. He groaned quietly as the red berry hit his taste buds. Tilting his head to kiss you deeper, he caught a hint of the chocolate. Cupping your cheek with his free hand, he found the vanilla. You tasted sweet on your own, but this was heaven - if such a thing existed. He wondered what the rest of you would taste like if he spread the hobbits’ confectionaries along the rest of your body.

Unfortunately, the raucous laughter of a drunk couple reminded him of your surroundings. He stroked his thumb along your cheek as he eased off, and finally, reluctantly, pulled away. Your cheeks were all flushed, burning with hot blood against his hand. Your eyes stayed closed a moment longer. It was as if you had to find your way back into your body after the kiss. When they fluttered open, your eyes found his immediately, pupils dilated. He had to force himself not to kiss you again.

He grinned and pulled away, leaving a somewhat respectable distance between you. He fed you the other half of the cake, and licked his fingers with a devious smile.

“Absolutely delicious.”

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars @sylverqueencosplay @tototini @ashrio20 @bambamwolf87 @astarion-imagine-archive @thistrashisreadytobash @rosxtinted @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @the-lake-is-calling @nyxmainex @squid-killer

#fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate tav #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #i come with knives

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lunadei · 2 years

Text

Exile - Marc Spector

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!vigilante-reader, Steven Grant x F!vigilante-Reader

Warnings: gunshot wound, fighting.

Premise: You and Marc share a mutual dislike for each other - or so you think. That is until a particularly nasty fight leaves you at his mercy.

an: Hey guys! This is my first Moon Knight fic - and fair warning, it isn’t perfectly canon. Just a fun little blurb I had on my mind. Please enjoy all the enemies to lovers clichés here as much as I do.

From the moment you unintentionally stepped - or perhaps more accurately, punched, into Marc Spector’s life, you both walked a thin line. Your paths had crossed rather unceremoniously during a minor street brawl, though Marc loved to remind you that fighting three men single-handily was hardly minor. You loathed to admit when you were over your head. And, much to the Moon Knight’s dismay, you would rather get pummeled than accept assistance.

Still, in all fairness, you had it handled.

As you prefer to tell the story, his arrival proved an unfortunate distraction which cost you several broken ribs and a nasty concussion. No injury had ever prevented you from kicking ass previously, but Marc and his magic armor beat you to the punch. The average damsel would have been grateful to be ‘saved’ by the Moon Knight. However, it quickly became clear to Marc that you were no damsel in distress.

“Why the hell would you do that? I had it under control.” The venom you managed to summon despite your injuries was astounding. Had Marc been any other man, he may have cowered before you. He could practically feel Steven shrinking back as it was.

“Hell of a way to say ‘thank you,’ princess,” Marc scoffed, his anger partially sheathed by his mask.

“Excuse me, princess?”

Marc would later admit that you had a hell of a left hook.

Perhaps your animosity toward Marc extended from many years of being a lone vigilante, unused to sharing your territory with another - though you would hardly call him a vigilante. Hell, he wouldn’t even call himself such. After several escapades, during which you found yourselves inevitably face-to-face time after time, you had reluctantly became familiar with Marc. And you despised his self-assured, reckless bravado. You wanted nothing to do with the Moon Knight, knowing he spelt nothing but trouble for your image. That soon changed after you were introduced to Steven.

Steven was everything you adored about society - he reminded you of why you chose this life to begin with. Steven was the first to remove his mask after finding you perched upon the Landmark Pinnacle one moonlit night, gushing about what a big fan he was. Though he would make the occasional appearance during your midnight watch, time was always limited before Marc would resume control. You had made it quite clear to Marc that you preferred his alter-ego’s company. He had made it quite clear that you could shove it.

It seemed you were doomed to repeat this cliché cycle: fighting for justice, butting heads with Marc when he intervened, always choosing to teeter on the cusp of enemies rather than work together. That was until the night you made a minor miscalculation as to your abilities.

Well, minor being you brought your fists to a gun fight. And needless to say, you were not as swift as as the barrage of bullets - not quite, anyway.

Your armored suit presented an unexpected weakness, allowing a bullet to pierce through your hip. Perhaps some Egyptian God had been looking after you that night, as it deflected off your right rib and exited next to your right clavicle - by some fortunate avoiding any major arteries. You had barely made it out of the fight before collapsing in a nearby alley. Crimson stained the cobblestone street, the copper smell lingering in your nose as your eyes rapidly fluttered. You’d be damned if you allowed yourself to bleed out here, nameless and easily defeated.

“Jesus, Y/N, can you hear me?” Marc, it’s Marc, your brain briefly registered. His voice, while usually vexing, was a welcome reprieve from your thoughts of mortality.

“Oh, hey Marc, fancy seeing you here,” you choked out, sputtering at the effort required to speak. You watched as kneeled beside you, eyes raking down your form in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

Jesus, you thought, bleeding out was making you delirious.

“Oh my god, Y/N, we’ve got to get you to a hospital.” Steven. You grabbed onto his pristine white suit, rapidly shaking your head despite the tremors of pain.

“No, no hospitals. Rule number one of being a vigilante, Steven.” A gloved hand pressed to your hip, staining the fabric red. His panic became increasingly evident as he took note of your wounds.

“Listen, my flat is a few blocks away. Get me there - I have supplies.” You heaved a shaky sigh, fighting to maintain consciousness.

“Right, right, yeah, okay, flat, got it.” Trembling arms slid beneath your torso and legs, grasping your limp body against his firm chest.

“And, Steven?” Steven, bless his heart, lacked the same trauma skills as his counterpart. You recognized this rather reluctantly, pressing a hand against his cheek apologetically. “I’m going to need Marc, unfortunately. Don’t let him let me bleed out, yeah?”

Blissfully unaware of the trip back to your flat, you awoke to Marc’s small slaps to your cheek. His voice felt far away as you slipped in and out of consciousness, a sight which, though he would never admit it, frightened Marc.

“C’mon, Y/N, wake up. Don’t make me explain your dead body to your landlord.” A chuckle escaped your lips as your eyes fluttered open. The first thing you noticed was the feeling of Marc’s calloused hands pressed against the bare flesh of your hip. You shifted slightly, taking in your living room. A trail of blood was smeared from your doorway to the couch.

“God damn it, I’m never going to get these stains out.” It was Marc’s turn to chuckle. He was intently focused on stitching your entrance wound, which he had apparently cleaned while you were unconscious. You groaned at the sensation, shifting your body in discomfort against the couch.

Upon feeling the fabric against your bare back, it was then that you realized you were shirtless. Heat travelled from your neck to your cheeks, the blush nearly matching the crimson stains smeared on your figure. You rationalized that you were only flustered because of the blood loss.

“I would apologize about your shirt, but considering I’m saving your life again, I didn’t think you’d care.” Turning your head towards Marc, you saw a smirk grace his lips as he met your gaze. The bastard was amused, mocking your discomfort.

“Oh, brilliant. I hardly care about the man I positively despise stitching me up.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. The gesture was completely childish. For a moment, the usual malice you extended toward him felt wrong, like a cheap façade.

“Ah, there she is.” He briefly paused his handiwork. “If it weren’t for me you’d be dead on the streets, princess. But you’re welcome to stich yourself up if you hate me so much.”

You couldn’t help but remark, “I could probably do a better job.” Marc raised his hands in mock surrender, preparing to stand, and you instantly regretted stroking your own ego.

“Be my guest, I have work to finish now that you’re not on your death bed.” He made a show of turning away, just slowly enough to allow you to change your mind. Your pride would never have allowed you to ask for his assistance previously, stubbornly preferring to bleed out than admit defeat. However, something had shifted tonight. You once again convinced yourself that it was just delirium, nothing more.

“Wait, Marc-” you grasped his wrist, pulling him back to the floor. “Please, don’t go.” Oh, the blood loss had definitely unveiled a level of vulnerability you weren’t aware existed within you. Marc glanced at you, not masking his shock, noting your wide eyes and trembling hand. He spared you his usual biting retort, instead nodding and resumed tending to your wounds.

You watched him concentrate, gaze raking over the apparent softness of usually sharp features. Brown curls tumbled over his forehead, accenting his tanned features in a way you were rarely privy to. Supple lips were relaxed and parted in concentration, so different from the usual grimace they held. You weren’t blind, you knew Marc was attractive. But you had never allowed yourself to dwell on that thought before, never allowed your gaze to sample every inch of his features as though he were fine art. It made your stomach twist, the previously dissipated heat now spreading throughout your entire body - pooling in your lower abdomen.

Fuck, you were so screwed.

“Marc,” your voice was a breathless whisper, pathetic, you thought granted your usual composure. He glanced up at you, brows furrowing at your twisted expression. Cliché as it was, you felt yourself swimming in his brown eyes, further degrading your rational mind. With a strange fondness you had never extended toward him before, you could imagine waking up to those eyes, getting lost in them every morning -

“Y/N?”

Snapped out of your trance, uncertain and reaching for the right words, you had merely intended to thank him. “Thank you, Marc Spector,” you breathed against his lips. When had you gotten so close? But he didn’t flinch, didn’t move away.

“Wow, someone alert the press. Never thought I’d hear those words coming from you.” His remark lacked it’s usual snark, sounding nearly as wrecked as you - though you supposed your judgement could be clouded by the blood loss.

“Shut up,” you huffed, lips nearly brushing his own at the movement.

“Make me, princess.” With a vigor you didn’t know you possessed, you threaded your hand into his disheveled curls, pulling him a fraction closer. Your lips connected perfectly, like two halves of one whole, causing you to contemplate why you hadn’t done this sooner. His kiss grew desperate, hungry, as though he was a starving man waiting to devour you. And god, you wanted more.

Your hips bucked into the air of their own accord, causing a pained groan to escape your lips. Marc reluctantly pulled away from you as you chased his lips, tears prickling your eyes as you attempted to ignore the burn in your side.

“Don’t stop,” you implored, begged. You hadn’t even thought yourself capable of begging, lest of all to him.

“Y/N, you’re hurt. You need to rest, I need to go -” Before he could retreat, you pressed your lips against his once more, desperate, searching.

“I can take it,” the breathy confession elicited a strained moan from Marc, and god, the things you would do to hear that sound again.

“Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me.” It was your turn to smirk, nipping at his mouth with renewed energy. Strong arms encompassed your figure once more, gently lifting you to your bedroom, careful not to disturb your stitches. Slipping from your lust-fueled haze, it momentarily occurred to you that your injuries would not allow for this to extend further.

“God, the things I want to do to you,” his voice slipped into a deep growl, the vibrations against your neck causing your body to spasm.

“Then do them,” you insisted, all common sense having slipped your mind. With surprising control, Marc removed himself from your grasp, looking at you with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. Fondness?

His hand briefly trailed over your hip. The touch, though featherlight, caused a burning ache to travel through you. Marc cocked his head with a frown, having already proven his point.

“Not now, not like this.” He paused, licking his lips as his eyes roamed your figure with a desire so intense it nearly made you forget the agony completely. “When I have you, and I will, I don’t want you to feel anything but me.”

You’re not sure when you finally slipped from consciousness, when you stopped feeling Marc’s hands brush through your tangled locks. That night you dreamt of white cloaks and brown eyes more piercing than the moon, with the sweet smell of jasmine and spice engulfing your senses.

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector x you #steven grant x you #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #enemies to lovers #moon knight imagine #moon knight x reader #superhero!reader #vigilante!reader #vigilante!reader x marc spector

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katsukikitten · 7 months

Text

Pure smut and sad hours. Master list here.

You feel stupid, so fucking stupid. Opening the distasteful gag gift someone has given you after your break up. A knock off cock in the shape of your ex boyfriend after some fan analyzed a picture of him in gray sweats one day.

They were close, it felt right in your hands and they guessed about his tattoos on it but had them wrong, didn't have the forking veins you used to lick in the right spots and missing something you just couldn't put your finger on. Desperate in your drunken haze for intimacy that your string of other drummer fuck buddies couldn't supply. Couldn't never fucking dream to provide like he could.

Placing the suction cup base on an old candle plate as you desperately try to ride it in the shroud of night in your bedroom. Accidentally edging yourself like you would have done riding the real thing, expect he'd plant his feet into the mattress and fuck so hard up into you your tits would bounce and your eyes would roll.

Only furthering your frustrations, tears in your eyes as you try to listen to very old voice memos from when he was on the road. Lewd sounds of him spitting on his hand or cock before he fisted it, groaning to the pictures or voice memos you sent moments before. Seeking his comfort and needing it as your drunk hazy thoughts try to ruin your good buzz. Stupidly hitting the little mic icon to record a small voice message.

"Hakuji." Breathy and desperate before a small whine leaves your throat. Sticky sounds echoing back as you slide down the silicone with a pout.

"Jiji, I can't stand it. I can't cum without you either. You've ruined me." You sniff, another breathy moan, "Gave me so much princess treatment and no one can fuck me like you. Or hold me."

The end of the sentence is so quiet, phone still recording and all that can be heard are your fan, the soft sniffles of your pout and the clicking slick as you bounce.

"This is so stupid." You hiss, going to delete the recording from the message box before a fat tear falls just right onto the glass and hits send. Making you clench around the toy as you frantically Google search if an android can unsend messages and it can't. Figuring out the airplane mode trick far too late and horror paints your features as you see the message is not only delivered to your ex.

It's on read.

Frantically typing back in caps that he should just delete it that it was a mistake to send it but just as quickly as you do you receive a voice message back that opens with a growl.

"Princess, can't believe yer playin with my pretty pussy without me. Need my help? I can talk ya through it or I can show up. But first put those pretty clawed fingers on yer clit for me okay? Better right?"

The sound of his voice makes you arch and stupidly you listen to him, carefully placing the pads of your fingers on your clit and going in slow circles.

"Y-yes much better." A quick voice memo back heart beating out of your chest and you keep thinking of his offer that he'll show up.

"Good fuckin girl."

His praise makes you gasp and shake, shudder running down your spine when you play it a second time.

"Not fair. Not gonna let me hear ya moan?"

One escaped your throat before you record a small memo of you moaning loudly, part of it his name, although it's his stage name he doesn't care. He's more than happy to help you, "Akaza! Akaza!"

"Careful princess, one more time and you'll summon him."

Purposely, louder than your others on the cusp of cumming as you record your down fall, "Akazaaaaa!"

And just like that he's checking if you're home, smiling when he sees your little red dot there before he's speeding over on his bike. The roar of the engine heard from the comfort of your bedroom before you hear the tires bump against the lip of the sidewalk. Sound of the engine dying quickly before your balcony door is sliding open.

"You should really lock this princess." He almost purrs as he locks it behind him, putting in the wood to keep the door from being jimmied open.

Worst part is he isn't even winded, not from his sprint from the parking spaces nor from the way he had to scale to the third floor.

Stopping at the foot of the bed as he drinks you in. Eyes aglow in the low light commiting the sight to memory. You were in one of his old shirts, sitting so pretty as you try to bounce on some sort of silicone cock before he decides to rid you of your misery. Inked fingers digging into your ribs as he pulls you from the toy, lying you down on the bed beside it before he's picking it up.

"Hmm? This mine?" Smirk growing on his lips as he weighs the toy in a broad palm, "I've held the real thing enough times to know it's mine."

"S-stop. Don't tease Kaza." Trying to pull down the hem of his shirt to hide your body but he just smiles. Puts the toy to the side, working at pulling his gray sweats down freeing his heavy aching cock.

Pressing his palms on to your knees to make room for his imposing body, "Aw but ya get so fuckin wet when I tease ya."

"Sides I'm the only one that can fix yer problem right? Can't cum without me huh?" But there's no malice in his voice, no smugness or tease like his words suggest, if anything he sounds a little sad, maybe even relieved.

Squeezing the base of his cock as he runs it through your folds, heart racing as he debates if this is a good idea. Icy eyes flicker up to your face and how desperate you look, needy and ready.

"Girth's a bit off, that's why it's not helpin. Still want my help princess? Gotta use your words." He tries not to feel numb, tries to focus on everything that's happening between the two of you now as he comes down from the high of a fight.

"Yes, please help me Hakuji." And that's all it takes before he's sliding his cock in nice and slow. Making sure you feel it, inch by inch of him sinking into you, him making you arch off the bed to meet his hips more, him making you claw and fist the sheets.

Him making you feel this fucking good and that there was no fucking person or thing in this world that could imitate him.

"Thaaat's the stretch you needed. Feels just right doesn't it, princess?” Finally after a few more moments he's perfectly nestled into you. Feeling you clench around him making him squeeze his eyes shut.

You feel just as wonderful as he remembers, maybe even better thanks to his celibacy he's had since the two of you separated over a very big misunderstanding but Hakuji couldn't blame you. Would never.

Relishing the moment the two of you were reunited even if he knows it's temporary. That the clock is winding down yet still he forces himself still despite your whines and desperate claws digging in the sheets. Moving for his skin as you squeeze your legs around his waist making him smile. Hooking the back of your knees as he leans forward. Forcing your calves to rest on the crook of his arms so he can be closer to your face.

Pushing down into your slowly and roughly as his fangs find your throat. Nipping and sucking as he lets his cock head drag over that spongy spot that has you clawing up his shoulders and back. Already you feel close to cumming, throbbing in how he folds you, pressing you into yourself before adding his own body weight. Crowding your vision as he lets his lidded gaze hold yours not even hiding what you do to him as his eyes flutter when you clench around his cock. He leans his head down by your ear so you can hear him moan and growl.

"Such a good fuckin girl. Stayed molded to me." Your toes cramp from his praise, legs shaking as you cum the first time as he goes on, "Made for me aren't ya princess? Made for me to have and hold. To protect always til I fuckin die."

Your divine cunt always had that effect on him to get in to ramble praises and possession into your ear but it always made your vision spot when he did as you arch again, creaming around his cock that he fucks you through.

Those agonizingly slow thrusts that still somehow don't give you a chance to breathe as his pelvis grinds into your clit with each rocking motion.

Eyes rolled to the back of your head as he selfishly starts to chase his own release only after he's sure you've cum a minimum of three times, counting four when he sticks his tongue in your mouth so he can taste your sweet moans one more, or last, time.

"Cause ya love me most right? That's why ya need me. Fuck cause I love you." Hips starting to snap as he fucks into you roughly, wrapping his arms right around your middle forcing your legs that much wider from his grip as he hooks his fingers on your shoulders for leverage. Listening to your moans and feeling how you try to milk him after another body wracking orgasm makes you shake in his hold. As if his strong arms were the sole reason you hadn't completely fallen apart.

"Fuckin- God I love you I love you so much Princess." He's moaning trying to pull out in time before you look up at him with the saddest, most pleading eyes.

"Cum in me. Please, please Hakuji." And he's never been one to tell you no as he shudders. Painting your walls in his sticky hot seed as you whine from how good he makes you feel.

He tries to keep his full weight off of you, thinking he doesn't deserve to feel your comfort as he pants. Even with your nails raking over his scalp, slowly releasing your legs from his hold before he tries to pull away all together.

"Don't." A warning bite as you glare up at him, "Don't be like the others."

"They don't stay?" Growl back to his voice, how dare they, how fucking dare they use you to their content and then have the audacity to not pamper you.

"Never." Tears welling in your eyes that have Hakuji seeing red, that have him wanting to tuck away his spent cock quickly, just so he can beat the shit out of them. Hospitalize them at the very least. But first he had to take care of you.

Because you always came first.

He doesn't even ask if you want him to stay, just pulls you to him as he lies back down. Palming your skull so you'll nose his throat as inked fingers trace up and down your spine. Until he's sure you're asleep, forcing his tired eyes open despite how much comfort you bring him. Unable to miss a second of contact with you but fate had other plans.

Pulled undertow quickly, falling into a deep restful sleep for the first time in over a year. Only for him to wake up in your bed a few hours later.

Alone.

#kitten writes 🖤🐈‍⬛

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iaure · 1 year

Note

henwo muerte, it is i, the babygirl!leon enthusiast SHSJJSJSJ this is my first time requesting so i hope im doing it right lol 😖 my request is how would babygirl yandere!leon react to a sweet darling that's also a yandere for him? not exactly a possessive killer but more like y/n's still 😍😍 even if leon is all 🚩 🚩he's my babygirl, he can do no wrong THANK YOU MUAH💓

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ i am so very sorry for the delay!!!!!!!! this ask is very good and I am pleased you brought it to me! hopefully this is as you imagined! again i am so sorry for taking so long!!!!!!!!!

♡ leon, at first, didn't realise.

♡ he thought you'd be creeped out by what he does; stealing your items, watching you when you didn't realise it. you'd taken his heart, so it was only fair.

♡ it wasn't until you had mentioned to a friend (to whom he was neutral to; they made you happy, so it was whatever) that you were going to visit your family for the weekend.

♡ was leon happy that you were going to be gone? no.

♡ but...this did mean that while the cat was away, the mouse could play.

♡ he wasted no time getting into your home, opening the door as though he payed rent and collapsing onto your bed with a happy sigh.

♡ he was practically making snow angels out of your comforter, huffing in your scent like an addict.

♡ he had the whole weekend to do whatever he wanted in your house!

♡ he could fantasise about waking up by your side, cooking you breakfast (and inevitably messing it up), holding you in the morning...

♡ ahhh. what a dream.

♡ he knew he'd never have the courage to tell you to the face. you were much too pretty and he was much to worried about scaring you off.

♡ it'd be best if he could just keep adoring you from afar.

♡ at least, that's what he thought, until he heard your door unlock.

♡ everything in his body froze. his blood ran cold, and every nerve in his body went to steel.

♡ there was no way he could hide. your closet was too small, and diving out the window on the third floor only felt like a slightly unwise decision.

♡ but before he could make a choice, you had opened the door, singing a sickly sweet tune.

♡ he leapt up from your bed, choosing to make the most he could, and digging under your bed to see if he could fit.

♡ you reached for your bedroom door, opening it.

♡ he felt like gasping, screaming, crying-everything was falling down around him-

♡ and you saw him, and he shut his eyes.

♡ he wanted to disappear into thin air, panting from fear. and he thought you'd do anything him.

♡ would you scream? would you tell him to get out, that he was disgusting, that he needed to leave before you called the cops?

♡ but...as he opened his eyes, he saw your face.

♡ and oh.

♡ you had a smile at your face, sickly sweet and oozing something just past desire. his heart fluttered, and he was frozen in the spot.

♡ you crouched down, a glint in your eye.

♡ "knew you'd be here. you're so cute."

♡ his eyes went wide, mouth dropping and feeling his breath stutter.

♡ you placed your legs against his, placing a hand against his chin.

♡ "i'm really glad you did this, you know. i've been meaning to talk to you, but you're so sneaky."

♡ leon started shaking. you were touching him. you were holding him. you were staring at him, not hating him, your fingers were touching his skin.

♡ he felt like he was on fire.

♡ "what?" he asked, his tone on the cusp of begging.

♡ you batted your eyelashes, leaning in close to his face. he could feel your breath on his lips, just barely hovering.

♡ he let out a shaky sigh.

♡ you began to explain that you knew he'd been watching you for a while. that you knew he loved you, and that you didn't mind.

♡ in fact, minding as the last thing you had. you were batting your eyelashes, leaning in and pulling back and teasing him where he sat.

♡ he couldn't help but whine every time you teased him, trying to not come off as creepy. or at least, creepier.

♡ but no. you said you loved it. that you thought his dedication was cute.

♡ and it was like heaven was singing to him.

♡ with every word that left your mouth, it was like he was living a dream. you were okay with it. you didn't think he was a creep. you though he was cute!

♡ you told him he could do no wrong, and he was partly sure that he could simply get away with anything around you.

♡ a low whimper left his throat; was this a dream? would he wake up to a devastating reality where you didn't actually love him back?

♡ but you leaned so close that your lips grazed, and he knew this was real.

♡ with vigor, like a dying man to life, he rushed to your lips, grabbing your face in his hands and trying to pull you impossibly closer.

♡ your sweet smile against his lips made him want to curve into you, to soak in everything that was you.

♡ he loves it, in long and in short. he doesn't have to break in anymore, and he takes your things whenever he wants because you told him he could.

♡ he walks you to work. he stays at your work. he walks you home. and he spends the rest of the night curled up against you, always touching you no matter what you're doing.

♡ take that as you will ♡

#˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ shadow yumeko #yandere leon kennedy x reader #divagaciones (per)

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shrubberylogistic · 7 months

Text

The Window and the Wall

You’re not built for moving. The packing. The unloading. You drop the last box with an exhausted sigh, collapsing on to the couch. Your skinny arms tremble with overuse, strings on weary shoulders, tugged to your bedroom. Seconds later you’re a squealing, giggling mess, leg cocked, panties twisted in his fingers, pushed up against the wall.

That wall. He hangs pictures of you there. Ones from before you met. Dates at the cafe, the restaurant, the buffet. Gelato at the beach. Turkey legs at the fair. Pictures of you now - rounder in the face, softer in the middle, squeezed in the slip of his arm. You raise an eyebrow, eyes running left to right, row to row.

He’s leaving room for more.

Much more.

He plays a game on the rare days you stand, thighs brushing, walking you towards the wall. It used to be your nose that touched the surface first. Now it’s your belly and breasts, cushioned and plush, stretching out your vest top. Then he walks you back, hands on your meaty hips, dipping you in the comfort of the covers to be succoured and stuffed, swelled until the only thing that touches next morning is the cusp of your heaving, sweltering gut, bloated with spaghetti and shakes. Unleashed. Uncontrollable.

Condensation settles on the window above, wide and high, the handle out of your reach. You stretch up, rubbing with a dry cloth in slow, gravid circles when he’s not around to watch you struggle, biting your lip at the feel of hanging, jiggling flesh, sleeves slack over arms that ache with every wobble. Breakfast in bed? It’s steamed up again. Brought Doordash upstairs? It’s steamed up again. He’s home from work? It’s steamed up again within seconds. Go figure.

At night, the pane frames your reflection - a pig, a puddle on the covers, your partner snoozing in your dough while you’re awake, wild-eyed, straining, feeling yourself unfurl with width, sucking in air. He strokes your folds, straddles your bulk and pulls the window open in the morning, for you to hear the laughter of children playing on the sidewalk, the distant hum of traffic, the pitter-patter of people jogging to places you’ll never see on your shrinking feet, pushing themselves to limits you reach on the waddle to the shower, huffing and puffing. The wall. Some hit it in a marathon. You hit it without a hand to hoist your ass from the couch.

The sun's rays cast a glow on towering stacks of empty food containers, scrunched candy wrappers, discarded dreams and swallowed pride, all heaped up on your cluttered floor, sloughing off a bed that groans under the weight of your existence. You spend days dissolving, naked, tracing the peeling paint on the wall, raindrops running on the window as you inhale your food, guzzle your drinks, fumble your phone with fat, greasy fingers. The pictures linger - two dozen shots of your hefty face, silent witnesses to your decline. Spongy, stirring, you slap the wall the moment the tightness snatches your chest, gritting your teeth, tongue dry in salty, dripping bacon lard, wheezing through your constricted nose.

Three digits. Three digits in your mind as you clamour for words to exhale. He’s there. Your heart clenches. His shadow’s on the wall. You can’t even choke out a groan. He watches you sink down the headboard, chins piling up on your chest. The ceiling starts to dull, your adrenaline dissipating in gassy, sweaty gasps. Too fat to flail. Too heavy for him to help you.

The sirens rake the ceiling red and blue. He’s holding your hand when the sledgehammer crashes through the glass. He’s squeezing your fingers when the saw ignites, slicing through the brickwork like butter. He’s covering your eyes when the dust disperses, blinding sunlight seeping through the hole in your house, cameras flashing, firefighters labouring to cut the gap wide enough for you to fit through.

You breathe through the clear blue mask, draped in shiny blankets, gurney rattling, eyes scanning a wreck. The end of your exile - but you’re still trapped. Swaddled under slabs of yourself, you’re stuck tighter than any walls can hold. A spectator to the rest of your life. You hear the ambulance backing up, beads of sweat forming on your brow. You hear him whisper this is exactly what you were meant to be.

Back to the wall. One window of opportunity.

One curtain, slowly drawing to a close.

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littlemisssquiggles · 11 days

Text

...So...about the second episode of RWBY Beyond...

[SPOILERS AHEAD! NUFF SAID]

It skips over the return of RWBY and Jaune, reuniting with their comrades in Vacuo and getting to see everyone’s reactions to being reunited with their missing comrades after so long.

Alright. I guess they're saving that for V10 if it gets greenlit. Fair and fine.

That being said, it skips over the reunion to focus a whole episode on Jaune in the aftermath of the return from the Ever After?

...Huh?

I’m sorry. But for the sake of being that person, I’m gonna be that person.

Just to set the record straight, I don’t hate Jaune. I've never hated Jaune as a character. I have mostly had issues with the way the Writers just love to have Jaune’s development usurp others who deserve the screen time and focus more than him.

Personally, I do not care for Jaune’s development right now. Jaune’s whole experience in the Ever After, for me, did NOT need to be a focus episode for RWBY Beyond.

Especially since there are other characters who had more tragic experiences in the Ever After whose feelings I would’ve liked to see in the aftermath.

And by other characters, I mainly mean Ruby!

I do, however, love the detail of Oscar being someone that Jaune gets to talk to.

That was nice and I’m pleased to see that for a second time, Oscar is featured in RWBY Beyond. I actually hope that’s a thing for the final two episodes. I hope that Oscar appears in each episode of RWBY Beyond, even if he’s just in the background.

But going back to my original rant, Jaune is NOT the person I was itching to see Oscar talk to especially in respect to their experience in the Ever After.

If there is any body I wanted to see talk to Oscar, it’s RUBY ROSE! And no, this has nothing to do with Rosegarden or shipping potential at all. I’m talking about this from a narrative perspective.

Ruby’s whole arc in the Ever After was basically about life, death and rebirth in a sense. A complete deconstruction of her character, resulting in her committing the Ever After equivalent of “suicide” and be faced with an ultimatum of choosing to become someone else or be herself in which she chose herself.

Ruby lost herself in the Ever After for a moment. Oscar is on the cusp of losing himself at this moment.

Ruby saw Oscar “die” as part of an illusion that hinted at her being responsible for his death and/failing to save him just like she did with other friends like Penny.

Oscar is on the cusp of “dying” metaphorically right now.

YOU DON’T THINK THESE ARE TWO PEOPLE WHO DEFINTELY NEED TO TALK TO EACH OTHER?!!

C’MON CRWBY! IT'S FINE THAT JAUNE GETS TO TALK TO OSCAR BUT I NEED RUBY TO TALK TO OSCAR TOO!

And speaking of Oscar, don't think I didn't notice his little awkward cough and shifty eyes, immediately redirecting the conversation when Oscar made a point about being in similar situation to Jaune and Jaune be like "You mean Ozpin, right?" and Oscar be like "Aah yes, of course". Ya'll ain't slick dropping dem Merge crumbs! For what it's worth, I do hope an episode focus more on Oscar and Oz in the cards for the final two episodes.

Overall, this second episode of RWBY Beyond was alright. As was the first.

The artwork of RWBY Beyond is absolutely breathtaking to me and is easily my favourite part of watching the anthology. Inspite of the limited animation, the beautiful artwork more than makes up for it. I definitely wouldn’t mind an actual physical RWBY storybook anthology series done in this same art style.

Makes me wish that Fairytales of Remnant animated series was done in this exact same style instead of the awkward Camp Camp style that DID NOT feel like RWBY at all.

All in all, onward to the next episode of RB. Makes me wonder who will be the focus of the final two episodes.

Like which characters will be we get to have an episode about? Obviously, speaking for myself, I would love an Oscar-centric episode. I mean…he’s been in every episode thus far so it’d be nice to see on all about him for once.

Outside of Oscar, I wouldn’t mind an episode about the Schnee Family done from Whitley’s perspective? That’s also a good one to see.

And of course, if there is one person an episode needs to be done on, it has to be Ruby. I mean the Oscar and Whitley ones are probabilities but a Ruby-focus episode for RWBY Beyond has to be in the cards, right?

If they can touch base on Jaune’s feelings during the Aftermath of the Ever After then surely, they gotta talk about Ruby's whole experience with her literal death and rebirth, right? RIGHT?

I guess only time will tell. 2 Episodes down. 2 more to go so see ya’ll next week.

~LMS (2024)

#squiggles talks: rwby #rwby beyond #oscar pine #ruby rose #rwby spoilers #rwby beyond spoilers

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uncertainwallflower · 3 months

Text

Is that what it was? That terror, was it…love?

— Clarice Lispector, Ronald W. Sousa (translator), The Passion According to G.H.

NEVER FAR BEHIND (THOSE LIVID KNUCKLES) For @jilymicrofics's 2024 Jily Gift Exchange. Giftee: @reality-exodus Words: 742. Rating: E. Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence. Summary: To wrong Lily Evans is to face James Potter's wrath.

READ ON AO3 OR UNDER THE CUT

What smiting would be just? What punishment befitting of the crime? The Defendant would undoubtedly plead guilty. But hear me, oh Mighty One, and take pity—it was all for love.

It was all-consuming. That quickening of the heart; that swell of an ocean between the ears, within the skull; that hot heaving rage clawing at the ribcage, demanding to be set free—Stravinsky's Rite of Spring reaching crescendo. Nails biting into anxious palms—that desperate bid for self-control.... And then, like the snap of a tendon, that oh-so-sweet release, when fist melded with face to the sickening—the thrilling—Stravinsky!—symphony of cracking bone. Then the wash of calm. All before the faint scream of the Defended and the groans of the vermillion mouth cut through the glorious haze, and the guilt and the fear rushed forth with the realisation of what you had done. It hit you somewhere deep, somewhere dark, dank, as if you yourself had just met the hand of Man.

James, swallowing the rising tide of emotion, abandoned the crumpled suggestion of Quentin Trollope (the Victim) and focused instead on the reason for his presence in the cold corridor, the motivation behind his mind-numbing fury.

Lily wasn’t far away. She was sitting, spine straight as a lightning rod, with her back pressed into the raw stone wall behind him, trembling, grey school cardigan fallen—wrenched—off one shoulder, knees slumped forward and nearly fused from the pressure of the contortion, while her feet splayed out on either side of her: the unsteady limbs of a newborn foal. Her eyes, wide with terror, were trained on James. A single file of blood had made its steady way from the corner of her pink parted mouth to the cusp of her pale pointed chin. Flooding down from a steadily burning torch immediately above, Heavenly light cast a perfect amber nimbus over her messy titian head like a beautifully tragic saint. James nearly choked.

He was with her in an instant, his eyes searching hers for hurt, for pardon. His thumb messily brushed away the trickle of blood, achieving only a grotesque smear across her jaw. A lump lodged itself in his throat. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice hard gravel.

Lily nodded wordlessly, head threatening to fall limp in the security of his hands, which cupped her jaw ever so tenderly.

In the centre of the flagstone floor, Quentin stirred. His usually neat, presently dishevelled, bowl cut was fair and thin; it wobbled as he did. Gazing down at his own hot blood, cupped in his quaking hand, his face split into a deranged grin: ear-to-ear with all teeth bared. He laughed once, twice, then, without looking up from the winey liquid now carving its way down his wrist, rasped: “You motherfucker. I think you broke it.” He laughed again—loud gasps of glee. An entire minute elapsed, then, upon discerning that it would garner no response, he fell deathly silent, and settled the pair with a cold hard stare. “You can’t protect her forever.”

James slowly hauled Lily up so they were both standing, her arms flung around his shoulders.

“You hear me?”

“Just fuck off, Trollope,” spat James as he guided Lily down the corridor, without giving the pathetic lump the dignity of turning his head to address him.

Now spitting frothy blood like a rabid dog, Quentin stuffily shouted: “Just you wait, Potter! I’ll get her eventually and you know it. I’ll kill that jumped-up little Mudblood.”

James paused, unlooped Lily’s arms from his neck and his from her waist. “Wait here.”

“James—”

“Wait. Here.”

A few long strides took him right back down the corridor from whence he came. As he reached Quentin’s hunched spine, the boy-puddle, who had been probing his swelling nose, stilled. He chuckled and threw a manic smile over his bony shoulder. Sneered: “Back for more?”

James shrugged. “You could say that.” Then, with all the presence of mind of someone intending to inflict true harm and the force of knuckles hardened from years of rigorous training, struck the pinched sparrow-like face square in the nose. Where before there had been a crunch, there was now a squelch. James came away from Quentin Trollope’s unconscious form splattered with ruby, which he vanished as quickly as it had come, before reuptaking his hold on a swaying Lily and, pressing the softest of kisses to her tear-stained cheekbone, helped her down the corridor.

#jilymicrofics #2024 jily gift exchange #uncertainwallflower #jily #hogwarts era #microfic #bella's micros #tw assault #tw blood #tw violence

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deancaskiss · 2 years

Text

constantly on the cusp of kissing you

Summary: The first time Dean kisses Cas, it’s for a case. Just for a case. Nothing more. Dean absolutely doesn’t feel anything when they kiss. The second time Dean kisses Cas, it’s because they’re trapped by a monster, and Dean has something to prove to the monster. But it’s not real, right? The third time Dean kisses Cas, he doesn’t know if he’s trying to prove something to himself or to Cas. A kiss is just a kiss; it doesn’t mean anything, right? Unless maybe it’s time to acknowledge that kissing can mean something if it’s with the right person— or in Dean’s case, the right Angel.

Word count 2,201 (continued under the read more). Also posted on ao3.

The first time Dean kisses Cas, it’s for a case. Just for a case. Nothing more.

They needed a distraction. Something to confuse the monster.

And, to be fair, Dean blames Sam anyway. Because Sam seems to know the monster's weakness before Dean does, and Sam grabs Eileen and kisses her. The monster, some weird Aztec entity, begins thrashing about, unable to focus on anything; as if the kiss was shattering something inside of it.

The creature wheels away from Sam and Eileen, and then its eyes lock on Cas, who’s standing just a couple of feet in front of Dean.

And what is Dean supposed to do? Just stand there and watch Cas get attacked by this creature with gnashing teeth and razor sharp claws?

The monster tears its way towards Cas, snarling and spitting, and Dean quickly reaches out and yanks the Angel closer before he becomes monster lunch meat.

“Trust me?” Dean asks, pulling Cas into his personal space.

Cas blinks in surprise before squinting at Dean. “Yes, of course I-”

Dean doesn't wait for the rest of the sentence. Just yanks Cas closer and brings their mouths together in a rush of a kiss.

A small sound of surprise slips from Cas’ lips and melts into Dean’s mouth, and then Cas is kissing Dean back. Their mouths find a perfect sync instantaneously as Cas tilts his head and slots his lower lip between Dean’s lips. There’s something about the way Cas hums softly as their lips glide against each other that has Dean completely dizzy.

Oh God, kissing Cas shouldn’t feel this good.

But Cas is leaning into it, hands settling on Dean’s waist as Dean traces his tongue over Cas’ lip. A shiver dances down Dean’s spine, and he finds himself chasing the taste of crackling energy and the hum of Grace.

When Dean pulls away, breathless, the monster is on the ground, writhing and shrieking. Without any hesitation, Cas throws his blade at the monster’s head, and it stops with a final jerking motion.

Cas’ eyes flicker back to Dean, a spark of hope glinting within the bright blue, and Dean feels the panic seize in his chest.

Shit.

He just kissed his best friend.

The words jump up Dean’s throat before he can stop them. “Well, glad that plan worked.”

There’s a change in Cas’ expression that feels like that angel blade had lodged itself into Dean’s chest; Cas’ face crumpling for a fraction of a second, before he nods once and shifts his gaze away from Dean. “Always at your service, Dean.”

Before Dean can say anything, Cas walks away.

Even though he can’t explain why, Dean can’t help but feel like he did something wrong.

The second time Dean kisses Cas, they’re stuck, trapped by some weird monster mashup that’s going around killing anyone with a happy life.

Something about people not deserving happy endings.

“And what about you, Hunter? What’s your happy ending? Who’s the one you go to at the end of the day?” the monster jeers.

Dean can’t help the way his eyes flicker towards Cas. Cas. The one he watches movies with. The one who sits and talks to him while he cooks. The one who Dean can't imagine not having by his side.

The monster laughs, sick and twisted, making Dean’s insides crawl. “Him? You want me to believe he’s your happy ending?”

Now Dean’s stomach is lurching for a different reason. He hasn’t thought of it like that. Or, well, maybe he has. Since that kiss a few weeks ago on the Aztec monster hunt, Dean hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the Angel’s lips on his. The soft sounds Cas made. The inexplicable way he wants to feel that surge again, even though he knows it’s a bad idea.

Part of him wants more. And part of him screams not to go down that road. Because if they go there, if they cross that line, there is no going back.

Now, Dean lets his eyes flicker to Cas, and he can’t stop himself from saying, “Yeah, he is.”

The monster sneers. “Well go on then. Prove it.”

The only thing racing through Dean’s mind is kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.

Shifting closer until he’s crouching next to the angel, Dean leans into Cas’ space, his eyes flickering down to Cas’ lips. Cas seems to get the hint before Dean can say it.

‘Still trust me?’ Dean mouths.

Cas nods imperceptibly, and Dean takes the bait. Closing the gap, Dean presses their lips together. Instantly, he can feel the tension in the way Cas’ mouth feels against his, and suddenly Dean needs to ease that stiffness. Needs to feel Cas melt.

Slowly, Dean glides his tongue along the seam of Cas’ mouth, letting his hands slip into the hair at the back of Cas’ neck.

A stuttering gasp falls from Cas’ mouth, and then Cas is kissing him back, one hand settling on Dean’s shoulder and the other falling to the hem of his shirt. There’s a soft sigh that escapes between their lips as Dean slips his tongue into Cas’ mouth, brushing against Cas’ tongue before darting away to explore his mouth.

Cas pulls him closer, fingertips skimming across Dean’s hip and pressing into skin, and God, Dean feels like he’s seeing stars.

This kiss is just as good as their first kiss. God. No. It’s better than their first one.

Not a once off. Definitely not just a fluke.

Cas is getting more bold now, his tongue teasing against Dean’s as his fingers inch higher up Dean’s waist and across his back. Dean pulls back slightly from the kiss, and Cas chases him, catching Dean’s lower lip between his own. Just as Dean considers how good it would be to tangle their tongues together for more than a fleeting second, there’s a slow clap behind them that makes Dean pull away.

Right. The monster.

“You’ve proven yourselves. That was quite a show.”

Finally, Sam bursts into the room- ten minutes late… or maybe five minutes too early considering the fact Dean’s brain was still stuck on the idea of wrapping his tongue around Cas’- with Jack and Eileen close behind, and together they take the creature out.

“How’d you keep him distracted for so long?” Sam asks as they make their way back to the Impala.

“Improvised,” Dean mutters, his mind stuck replaying the way Cas’ fingers trailed over his skin as they kissed.

“It was just for the case, right? Nothing more than that,” Dean asks Cas later that night once they’re back in the Bunker, and Dean already has an escape route back to his room planned out in his mind.

Cas’ expression flickers, and Dean can almost see the walls going up between them. “Right. Just for the case,” Cas replies stiffly before brushing past Dean on the way to his own room.

Somehow, Dean feels like that wasn’t the answer either of them were looking for.

The third time Dean kisses Cas, he doesn’t know if he’s trying to prove something to himself or to Cas.

“A kiss is just that. A kiss. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Dean argues.

Cas crosses his arms, then thinks better of it and points at the now black screen of the TV that the movie had been playing on moments before. “And how do you explain that?”

“That Hollywood bullcrap? That’s all it is, Cas. Movie magic. They’re actors. It’s all a show meant to convince you that the characters are in love, but not the actors. Their kisses are as fake as the ones we’ve shared.”

Wrong choice of words, Winchester. Real wrong.

Cas’ expression morphs into a painting of hurt, rejection, and anger. “That was all fake, huh?”

“Yes! We agreed it was just for the case. It didn’t mean anything,” Dean snaps. Except, even he isn’t sure he believes those words. Not with the way his dreams have all been centered on angelic lips and soft sounds of pleasure in Cas’ deep baritone.

Cas is almost shaking now, his eyes glinting blueish white with Grace. “You didn’t feel anything when you kissed me?”

“No,” Dean says, and then, because he’s an idiot, “And I’ll prove it to you.”

Pushing into Cas’ space, Dean grabs hold of Cas’ tie and yanks him forward into a bruising kiss. Their teeth clash, and Dean hurries the kiss along. Because if he lingers… if he feels the way Cas kisses him back…

Quickly, Dean pulls away with a scoff. “See? Nothing. All fake.”

But now there’s a glint in Cas’ eyes. A challenge? Cas’ tone doesn’t match that expression, though. Not when he opens his mouth and whispers, “No, Dean. Kiss me like before. Like you did those other times. Kiss me like that, and then tell me it doesn’t mean anything.”

Dean feels like the ground has slipped away from his feet, leaving him free-falling. It’s too late now to back down. Too late to escape this thing that was between them; swirling emotions and unnamed desires. All he can do is kiss Cas and hope… hope what? Hope Cas doesn’t feel it too? Or hope that he does and it’s not one-sided? Or hope that his feelings are getting crossed like wires; that what he’d felt those first two times were just a fluke?

“Kiss me, Dean,” Cas murmurs again, half goading and half pleading.

Reeling Cas in by the tie once again, Dean leans in and locks their lips together. Not harsh and rushed like before, but slow and soft, just like their first two kisses.

Cas instantly melts against him, lips parting on a breathy exhale as Dean’s tongue slips into his mouth. This time, Cas grants his unspoken wish. Their tongues brush against each other, but instead of pulling away, Cas tangles them together softly. A groan is punched from Dean’s lungs at the same time Cas lets out a string of stuttering little gasps.

Cas’ hands slip under the back of Dean’s shirt, palms gliding along Dean’s spine and settling low on his hips. Their lips meld against each other, moving and gliding softly before parting and finding each other again. Cas’ slips his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and Dean lets him, too busy tracing over Cas’ lips over and over again with his own. There’s a slight tilt to the shape of Cas’ mouth, and it’s only after Dean has kissed every inch of his lips does he realize that Cas is smiling.

God. That shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but Dean just can’t get enough.

Cas moves to break the kiss, hedging out of Dean’s space, but Dean nudges back in, his nose bumping softly against Cas’ before he seals their lips together again. With one hand still wrapped in the tie, Dean moves his free hand to settle against Cas’ jaw, tracing the stubble there with his thumb. There’s a breathy moan of pleasure from Cas, and Dean swallows the sound before chasing the source into another kiss and another.

When they finally break apart, both gasping for air, Dean feels like he’s not just falling anymore. He’s floating.

“Tell me it doesn’t mean anything,” Cas whispers brokenly, his fingers gripping against Dean’s waist, even as he leans out of Dean’s space. “Tell me it’s fake and you don’t feel what this is between us.”

The lie is right there on the tip of Dean’s tongue. To say he doesn't feel it. To say this wasn’t anything but an exaggerated kiss for show. But he can’t do it. Not when kissing Cas feels this good. Not when he wants to do it again and again until the only thing he can taste is Cas on his tongue.

Dean’s leans in again, watching Cas’ expression as he brushes his lips to the corner of Cas’ mouth. “If I say it’s real, will you kiss me again?”

“Yes,” Cas replies, no hesitation.

“Real, real, so fucking real,” Dean mutters, pressing the words against the edge of Cas’ mouth.

Cas grins, and Dean can feel the shape of Cas’ smile against his lips. “So kissing me means something then?”

Dean huffs out a laugh, his breath ghosting along Cas’ cheek. “Yes, alright, it does. You win. Now would you stop asking questions and just go back to kissing me already?”

The angel tilts his head, catching Dean’s mouth with his own. Tugging Dean back down onto the couch, Cas murmurs against Dean’s lips, “Was waiting for you to ask me that.”

Dean feels himself smile into the kiss this time. “Less asking questions, more kissing,” he mumbles against Cas’ mouth, pushing the trenchcoat off of Cas’ shoulders as he moves to straddle Cas’s lap.

“Deal,” Cas huffs out, his hands slipping back under Dean’s shirt as their lips meld together again in another breathtaking kiss.

Maybe Dean hadn’t been ready to admit it before, but now, with Cas between his legs and his lips mapping out every detail of Cas’ mouth, Dean is more than happy to spend the rest of the night, and every night after that, making out with his angel.

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