#i think the light grey i have is running out of ink

[myonmukyuu]

marker practice ayumu

#love live #ayumu uehara #my art #myon's marker training arc #i think the light grey i have is running out of ink #it was a bit of a struggle #markers are scary #how do i graduate to colour when b/w is so comfy... LMAO #i was writing a lengthy blog post that featured all of my experimental ugly wips with explanations but then tumblr did an oopsie and #none of it saved and like; man..... #but i'm pretty happy with my progress!! the really early experiments were super ugly LMAO #once i feel comfortable with b/w ill probably toy with colours but its a bit conceptually foreign to me #cus there's only like #select colours #so you have limited colours to pick from? and to blend with? #and i dont really know how to mix pigments #aand on top of that im not sure what are the best ways to mix mediums (like if i wanted to do a colour wash #i can use water colour right??? is there an order??) #(like water colour is obviously water but copics are alcohol based so like does it matter what order one goes on the other??? AHHHH PANIC) #i have many questions... and for whatever reason started rambling in the tags #i like ayumu 😊 #(im have a lot of tutorials to watch)

[eddiesxangel]

Take Me to the Lakes | E.M x Reader ~ 2/6

Read part 1 here

Cw: angst, jealousy, pining, weed consumption, 18+ content MDNI

Wc: 4.4k

You didn’t see Eddie the rest of the day, but you did happen to run into Steve and yell at him for the most impromptu timing in the world. It has been a scorcher of a day, so you were elated that today was swim day.

The sun was sweltering; Robin and you had to triple-check that your campers had all the water-resistant sunscreen. You had worn your bathing suit under your jean shorts and Camp Murdock t-shirt, but you couldn’t take the sweaty cotton touching your skin any longer. You had to strip off the clothes that were sticking to your skin.

“I think I might die if I don’t get in the water now!” Robin complained. You could see her usually pin-straight bangs getting wavy from the sweat on her forehead.

“Same here, I can’t believe I didn’t think to put my hair up this morning." You could feel the sweat dripping down the base of your neck.

As soon as you reached the dock, you took charge and ensured that everyone in your group was fully aware of all the water safety rules. You then conducted a final head count of all the campers before jumping into the water yourselves.

Robin was the first to take the plunge, diving headfirst into the refreshing water. Despite the initial shock of the cold water, she resurfaced with a huge grin on her face, her teeth chattering with excitement.

“Holy shit, it’s freezing!” she squealed.

“Oh god, I don’t want to do it now,” you laughed as you stripped off your jean shorts.

Just as you were removing your clothes, Eddie, Steve, and Ashton came running around the corner, unable to stay in the heat themselves. Due to the hot weather, Eddie tied his long hair back, and his light grey shirt turned dark grey from sweat. They had just changed into their swimming trunks.

“Hey, look, the girls,” Ashton pointed to you and Robin.

Eddie had stopped dead in his tracks as he watched you. It was like you were moving in slow motion.

You still were taking your shorts off. Eddie watched as your peach of an ass bent over to step out of your shorts, your back arching as you peeled off the t-shirt. You wore your red bikini with little white hearts matched perfectly with the little heart inked into the skin on your right butt cheek.

Hold up, what? Eddie’s brain short-circuited. You not only have a tattoo, but an ass tattoo?

“Dude, hello, Earth to Eddie,” Steve was snapping his fingers in front of Eddie's face.

“ Huh, what?” Eddie reluctantly peeled his eyes away from you.

“You’d been staring at her for like five minutes, bro; just ask her out already.” Ashton laughed.

“Was not five minutes"

“So you admit you’re staring?” Steve smirks.

“How could I not? Don’t you have eyes?”

The guys laughed, and Eddie continued his gaze back to you when he saw Billy approaching you from the right. Eddie felt a sudden possessiveness over you when it came to that guy. He never liked Billy from the start. His off-putting comment and how he looked at you like he wanted to eat you were unsettling.

Eddie didn’t waste another second thinking about it; he started to run towards you, kicking off his slides and tossing his shirt before he grabbed you by the waist and flung you both into the water, laughing.

-

You weren’t paying attention to the boys behind you; honestly, you had no idea they were even there. You were too focused on working up the courage to finally jump in. Robin tried to convince you when you heard your name being called.

“Bambi, damn girl, you’re looking hotter than last year.” You turned and rolled your eyes immediately. Out of all people, Billy. You watched in disgust as he was ogling you while licking his lips.

Before you could even reply, a force pushed you into the freezing water.

When you breach the surface, you profusely try to catch your breath, looking around to see what the fuck just happened.

Your first instinct was to blame Billy for pushing you in.

“What the fuck Coyote?!” You were freezing, and the drastic temperature change had your teeth chattering.

“It wasn’t me!” his hands when up in defence.

You believe him, so you start looking around because he couldn't have, and you swore another person had jumped into the lake with you.

“Sorry, Princess. As your knight, I must fulfill my duty to you to save you.” A whisper echoed in your ear.

You let out a small scream, startled by his closeness, but when your heart settled, your flesh rose in goosebumps, not because of the cold of the lake water. Strong hands touch your waits turning you around to face your ‘saviour’

“Oh, my hero,” you fake swoon.

Eddie laughed, his head tipped all the way back so his hair was touching the water, his thick neck exposed, sending you into a daydream of leaving many a mark on that neck, but your thots were halted by Eddie pushing down on your head, dunking you back into the water.

“Edward Munson, I swear to God!” You screamed when you popped back up out of the water.

“Oh, my government name? You wound me, Princess.” He grabbed his chest like he had a knife in his heart.

You started to swim towards him, but the cold lake water was starting to numb your limbs. You couldn’t move fast enough; your teeth were still chattering, and Eddie could hear how cold you were.

“I'm sorry, Princess. I need to redeem myself.” He reached out and pulled you into his body, wrapping his arms around the small of your waist.

“You better be.” You shivered.

“Come, let's get you warmed up in the sun.”

He hopped out of the water, not even having to use the ladder. He reached down, holding out his hand to help you out, but you yanked him back down, and he fell head-first back into the water.

Eddie could only hear your laugh when he broke through the surface.

“I guess I deserved that.” He shook his head like a wet dog.

You were already halfway up the ladder when you felt his gaze on you. Eddie watched as you climbed up; he trialled right behind you, giving him a great view of the tattoo he wanted to know more about.

You quickly ran over to the towel that had been warmed by the sun. Shivering, you crouched down and sat in a ball to cover yourself with the whole towel.

“Come ‘er Princess, let's get you warmed up.” Eddie sat beside you and wrapped his arms around your shoulders with his own towel to cover you both before he started rubbing his hands up and down your arms to help you get warm.

You couldn’t help but lean into his touch, resting your head on his shoulder. Between the sun and Eddie, you warmed you up in no time.

You were at peace, the smell of coconut sunscreen, the sounds of splashing in the water, the warm feeling you were getting because Eddie was not only touching you, but hugging you.

“There you go, your majesty, all better,” Eddie smirked.

“You’re really not going to give up this joke, are you?” You laughed.

“Not in a million years, Princess.”

-

You and the girls were busily getting ready for a cozy after-the-bonfire hangout with the boys in the mess hall. You were there setting up some snacks and drinks on the table, and the soft glow of the fairy lights hanging on the walls added to the warm ambiance of the room.

Meanwhile, Eddie and his cabin were chatting and laughing, looking forward to the evening. As the night grew darker, they realized it was already 10:00 pm, and they needed to do one last check on the campers to make sure they were sound asleep. Once it was all calre the guys made their way to the mess hall.

“So you and Julie seem to be getting pretty close.” With his flashlight under his chin, Ashton wiggled his eyebrows at Eddie. Eddie shoves his shoulder lightly, laughing in response.

“I don’t know, man. I know her from home, is all.” Eddie shrugged.

“Come on, dude! You totally couldn’t keep your hands off her at the lake today; I saw you,” Ashton accused.

“Well, have you seen her? And I think she has been flirty with me? I don't know...she confuses me,” Eddie admitted, thinking back on earlier this morning when he thought you almost kissed him.

It's not like Eddie didn't want to believe it, it's that he can't believe it. Why do you, out of all people, want to be with him?

“I would go for it, dude, trust me. She is my best girl-friend, and I shouldn’t say anything, so I won’t, but if I were you, I would ask her out.” Steve joined in.

“You shouldn’t say anything? What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie asked as they opened the doors to the hall.

“Sorry, man, sworn to secrecy, but trust me, bro.”

“Don't ever trust Moose.” Robin giggled, not knowing the context of the conversation.

“Hey, boys,” you smiled.

Eddie’s eyes met yours, and he smiled back, but his smile dropped when he saw Billy sitting beside you. Billy was like a mosquito who wouldn't leave you alone; he gave you no personal space even though you were seated at a twenty-foot-long picnic table.

He tried his best to ignore Billy; you had already said you didn’t like him, so why did Eddie feel jealous?

Instead, Eddie tried to focus all his attention on you, so he sat directly across from you. Eddie thought you looked cute tonight. Your natural hair was wrapped up in a messy bun, but shorter pieces framing your face.

You wore a heather grey Camp Murdock oversized crewneck sweater, blue and green plaid flannel pyjama pants, and pink fuzzy socks. He liked that you felt comfortable enough to not try hard like you do back home. Back home, he never saw your hair out of place or your outfit not coordinated. Not that Eddie didn't like that version of you, but he likes this version a whole lot more. It made you feel more real and less of this superhuman that the town dubbed you as.

“What are we playing today?” Eddie asked.

“A good old game of truth or dare,” Robin smiled.

“Oh god,” Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. We have a little something extra to make it fun,” You smiled while showing the group the pre-rolled joint you pulled out of your pyjama pants pocket.

Eddie smirked at the thought of you, goodie two shoes, and buying weed. Then, his thought process changed… Who else would you get weed from if not him?

“The fuck you get that?” Eddie didn’t intend for it to be that harsh, but it slipped out like word vomit. Could this be trusted? How did he know it wasn’t laced or tainted.

“Oh, uh, I know a local guy.” Your smile dropped, and Eddie watched as you curled into yourself.

Fuck.

“Better be up to this guy’s standards,” Billy pointed to Eddie, only making it worse.

“You’re lucky I’m even sharing with you.”

“Let’s just start, guys, jeez.” Robin rolled her eyes.

You lit up first then passed it to Billy. Eddie seethed that he got it first. He almost grabbed it right from your hands but he knew he needed to control himself…

The game went on, and the typical stuff happened: streaking, truths about the first kiss, and chugging a combination of ketchup, mustard, and mayo. The joint was getting down to a nub, and it was really starting to take effect. The mood had been lifted, and Eddie noticed how you and the others were getting more giggly, whispering and plotting the next truths and dares.

Steve was up next, and he turned to you.

“Truth or dare?” Steve asks with a smirk.

“Truth,” you say confidently.

“Who was the last guy to give you an orgasm?” He gives you the biggest tooth smile.

Eddie’s ears perk up, his attention locked in. The bubbling feeling of jealousy almost formed again, but it disappeared as soon as you spoke your answer.

“No one.” You blushed.

“Come on, no one believes you, Bambi.” Steve retorts.

“I’m serious! Now shut up it's my turn.” You huffed.

Eddie was not surprised you’re a virgin; if you had slept with anyone, everyone in Hawkins would have known about it.

It sounds wrong, but Eddie was relieved when you said no one. Nobody would be able to please you like he could. The things Eddie wanted to do to you, worship you, take care of you…

“Eddie, hello! earth to Eddie!” Your voice snaps Eddie out of his daydreams.

“Huh? What?”

“Truth or dare,” you smile at him.

“Dare,” Eddie smirked.

“I dare you to kiss…Billy.” You, Robin, and Nancy burst into a fit of giggles like you’ve been plotting.

“I’ll kiss literaly any other guy. Try again, sweetheart.” Eddie sees you try to hide your smile at the pet name. Noted.

"Hey! What's wrong with me?"

"Everything..." Eddie rolls his eyes.

"Come here, big guy, let me plant one on ya." Billy began to chase Eddie around the room, and you, along with everyone else, couldn't hold in your giggles. It was really good weed.

-

The night rolled on, and everyone had to return to their cabins before you knew it.

“Well, boys, I am never skinny dipping at night again. I think my dick shrunk back into my body. Fuck, that lake is cold!” Ashton laughed.

“I never want to see those hairy cheeks again,” Eddie joined.

“I can’t believe what Bambi said, can you?” Steve piped up.

“About what?” Eddie asked.

“That no guy has ever gotten her off. You would think at least one would, you know” Steve exclaimed while brushing his teeth.

“Maybe that’s why she is acting like she has a stick up her ass; I can show her a good time, maybe replace that stick with mine, if you know what I mean.” Billy joked, cupping his crotch as he was getting his pyjamas on.

The joke wasn’t funny; the thought of any guy touching you made Eddie's knuckles go white. His face dropped into a sneer for a split second, but he caught himself. Fucking hell, Munson pulled it together.

“Shut up, dude. She wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.” Ashton laughed as he lay in his bunk.

“Oh yeah, we will see. She will come around.” He winked, and Eddie felt the s’mores in his stomach start to churn.

Eddie was about to let Steve know that there was no way on God's green earth that you had slept with someone, but his attention was shifted when Steve spoke again.

“Word is she likes someone,” Steve dropped casually as he climbed into his top bunk.

That caught the three men’s attention; they whipped around simultaneously, and all Steve could do was laugh.

“You guys are something else.” He chuckled and laid down to go to sleep.

Maybe Ashton was right; maybe his ever-growing crush on you was too obvious. Maybe he should dial it back more...

-

As the sun sets over Camp Murdock, the anticipation builds for the evening's main event - the camper's talent show. You, Eddie, and Steve have been chosen as the judges for the show, and it's an exciting responsibility. The venue for the show is the old barn on the property. You have carefully set up rows of chairs and cleared a decent patch of the floor to create a makeshift stage. The rustic and charming barn is adorned with twinkle lights that create a warm and cozy atmosphere. A folding table is placed before the judges, where they will take notes and make their final decisions.

As the kids prepare backstage, their nervous energy is palpable. The makeshift backstage area is just an old curtain hanging on a rod by the back right wall. You can hear the campers giggling and screaming in excitement and nervousness. Despite their jitters, they are ready to showcase their talents and make the night memorable for everyone.

You sat in the middle with Steve and Eddie on either other side of you.

“Are you going to strut your stuff up there later tonight?” you asked Eddie quietly, giggling.

To your surprise, he didn’t give you much of an answer, a grunt and a shrug of his shoulders.

That was weird; Eddie had been so warm yesterday. This was your first time seeing him today; maybe he’s tired?

You tried shaking it off, wanting to focus on the kids.

“They all did well. It was so cute to see them perform their dances and songs. One kid did a magic show, and another just showed off his rock collection. Ultimately, one of Eddie’s campers, who had a beautiful singing voice, won the talent show. As a consolation prize, everyone who participated got ice cream. After all the celebrations, everyone went to bed, and it was time for the counsellors to have their own talent show.

You're incredibly nervous this year because you have decided to do something bold. You haven’t told anyone about it, not even Nancy or Robin. It’s evident to anyone who knows you that you’ll be dancing tonight, but it’s usually a ballet number. However, tonight is different. You are determined to make your move and not waste more precious time.

You carefully rummaged through your bag, removing the skin-tight pleather black booty shorts and a shiny red, cropped tank top. You loved the way the two pieces hugged your curves, making you feel both sexy and confident.

Next, you moved to the bathroom and began styling your hair. You wanted to create a voluminous look, so you used a curling iron to add bouncy curls that cascaded down your back. You then applied makeup, starting with a base of foundation and concealer. You added smoky black eyeliner to your upper and lower lids and finished the look with bold red lipstick that made your lips pop.

As soon as you feel prepared and all set, you slip into your cozy grey sweatpants over your shorts, taking care to secure yourself from the pesky bugs outside. You then slide your feet into your sleek black dancing heels and grab your cassette tape.

Robin was the first to see you when you returned to the barn.

“Shut the fuck up; what are you doing?” she asked most affectionately. A growing smirk spreads across her face as you turn.

“You’ll see.” Your confidence was helping a little, but deep down, you were terrified. You’ve been so nervous you think you might be sick.

As the talent show kicked off, you were excited to spend the evening with Eddie, but he seemed distant. Despite your best attempts at conversation, Eddie remained quiet and disinterested in engaging with you. Later, when you tried to talk to him again, he brushed you off, leaving you feeling hurt and confused. You hoped that his behaviour was just a temporary mood, but the fear of failure lingered in the back of your mind. If the plan you had been working on together didn't come to fruition, you knew you would be mortified.

As the show went on, you unfortunately had the pleasure of going dead last. Eddie wasn’t a judge this time, but he was still sitting in the front row. Perfect.

As the host, Mike, asked for your tape to be put into the casket player, he saw your hands visibly shaking.

“Bambi, relax. It's just for fun; you do this every year. We all love your little ballerina stuff,” he smiled.

“Do I look like I’m dressed to do ballet— know what, never mind?” You didn’t mean to be snappy; Mike had always been nice to you.

As he walked out on “stage” to announce the next performance, you stepped off your sweats, pulled the zipper up the side of the black high heels and prayed that you wouldn’t fall flat on your face in front of Eddie.

“Last but certainly not least, we have a crowd favourite!” The audience, your fellow colleagues, clapped as you walked out. You heard someone whistle, most likely Robin and your stomach flip-flopped.

You walk out and face the back wall, standing in a bevel, arms hanging by your side, waiting for the chords to start.

The first notes of Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love dripped from the speakers.

Your body moved seductively once the music hit like you were in a trace performance mode.

Were you worried some of the other girls would call you a slut? Absolutely, but once the music started, all that went away.

You began dancing like you had when Eddie caught you in the studio that first day, but this time, with the hair, makeup, and shoes, you were more confident than you'd ever been.

A-way, way down inside

A-honey you need-ah

I'm gonna give you my love, ah

I'm gonna give you my love, ah oh

The rush of being on stage made you lose yourself in the routine, however the part you had been most nervous about was coming up.

A-way, way down inside

You stood facing the crowd with your head thrown back, your right hand ran down your stomach, grazing past the waistband of your shorts that hardly covered anything, down cupping your core, then slinked it back up again.

I'm gonna give ya my love

Your head snaps back up, and you took a slow strut forward.

I'm gonna give ya every inch of my love

another slow step forward

I'm gonna give ya my love

You reached your target as you slowly sank to your knees right where Eddie was sitting. Giving him a small wink before you whipped your hair, you looked back up at him through your lashes, and you saw his jaw was clenched, and his hands were balled up white-knuckling.

You reached up with a single hand and grazed it over his left thigh before slinking back down to roll away and get back to the rest of the routine.

By the time you had finished, you were out of breath. Everyone cheered, and a few whistles were made as you walked off stage, but when you looked around, Eddie was gone.

Your heart sank. The overwhelming feeling of embarrassment washed over you, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

Of course, he wouldn’t want you in that way.

You were a fool to think he ever would.

You were naive to think changing your appearance to be like the edgier sexy chicks he probably goes for. You literally pulled a Sandy for Grease. You tried putting yourself out there, doing this dance, but now you felt the tears welling up; the lump in your throat grew. You felt like an idiot.

You needed air. You took off your shoes, put your pants back on, and walked out the barn's back door.

“Bambi, wait up.”

You turn to see Billy.

“Uh, hey,” You try to keep your voice as neutral as possible, forcing yourself not to let it crack.

“You were amazing up there!” He smiled and gave an encouraging hug.

“Thanks, Coyote, that's really sweet for you to say.” You sniffled.

“Hey, are you okay?” he pulled away to see your tears threatening to leave the rims of your lash line. “No, no, it’s okay. Don’t cry; everyone thought you rocked it!” He pulled you into another comforting hug.

This was the most genuine Billy’s been with you all summer. This was the Billy you knew and loved last summer.

“You really think so?” you ask trying to pull yourself together.

“Yes! Of course; what’s gotten into you?” He looked concerned.

“Nerves, I guess.” You try to shrug it off, but you can’t shake the feeling.

“Well you did amazing, you won!” He gave me a congratulatory kiss on the cheek; it was soft and hardly grazed your skin.

“Thank you.” You pulled him in for another hug. You just needed a friend right now, and I missed this version of Billy.

“You know there is another way I can make you feel better.” He chuckled.

“And the moment ruined, ugh. Why do you do that?” he laughed as you stepped away.

-

You found Cassie and the other girls back at the cabin.

“Hey guys.” You sniffled as you walked to your bed.

“Babe, you were amazing up there! Who knew you could move like that!” Clover cheered.

“You are one hot Mamma!” Nancy giggled.

“Bam, what’s wrong?” Robin asked after you hadn’t really said anything back. She came to sit beside you and wrapped her arm around your shoulder.

“It’s silly…” tears threatening to run down your cheeks once again.

“Hey, it’s just us." Nancy reached over and touched your hand.

You let out a heavy sigh.

“I feel like such an idiot! I did that whole thing to get Eddie’s attention, but he was gone before I even finished dancing.” You hid your face in your hands, too embarrassed to look at your friends.

“If you ask me, he looked like he was trying to contain himself. Girl, you did that to him with no warning! Hell, even I wanted to jump your bones just watching you.” Robin giggled.

“Really? Do you think so? You don’t think he was mad or put off? I saw his face—he looked annoyed. Like he was uncomfortable. Even earlier, he was cold to me.” You grabbed a tissue and blotted away your blackened tears.

“Nah, Bams, he looked like a man trying not to pop a boner, especially when you touched his thighs! Holy shit, I thought he would blow his load right there.”

Nancy managed to pull a laugh off of you.

“Thanks, guys; I think I'll feel better in the morning.” you sighed and gave them each a hug, then got ready for bed.

Next chapter

Tags: @winchester-angel @josephquinnsfreckles @lemme-slytherin-that-dick @emma-munson @littlexdeaths @siriuslysmoking @peachysink @nailbatanddungeon @leelei1980 @daisy-munson @taintedcigs @take-everything-you-can @strangerstilinski @bl0ssomanddie @seb-buckybarnes @chickenandsheep-blog @lokis-army-77 @ali-r3n @erinekc @impmunson @snowflowersstars246 @micheledawn1975 @princesatracionera @bells-28 @kellsck @guineveresghost @ezzynf @oneforthemunny @paybacksawitch

#eddie munson x reader #Eddie Munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #Eddie Munson au #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x y/n #take me to the lakes #Eddie Munson #eddie munson x oc #Eddie Munson camp au

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part seven —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. reader menstruates. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: some chill stuff before more angst ya know

The next morning, it is your turn to slip a treat into Blue’s hand.

You can tell by her expression that the Twix bar is like gold to her. Her teeth sink in. She stifles a moan. She hisses a swear you haven’t heard yet— Fucking noodles.

It reminds you of the time Paul found a Cadbury egg for Joseph. You smile as you watch, the kind where your teeth manage to poke through and your cheeks have to do some stretching. Ghost is chopping wood somewhere on the other side of camp, but still, you decided to close the shed’s door. 

Last night, you were too worn to stay in the cabin for long. You left just after Ghost shucked on some large helmet with two strange eyepieces attached to it. To see in the dark, Blue explained in a whisper. Of course he would have that. When you asked him where he was going, he’d mumbled under his breath, Gonna make sure you didn’t have any bloody followers. You hadn’t even thought of that. He must not have thought of it until you actually showed up, either. He expected you not to make it.

You don’t know how long he was out there, but by the fact that you’d woken up to his axe chopping wood instead of heads, you figured the territory was clear.

“Better than Nutella?” you ask Blue.

Grey light streaks through the shed and over her face. The smell of potential rain looms in the air.

“That’s a tough question,” she says, licking the residue from her lips. She’s eaten half. She folds the wrapper over to cover the rest and hands it to you. Sweets like these are rare. You told her you’d keep it in your bag until she wanted the rest.

“I think it’s a strong tie,” she decides and then groans, moving her chin to the dip of her folded knees. “I wish chocolate could be hunted.”

“Me, too.”

“Are you sure you don’t want the rest?” She sounds guilty. “It is your Twix.”

“No, really. It’s a thank you.” Your knee gives a nudge to hers. “As if you haven’t given me food that is yours before.”

The guilt turns into a smile.

“You know,” she then says, eyes flicking to your pillowcase bag of looted goods. “When I was looking at your clothes last night, I got an idea of how you could fix them. Can I—” she tilts her head, “Can I show you something?”

She leaves Grim with you as she departs to collect whatever it is she has to share. It turns out to be a magazine of all things. She clutches it to her chest, rolling her lips together before turning it around to show you. The bright ink is faded a little. The corners bent and worn. The date of the issue reads March 2018. There is a woman on the front - some model you can’t remember the name of - clad in a tight blue dress.

The sight is just as weird as the abandoned streets and homes. For a moment, you look down at the skin of your hands, abraded from your bowstring, and press your lips.

“Remember how I told you Ghost and I went to a military base once?” Looking back up, you nod. “Well, we were mainly there to get ammo but we also went through the barracks— that’s where they slept.”

She explains it as if you have no clue, which you don’t. Never in your life did you care about the military, except for that first day when you hoped they might come to find you in some big tanks or something. They didn't.

Blue giggles. “I found this in one of the men’s old dorms.”

When she sees your expression, she says, “It’s okay. I’m not stupid. Ghost told me his old teammates liked to look at pictures of pretty women sometimes when they got bored. Anyway, I’ve looked through it so many times. I like all the fancy clothes people used to wear.”

She begins to flip through the pages and points out a few things. Where before you sometimes zoned out, your mind distracted by survival, this time you listen fully. One page has an ad with lush grass in the background and she informs you that the shade of green is her favorite color.

“Not blue?”

“That is my name, not my favorite color." Her nose scrunches. "What is yours?”

Do you even have one? You think for a moment. What comes to mind are the flowers your mother used to grow at the house in Norbury.

“Violet,” you softly say. “Like the flowers.”

“Huh?”

“They are like… a bluish purple.”

“Oh! There are some flowers like that by the pond sometimes. Hopefully, they come back this year."

Another page she points to has people laying on a white beach with crystal-like water. Blue says she hopes to go there someday. Not to just any beach. That beach.

When she passes an ad with a young man’s face on it - someone about your own age - she pauses for a moment and looks up.

"Do you think he is cute?" she asks. A tender curiosity.

"Um," you can't remember the last time you saw a man's face besides Paul. Ghost is always covered. She holds the page up so you can see it better. A sharp jaw. Dark hair and a strong nose.

"Yeah, he is very cute. Do you think so?"

She nods and bites her lip. "Did you… have a husband before shit happened?"

"What?" You frown. "I'm not that old."

"A boyfriend, then?"

"I had," you search the memories. They feel unimportant. Buried. "I had a few people who I enjoyed spending time with in uni."

"Like sex?"

You almost choke. "What?"

"I am not stupid," she says again. "The rabbits. They do it all the time. Ghost told me that's how they have their babies, and that is how him and my mum had me."

Oh. This is the first time Blue has ever mentioned her mother and you don't know why, but it makes your stomach tight. But she doesn't add anything else about her, as if she'd just told you the sky is blue or Grim is her friend. Something so casual. Brushed aside. As if, she hadn't mentioned it at all.

You don't pry about it.

Not to a kid. Trauma, grief— you can only imagine what a young brain has decided to do with them. But for a moment, your brain tries to imagine what kind of woman it could have been, what kind of woman Ghost enjoyed spending his time with. The only thing you can picture is Blue's eyes. She clearly didn't get them from him.

Blue moves on from the picture of the man. The page she really meant to show you is of a woman wearing jeans with a belt around them. She points to it and explains you could try something like that for the jeans you found.

Right. Jeans. Along with the blouse you grabbed, you got an ugly pink sweater and some jeans that won’t fit you.

"That’s called a belt," you say. “I don’t have one.”

“I have an old shoelace,” Blue says. “How about that?”

“That could work.”

Blue tells you bluntly that you need to bathe first. You smell like those fucks, no offense. You take your new clothes and she finds you a rag. In the bathroom, you harshly scrub your skin to erase the smell of rot. You wash your hair which is slick with sweat.

On your wrist, you notice a light bruise growing where that Grey had grabbed you. Luckily, you were too tired last night for your brain to conjure up any nightmares, otherwise, you probably would've had one about it biting you. Even a bite to just your hand - to a finger - would be enough for the virus to enter the bloodstream. You don’t want to admit it, but with that revolver, Ghost saved your life again. 

After bathing, you slip on the blouse and a pair of too-big jeans. Blue gives you the shoelace. You feed it through the belt loops. It works well enough. The pantlegs fall past your ankles so you roll them. You tuck the large blouse so the excess fabric won’t get in the way while you hunt. The sweater… you don’t bother with it for now. It’s not warm enough. You will stick with Paul’s old coat when you go outside. 

You look in the mirror again.

You stroke your own cheek, looking yourself over. You smooth your hands over the clothes. Underneath, you feel the plush of your breasts. The muscles of your stomach. The curves of your ribs. You are almost back to your normal weight, but it is still evening out. Under your eyes, the skin remains grey. Floorboards and stress will do that to a person.

"Let me see," Blue says on the other side of the door before you open it. You can still hear Ghost chopping wood outside.

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.” She touches the sleeves. “These are pretty long. They will get in the way when you shoot arrows, right?”

You nod. “Can you bring me the scissors?”

After you cut the sleeves down to your wrists, Blue picks up the scraps of fabric. “Hey, you could tie your braids with these. Like ribbons.”

"I could," you shrug and give a smile. "But I think they would look nicer on you."

The shyness returns as she nods. Gently, you guide her in front of the mirror and begin working your fingers through her hair, just as you do most evenings.

You notice her staring in the mirror with studious eyes as if she is trying to understand exactly what she sees. You wonder if she ever compares herself to those girls in the magazine. An eleven-year-old you certainly used to.

"You look very pretty, Blue."

"It doesn't matter if I do," she shrugs. "It's not like anyone will ever actually get to see me."

"Well," you swallow, "I get to see you right now, and I think you are pretty."

"Thanks.” She accepts the compliment with a puckered expression, before it softens and she adds, "I think you are, too, Twix.”

Twix?

But before you can question it, you hear the front door shut and realize that the sound of chopping wood has been gone for at least a minute. It is clearly Ghost entering the cabin.

You drop your hands before you can finish the braids, stepping back. 

He calls out her name.

Recalling the rifle he pointed at you yesterday, you whisper to Blue, "Maybe you should go out before he—“

But of course, his heavy boots approach. The dark shadow of him materializes in the bathroom's doorway, consuming the space with his head dipped down to fit.

You turn around to face her father at the same time Blue does. His brows are drawn low and in one hand he carries the axe. You notice a sheen of sweat at the bridge of his nose where his mask begins.

The thing is, you try to avoid being spotted alone with Blue like this. She talks to you in your shed. You interact when he is busy with things.

Ghost reaches for Blue’s hand. He gently tugs her to him. He cups the back of her head and bends down to meet her level, though he is still much taller.

"Remember what we talked 'bout?”

What did they talk about?

"I remember," she mumbles. She tugs her arm away. "I was just helping her with her new clothes.” Smoothly, she changes the topic. “What do you think? The shoelace was my idea."

Blue. You almost groan, feeling his dark eyes slowly shift over to you. You think you would rather him press the axe to your throat than share his opinion about your clothes— they aren’t exactly like what the models in Blue’s magazine wore. His stare rarely does anything other than burn holes through your skin, so it is no surprise when you feel the heat through your blouse, up your neck, and all the way to your cheeks.

You look down at your feet.

Then, a bitter memory comes to mind.

You look like you're one 'em already.

That is what Ghost said once.

For a brief moment, you wonder if he still thinks it.

He doesn’t give an answer. All he does is clear his throat. Your strange curiosity fades as he stands and looks down at his daughter. 

"C'mon, kid. Start the fire with me."

"No, not yet. She needs to finish my hair, Ghost."

He allows it, but remains in the doorway, watching as you finish her braids, using the fabric as floral bows to tie them off. 

It looks nice.

It rains just like you thought it would.

Not too heavy, but enough to cut your hunt short for the day, earning you only one squirrel.

When you return to camp, you find Blue crouched over the wood planter as she covers the sodden soil with a layer of mulch. Apparently, Ghost had her plant some cabbage seeds before the rain. The mulch is to stop the seeds from washing away, she explains.

Spring will soon arrive. With it, some crops to add to their meals. Good for them. Maybe you can convince Ghost to lend you a seed or two to plant for yourself. 

After dinner, you sit by the fireplace with your boots off in order to warm your toes. The soft drum of rain against the cabin's walls lulls you into a trance as you listen to Ghost quietly read to Blue. Sometimes he points to words for her to try.

Tonight it is a book you recognize.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Your father read it to you once. A younger version of yourself told him it was too boring. But now you find yourself quite liking the story about a magic wardrobe where kids can escape to another world.

Blue falls asleep on the couch. Ghost carries her to bed like usual. It is your time to leave. The rain has died down some but you already know the water has probably leaked into your shed. Lovely. 

But again you are stopped by a hand around your arm. 

You turn to see Ghost. He clutches the map in the other hand.

“Um. What is it?”

You slip your arm away, his grip allowing it. Is he mad about you hanging out with Blue? Did he discover your secret exchanges? Is he going to finally kick you out since you didn't die like he probably hoped?

“Sit with me.”

You raise your eyebrows. He motions for you to follow him to the table so you sit down, hands in your lap, and pick at the skin of your knuckles. He spreads the map open. He also has a pencil in his hand. Between gloved fingers, he fiddles with it before sliding it over to you.

To your surprise, he demands, “Show me where you went.”

Although confused, you abide, making a small mark over the village. Ribchester. 

His eyes narrow. “Not jus’ that. Show me which way you went.”

“This way,” you say, annoyed by his tone. Faintly, you draw a line through the forest all the way to the highway. “Then I followed the road.”

He takes the pencil from you and slides the map back in front of him, sweeping his eyes over the marks you’ve made. Under the black fabric, you detect the contour of his lips pressed into a straight line.

“How many were there?”

“Not many, really,” you admit. “Do you… Are you wanting to go there?” 

You furrow your brows as you recall what Blue said. They don't make trips often. It is not like Ghost has much need to. 

“No.” Not looking at you, he draws a mark some kilometers south of the one you made. “I want to go here.”

“Why?”

“I need ammo.” 

His voice is clinical and gruff. You definitely prefer it over threatening. As he continues, it officially becomes the most words he has ever spoken to you. 

“Went to a base over here two years ago.” He points a gloved digit to a spot on the east side of the forest. That must be the trip that Blue was talking about. “Wasn’t much left. Took what I could.”

“You’re all out of ammo, then?” 

He gives you a flat look. “No. But I’m runnin’ low. I don’t want to wait until I am all out to go. Need some ammo to make it there, don’t I?”

“Why haven’t you gone sooner?” you pry slowly. “Why do you want to go now?”

“Got a bit more to lose than you do.” 

It is a harsh truth, inviting a sharp breath through your lungs. What he means is he has someone he loves, unlike you. Someone he can’t just leave behind on her own.

You realize that Ghost probably avoids leaving this haven he has set up for that very reason, and maybe it is also why he is particularly conservative about their supplies. Whenever they end up running low, he has to drag her along with him to get more. The threats out there can be hard to predict. You’d been lucky. 

Ghost continues.

“But if you could make it through here,” he gestures back to the marks you made. The route can act as a way to the military base, but he would still have to go further, maybe 10 kilometers past the village. “Then I can make it that way with her.”

You nod slowly as you begin to wonder why he is telling you this. But then, it sinks in, a pit settling in your stomach. If they leave, where are you supposed to go? 

Ghost must read the expression that takes over your face. You don't wear a mask.

“You’re comin’ with us.”

“What?” You stand up, shaking your head as you hiss through your teeth. “No. I don’t want to. I just fucking got back.”

“You’re not staying here on your own,” he growls quietly. “I’m not askin’ whether you want to go or not.”

You catch his eyes. Black glass reflects the dim glow of the fire.

Of course.

He doesn’t trust you enough to stay here.

You have no choice.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #ghost #cod #zombies

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drawn Together 9

Warnings: non/dubcon, obsession, intimidation, and other dark elements.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You get a tattoo on an impulse to break your routine, but you walk away with something else as permanent as the ink.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Steve's arm is an anchor, keeping you from drifting away from him. You lay awake, staring at the shadows on the wall, watching them shift with the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Each time you think to pull away, his embrace gets tighter yet his snores assure you of his slumber.

As the sun rises slowly, the hues rolling from blue to pink to orange to yellow, the tension in your muscles only winds tighter. You can't bear it anymore. The scent of his sweat or that glazed along your back.

You squeeze his arm and push your elbow into the mattress. As you attempt to sit up, he pulls you back and groans. You whimper and tap him frantically.

"Please," you squeak, "I have to..." get away from you, "...use the bathroom."

"Mmm," he grumbles and drags his arm off, falling flat on his back. You sit up as he stretches, the bed quaking with the intense span of his body. "Alright, sweetheart."

You get up, fighting not to run. That won't do anything but rouse him further. You go to the bathroom door and pause, peering through the doorway to your left and down the hall. Could you make it?

You think better of it. You're still unsteady. Your head is hollow and your limbs ache from the night spent rigid in his hold.

Instead, you seek safety behind the door. You flick the lock into place and look in the mirror. You turn on the faucet and splash lukewarm water in your face. You take your time, your mind racing for any sort of escape.

When at last you find the courage to emerge, you find the room empty. You grasp the doorframe and search the morning light. The bed is neatly made and there is no trace of that man. Oh god, are you going crazy? He was here, right?

Your sanity is assured you hear the scratch of the record player. The familiar notes of Otis Redding's infamous song begin to play. The careless and wistful tune turns ominous in your present circumstance.

You tiptoe down the hall, past the spare room and the room across from it where your grandfather's office once was. It's still there but you don't go in there often. You near the banister and touch the wooden orb atop the post. You peek down to the front door. So close.

"Sweetheart," Steve startles you as he emerges from the kitchen, "we should get started on today, huh?"

"I... uh, sure," you swallow and reluctantly part from the banister.

He wears a pair of dark jeans and a plain grey tank. You wring your hands and shuffle on your feet. What does he want from you? What do you do?

As he nears you, you wince and shy away. His brow twitches and you stop yourself. He touches your arm, caressing you as if the texture is something luxurious. He watches his fingertips brush over your skin and purrs.

"Why don't you work on breakfast and then we can figure out everything else."

"Everything else?" You fold your hands over your chest, shielding yourself as he toys with the strap of your nightgown.

"Well, we have company coming this afternoon. We have to get this place in shape. Oh, and maybe you can find a song to play."

"Company?" You echo weakly.

"My mother likes Mozart. She's a classic gal, but you could something more contemporary. Do you know any Patsy Cline?"

"Uh, I don't... I don't know, I... your mother?"

"I didn't want you to be nervous, sweetheart, but I think it's only right I introduce you. She's so happy to have a daughter-in-law. At last!"

"What?" Your heart thumps, louder and louder in your ears like that frightful Poe tale.

"It's okay. She's so nice and she's going to love you! I'll be here the whole time too." He takes your hands in his. So big and strong that you can't bring yourself to pull back. You stare at his chest, just along the top of the tank where his tattoo peeks out, "a nice old-fashioned girl like you, how could she hate you?"

"I... I'm not ready," you sputter.

"Not ready? I'm sure you can find something to wear. Something pretty. Red looks so nice on you, I saw a dress in the closet--"

"Steve," you say shrilly and struggle with him. He keeps your hands locked in his as your panic overflows, "please, I can't--"

"Oh, sweetheart, calm down. It's okay. How about once we get this place tidied up, we can go out and look at something new? We should have enough time to find you a pretty new dress--"

"Please, please, I can't--" you quaver as your eyes sting, "it's too much. It's... it's crazy!" You rip your hands away and clutch your head, "you're crazy! I don't want you here. You or your mother--"

"Sweetheart, just relax, you can't be getting yourself worked up."

"Worked up?! Worked up!! This is my home and--"

"This is our home," he grabs you by shoulders and shakes you. Your head snaps back and you bite your tongue, nearly choking on it. "Get a hold on yourself because I promise you," his voice deepens and rolls from his throat, "you don't want to get me worked up."

"I... I..." you babble.

"You can't act like this around my mother. It's unacceptable. Understand?" His thumbs press painfully against your shoulders, "if you keep on, I have no choice but to punish you so don't make me."

"Wha-- I--"

"Now, when mom is here, you call me sir, like a good wife, and you don't raise your voice," he brings a hand up to your chin, cradling it as his thumb reaches up your cheek, "and put a smile on your face, sweetheart. You are so precious when you smile."

You clamp your lips shut, holding back the shriek building in your chest. This can't be real. You know whatever he thinks is going on isn't but he just can't see it. It's all just so twisted and you have no idea how to untangle it.

🎹

You stand in front of the open closet. You chew your thumb as you stare aimlessly at the hangers. You don't want to do this. None of it. You want him to leave. You want this to all just be a nightmare.

You hover your hand over a hanger with a red dress but move away from it. No, not what he wants. You take out a navy dress with little silver flowers embroidered all over it.

You go to the bed and lay out the fabric, from far away it looks like simple polka dots. You take off your night gown and pull on a fresh pair of panties and your bra. You lift the dress and look it over one last time. The dread coils around your neck like a noose.

You unzip the back but a click interrupts your despair. You turn as the door opens and Steve enters, stopping short as he catches sight of you. His eyes stray from your face and you raise the dress to shield yourself.

He shudders and spreads his hand over his chest, running it down his torso as he exhales through his nose. He clenches his jaw and his cheek tics. He lifts his chin and his lip twitches dangerously.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I thought you were still in the shower," he says.

You stare at him blankly. He's changed. Dark slacks and a pristine white button-up. He holds a silk tie in his hand, his thumb rubbing the fabric firmly.

"Since you're not... you think you could help me out?" He lifts the tie and waggles it before you.

Your mouth is arid and itchy. You close it and nod. He doesn't budge. You're too nervous to ask him to leave. You turn away from him and quickly step into the dress, pulling it up your body and slipping your arms into the sleeves.

"Let me get this," he comes closer and you flinch but don't move away.

He steps behind you and his fingers brush the bare skin between the open zipper. A shiver ripples through you and he grabs the tab, pulling it up slowly. You hold your breath until he's done, spinning to make some space between you.

"I..." you look at the tie, "okay, I'll help."

"Sweetheart," he smiles and swoops the silk around his neck, "you're so good to me."

He angles to sit on the bed and tilts his head back, letting the tie hangs around his neck freely. You tiptoe towards him and take both ends. You sense his gaze on you, fervent and fiery.

"I promise," he reaches to tickle your hip, "I'll be just as good to you."

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #series #au #tattoo au #mcu #marvel #captain america

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 8

Astarion x gn!Reader

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: With Gale arriving, you and Astarion discuss your futures away from Calthir.

Warnings: Mentions of death, blood, and vampire bites.

Word Count: 2.6k

Your dreams are restless things, even in the warmth of Karlach’s spare bed. 

Cal once told you that troubled minds make for troubled sleep, and the sentiment has always proven itself true. There’s no exception tonight. Your mind is the most troubled it’s ever been, and your sleep is no better. 

It’s his face you see the most. At first, only flashes of things: sensations and images, as quick to come as they go. The wrinkles on his forehead, the grey of his eyes, the feel of his strong, callused hands. Then, longer things, more memory than dreams. Working the tavern with him in the quiet of the early morning, warmth flooding from the nearby fire. Hot drinks in winter, flickering candles in the dead of night. 

Your anxieties meld themselves to things long past, intertwining reality and nightmares. Picnics by the lake turn to mouthfuls of sticky, metallic blood and running, running as fast as you can until your muscles ache and scream and finally buckle underneath you. Your knees scrape against the dirt. Cal’s screams echo in your ears. His laughter bubbles up into the air. 

There are other things, too. Erelin, her eyes bloodshot and cheeks flushed, hunting you in the night. Aris, signing a contract in ruby ink, quill dripping with it, hands coated in it. Cazador Szarr, nothing but a mass of darkness, a mere silhouette - but his signature sears into your vision like a brand. It burns, it burns, it burns.

When you finally come to, it feels as though you’ve gotten no rest at all. Your muscles ache and your cheeks are wet, and your trembling hands won’t go still. When you finally see Astarion sitting at the windowsill, it almost feels like you’re still asleep. You’re expecting something to harm him, something nice to twist itself into something utterly tainted, but it doesn’t come. 

He’s curled up under the sunlight, studying something down on the street, still in his clothes from last night. His shoulders are wound with tension, his brows are pinched together, and his arms are folded across his chest. Even half-asleep, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that he doesn’t feel safe here like you do. 

Last night had been so full of chaos, you hadn’t even taken the time to consider it but - of course he wouldn’t feel safe here. Why should he? You’re among friends you can trust, people you know perhaps even better than yourself, but everyone here is a stranger to Astarion. You know that Karlach and Wyll and even Gale would give their lives defending him on principle alone, but he doesn’t. All he has is your word, and it can’t mean very much when there are still dozens of people hunting him.

As soon as you sit up, his head tilts the slightest bit toward you. He’s heard you, but isn’t willing to tear his eyes from whatever he’s looking at.

“Your friend’s just arrived,” he says simply. 

“Gale?” you ask, getting to your feet. Your throat is still thick with sleep. 

He shrugs. “I presume,” he says. His tone is sharp enough to cut.

You can’t resist leaning closer, following the trail of his eyes. Guards, posted not far from the front door. Ancunín guards. 

Astarion doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. You know very well what he’s thinking. Those guards are a key back to his mother, a key to safety. He’ll be running into Erelin’s arms as fast as he can - anything to get away from the unprotected nature of the city. The vulnerability that never ends as long as Cazador is after him.

With Calthir’s hand around your throat these last few weeks, you’d nearly forgotten that the two of you would be separating. Now that it’s actually happening, it feels like the shard of a blade lodged in your chest. You don’t dare try to talk him out of it. You know him well enough to know it’s a futile effort.

The two of you are similar that way. There’s nothing you can say that would convince him to stay, and there's nothing he can say that would convince you to go. An impasse. A quiet, mutual understanding.

You should go down and see Gale, but not quite yet. Not while you finally have a moment with Astarion without danger or soldiers breathing down your back, or sleep pulling at your eyes. Not when you have precious little time left with him.

“Astarion,” you start.

He instantly bristles. “Yes?”

“I know you’re going to her no matter what, but how exactly are you planning to do this? Are you turning yourself in to the guards?” 

“I don’t know,” he mutters. He hisses out a breath - air pushed through clenched teeth, then composes himself. “I suppose I’ll just… tell them who I am. They’ll take me to her, and then it will all be over, won’t it? You’ll run off with your little friends, and I’ll be protected from Cazador.”

“But what will you tell her about me? If she knows I’m in the city-”

“Relax, dearest,” he says, giving a loose flick of his wrist. He still isn’t looking at you. “I’ll tell her you got mauled by a bear. I escaped the vicious beast, naturally.”

Silence settles over the two of you, thick and aching. You want so badly to ask him to stay - to reconsider. To run away with you, to get out from the claws of Erelin and Calthir. 

You know he would never accept. 

Your palms are already beading with sweat. You wipe them dry. “Thank you,” you finally reply. “I appreciate that. Really.”

“Well, darling, if being here is what you want,” he says, his tone dull, “who am I to stop you?”

Another beat passes.

“I’d better go see Gale,” you tell him. “Don't leave just yet?”

“Of course,” he responds. “I couldn't leave without saying my goodbyes, darling.”

Goodbyes. 

You close the door after you, and the shard in your chest pushes deeper as you head down to the main room.

The Wizard of Waterdeep looks just like you remember him - give or take a few grey streaks, a few new wrinkles. As soon as he sees you, his eyes light up and a smile breaks across his face. When you dash into his arms, he smells like home. Coffee, books, a touch of something warm. 

“There you are,” he says, propping a hand on your shoulder as he steps back to look at you. “According to Karlach, you’ve had quite the journey!”

“I have,” you reply, examining his expression. How much does he know? You shoot Karlach an anxious glance and see the emotion returned in her eyes. She hadn't told him about your predicament, then.

“Sorry. Didn't want to say anything,” she explains, rubbing the back of her neck. “Figured it was a story you should tell, you know?”

Gale’s expression sombers as he looks from you to Karlach, then to Wyll. “Has something… happened?” he asks.

“Gale, my friend,” Wyll says, “you’d best fill your plate. This story will sit better on a full stomach.”

“Not hungry, soldier?” Karlach asks. She’s looking at Astarion, tension drummed up into her shoulders. He’d come down in the middle of your explanation to Gale, and now he’s staring at the plate set in front of him like it's going to bite him.

“Er - no appetite, I suppose,” he responds, plastering on a smile. “Trying times and all.”

She clearly doesn't believe him, but she doesn't press the issue.

“Well,” Gale says, rubbing at his temples, “I suppose I’d better start a letter to Tara and my mother. They’ll worry if they don't hear from me. And, given the circumstances, who knows how long it will be before I’m able to return to Waterdeep.”

You lean forward. “You don't have to stay, Gale, I don't want you to feel obligated-”

“Oh, pish posh,” Gale says with a wave of his hand. “I’m staying. This is no minor trifle. I’ve made up my mind, and there’s no talking me out of it.”

Karlach beams, flashing her fangs. “Eyy! The more the merrier,” she exclaims. “You might have to conjure yourself up a bed, though. Already full to the brim.”

“Not a problem,” Gale says. “I’ll make myself comfortable.”

“Good man,” Wyll exclaims, clapping Gale on the back. “We’re happy you're here.”

As the three of them ramble on, eventually discussing what Gale will be making for dinner, you glance over at Astarion and find his eyes on you. He raises a brow. A silent question: When are you going to tell them? 

It’s a good question, to be sure, but the more pressing matter is how you’re going to tell them. What can you say? 

Sorry everyone, I know you’ve just met him, but my husband is running off to return to his horrible mother!

Both of you would look ridiculous. 

You give a small shake of your head in response, hoping he’ll understand. It’ll be easier to explain to everyone after he’s gone. It’s not as though he’s particularly close to any of them, after all.

He nods, then goes back to examining his nails. Eventually, Karlach leads Gale to an open area to get himself settled, and as soon as they’re out of the room, Astarion is on his feet - wrapping his cloak around him, slinging his pack over his shoulder.

He turns to face you, and that shard from earlier makes a painful reappearance.

“Well, my sweet,” he says softly. “I suppose this is goodbye.”

Something uneasy stirs in your stomach. “Shouldn't I come with you?” you ask. “What if something goes wrong?”

He scoffs. “And exactly how are you planning to do that without getting yourself caught?”

You give a shrug. “I can tail you. Make sure everything goes alright.”

He tilts his head, but fondness lights his eyes. “Clingy little thing, aren't you?” he asks, giving you a light chuck under the chin. “It’s your neck on the line, darling.”

You can still feel the dull ache of the marks he’d left in your skin from his last feeding. Tender, hidden under your collar at the junction between shoulder and neck.

“A neck which I’m planning to keep intact,” you respond. “Don't worry about me.”

Really, you shouldn't be leaving the safety of Karlach’s home unless absolutely necessary, but something isn't feeling right. Your gut tugs at you, saying something you can't understand, and it’s strong enough of a pull to have you putting on your own cloak and following after him.

Astarion would never let the others accompany him with something like this, not when he doesn’t know them, and he’ll be leaving with or without you. Going along with him seems the best option. The only option, really.

The guards are further away than they’d been this morning from your view out the window, but Astarion seems to know his way. Is he familiar with the city? It takes a good amount of weaving through the crowd, but no one stops twice to look at either of you. A good sign, you hope. 

Just as the pit in your stomach has churned itself into something almost painful, Astarion slows. The guards are just ahead, standing post in the distance. Then, he turns to look at you one last time and waves. 

This is it. Goodbye. Who knows if you’ll ever see him again. If you’re completely honest, you’re not prepared for this. You already know you’ll be spending the next year dreaming of rosemary and bergamot, waking with the echoes of sharp teeth in your neck and soft lips pressed against yours.

For just a moment, your resolve falters. For just a moment, you almost follow after him - damn everything else. Then, the memory of that suffocating castle catches up with you, and you halt yourself before you can do something you’ll inevitably regret.

Astarion means a great deal to you, but he could never make you happy. Not in a place like that. So long as he’s in Erelin’s shadow, the two of you could never be together.

So, instead you swallow down the lump in your throat and manage a wave back at him. He smiles a little - the edges of his eyes crinkling before he turns away. 

You barely manage the composure to stay. Your body yearns for him, pulling with a magnetic force. Your mind tells you to run, to go back to the safety of Karlach’s home. Your soul can manage neither. It’s all you can do to flatten yourself against a nearby wall, silently observing as he approaches the guards. 

The tension is torturous. The days are rapidly cooling, and there’s a bitter chill in the air, but sweat still drips down your neck. Your hands are clammy, and something in you is feverish. Something here feels so very wrong.

The conversation is long, too quiet for you to hear. The guards shift from foot to foot, exchanging glances as Astarion talks. One of them speaks. Astarion stiffens, then replies - something heated, judging by the way his gestures increase. Another response. A shaking of the head.

More gestures. A glance over his shoulder to make sure no one has taken notice of him. A final response before the guards walk away, leaving him behind.

By the time he makes his way back to you, Astarion is coiled up like a spring, ready at any moment to snap.

“Astarion?” you ask, unable to hide the shock in your voice. “What happened?”

“I can't believe this,” he says indignantly, puffing up his chest. “They wouldn’t listen to me!”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid laughing at that. “They probably get someone posing as the missing prince on the daily.”

“No one knows I’m missing yet, darling, and that’s beside the point. What in the hells am I supposed to do now? Who knows where my mother is, and - even if I knew, those idiots wouldn't let me in to see her!” 

You rest a gentle hand on his arm. “We should get back to Karlach and the others,” you suggest. “I know it’s not your favorite option, but it’s better than being exposed like this.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, holding all his tension in before he visibly deflates. “Lead the way,” he says, punching out the words through gritted teeth.

The two of you slip back through the crowd and through Karlach’s front door with relative ease. Your disappearance doesn't seem to have been noticed, but Astarion is still wound tight as a noose. He throws off his cloak and paces up and down the floor in a rage, eyes flashing in anger.

“This is ridiculous,” he fumes. “Absolutely ridiculous! Really, you’d think those morons would at least - check! Verify with someone higher up! Instead, the half-wits threatened me with a week in prison. I can hardly believe the nerve. As soon as I get back to my mother, those two will be out of a job!”

Karlach must hear the disturbance, because she pops her head through the doorway and observes Astarion’s madness as he stalks across the room. “You alright there, mate?” she asks. “Hungry? Need some water?”

“He’ll be fine,” you tell her. “He’s just had a bad day.”

“If you’re sure,” Karlach says. “Just… let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

Astarion stops pacing, but his hands ball into fists. “For the love of the gods, will someone please tell me there’s a half-decent wine around here,” he snaps.

Gale leans into the room from where he’d been watching, a small smile growing on his face. “You wouldn't happen to have a taste for Elverquisst, would you?”

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind @aoirohi

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #bg3 x reader #astarion fic #mywriting

[crownedtargaryen]

ahhh yay!!

i would like to request something for modern!bran if that’s okay🙏🏻

i was thinking maybe modern!bran with goth reader?

like just headcanons or an imagine, whatever you’d like

you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to :)

lipstick. modern!bran headcanons

MASTERLIST pairing: modern!bran x goth!reader (a/n): I'm so sorry this is so short! Being goth has a lot of different types in that aesthetic, so I tried to generalize and keep it as unspecific as I could! (this Bran goes with this headcanon post I did of him) all notes are appreciated. tag list: @thethreeeyed-raven @howyouloveyourdragon @hopelesswritergall @fairysluna @clairacassidy @ad-astra-again @its-actually-minicika

SFW

• Bran loves you so much

• he ADORES when you sit on his lap and you do his makeup

• though, he's SUUUCH a pain to put makeup on

• he's always laughing and moving, trying to lean in and kiss you

• you have to yell at him, giving him a small smack as he cackles

• "what? can I not have a kiss?" he'll feign innocence that'll make you roll your eyes

• black cat and golden retriever

• he loves letting you dress him up in gothic themed clothing, so proud of any and all outfits you give him

• posts pics of you. over dressed gothic partner with the underdressed basic gamer

• he loves to bring you on his streams, the chat LOVVVES you

• he'll do "partner picks my aesthetic" streams with you, just adoring how excited you get in contrast to your darker more standoffish look

• def looks a bit strange seeing you side by side, but he doesn't care. ur his pfp on EVERYTHING and loves the way you present yourself

• def been called a discord mod with his kitten which has plagued your day to day life where he will jokingly call you kitten

• "that's a lot of talk for my discord kitten," he'll tease, knowing how frustrated it makes you.

does NOT shut up about how he wants to do beastboy x raven

ORR BATMAN X CAT WOMAN he’s OBSESSEDDD

def will call you emo for your aesthetic, laughs so hard when you’re get a bit angry with him

“hey! don’t be mad, maybe i like emos.” he’ll coo, just making you huff then kiss him to shut him up

def will let your paint his nails shades of black and grey, wears that shit with pride

LOVES it when you put on dark lipstick and kiss all over his face. he’s done that smudged lipstick tiktok so many times 👀

even though you’re the more intimidating outer shell of the relationship, bro will fight god for you

someone says shit about your aesthetic, calls you emo or says something harsh, he’s ON IT.

only he’s allowed to poke fun at his partner. someone says shit?

lets just say he’s almost killed a few people

forces you to teach him how to use a wax seal

he’ll nag you for hours, and you finally teach him and he’s over the moon

then one day, he’ll show up with a parchment letter that he’s tea stained for you. you honestly don’t believe it at first

bran didn’t SEEM like the type to do this, but gods he DID IT HE WROTE YOU A GOTHIC PARCHMENT LETTER QUILL AND INK AND EVERYTHING??!!

He LIVES to make you smile with gifts like that

constantly bugging you about what new clothes or shoes you want, what jewelry you may like, what antique gothic trinkets you think are beautiful

then within days they’re in ur hands and you just are like “oh.”

HE LOOOVES taking you to museums of antique medieval gothic resorts

he loves to hear you talk about them, grinning at your excitement and passions and how beautiful you look when you talk so much you run out of breath and have to sharply inhale before continuing

after taking you to the museum he’ll take you on a romantic moonlit picnic with only candles he brought and distant street lights illuminating you both

and he’ll softly go

“i love you…” pause. “even though you’re kind of emo.” then break into a cackle and beg you not to get up and leave

NSFW

• absolutely loves how your black makeup runs down your face when he tails the fuck out of you

• he loves the sight of your hair scattered across the bed as he pins you down, mascara running down your cheeks as you cry in pleasure

• he loves when you have dark lipstick on and kiss all over his body. gladly takes pictures of it and posts it on his private twitter

• usually after sex his face is covered in dark lipstick smudged over his swollen lips and flushed cheeks

• he loves ripping your dark thigh highs apart, immediately delving in your goods with the thin cloth RIPPED APART so easily.

• sometimes gets frustrated because of the layers to your outfits

• he's a switch, loves when you dom him and leave him a begging crying mess with lipstick marks on his thighs and hardened buds on his chest

will never ever stop joking about “you love dark things? let me make some dark ass marks on that pretty little neck.” while he growls and pulls you onto his lap with a cheeky grin

#bran stark imagine #bran stark x reader #brandon stark #bran stark #three eyed raven #daenerys targeryan #house stark #house lannister #house targeryen #game of thrones modern au #modern got #robb stark #arya stark #sansa stark #game of thrones au #game of thrones smut #game of thrones #game of thrones headcanon #cersei lannister #got #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #jon snow fanfiction #jon snow x you #jon snow x reader #queen cersei #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fandom

[dribs-and-drabbles]

Colours in Our Skyy 2 Bad Buddy ep 1

I was nervous in the run up to the Our Skyy 2 eps, not least to see what Aof and the team were going to do with our beloved characters and their stories, but also to see if the colours I had interpreted during the series stayed consistent.

And after two out of three (four?) episodes, I think they are.

In ep 1, right off the bat Pat's Blue and Pran's Red make an appearance...but the faculty jackets lend themselves to offering consistency here (the photo makes the blue look black but they are a dark blue).

But as soon as the action shifts to the auditorium, we can see Pat and Pran's world is full of blue and red. The red curtain is a big part of this but look at the array of random blue and red objects in the room...some of which also move into a different spot later.

Pat and Pran quite rightly (and as others have already pointed out) exchange their colours in the early part of the ep. I thought it was interesting that they didn't feel like they needed to hide their...friendship...to Ajan Pichai - the senior who Ming could quite easily hear about them from - not reacting at all to him seeing Pat's arm around Pran.

More blue and red pairings are seen in Pran's shirt and the ice pack (which I pointed out in my addition to @grapejuicegay's post that Pran is 'icing' the same shoulder that he hurt in BBS ep 1 when Pat had the bruised cheek even though Pran didn't get hurt this time round), in Ink and Pa's outfits (the pic is a bit blurry but I wanted to show Pa's red handbag - I really wish I could see what was written on her top), and in the Hightem meeting room. (Note also that Pa carries a tote bag which has orange and lime green - their colours).

Pops of blue and red also inhabit Ajan Pichai's office (the plaque, book, flowers, even the pens!) but I want to draw your attention to Pichai's shirt - a dark/olive green - a colour for 'bad' things (conflict, an obstacle to Pat and Pran's happiness etc) - and we see Pichai pit them against each other rather than choose between them to end the argument, thus causing them further problems.

Later, Pichai wears a lighter shirt...which could be labelled as light blue, grey, or a light mint...but regardless, he accepts the end to the auditorium dispute and unknowingly sets up an opportunity for Pat and Pran to have some couple-time alone up north. This is also when he sees Pat with his arm around Pran, so perhaps it also shows his silent support of their...friendship.

Back to the dark green and it's also on the tent in Pat and Pran's apartment, so it's no surprise that things go wrong for Pat when he comes back and thinks Wai is Pran. (Note also the orange...but I'll talk about that in ep 2's post 😏)

But on to yellow - the colour that seems to symbolise Pat and Pran's love and happiness - and I thought it was a nice touch to have Korn pick out the broom with the yellow handle and then be thankful for Pat and Pran and tell Wai he loved him. Yellow was also in the cushions that Pat and Pran (and Wai in the morning) laid on when they had their Soft™ lovely-dovey moment, and it was heartbreaking to see Pran had changed into a yellow t-shirt to go and find Pat before their second 'honeymoon' trip only for him to hear Pat exaggeratedly badmouthing him.

And finally brown - a colour that seems to represent sacrifice, submission, or yielding - and we see it first on Korn as he tricks Pat into drinking with them. Pat then yields to peer pressure and ends up staying longer and drinking much more than he originally planned. That choice ultimately meant he sacrificed his opportunity to go to Pha Pun Dao with Pran the next day. Pat, also already having to sacrifice an open relationship with Pran because of their family situation, is somewhat forced to speak bad of Pran to hide their relationship causing a conflict between him and Pran who overhears him from outside.

The next day, Pran sets off for Pha Pun Dao alone, wearing a brown jacket (and an orange t-shirt which I will also talk about in ep 2's post). He sacrifices the companionship of Pat in order to show he can do things without him (and is ultimately glad when Pat turns up even if he doesn't show it well) but also has to sacrifice his dignity in the process when he has to walk to the village after the jeep breaks down. And if it weren't for the fact that it was another expected and delicious parallel, the olive-green of the jeep was a clear give-away that Pran was about to suffer in this.

Lastly, I'll just mention Pat and Pran's backpacks - teal and mint green respectively - the colours which seemed to symbolise Pat and Pran's union as a couple (I couldn't think of a better way to put it 🤭). They were supposed to go on this trip together, to have a second 'honeymoon' where they could be together freely...but despite being apart, they're still carrying/keeping their unity with them. Note also that Pat is shrouded in yellow (on his socks as well!) when he's trying to show his love for Pran and return them to a happier place, albeit unsuccessfully.

[ep 1] [ep 2] [ep 3] [ep 4] (<- I'm being hopeful)

#bad buddy #our skyy 2 #our skyy 2 x bad buddy #our skyy 2 x a tale of thousand stars #colours in our skyy 2 bbs x atots #there's always so much I can write in these posts #that I inevitably forget something #I'm surprised that I can write so much about one little episode #but there you go #it's too late to finish ep 2 tonight #so I'll try to do that tomorrow! #uservid #mjtag #usernuria #userjjessi #userkit #user111 #tosnimeat #<- in case you're interested! #no worries if not #colours in our skyy 2 bad buddy

[kindnessisweakness2]

7

"You look fucking sexy!" Cara whistled as Emily emerged from her bedroom in a pair of tight black leather look trousers and a gold halter neck top. It left her back bare apart from one band that stretched across the width of her back keeping the cowl neck at the front flying away and exposing her boobs. Her tattoo on full display. Paired with black chunky heels and dangly gold earrings, her long black & purple hair was pulled up into a curly/messy up do. "I don't know Car, I feel like it's too much." Cara shook her head, her own ear rings shaking. "No! You look amazing." Emily looked at Cara's outfit. Tight black jeans, a red lacy body con that made her boobs look incredible and red heeled boots. Paired with a black leather jacket, red earings and her hair curled she was ready to go. The sound of a car horn made Cara grin. "That's our cab! No time to change now come on you beautiful bitch. Get out!" Emily groaned loudly as Cara pulled her along, barley having time to lock her front door.

Not even 15 minutes later and they were walking through the gates of Teller Morrow. Jax was right about there being a party. People filled the parking lot, loud thumping of music could be heard even from outside as girls danced around any man with a reaper patch. "Damn these boys know how to throw a party!" Cara whistled as the man that Emily knew as Juice walked past. "And blonde Adonis did not disappoint, that boy is fine with a capital F!" Cara's eyes did not leave Juice as he sat down next to Opie on the far tables by the boxing ring. " Your a horny bitch y'know that?" Emily giggled at her friend. Cara rolled her eyes turning to fully face an amused Emily. "Oh come on! Not like you don't think the exact same about Blondie! I know you Em! I bet your dirty little mind has already fucked that man 6 ways to Sunday!" The Shock on her face was clear as Emily adamantly denied it. "I have not imagined doing dirty things to Jaxon Teller, you bitch!" Emily playfully shoved Cara! "Oh well that disappoints me darlin" a gasp fell from her lips as she turned to face the one and only Prince. Cara giggling like a school girl beside her. Emily felt like the wind was knocked out of her. There he was in his baggy jeans, a grey checkered shirt and that fucking leather kutte she wished she could pull him around by. She would never admit it but fuck the things she wanted to do to him. "Your back tattoo is awesome." He smiled as he admired her back. The full dark image of the grim reaper etched into her back was her most loved tattoo to date. "Thanks! I got it when I was 19 back in England. It's my favourite of all I have." Jax smiled as he watched her light up, tattoos clearly were a passion of hers. "What's the quote say?" Jax leaned closer, his breath fanning across her neck making her shiver and her own breath catch in her throat. "You can be a king or a street sweeper, everyone dances with the Grim Reaper.' Emily recited the cursive words that were inked across her shoulders. "A reminder, both the lowest of the low and the highest will have to face the reaper one day. Regardless of anything, you never out run the reaper. It'll always catch up." Jax smiled wide at her. "Sorry I'm abit morbid. Death, superstition, fate all of it excites me." Emily looked down and picked at the nail polish on her fingers. Noah would constantly tell her to shut up about all that stuff. Hated her ink, regardless of it's meaning to her. Tattoos to him were a turn off. Cara watched it. The moment Emily got excited finally letting a piece of her wall slip away. She also noticed how quick she retreated into herself. Shut herself up without having to be told. Quickly thinking on her feet, knowing she needed to change the subject, Cara stepped forward."Can you introduce me to your friend? He's fit as fuck and like I said earlier we need sexy men!" Laughing at Jax's expression, Cara noticed Emily smile again. "Juice. She likes Juice." Jax nodded throwing his arm around Emily he lead them both towards the table where his brothers sat. "Yo Juice! This is Cara, shes a friend of Em's." Juice smiled at Cara as she went to sit next to him. And that was the moment Emily knew she lost her friend for the rest of the night.

"How are you Em?" Opie asked as everyone around the table smiled at her. Juice and Cara in their own little world, but Happy, Opie, Chibs and Halfsack all watched her with smiles. Shock and confusion must of been clear to see on her face because Chibs spoke up. "Don't worry darlin' we don't bite! Jackie boy here don't shut the hell up about ya. Oh and that lasagne you made...perfection!" He smiled as Jax went red. Emily couldn't help but smile back. He was comforting, had the whole daddy vibe going on. Before she could say anything back to Chibs, she jumped at the feeling of a hand trailing down her back. Turning quickly she locked eyes with Noah. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" She snapped. Noah flashed her a smile that months ago would've easy made her melt and give in. But now? Now it made her angry. "You Not gave in yet? Thought you would've calmed down by now." Jax tensed beside her. "Thought I told you to stay away prospect?" Noah bristled at the way he spat out the word prospect, like it was an insult. "When are you gonna accept the fact I'm done with you?" Noah's face scrunched in anger at her words."You being done have anything to do with the fact HIS bike was parked outside our house 3 nights ago?" He spoke through gritted teeth. Jax went to step forward but Emily's hand on his chest. This was her fight. "MY House. MY bed. MY Choice." Noah's hands shook With temper. "Oh so your not denying it? You had him in MY BED?" Emily felt the redness creeping up her neck spreading like fire. It wasn't embarrassment though, it was pure rage. "Oh you mean the bed you had that WHORE in? No not that I got rid of it. Just like I got rid of you you little weasel." The laughter from Jax tipped Noah over the edge. "I told you to stay away!" Out of nowhere, Noah was knocked to the floor by a feisty brunette. Cara standing over him high heeled boot hovering at his groin. "I dare you to move you little wanker." Noah looked up at her clearly pissed off. "fuck sake when did you get here?" Hands on her hips, Cara blew a fallen strand of hair from her face. "Not soon enough, clearly. Now listen to me..." Cara pushed her stiletto heel hard enough into his groin to make him groan but not near enough as hard as she wanted to. "This is your last warning to back off. I swear little boy, I'll stomp on them till their mush." When Noah didn't respond she pressed down slightly harder, making him groan in pain again. "Fine." He spat. When Cara didn't move her foot, Noah looked at her questioningly. "I think your missing something?" Noah grinded his teeth in anger. Looking at Emily who stood silently next to a grinning Jax, Noah mumbled a pathetic "I'm sorry." Cara sighed in fake disappointment. "I think you can do better than that." Noah muttered something about her being a crazy bitch. "I'm sorry Emily. I really am. I love -" Cara clapped her hands sarcastically, "Well done almost believed your performance. That'll have to do, your cutting into our fun now off you fuck!"

Emily looked blankly at Noah as she watched him pull himself up from the floor and with one last look sloped off into the clubhouse. She had an unsettling feeling in her stomach as it twisted and turned. Was it just the effect of seeing him again? If he thought Jax was sleeping with her did everyone else? Was this fun and games to Jax? Fuck around with the prospect and wind him up, get under his skin. She didn't know what to think. But there's one thing she couldn't deny and that's the way her heart leaped when she looked at Jax. The way her stomach fluttered. That feeling was hope. And she wouldn't allow herself to entertain it. She's messed up enough as it is right now. Jax could have anyone he wanted, it was a known fact he slept his way around Charming and she won't let her heart get crushed again.

Distance. That's what she needed.

#jax teller x reader #sons of anarchy #jax teller #jax teller imagine #jax teller x oc #sons of anarchy imagine #sons of anarchy fanfiction

[maracujatangerine]

Collaboration

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

Lydia glanced through her notes once again, dark green ink on white paper detailing her plans for the event and some of the questions she wanted to ask.

The book on the desk in front of her had a glossy photo of a shaggy billy goat on the cover, the animal’s strange eyes meeting the observer’s with amused intelligence. The curve of his massive horns matched almost perfectly the outline of the mountain ridge behind him. It seemed almost impossible to capture such a moment and yet the whole book was filled with similarly impressive photography. Lydia’s personal favourite was a photo of a hawk diving in front of a waterfall, the whole image misty and fluid like a dream.

It was quite a coup, Lydia felt, to have snagged such a famous photographer to take part in an event at her shop. There would be two local nature photographers that would take part in person, and then a digital presentation by Decima de Mares. She felt slightly nervous, what she had heard was that Decima was a bit… peculiar. She hoped that the conversation would go well.

*

“I will have an interview soon” said Miss, taking unfolded clothes and throwing them on the bed. “And I think this should look like it’s clean in there”

“Can I stay there, Miss?” Juli asked anxiously.

“I suppose you could, why? Are you interested in the interview?”

“I just wanna to be in the same place as you” Juli said honestly

“That’s sweet.”

*

With a deep breath, Lydia opened the meeting app and smiled her most charming smile at the person on the other side of the screen.

“Hi! I’m Lydia Winterthorpe. Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me.”

“No problem, it’s an opportunity for me too. I hope the camera is not picking up the mess in my room” Decima joked.

The conversation went smoothly after that.

“So what was your own favourite photo?” Lydia asked.

“I think it was one of the old castle. We do not know who built it, we only know a rough date of when it happened. By now there are only a few walls left and rain caused it to become some sort of a lake… a lake inside something that was once a luxurious living space. I think it’s very poetic. It’s also a special place for me. ”

A sudden movement in the corner of the screen caught Lydia’s eye. A glimpse of light brown fur against the photographer’s white wrist. Then she saw it again and smiled to herself.

“Sorry Miss Decima,” she said, “I lost my thread a bit, I just saw your cat waving its tail.”

“Oh no.” The pale woman smiled, too. “It is my pet, but he’s no cat. Even though he does knock things out of counters sometimes. Come on up and say hi, Juli.”

A short moment of silence.

“I said to say hello” Decima repeated. Was she angry? Or trying to force her pet to do something he didn’t want to?

A young man with a shock of light brown hair and grey eyes shyly raised his head. Lydia felt her blood run cold when she saw the collar around his neck.

*

For most of the interview Juli was just hidden away from the camera, enjoying the pats, and not paying much attention to what was going on around him. He was just wondering whether or not jelly could be classified as a soup. It was made by putting something in hot water after all. But the end result is solid, not liquid, so…

“...Juli”

He heard his name, pulling him away from his silly thoughts.

He made eye contact with Miss and she understood that he didn’t hear her, so she patiently repeated herself. She wasn’t even annoyed with him not listening and once again Juli was reminded how kind she was.

*

“Uhm, hello Miss Winterthrope… pleasure to meet you” said the boy awkwardly. “I’m sorry for interrupting, uhh…” he looked at Decima, like to check if he’s not saying anything wrong“... I hope my presence is not bothering you”

“No, that is totally fine.” Lydia smiled. “I’m glad to meet you, Juli.”

What kind of pet owner is she? Lydia wondered quietly to herself. Out loud, she asked.

“Have you been living with Decima for a long time?”

“Not yet, but… I hope I will” said the boy.

“That’s nice.” Does he say it because he feels like he has to? Or because she’s actually nice to him? Lydia thought to herself. And who am I to judge? Buying a pet yourself doesn’t exactly give you the moral high ground, does it?

”So, as we discussed earlier, I’m thinking it would be good if you give a presentation for around 30 minutes, and then we’ll open the floor to the public and everyone will have the chance to ask some questions.” Lydia made an effort to return to the topic of the meeting. “Does that still sound like a plan?”

As the blue-haired photographer assented, Lydia surreptitiously studied the pet. He seemed… fine. Clean, not injured, a bit on the thin side, perhaps.

”That sounds like it will be a very good set-up.” Decima said. “I’m looking forward to hearing from the other photographers as well, it is always nice to get some new perspectives.”

She smiled down at Juli kneeling by her side. “I haven’t been able to go to any conferences lately, so I really appreciate the chance to participate online. I got Juli somewhat by chance, and he didn’t have a great time in his previous life. I want him to get more comfortable with being on his own before I go away again.”

“Oh, I see.” Subconscious recognition clicked into place in Lydia’s mind. The way Juli looked at Decima reminded her of the way Coriander had been looking at her when he first came. She smiled, genuinely this time. Her brown eyes glittered. “I know what that’s like, actually.”

Raising her voice slightly, she called out. “Cory, would you like to come in and introduce yourself?”

*

After a moment, the sound of a door opening and closing could be heard. A pet with blonde hair appeared on the screen. He looked… pretty. He was of the kind that rich people would show off and he had no scars on his face.

Juli suddenly felt nervous.

Even though they both were pets the one on the other side on the screen looked so much more… proper. What if he would notice every mistake Juli makes and point it out and then Miss would be embarrassed, because she can’t even keep one pet in line?

“It's a pleasure to meet you. T-this pet’s name is Coriander.” When he raised a hand in greeting, Juli could see scarring all around his wrist.

“Nice to meet you, Coriander” said Miss.

“This is Decima and Juli.” Miss Lydia explained. “She is the photographer I told you about.” The brunette held up Miss Decima’s book to the pet, who smiled.

“Y-you have created a beautiful book, Miss Decima.” He said. “Miss Lydia has shown it to t-his pet.”

“Thank you.” Miss smiled. “We just talked about which photos we like the best, did you have a favourite picture?”

It was subtle, but Juli caught the way the other pet glanced at Miss Lydia. When she nodded encouragingly, Coriander continued.

“T-this pet l-liked the photo with the field of sunflowers against the mountain. T-the light w-was a-amazing.” Quickly, he added. “B-but all the photos were beautiful.”

“That is one of my favourites, as well.” Miss said.

“What about Juli?” Miss Lydia asked. “Which photo did you like the best?”

“My favourite is from… not from this book, there is another one with fishies and… can I bring it there?”

“Go ahead, we’ll wait.”

Juli disappeared for a while and came back carrying a book in a hard, black cover. He opened it on one page and turned it to the camera. There was a seahorse, visible sunrays crossing the water and scattering on the animal’s skin.

“I liked it very much and because it’s cute and I even was gifted plush seahorse, because I liked it so much”

”That is gorgeous!” Miss Lydia said. “I understand why that is your favourite.”

“I-it is beautiful.” Cory agreed.

“Well,” Miss Lydia said, “thank you for the meeting. It was really nice to talk with both of you. I think we have a good plan in place, Decima, but let’s meet on Wednesday and make the final decisions.”

“N-nice to meet you, Miss Decima, Juli.”

“Likewise.”

*

This post is a collaboration between @octopus-reactivated and @maracujatangerine. It is part of the 2023 BBU Community Days organised by @bbu-on-the-side. This is our joint entry for day 15: Collaboration.

*

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#bbucommunity #bbu #pet whump #day15 #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #whump event #whump fic #lydia and coriander #title me Miss #collaboration #original writing

[munsster]

hii! i love ur writing so much i just had to request for my best girl <33 (this is a bit long & angsty sorry HDJSAHD) could u maybe do robin x gn!reader where they're bestfriends and the reader has a crush on robs but hasn't told her yet, and the reader is sorta in max's situation but when vecna attacks them they don't make it and unfortunately dies and a few days later robin was looking at the readers stuff and finds a love letter/confession letter for her? thank uu!! <3

redeem the cursed

A/N: wuf nonnie, the ANGST. don’t ask me about canon……… the rules are off in this one, fellas. (also rereading the request, i might’ve missed some of the details? sorry about that in advance!!)

Pairing: Robin Buckley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Sometimes, the right words have their way of coming out at just the right times. Sometimes. 2.7k words.

Warnings: ST4 VOL1/2 SPOILERS, Angst, character death, vecna being a little bitch/a straight up bitch, cursing, pining, grief, canon level gore

"How're you feeling?"

Robin rubs her palm along the hunch of your back, your neck craned down, eyes fixed on your untied laces where you sit on Nancy Wheeler's couch while the rest of them root around upstairs. You’ve known about the symptoms for a day, and an hour ago you saw something you didn’t know how to comprehend. It struck, and she was the first to notice the glazed over, far off look in your eye.

“So far? Teetering.”

You’d been holed up in your room since then. Furiously going through a new package of black pens, pinky smudged with the ink even now. But you saw a massive, alien creature and heard a voice and lost your shit, rambling to her over the phone. She begged you to come along after you swore and swore into the landline’s muffled microphone. And finally agreed. But being around her didn’t make this any less difficult.

“Teetering?”

“Might puke, might pass out. Fucking exhausted,” you sigh, looking up at her as she perches on the armrest, folding her fingers between yours, and leaning her cheek on your knuckles.

“Don’t go dark on me now, buttercup, still gotta see the world, right?”

“Right,” you chuckle.

“Just… think about Paris, right? The swans, the lights, no more Hawkins.” She opens your palm across her cheek with a grin, and you can’t help but smile back at her shred of hope.

“No more Hawkins,” you parrot softly, leaning your temple against her thigh.

Steve clops down the stairs, whistling, and the kids perk up when he orders, “C’mon, let’s go, in the car”—he points to you—“You’re comin’ with me. Babysitting duty. Robin: go get changed.”

“Yessir,” she teases, patting his back as he bounds put the door, swinging his keys around his finger. She peers down at you, tilting her head and pulling you to stand right in front of her. So close, count her pretty freckles. “Stay safe. Love you.”

And you take a deep breath. Her hand comes to your chin, and you hope to God she’s not just inspecting you. That she’s really looking this time. That she could feel the same ache in her chest that you do each time she laughs. That her heart beats a little faster at your mindless innuendos or when she sees you pop through the Family Video door.

“I love you, too, comet. Try not to go insane while I’m gone.” And she laughs and turns when Nancy calls for her.

“No promises! Keep us updated,” she chirps, waving goodbye.

“Sure thing.”

Kicking at the shoebox you set under the driver’s seat, you wish everything would go back to normal. You wish you could take a nap and wake up and spring break will be over and you won’t feel this sinking terror anymore. Max holds your hand between her thigh and yours, and her head rests against your shoulder. You close your eyes, and Steve pulls the beamer across the gravel in front of Max’s house. It births a thick grey cloud, and you hop out of the car. Max takes off running from behind you and up her steps.

Steve rolls down his window when you lean against the car door.

“How you holdin’ up back there? Would’ve let you ride shotgun, but Henderson called it, and I am a man of my word,” he teases, leaning across the sill to squint up at you.

You chuckle.

“I respect it. Every driver needs his co-pilot,” you sigh, “besides, I promised to see Max through this shit show. Anything to help the kid out.”

He nods and sits back, fiddling with the lock and humming to the low radio.

“You wish Robin invited you along, huh?”

You click your tongue and duck your head, laughing when he pokes your side and beams up at you before sidling back into his seat.

“I mean, the kids are great, don’t get me wrong but… obviously, I love spending as much time with her as possible,” you mumble. But he doesn’t laugh or console or anything. His breathing goes shallow and dragged out. And you turn to look at him when he licks his lips.

“So ridiculous… don’t you think now’s a good time to give it up?” he says with a casual shrug, but he doesn’t look at you, even when he goes on, just staring straight ahead, “you’re helpless, admit it. The world is ending, and if she didn’t love you before, she never will.”

“Steve, what are you… what’re you talking about?”

Your heart sinks because that’s not Steve. You glare at him, and suddenly he snaps. And in a deep voice that’s not his own, with eyes devoid and cloudy, he grumbles out, “You’re still waiting? After all this time. You never learn, do you?”

You cover your mouth and sob, trying to stumble away from the car when he gets out, but you trip on a rock and scrape your elbow scrambling across the ground. That’s not Steve. His once young face morphed into slime and veins and sunken eyes.

“Pathetic. You see why you belong with me now, don’t you? Because no one else will accept you. Your friends don’t care about you. You can’t run from it. No matter how hard you try, you’re better off crawling back to me.”

“That’s not true,” you pant, blood staining the sleeve of your shirt, ripping further down the seam when he catches you by the arm. And his claws dig against your skin, spewing fire through your marrow.

“Stop lying to yourself.”

“Steve!” you shout, “Robin, please!”

But it echoes back in a screech, a whine, demented and ringing as the sky bleeds a thick red. Spiraling out through low hanging clouds that swirl and spin and get stuck in your throat. He laughs, deep and harsh, lifting you off the ground and tossing you back against a slick, crawling pillar.

“She does not need you. She never did,” he says with a wet gushing when you scream again. “You could be free from this. All of this. Guilt. Futility. This is your destiny. This is how it ends.”

Against your own will, kicking and squirming, you rise up the pole, face to face with one of the cheerleaders in your english class. Her mouth is cracked open, and tears spring in your eyes when the creature creeps closer and your back slides further upward. And the pressure on your spine is crushing. You can barely breathe with a vine wrapped around your waist.

“Let me go,” you huff. But the air is punched from your lungs and your arms are tugged taut.

“Stop resisting. You cannot win. Just like she cannot love you.”

And when resisting becomes too hard, you surrender. His long fingers creep into view, blocking out the low red light beaming from above.

“Please,” you squeak. But there’s no more fight left. It drains from you, and shock leaves you senseless. Numb to the crackling of your own broken bones. His eyes flash between his knobby knuckles, and you feel the vomit swarming in your throat. And everything goes dark.

There’s a voice calling your name right before it’s over. Muffled and distant, metallic, almost shrill. Chanting your name and shaking your shoulders, but the world is dark. In fact, there’s no world at all. Just the absence of it.

Steve waits to tell Robin. Lets her believe you went home safe, decided the action wasn’t for you. But he knows the truth flew into the air and crashed into his arms, limp and cold, and he was shuddering and sniffling when they carried you to the trunk. It felt brutal, and no one spoke on the way to the graveyard. Steve took care of your body even when Hawkins shattered at the threading. Split into quarters, shockwaves of plasma and light.

And when slippery onyx tentacles strapped Robin to the wall, he thought it was the end. He couldn’t let her die without knowing the truth. So he told her. From across the room, he hollered it, with tears in his eyes, he watched her face fall. A frown tugging and pulling. Her muscles going soft even stretched across the mansion’s crumbling wall. The panic set in. It was life or death for her, and you didn’t have a choice. You were seconds away from knowing how to stop him. She wasn’t there to save you. She could have saved you.

The gym was crowded. Bustling and broken arms and legs and leftover clothes from old money families. His face steels when he reads your letter in the back seat of his car. And it takes him twenty minutes to steady his breathing. And even after the fact, his chest flutters, ready to sob walking across the squealing gym floor.

“Hey,” Steve huffs, cheeks damp with a small shoebox tucked under his arm, other hand holding a plain white envelope with no address and no stamps. Just her name. In haphazard cursive across the back.

“I think this is for you.”

“You wrote me a letter? C’mon, Steve. Read the damn room—”

“Not from me.” He chokes and has to turn away when Robin glances down at the envelope pinched between his fingers. She takes it and sits down on one of the empty cots, scanning and scanning and fussing over your finical handwriting and the scrawl of the last ink your pen could spit out. She closes her eyes and flips open the unsealed lip, still sticky but not wet. Inside, there’s a folded piece of lined paper nestled neatly into the bottom edge of the pocket.

And she slips it out. And unfolds the paper, chuckling because both sides are inky and a little smudged, and the creases are set down the middle. Nearly torn. Like you spent hours tirelessly folding and unfolding and folding the sheet, studying your own writing like it might change last second. Like the things you write will become any less you if you blink hard enough.

She takes a shuddering breath in reading the first word squeezed against the top left corner.

Buckley,

I hope this letter finds you well but who the fuck knows considering it's the end times. I mean, Hawkins has always been like those old rollercoasters they lug around every summer, all rusty and unpredictable and always about to hurl you head first into the afterlife. I remember heading down to the fairgrounds every fourth of July and begging you to go on the Zipper with me. You would remind me how much I hated it last year and warn me over and over, but you always spent your four tickets just for me to be clinging to you by the end. Definitely on the verge of puking all that cotton candy up. God, it was so easy to live back then. To just be alive and still breathing and have that be enough. I miss it.

Sorry I took so long to write your letter. I know you always loved the suspense. All that ‘will they, won't they’ romcom bullshit. But enough of the waiting. I'll tell you why it took so long, and it's not because I'm a tease or a wuss or whatever. I just didn't know what to say. Or what to write, I guess. All I knew is it had to be perfect, but I had nothing to say. I'd put pen to paper and end up with a bin full of sappy openers scribbled on leftover card stock. Finally figured notebook paper would be easier to manage. Trust me when I say it's so goddamn hard to keep my lines straight. Anyways, back to my last chance Armageddon sob story.

I guess I should start from the beginning (ironic, isn't it?). It was my first day at Hawkins middle, sitting next to the girl wearing baggy cutoffs with her hair all wild and thinking, 'maybe moving away from home won't be so bad after all' because you smiled and offered me a piece of bright pink bubblegum, and the rest is history. The next seven years were just me borrowing your new tapes and lying around in my room and scouring the corner store on Fridays, and yet I can still distinguish every single day from the next. You made 'em all special, Buckley.

I tried to write this one first, you know. Spent hours and hours trying to figure it out, but nothing sounded right. Nothing could ever top John Hughes’ scripture. Everything I wrote sounded so monotonous. Felt like one of the infinite monkeys, but I couldn't get anywhere near Shakespeare expertise. Not for you, at least. You make me nervous even in spirit. Need a goddamn twelve step every time you're not around. Call me cheesy, but it's true. It's crazy the way you never failed to make me feel wanted, and now I don't know what there's left to say. I mean, these are my last words. Technically.

So, I guess, here goes nothing. (Sorry in advance for the gag-worthy soliloquy; I know it's ridiculous):

I love you. And if I said it out loud, I know you'd say it back, but you wouldn't get it. It'd be a joke thing like 'ha ha, yeah, babe, gnarly as hell, love you, too,' and I know you always meant well, but I meant it. I meant it like I couldn't go a single day without seeing your face or hearing your voice or asking Harrington about you. Like I'd feel all out of place, and then I'd pull into your driveway and this massive weight would be lifted off my shoulders. You're magic, Buckley, I need you to know that. I've had a crush on you since that first day. I made every excuse in the book for seven years to follow you around like a puppy dog hoping one day you'd throw me a bone. (In fact, I'm still riding on that 'right people, wrong time' excuse). I'm sorry I didn't say something before it was too late for us.

And I'm sorry for all the plans we made together. I'm sorry I won't get to see you graduate. I'm sorry for all the times I didn't pick up the phone, and I'm sorry for being so stubborn. I'm sorry for being a shitty person most of the time. I'm sorry I kept you waiting, and I'm sorry for leaving. But most of all, I'll be sorry for the rest of my life that I never got to tell you how I felt in person.

But trust me, I will not be sorry for our time. And I will not be sorry for knowing you. I mean, really knowing you. There's nothing like it. You're my comfort zone and safety blanket and trust exercise, and I know all of my secrets are safe in that bottomless vault of yours. Honestly, there's no one I'd rather be in love with. I know, one day, you're gonna make someone feel so important. Just promise me you'll let yourself love and be loved in return. It's the meaning of life, comet, and who are we to neglect our purpose?

Even though ours is something I wanted to last forever, sometimes you just don’t get that lucky. No matter how desperate you end up by the end. I used to curse Hawkins, and now I guess Hawkins has cursed me, huh? Gave me all these awesome memories and people—and you—only to screw me over within a decade, and I probably won't even get a proper goodbye in. Well, this is it: goodbye. Don't forget about me, okay? Actually, more importantly, don't forget about you. I hope you make it out alive. If I can’t, I want you to. For me. I swear on all of it: out of everyone in this shitty little town, I'm gonna miss you most. So you better get back out there. And I promise I’ll wait for you. So take your time because there's no one like you, Buckley. I'm serious.

Can't wait to see you again,

your favorite loser and number one fan

P.S. if you forget our handshake, I'm haunting you forever. XOXO!

masterlist

#robin buckley angst #angst #robin buckley x fem!reader #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley x you #robin buckley x y/n #tw: death #x reader #x fem!reader #x female reader #stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things spoilers #st4 #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x reader #robin buckley #robin buckley fic #stranger things x you #maya hawke #maya hawke x reader #*

[myreia]

DIVERGENCE OF THE HEART

CHAPTER NINE: NASCENCY

Chapter Rating: Explicit Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 6,520 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. This chapter contains explicit sexual content. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3

Aymeric’s chambers are dark, the lights long extinguished. Shafts of blue-grey light filter in from the windows, freezing rain lashing against the panes. The storm is persistent. Perhaps it will break in the morning, once it has worn itself out.

Aureia kisses him, too distracted to think much of the prickle of cold air against her bare skin. She grips his shoulders, gripping him tight, jostled by his steady pace. Giddiness bubbles in her heart and she can’t quite keep herself from laughing. With anyone else she would protest being carried, but with him it feels right. She is vulnerable in his arms in a way she has never been with anyone.

The feeling is intoxicating.

“A moment, if you would,” he murmurs against her lips.

She smiles. “I suppose I can allow that.”

A low, husky sound rumbles in his throat. He sets her down gently, her feet touching down on cool floor. She clutches the blanket to her chest and patters across it, passing from polished wood to thick carpet as her eyes adjust to the dim light. His chambers are large, comfortable yet organized. Judging from the neatness, either he doesn’t spend much time here or he is insistent on keeping things tidy.

Pop.

Aureia flinches, her heart leaping into her throat, and glances over her shoulder. Aymeric’s face glows in the dark, illuminated by the soft glow of a struck match. He lights the candelabra on the bureau and blows the match out, waving away the trail of smoke. Picking it up, he calmly crosses the room and attends to the remaining candles, flooding the chambers with light one by one.

She turns, taking in her surroundings. A large bed below arching windows. A couch and a couple of large armchairs by the hearth. A worn writing desk stained with ink and scratched with marks from years of use. Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, some as thin as a broadsheet, others as thick as a Sharlayan tome. Their spines are not stamped with titles and their pages are marked with pieces of paper. If she had to guess, these aren’t books but rather journals—a whole history of thoughts and observations, recorded over the years.

Her heart pounds. Has he written about her?

“There,” he says, kneeling by the hearth. A fire roars to life, crackling pleasantly. “As I said, only a moment.”

He looks up, staring her with a thoroughly smitten look. She arches an eyebrow and return his gaze, her fingers toying with the blanket as they rest against her collarbone. It clings to her body, the soft blue fabric pooling at her feet like the train of a gown. She shivers, her exposed back prickling with goosepimples.

“Are you cold?” he asks, rising to his feet. He looks strangely incomplete, standing before her in his trousers and boots and nothing else. “Forgive me that I did not think to light it sooner. This manor’s chambers are too drafty for their own good—”

She shakes her head, a smile on her lips. “I’m not bothered,” she says.  

He hangs his head and laughs, grinning sheepishly. Scratching the back of his neck, he runs a hand through his dark hair and brushes it off his forehead. “Another moment, if you would, Aureia,” he asks. “Please.”

Her heart thrums and a warm, affectionate blush rushes across her cheeks. She has never seen him so unsure of himself. He projects such confidence in his daily life that she never imagined he could be self-conscious. And, of course, there was their moment just now. The way he kissed her on the floor of his study. That certainly was not the act of a self-conscious man.

Perhaps this is a reminder that people—everyone—are more complex and contradictory than most give them credit. There is an ebb and flow. And if she has learned anything tonight, it is that there is a difference between Aymeric the Lord Commander and Aymeric the man.  

She nods. “Take all the time you need,” she says gently.

He smiles, grateful. She wraps the blanket around herself, tucking it securely beneath her armpits, watching as he paces across the room. Returning to the bureau, he turns his back on her and undresses methodically, removing his boots and trousers with disciplined movements.

Aureia stiffens, a fist pressed to her chest. Two very different nations, two very different wars. But she knows what it is like to strip bare in the army barracks, your naked body just another among hundreds. There is no time for personal boundaries when efficacy is in need.

Aymeric pauses, silent, and rests his hands against the top of the bureau. Firelight glows against his pale skin, dancing across the taught muscles of his lower back. She can sense his hesitance, as if he is fighting with himself. She does not know why for certain, but thinking on it now, she can hazard a guess. He told her he has shared himself with only one other. A boy, long ago. She knows too well how relationships between comrades-in-arms play out. How they so often end.

Perhaps this is as new to him as it is to her.

She swallows a lump in her throat. It was because of him that she could admit to her own personal anxieties tonight. But she never stopped to wonder whether he would have his own.

“Aymeric?” she asks softly. “Are you—”

“Well,” he interrupts. “I am… well. Simply lost in thought.” He inhales a deep breath and pulls the top drawer open. He withdraws a small bottle and pauses, staring at it with a strange look on his face. He sets it aside and continues rummaging, slipping something small into his hand, clasping it tight. “Aureia, I must ask… May I be frank?”

She takes a step towards him, the blanket rustling around her. “You don’t have to ask permission.”

“I am… It is a question of courtesy. I would never wish for you to think otherwise.”

“Aymeric, you are the politest person I know. Frankly, I don’t think you have an impolite bone in your body and I wonder whether it would do you some good.”

He chuckles and hangs his head. “You are right, of course. Nevertheless…” Trailing off, he glances over his shoulder and meets her eyes. “I wish to make love to you tonight. Fully and ardently, have no doubt of that. Would that I could allow us to be swept away in the passion of the night, but there is a matter I must needs address. It would not sit well to leave it undiscussed.”

She tilts her head, confused. “What is it?”

“You are a mage. Have you much experience in the art of healing? The astrologians have methods, I have heard, to protect against such things—”

“I’m not an astrologian. Aymeric, what are you talking about?”

He pauses. “I am a bastard. This you know. I may love you, Aureia, but I will not risk fathering a bastard of my own.”

“Oh…” The sound escapes her lips, shaky and uncertain. It is strange to hear this now, confirmation of what she has suspected intertwined with a grave subject. He loves her. Of course he does. But there are very real concerns that come with it.

She hadn’t considered this would be a fear of his. She hadn’t considered it at all. Naïve, perhaps, but she hadn’t though she would need them anytime soon. Foolish. She has no desire to be pregnant, to have children. She should have thought of this sooner.

“I… I know of certain spells, but I have never cast them. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

The slightest bow of his head and he looks away. The distance between them stretches out before her, feeling far farther than it should be. She wonders whether she should go to him, whether seeing him face to face would ease the awkward rawness of this conversation. Or would he prefer she keep her distance all together?

She waits for him to speak, but there is nothing but silence. From this angle she can see nothing but his bare back; he leans against the bureau, contemplative and lost in thought, the passionate urgency that overtook him before all but vanished. Biting her lower lip, she tugs the loosening blanket and pulls it up, thinking through her next words carefully. “But I can learn,” she continues. “We can wait for this. We don’t have to do anything tonight. Being with you now is more than enough for me—”

“I wish to wholeheartedly. Painfully so. Do you?”

Her heart flutters, her stomach in knots. What she mistook for a loss of passion is clearly more than that. The memory of his mouth on her lingers—not simply the sensation of it, but the joy that overcame him as he brought her to rapture. He wants to make love to her. She wants to see him happy.

“Yes,” she breathes. “You have no idea how much.”

He exhales a long breath, collecting himself, and turns his head to look at her. “By the Fury…” Relief spreads across his face. “I worried that my words may have pushed you away.”

“I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”

“I have my means.” He opens his palm, showing her the small flask within. “Alchemy may not be as reliable as magicks, but I am certain it will prevent that which I fear. Or so Artoirel has assured me.”

Somehow it comes as no surprise that he has had this discussion with the Fortemps heir. One a bastard, the other whose incomparable brother was illegitimate. Illegitimacy has shaped both their lives, albeit in different ways. Of course they would have voiced their concerns. “I would trust his word,” she says. “And the word of your alchemist.”

He smiles, grateful for her reassurance, and downs a dose of the tonic. Returning the flask to the drawer, he pushes it shut and glances over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on her. “I have not said it yet tonight,” he says. “But by the Fury are you beautiful.”

Aureia raises an eyebrow and paces across the floor, the blanket rippling behind her. “Oh?” she asks lightly, raising her head.

He smiles and turns around, back leant against the bureau, elbows resting against its undecorated surface. He glows in the firelight, the flickering flames bringing a flush to his skin, the scars dulled by the warmth. He looks so lanky and unassuming, unfurled that way. Far too delicate for Ishgardian standards, but beautiful in his own right.  

Her gaze wanders over his nakedness, taking him in. All of him.

“If you do not believe me, I will proclaim it again—”

She laughs and steps into him, pressing herself to him as she rises up on her tiptoes.  

“—and again and again—”

She throws her arms around his neck and pulls him down, kissing him deeply. He seizes her face in his hands and leans into it, swaying slightly as she grips him tight. The blanket slips loose and falls from her body, pooling at their feet. Neither of them pay it any heed.

Aymeric cradles her, a hand on her lower back, the other at her breast. His hips roll against hers and she gasps at the pressure, hooking one leg around him. Desperate not to break the kiss, he seizes her by the waist, his hands digging into her ass, and lifts her up. She shifts her weight, balancing carefully, and grips him tight. Her fingers brush his collarbone, nails digging into his shoulders as she grinds rhythmically against his hardening cock.

The feel of her bare flesh against his makes her heart race. This is different from before, when there was clothing—however minimal—between them. He groans softly, the sound muffled in their kiss, and the rigid pressure rocking pleasurably against her. Heat pools between her legs as she imagines him moving inside her, excitement and nervous anticipation fluttering in her chest.

For something she once held in trivial regard, something—perhaps in a desperate attempt to comfort herself—she herself mocked, the sudden importance of the moment hits her like a thunderbolt. A shock to the system, an understanding of herself she once would have denied. The physical desire for him is strong, exciting yet foreign, aching like a fresh bruise she cannot keep herself from prodding.

And it terrifies her. Perhaps it is the fear that it will not last, that this feeling is fleeting and will be gone come morning. Perhaps it is the fear that it is simply fabricated, a bogus emotion that she has tricked herself into believing. Perhaps it is the fear that she fed herself a lie for too many years, that she was never as broken as she believed herself to be.

Aymeric gives her a deep, lasting kiss, his lips tugging at hers as he draws away. He is breathless, panting from the fervor of kissing her and the effort of carrying her. His nose brushes her cheek and nuzzles her gently, trailing open kisses across her jaw and neck. When he sucks at the tender flesh at the base of her throat, her breath catches and she swallows a moan, trembling with sensation. Her hips buck, moving rapidly now as she grinds against his cock. She is caught with indecision, torn between the desire to feel him inside her and the desire to put her hands on him and discover all the secret spots that drive him wild.

It is the first that she wants, she realizes with surprise—and badly. The second will come with time. But the first… She doesn’t know why it is important to her, but she knows that it is. He has already made her come tonight. Her own experiments—conducted out of boredom or curiosity or during the sporadic times when she felt like indulging her fantasies—cannot compare. She can satisfy herself, sure, but with him… Someone she trusts. Someone who is keen to know her better than she knows herself…

It is different than doing it alone.

Only moments ago in the study, she would have been happily content with their entanglement on the floor. But now she knows what she wants. He gave her something precious. She would give it back. She must return the favour tonight.

It’s the natural progression for a pair like them, isn’t it? The culmination of sex. Or maybe she’s had the idea planted in her head from years of listening to friends’ escapades, reinforced by those damn romance chapbooks. Two people joined together, moving as one.

Aureia trembles, her dark hair falling around her ears, brushing her collarbone. She puts her hands to either side of his face and pulls him to her, capturing his mouth with hers. He groans as her tongue slips inside his mouth, her breasts pressing against his chest. Her hands rake through his hair, tugging roughly.  

“Put me down,” she murmurs urgently. “Bed, now—”

“Aye, bed—” The words are barely recognizable through his breathless gasps. He cannot stop kissing her. “‘Tis here—”

His arm slips across her back and he lets go, dropping her to the mattress. The height is greater than she expects and her stomach drops. She whoops in surprise and throws her head back, startled laughter bubbling out of her in a rush. He chuckles and grins, following up quickly with an open kiss. Her legs spread, a foot rubbing idly against the edge of the bed, making room as he lays on top of her. His weight presses into her and he runs his fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her forehead. He kisses her lips, her cheek, her throat, her breasts, eager to explore. His tongue runs across her nipple, circling it, and tugs it into his mouth. Her neck arches and she moans, wriggling beneath him from the sensation. Her hips rock, thrusting upwards, and her cunt brushes against his erect cock.

His tongue lavishes her breast, spurned on by the sounds escaping her lips. He runs a hand across her thigh, his touch feather-light, stroking the inside. She shakes, heat coursing in her veins, anticipation coiling deep inside her. He dips a hand between her thighs, rumbling at the heated slickness he finds there—and stiffens. She can sense his hesitation, wondering how best to touch her. She reaches between them and takes his hand, pressing his fingers to the sensitive nub, and murmurs her wish.  

He strokes, unpracticed, but confident from her direction, and lavishes her breast with his tongue. Pleasure blooms and she falls back, eyes closed, sinking into the soft covers. She indulges herself for a few moments of bliss, gripping the covers in her fists and twisting them between her. His fingers draw a rougher kind of desire than his tongue, slow and steady—but indulge too long and he may very well push her over the brink.

Her stomach tenses, core muscles tightening as she dances along the edge. Opening her eyes, she shoves her hands into the mattress and pushes herself up. He raises his head and she kisses him roughly, her lips crashing against his, and rakes her hands down his back. The scars are rough beneath her finger pads.

He leans into her, chasing her kiss. His cock nudges her cunt. She shakes at the touch, the anticipation driving her mad.   

“I want you inside me now,” she says, throat raw and breath ragged.

“Now?”

“Now.”

He pauses, drawing back. His weight on her vanishes, cold air rushing over her body, and she tilts her head in confusion. He reaches behind him, fingers scrabbling for the small bottle on the bureau, and opens it. He pours the contents into his palm, silky oil shining on his skin, and returns to her. He kisses her, lightly, chastely, his hand fumbling between them. She gasps, lips moving against his, as he massages the oil into her. She is impossibly slick now, pleasure coiling tight.  

She murmurs his name, the syllables lost in their kiss. He takes his cock and guides the tip to her entrance, pushing carefully.

The pressure sears. Her stomach tightens, her breath caught in her throat. Pain. A kind she has never felt, one she cannot comprehend. One she does not want to acknowledge.

It is not supposed to hurt, is it?

Is it?

She knows what others have said in passing, a collection of mismatched tales from friends about embarrassing first times and awkward first nights, recounted after there has been too much to drink. Pain if you don’t relax, pleasure if you do. A pinch here, nothing bothersome. Use oils to ease into it. The first time is the worst.

Hilda never had an issue, or so she said. She shrugged indifferently when she mentioned it and downed another pint.

Aureia exhales a breath. This isn’t pain she feels. This is… discomfort. Expected. It will pass soon.

He pushes further. She sucks in a breath, biting the inside of her lip, desperate to control her expression. The sear worsens, a bright, burning pain that can only remind her of her flesh on fire. The night in the Praetorium. Lahabrea in Thancred’s body, the sheer incensed power of his magicks melting her clothing into her back, branding her skin—

She closes her mind. Don’t think of that, don’t think of that.

The stretch is unbearable. Burning, cutting, ripping, as if she is being torn open. She cries out and wraps her arms around Aymeric’s neck, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. “I can’t,” she whimpers. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

At once the stretch is gone and the fire vanishes, though an echo of it remains. Throbbing. Stinging. She scrunches her face, tears panging in her eyes, and clutches desperately at him. Any sense of pleasure is long gone.  

“Aureia,” he says gently, confused and concerned. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“I can’t, I can’t, I fucking can’t—” 

The bedframe creaks and the mattress sinks, dipping with his weight. Aymeric climbs onto the bed and pulls her into his arms, laying down on the cushions. She curls into him, head buries into the crook of his neck, a hand thrown across his chest, fingernails digging into his shoulder. She trembles, shaking, her throat an awful twisted mess. It would be easier if she could cry—she can live with the embarrassment—but the tears refuse to fall.

He rests a hand on her back, his touch warm. Gentle. Patient. “Did I hurt you?” he asks. “I did not think… I did not know—”

“It wasn’t you.”

He pauses. “Aureia—”

“It’s me. Just another bloody thing about me that can’t be normal.” 

Broken. Still. What a great joke from the gods—if it wasn’t her understanding of attraction that was fucked up, then something else had to be.

She exhales a trembling breath and raises her head, wiping useless tears from her eyes. The pain has faded to frustration. To anger. Perhaps it’s her own damn fault, building this moment up in her mind. Of course nothing would come of it. Who was she to expect a moment of blissful happiness?

He falls silent. It is the first time she has seen him truly speechless.  

Just say something, Aymeric. Please.  

But he does not. Her gut twists, the heat of shame coursing through her. Abruptly, she sits up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, determined to save herself from her embarrassment.

He catches her arm, his fingers resting gently on her wrist. Her heart leaps into her throat. Shaking, she turns her head and meets his gaze.

Aymeric returns it, steady and resolved. “I said I wished for nothing other than you in my bed tonight,” he says. “Do not go. Please. Stay with me tonight.”

“But…” Her words fail her. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For… oh gods, fuck.” She sinks back on the bed. The grand four posters stretch high above her, a canopy of blue and gold dark in the candlelight. “I want this. I want this with you. And I can’t do it. I don’t know why.”

He pauses, drawing his knees up into his chest, his back to the headboard. “I wish for it, too,” he says finally. “But that it did not happen is not some great failure on either of our parts. And certainly not on yours. I would not be such a fool as to place so much importance on a single intimate act, though assuredly I have heard otherwise from certain… members of aristocratic society. Those who would pale at the mere mention of alchemical tonics and astrologic magicks in the same breath they mock the serving maid taken advantage of by her lord.” 

She rolls onto her side and stares up at him. “I’m sorry.”

“And again I would ask—what for? I am in love with you. There are countless ways to make that love known, ones that would not see you hurt. I would rather lavish you with my fingers and tongue a hundred times than cause you pain. I have heard the braggarts in the barracks, the dastards in the halls, Temple Knights and dragoons both. I have known too many uncharitable men who would put their pleasure above all else and I deem it abhorrent. I will not strive to be one of them.”  

She pauses. “But you…”

Aymeric smiles and holds out a hand. She sits up and takes it cautiously, allowing him to pull her into an embrace. She settles next to him, head on his shoulder, her legs curled beneath her. Though she is sore and aching and still sensitive from her near climax, she feels content. Happy. There is a warmth in her belly like a hearth’s fire, burning slow and strong.  

He wraps an arm protectively around her. “This is but one night,” he says softly, planting a kiss to her forehead. “The first of many. If this is important to you we shall pursue it, but I do not wish to do so in haste. There is nothing but time ahead of us.”

She threads her fingers with his and leans into him. He is firm and soft and solid, an unwavering presence that she so desperately needs. Sitting here with him, in his chambers, on his bed… It’s such a far cry from the cold alley and its lantern light, pressed roughly between Thancred and a stone hewn wall. A reminder that she is safe with him. That she is better with him. With Aymeric.

She doesn’t know if she could open herself to anyone else.

Aureia sighs and curls up against him, listening the steady rhythm of his heart, the gentle rise of their breath. Outside, rain beats against the windows, drowning out the musical plink of hail hitting the rooftops. Inside, the hearth crackles merrily, chasing away the cold. She stares into the flames, watching the fire dance across the coals in an array of gold and oranges and reds.

“Not the night you were expecting, was it?” she asks after a moment.

A fond chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat. “I expected to spend a full night drafting missives,” he replies. “I imagined it would go like so: at a bell past midnight, Marcel would enter with a fresh pot of tea and depart, doing his best to hold his tongue. At three bells past, my hand would ache and seize. At dawn, Lucia would find me bent over my desk half-asleep and gently scold me for neglecting my well-being. Perhaps even remind me that I am and continue to be sorely dreadful at delegation.”

“Does that happen often?” Her fingers toy with his hand, brushing his palm and wrist.

“More oft than it should.” His kisses the top of her head. “To be perfectly frank, the missives can wait for tomorrow morn. I much prefer this evening to the one I had planned.”

She smiles. “Well, I am very glad that Marcel didn’t try to deliver you that pot of tea. Or he may have witnessed something he would rather not.”

He laughs. “He may be stubborn and set in his ways, but he is keenly observant and respectful in his own way. I suspect he will have words with the staff to stamp out any rumours before they begin.”

Her heart sinks. This is the last thing she wants to think about. “I suppose there will be talk,” she says wearily. “I wish there wouldn’t be—”

“I trust my staff to keep our confidence. The Borel name has not been above scandal and they have some practice keeping their lord’s secrets. Their lips will be sealed.”

She nods, though it does nothing to ease her doubts. He speaks with such certainty that she does not want to argue with him. “Is it selfish of me?” she asks after a moment. She rests a hand against his chest and traces idle circles across his skin. “I don’t want anyone to know about this. About us. Not yet.”

“To want for privacy is not a selfish act.”

“I know, but still—”

“Believe me, Aureia, if there is one thing I have learned from all my years in the public eye, it is that you do not owe anyone the secrets you keep behind doors. That part of you is precious. The public can and will think what they want of you, but you are not obligated to share every last part of yourself.”

She raises her head and meets his eyes, affection blooming in her heart. How does he understand her so well? No matter how deeply she cares for her fellow Scions, none of them could properly conceive the crushing weight on her shoulders as her notoriety grew. The expectations, the assumptions, the rumours. Far less important than hunting primals and Ascian plots. 

And so she kisses him. Softly, gently, compelled to show him how much he means to her. He sighs huskily as she deepens the kiss, entranced and enchanted by her touch. Her hands wander across the planes of his chest, mindful of the scars, and an idea takes hold.

“Aymeric,” she murmurs. “There’s still something I want to do. If you’re willing.”

He nuzzles her cheek, his hands stroking her hair. “What is it that you wish?”

“I want to touch you. I want to give you what you gave me tonight.”

He pauses. He knows what she has asked. “There is no need. Giving you pleasure was more than enough to satisfy me, there is no favour to return—”

“I want to.”

Aymeric meets her eyes. He gazes at her softly for a moment, the depths of his affection laid bare, and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers brush the delicate point. “Then yes,” he says.

A burst of happiness bubbles in her chest. She grins and kisses him, trailing a hand down his chest. Breath hitches in his throat as she slips her hand between his thighs and along the length of his cock. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says with a laugh, still entangled in the kiss. She feels no shame nor embarrassment in admitting it. Not with him. She has imagined such things before, but touching another person cannot compare.

His arm wraps around her, holding her tight. “I… I can show you,” he says, breathless already. He closes his eyes, swallowing a grunt of pleasure. “But this is… ‘tis good… ‘tis…”

She strokes him, coaxing a moan from his lips. She can feel him shaking. His hand slides across her back, fingers scraping inadvertently against her scars, but the sensation hardly bothers her. She is too captivated by him to think now. The small trembles as his pleasure builds, the stuttering gasps, the way her name falls voicelessly from his lips… To see him undone by her touch makes her heart flutter.

He groans, dark hair falling damply across his forehead, and catches her hand, pulling it away. She pauses, watching as he spreads the damp wetness from his tip across his shaft and strokes himself.

“Like so,” he murmurs, his voice raw as he tugs and pulls. “‘Tis good… The oil… if you can…”

She has never heard him explain anything in so few words. Determined to follow through, she gives him an aching kiss and pulls away. Seizing the open bottle from the bureau, she coats her fingers and palms in it and returns to the bed, the mattress creaking beneath her weight as she carefully straddles him. He lets go as she takes his cock and drags her hand across it, following his example. He groans, gasping for breath, and leans into her, burying his head in her shoulder. She grins with delight.  

She strokes faster now. His hips move, his cock throbbing in her hand. He locks eyes with her and she cannot look away. The way he stares at her—captivated and enraptured, wholly hypnotized by their shared rhythm. For as long as she has known him, he has kept himself tightly controlled, every expression he makes, every word he speaks precise and exact. She can count on one hand the number of times he has let the façade slip, choosing passion over reason.

This moment cannot compare. This moment is beyond. His love for her is ardent, infectious, burning bright. There is nothing in the world now save for her and him. Time slows and they are hanging in the balance together, all worries and concerns and pressures bled away.  

A guttural moan rips from his throat.

He seizes her face in his hands, crushing his lips to hers. She kisses him back with delirious yearning and her hand does not stop moving. He cries out, the sound muffled in their kiss, and she pulls him through his climax, letting him spend himself in her hand.  

He collapses against her shoulder, trembling and shaking, his breath coming in uneven gasps. She holds him close, stroking her fingers through his hair, and extends her slick hand away from them, careful not to touch the covers. They made more of a mess than she expected.

Aymeric exhales a sigh, stirring against her shoulder. “My thanks,” he says quietly. “My love.”

She kisses his brow. “Yes,” she breathes. “Do you have any idea how happy this has made me?”

He chuckles. With one last kiss, he shifts his weight and she rolls off him, allowing him to rise from the bed. He strides to the bureau and rummages through it, pulling out an old shirt. He cleans himself off and sits on the edge of the mattress, taking her forearm gently in one hand. She watches, startled, as he wipes her hand. After everything they have done tonight, this single gesture is strangely one of the most intimate.

They are silent for a moment, sitting side-by-side with their knees knocking against each other. Aureia leans her head against his shoulder and gazes across the room. The pervasive chill that had settled in the air is long gone, chased away by a fervent heat. Whether it is from the hearth or their activities, it is hard to tell. Perhaps both.

She wonders what comes next now. Should she kiss him and leave, returning to her dingey half-forgotten room in the Forgotten Knight? Perhaps it would be for the best; they would avoid unnecessary explanations about her presence at the manor should anyone call on him tomorrow. But she doesn’t want to leave. She wants to stay. She wants nothing more than to curl up with him beneath the covers, embrace him, hold him, burrow against his warmth. She seeks his touch, but it is no longer one of desire—it is one of comfort and safety and affection and…

Something else she cannot say.

You should ask. Just ask. Do you think he’s going to ask you to leave? Kick you out into the freezing rain?  

“Aureia?” Aymeric is looking at her, concern in his eyes. Nothing gets past him, it seems. “Are you… are you well?” 

She rests a hand against his forearm, fingers clasping his wrist. His pulse beats against the pad of her thumb. “I am,” she says.

He bunches up the shirt and lets it fall to the floor. A heavy pause before he speaks, as if he is considering his words carefully. “Do you have regrets tonight?” he asks hesitantly.

“Regrets? No. Gods, no. Never.”

“I ask only because I wish to have certainty—”

A realization clicks in her mind. He’s called you my love. Gods, Aureia, you need to say something back. 

“—though even as I say so, I would not ask you to shoulder or assuage my personal fears. You are dear to me. More than any other. That is a truth I would proclaim from the seat of Halone herself if I must. I do not wish for this to be the only night I share with you. I would look to tomorrow. And the day after. And every day that is yet to come.”

Her heart pounds. Deep within her, she can feel the creeping anxiety crawling back in. She has done so much to keep it at bay, but she cannot stave it off forever. What has she done to deserve someone like Aymeric? Someone warm, patient, and unashamed of how much he loves her. Who has done nothing but shown her honesty from the very beginning. There is a raw earnestness to his affection, one that envelopes her and protects her and shields her from harm.

But even a shield can be used to suffocate. There is a part of her twisted up with fear, wondering whether this is too much too soon. Too fast. He is in love with her, that is for certain, and he is dear to her. But she doesn’t know if she loves him in return.  

Not yet.

And so she takes his hand and twines their fingers together in her lap, her gaze refusing to leave his. “Coming here tonight was one of the best decisions I have ever made,” she says firmly. “I want this, Aymeric. I want to be with you. How could I regret the choices that led to that?”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I am being foolish, am I not?”

“We all have our moments.”

She embraces him, wrapping an arm around him, and snuggles against his chest. Her hand brushes by the scar above his navel, gentle against the red and knotted tissue. Where had she been that night? Caught in a snowstorm on the outskirts of Falcon’s Nest during the long journey back to Ishgard with Thancred in tow, straining herself to conjure enough fire-aspected aether to keep them warm and alive. He was different then, not the jaded, bitter mess he has turned himself into. Though now she wonders how much of it was a façade. He listened attentively while she informed him of everything that had happened after his disappearance. Perhaps his uncharacteristic silence and lack of customary quips and jests was a sign.

When did it go so terribly wrong between them? He may be alive and breathing, but some days… some days she feels she has lost a friend as surely as if he had died.

Aureia exhales softly and puts the thought from her mind. She is not—cannot concern herself with him anymore. Not when there is someone who cares so ardently for her in her life now.

She sits there with Aymeric for a moment longer, the pull of sleep lulling them into a gentle stupor. When he strokes her hair and kisses the top of her head, it is the only invitation she needs. They find their way beneath the covers, tangled together against soft cushions and between silky sheets. She curls into him and rests her head against his chest, one leg thrown over him as she holds him tight. His heart pounds against her ear, in rhythm with her own.

“Aymeric?” she murmurs, voice muffled.

His fingers twine in her hair. “Hm?”

“I… I love you.”

Her stomach twists the moment her words leave her lips, even as he pulls her tight and presses a kiss to her mouth. Is it a lie? A fabrication? A half-truth? She doesn’t know. The puzzle of her life is too complex, her emotions too snarled and tangled to make any sense. Right now, in this moment, she is desperate for the ease of simplicity for once in her life.

He loves her. Nothing is simpler than that. And if telling him that she loves him in return brings him joy, then she is satisfied with that. A white lie that will become a truth.

Some day.

One day.

That is the best she can do for now.

A note & some thoughts: The condition Aureia displays in this chapter is called primary provoked vulvar vestibulodynia and affects around 1 in 6 AFAB people at some point in their lifetime. It occurs when the pelvic floor muscles spasm in a protective guarding response. There is no specific cause (and not necessarily a result of sexual trauma, as some gynecologists assume it to be). The is an involuntary reaction of the nervous system, making penetrative sex extremely painful or physically impossible. Symptoms can be relieved or reduced through physical therapy with a pelvic floor specialist, but relapse is very common. There is a taboo discussing pain during sex, at least in western cultures. We’re still in an age of “lie back and let it pass”—it’s easy to dismiss pain as something insignificant that goes away with enough arousal or lube, or to just force your way through it for the sake of your partner. It is distressing to want to have sex in a particular way, but to be physically unable to do so. And with cisgender M/F couples, penetration is often the climactic sex act, the one everything builds towards with everything else counting as foreplay. Erotica—especially in fanfic—is often a fantasy. Fall in love with the right person, have mind-blowing sex with them. But I think it is neat to expand on what can be included in that fantasy, and explore different aspects of communication, love, pleasure, and respect in the context of sex. Sometimes that includes when things go wrong or when an unexpected issue arises. This is one of the more vulnerable sex scenes I have written since many of Aureia’s struggles hit a personal note for me. But it was very cathartic to get this down on paper. Thank you for reading. 🖤

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfiction #wolmeric #aymeric x wol #aymeric de borel #aureia malathar #ffxiv wol #oc tag #writing tag #long post #some day i'm going to find tumblr's word count limit on a text post lolololol

[the-lady-amphitrite]

— A FAIRYTALE BEGINNING | chapter 10

a fate already affixed

pairing: Loki / f!half-Asgardian!Reader word count: 5,043 summary: the time for your Weaver's Reading has arrived, and Skuld tells you what she can about your future in this chapter: references to Laufey's death & Odin's past removal of one of his eyes, reader feels so 15 bc of her attitude in this it hurts, blood magic & non-descript references to blood, very blatant canonical racist attitude about Frost Giants, lots of Skuld being cryptic author notes: hello everyone, i return once more after dragging myself out of bg3 hell long enough to finish polishing and uploading this! this chapter concludes what i like to think of as "act one" for AFB (with all of the setup about soulmates, glimpses at interrealm politics, and a look at how people get their godnames in this AU), and the next chapter kicks off "act two"! i'm really looking forward to posting the six chapters that make it up; it's honestly my favourite thread of this whole AU.

( previous chapter | read on ao3 | series masterlist )

You yawn at the stars as you lean against the front side of the karvi as it sails along Yggdrasil’s branches. The bright, distant stars are nothing more than blurred lines as they fly past the ship. They remind you that (despite not being able to tell yourself) this ship moves faster than even the racing skiffs on Asgard.

The ship — you remember someone had referred to her as the Grey Wolf — arrived on the shore of Asgard this morning, spearing through a dense fog in such silence that it left you in awe. The sun had yet to crest above the horizon when the karvi docked, there only to pick up you and your mother to head to Gymirsgard.

Sleep still clung to you like the mist of a light, drizzling rain when your mother dragged you from bed to get up and dressed for this trip. Your birthday party had run late into the previous evening, even though the celebrations had started from the moment you walked into a private breakfast with your family. Even Volstagg, his parents, and his sister Birsa (who just returned from her Valkyrjur trials), were all invited to the family breakfast. It was the first of many surprises for your fifteenth birthday.

Fifteen.

A smile works its way onto your tired face as you remember once more. You’ve looked forward to today for as long as you can remember. You can’t count how many times you’ve dreamt of your visit to the Weavers of Fate over the years. Of facing Skuld before Mímisbrunnr.

Skuld reveals one moment — just one — from a Drekasál’s vast future when they visit her after they’ve turned fifteen. A moment that you’ve been told again and again no dragon ever reveals to anyone else. Not even their soulmate.

A thrill of anticipation sings its way through you, winding through your limbs and rattling your breath. To keep something so close, so secretive, must mean that it’s a moment of unparalleled importance to a dragon. You’re meant to be able to tell your soulmate everything. You’re meant to trust them with the best and worst of who you can be.

Your imagination runs wild with a dozen ideas of what could be so important, each one spilling across your thoughts like a overflowing bottle of watered-down ink on heavy parchment.

You look behind you at the three dozen other drekabǫrn on the karvi. More than half a dozen conflagrations are on this ship with you and your mother. Each of them a different size, and from a different realm. Dragons from across the Realms of Yggdrasil, all headed to speak with the Weaver of Futures.

It’s painfully obvious how much you stand apart from the others. They came with their conflagration; you only have your mother at your side. For the first time since you met him, you can keenly feel the two year age gap between you and Gauti. Too young still to receive his own glimpse of the future, Gauti waits back on Asgard with the rest of your family.

In some ways, you suppose it’s a bit silly to only really feel that age gap now. In all the years you’ve known him, the only lessons you’ve ever shared with him are the Drekasál ones. He’s a child of the Court of Asgard like you are, but he’s also in the class below yours, so you’ve never shared those lessons with each other. Still, watching how close the other drekabǫrn are with their conflagrations reminds you of Gauti. And not just of Gauti, but of Loki, Thor, Baldr, and Volstagg. Part of you yearns to return home already. To the familiarity and warmth of your friends.

Soon. Soon you’ll head home. You just have to get through this visit to Gymirsgard, and then you can return home.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Your first glimpse of Gymirsgard comes as you approach the realm, the excited gasps and chattering from the other drekabǫrn drawing your attention from the distant stars.

The blue star of the Jǫtunheimar system blazes brightly in the distance — though for you, it just appears white. You only know that it’s blue because of your lessons about the various star systems of Yggdrasil.

In the open space before Jǫkullknǫttr — the star — sits Gymirsgard in all its wondrous glory.

Unlike Asgard’s unique standing as a small, flat realm, Gymirsgard is a round planet, its only edges that of its atmosphere. Truthfully, for a realm, Gymirsgard is on the smaller side. Yet it not only houses more Drekasál than you can imagine, it’s also the same realm your mother and uncle were born to. For decades — centuries even — Gymirsgard was the only realm they knew. It was the realm they called home before home became Asgard.

You eyes quickly shift away from Gymirsgard to look at the vast, open space that occupies most of your view, scanning for the one other planet of this system with sharp eyes. The realm forbidden to all — and for good reason. After what happened to Princess Laufey, to High Lady Dagmær, to your uncle, and to so many other Drekasál and Asgardians there, no one should step foot on that accursed realm.

Jǫtunheimr. A realm full of icy darkness and ravenous monsters. A realm that will rip the life from any who dare venture to it.

You don’t see the ice planet though, wherever it is. Good.

Your attention shifts back to Gymirsgard as you approach the realm. Second by second, the realm swallows up the view in front of you, until the karvi is descending through the atmosphere, and the stars are swallowed by the sky and the clouds.

Your mother leans against the side of the karvi beside you as the starship breaks through the heavy clouds hanging over this part of the realm. She peers out over the vast, forested land below with a fond smile. Shifting her gaze, she points towards a seaside city in the distance, a wide smile you don’t see too often on her face.

“That’s Krossavík,” she tells you.

The name strikes a familiar chord in you, but at first you can’t place the name. When you do, it’s like a strike of lightning zips through you as you remember where you’ve heard it before.

“The city you grew up in?”

“The very one.” Her hand falls, and her smile fades a little. “It’s quite strange. Sveinn and I are from the same city, and yet we spent so long trying to find each other after our Soul Awakenings.”

“How long?” you ask, leaning your chin against your crossed forearms as you stare at the city. In the distance, you can see a few dragons in flight, returning from the sea to Krossavík. From here, you can’t hear the beat of their wings, or make out anything that makes them stand apart from other dragons. They’re just dragon-shaped blobs of grey, soaring over the grey sea.

“A century or so. Your uncle is only a little more than a decade younger than me, but I was gone from Gymirsgard by the time his Soul Awakening happened. We only met because I came home to see my mother.” The smile on your mother’s face fades further, becoming softer, sadder.

“Will we see here while we’re here?” you ask, excitement bubbling in your chest. You’ve never met your grandmother, and your mother rarely speaks of her. Photos of her are even rarer.

“No, no, she won’t be at the landing ground, my star,” your mother says. She reaches out, placing a gentle, comforting hand on your shoulder. She knows you’ve always been curious about your grandmother, what with how you prod about learning more about the dragon you’ve never met whenever your mother or uncle brings her up.

You pout a little at her words. It’s followed by a soft chuckle from your mother, and then a kiss placed atop your head.

“You’ll meet her someday, I promise,” she vows.

“But when?” you ask, impatience threaded in your words even as you keep them hushed so as not to draw the attention of the other dragons. You draw away from her, standing tall and looking Kára in the eyes. “This is the first time we’ve left Asgard. And we’re here, Mamma. Why can’t we just go see her?”

Kára looks away, but you continue to stare at her. She closes her eyes, shaking her head. She says, “It’s a lot to explain, especially now. I would love for you to meet her, it’s just… not the right time. Not with everything else.”

Everything else. That mysterious phrase is the bane of your existence. All you’re allowed to know is that phrase has something to do with her Weaver’s Reading. Something she can’t tell you. Something she is never allowed to tell anyone.

You let out a frustrated breath, leaning against the side of the karvi again, your back to her. You don’t look at Kára. Instead, you watch the land that passes below and the other drekabǫrn as the conflagrations mingle with each other. None of them come near you, though you can see the way their eyes dart to stare at you for a few seconds now and again.

Neither you nor Kára speak for the rest of the ride. You don’t even look at her, ignoring her presence the best you can.

When the karvi lands, it’s in a valley to the far north of Gymirsgard. A narrow stream flows out from the mouth of a cave at the end of the valley, the bubbling sounds of it lost beneath the flurry of activity of the conflagrations jumping over the side of the ship. You sigh, then heave yourself over the side of the ship, landing in the soft, crunchy layer of snow that barely covers the top of your boots.

You watch as the different conflagrations separate from one another entirely. The vængforinginn of each conflagration checks that their drekabǫrn are accounted for, and the adult dragon with each one merely hovers nearby.

There’s another crunch of snow beside you, one that causes your eyes to dart over before they shift towards the drekabǫrn once more; Kára hopped over the side, joining you in observing the drekabǫrn. She places a hand between your shoulder blades after a few second, guiding you forward, and everyone begins the short trek over to the cave.

The drekabǫrn trade glances with each other — and with you a few times — as all of you make your way towards the cave. Kára’s pace is swift enough that, soon enough, the two of you are leading.

Everyone is (mostly) silent during the walk. The crunch of snow is the loudest sound in the valley as you walk alongside the river that spills from the cave. Even the birds have gone quiet, the presence of so many dragons setting the forest on edge, it seems.

The conflagrations stop several metres from the cave’s mouth, but Kára keeps walking the two of you forward. You can feel the eyes of everyone drilling into your back, sending waves of unease up and down your spine. Something in your chest claws at your heart and lungs, begging you to pay attention to the danger that lurks at your back. It takes everything in you not to look back at them.

Kára stops just before the mouth of the cave, and you turn to face her, finally looking at her again. Her eyes are focused on the cave beside you. There’s a brief twitch in her jaw, a sign of her unease with being here. It makes you wonder if she’s remembering her Weaver’s Reading once again.

Her voice is hushed as she tells you, “Once you step inside, you cannot come back out until Skuld releases you. No matter what you see, what you hear, you do not leave. Understood?”

Your skin prickles at her words, hairs raising along your limbs and the back of your neck as you realise the extent of her unease.

“I understand.” You step away from her, into the cave itself. The two of you stare at each other for another moment. Then you nod at her before turning away and making your way further into the cave.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Your first steps into the cave are tentative. There’s soft torchlight coming from a few metres in, and you pass by the first of the torches on soft feet. You look back over your shoulder only once, after you’ve passed them. Your mother still stands there at the mouth of the cave, alone. It’s an unusual, unsettling sight. Uncle Sveinn is always with her. Always.

Except for this one time. He wasn’t allowed to come along for this journey. No one would explain why. All they would say is that he had to remain on Asgard.

You face forward again and continue down the tunnel.

Torch after torch, the tunnel turns into an ascending loop. Your footsteps are the only sound besides your soft breaths. Even the torches are quiet, which is far more unsettling than you would have expected. You make your steps as light as you can, your ears straining for any sounds besides your soft footfalls.

You continue your ascension, winding higher and higher with each loop. You’re not certain, but you think the loops are wider now than when you began — not that you can really tell.

When you finally reach the end, you find the tunnel opens up into a wide cavern room. There’s a slow, watery glow to the room as you step past the threshold. Like you’ve walked into a world beneath the waves, despite never stepping foot beneath water. All through the room, you can see stalactites dripping from the ceiling and stalagmites rising up from the unnaturally smooth floor.

“Ah, she finally arrives,” a voice calls out. Skuld’s voice, it has to be. You turn in a circle as you venture further into the room, searching for the Weaver, whose voice echoes all around you. “We have long awaited this day, little drekabarn. We have watched you with great curiosity. Your future is shrouded more than most.”

“Shrouded? What do you mean, Weaver?”

“Just as I said. It’s unusual for one like you. However, it always signals an interesting future as it unravels. Now, come. There is much for you to see and learn.”

Skuld glides out from behind you without warning, her footsteps soundless. You jump at her sudden appearance, wondering where she appeared from. Your back was to the cavern entrance, and you’re positive you looked at every shadow you passed as you stepped further inside. Still, you follow her as she moves deeper into the cave.

It strikes you how little of the Weaver you can see, the same as it did when Loki and Volstagg were given their god-titles. A black shroud covers her face, forbidding you from seeing beyond it, and a black dress that drags soundlessly across the floor, covering all but Skuld’s hands. Hands that you had assumed would be clean and boney, but are actually heavy, worn, and scarred.

As you cross through the cave, you approach a small seating area. Two large, dark rugs with the faint workings of a pattern woven into them, covered in a myriad of pillows, and a small circle of stones set between them. The arrangement is set at the base of what appears to be a well. The source of the watery glow of the room, if the way the ripples seem to fall onto the ceiling above it is any indication.

Mímisbrunnr. The Well of Wisdom.

Awe dances through you at the sight of an object so revered and sacred. Over the aeons since this Well was discovered, so many have sacrificed pieces of themselves just for a bit of knowledge they sought.

All-Father Odin sacrificed his eye to Mímisbrunnr years ago. No one truly knows what he’d sought an answer to when he did so, but it’s easy to guess what answers he likely sought. He sacrificed it to learn how to end the war with Jǫtunheimr. It was where the All-Father went after, appearing on Jǫtunheimr with one less eye before leading Asgard at Eldgard’s side against the Frost Giants once more.

The All-Father ended the war, but the Well had apparently not told him how to win it without losing the one he fought to bring home. Princess Laufey died on that frostbitten and cursed realm, never to know the warmth of Asgard again.

Skuld takes her seat on one side of the Well, gesturing for you to sit opposite of her. Once you’re settled, she reaches across the space between you, taking one of your hands and drawing it closer to her. Flipping it over, she leans forward and raises your palm to her shrouded face. With the index finger of her free hand, she traces lines over your palm — not following the ones etched into your skin, but different ones.

“You are remarkably calm and quiet, for one who does not know what I am doing,” Skuld says as she continues to trace lines over your palm.

“I’m not worried,” you tell her. Her tracing falters for a moment, like your answer surprises her. “I have faith in whatever you’re doing.”

“You have more faith than most. Most curious. Perhaps it is because you’ve been raised among the vættir, rather than the Drekasál,” Skuld says. You don’t say anything, despite all the questions that crowd your tongue because of her words. You have more questions than the Weaver would ever be willing to answer, that much you know.

Upon releasing your hand, Skuld sits back. You draw your hand back, placing it in your lap with the other. Only then do you allow yourself to as her the one thing that begs to be spoken.

“Why would other Drekasál not have faith in you, Weaver? You reveal Soul Awakenings, you tell us what is to come. Should we not have more faith in you than the vættir?”

��How do you break the faith of a people, and still have them seek your mercy?” Skuld asks, her voice suddenly sad and hollow. You can’t see her eyes, but you can feel her gaze as it sits heavy on you.

For several long moments, you’re quiet as you turn over her words, searching for an answer. For her part, Skuld does not press you to answer her, letting you come to your own conclusion about her question.

Mercy. Mercy implies that Skuld has more power over the Drekasál than you thought. That, if she chose to, she could punish your people. But punish them for what? And why, if their faith was broken, would they still go crawling to the Weaver, seeking Skuld’s generosity? What could she have promised —

A promise. Skuld promised them something. Something about the future. Something that they clung to desperately for so long, a hope perhaps, but —

“You promise them a hope they need, but they lose faith in that hope,” you finally say, your words slow and not entirely sure of themselves.

Skuld does not say anything, but she does nod. Something inside you fractures and weeps at the realisation. Skuld promised hope to your people about something, something they once desperately wanted to believe in. A hope they needed to believe in, and yet they have lost belief in that hope ever blooming true.

You look away from the Weaver, to Mímisbrunnr.

Silence fills the air between you both for long minutes. You think Skuld might be letting you process her answer, but it’s impossible to tell. To you, she’s just a shrouded figure, no expression to give away her thoughts. After too much silence, though, you turn back to Skuld, more words dancing sharp and angry on your tongue. Skuld speaks before you can let any of them spill forth.

“Twenty-four.” She says this like it’s an answer. When you look at her with a confused expression, trying to puzzle out the number, she explains. “Your Soul Awakening will happen in your twenty-fourth year.”

That’s nearly a decade from now. You’ve already waited forever for your Weaver’s Reading, and now you have to wait almost as long for your Soul Awakening? Impatience burns inside you.

“Isn’t that a bit old for a Soul Awakening?” you ask her. You can hear the sharp indignation in your words, and you lift your chin in an imitation of your royal friends.

“No. A soul Awakens only when it is ready. Twenty-four is a perfectly normal time for one to do so, drekabarn. Your mother's soul did not Awaken until she was twenty-seven, and her soulmate's did not Awaken until he was twenty-two.” You watch as Skuld stands, leaning over Mímisbrunnr. “I have seen souls Awaken when they are as old as seventeen, and I have seen souls Awaken as old as nearly forty. Dragonsouls are curious in that way.”

There’s the sound of something — multiple somethings being moved through the waters of the Well. The Weaver draws out several small logs from the Well, and you watch with rapt curiosity as she sits down, arranging the logs in the circle of stones.

A firepit, you realise. But the logs are wet. How does she expect to —

“Normally Mímisbrunnr requires sacrifice to learn,” Skuld says, interrupting your thoughts, “but you are not partaking in its waters, and it bends to the will of Yggdrasill, as we all do.”

“What do I need to do?” you ask her.

The Weaver passes you a knife, saying, “Three drops of blood onto the logs with the wish to know of your future. When I light the logs they will show me three things. Your most likely future paths, what your life might be in the more definitive of those paths, and which moment in your future you must hear today.” At the query on your face, she tilts her head to the side. You think she might be smiling. “Have faith, young dragon. The logs will light.”

Faith. You have plenty of that where the Weavers and Yggdrasill are concerned, even if so many other Drekasál do not.

So you listen, grimacing as you carefully make a shallow slice along the tip of your index finger. You hiss out a breath, the sting sharp as you squeeze it, letting three drops of blood fall onto different logs. Once that is done, Skuld hands you a small strip of wet cloth. You wrap it around your finger, hissing sharply at the stinging burn it causes.

Then, Skuld utters a word you don’t understand. You feel the ancient power that surges through the room. It condenses within the logs, coiling tight, then — it snaps apart, and the logs are ablaze.

You lean back on your uninjured hand, the other raised in front of your eyes at the sudden brightness. You expected thick smoke to blanket the room, but none rises from the logs. When you open your mouth to speak, Skuld raises a hand to ask for your silence. It’s only then that you realise she’s staring into the fire. You sit there, blinking as your eyes adjust to the firelight, until it no longer burns them to look at the Weaver.

“Your future is most interesting,” Skuld says. She leans closer to the fire, tilting her head to the right as she does. “I see many points that I could tell you now that will never change, no matter which paths you wander as you head towards your destiny. Most curious for one whose future is still so murky and ever-shifting.”

The hairs on your neck and arms raise. You’ve never given much thought to having a destiny. A future, a purpose to your life, yes, but not a destiny. It’s a weighted word. One that makes you think that, perhaps, you might become greater than you’ve ever let yourself imagine. That, maybe, you might live up to the legacies your parents have left for you to follow in the footsteps of.

And yet, the idea also unsettles you. To have a destiny means great things await you, yes, but you know the legends. The stories you have read, the histories you have memorised, all fall into similar patterns.

Greatness does not come without sacrifice, without pain.

“Weaver, what do you see?” you ask her, your words effused with curiosity about what she is seeing.

“I see many things, drekabarn. Every path that you might walk is open to me. I see wars that cannot be evaded, and wars that might never happen. I see a love that burns as bright and beautiful as the Kveldlagi of nights, and lasts for a lifetime; just as I also see loves that will burn like fires lit on a rainy day. I see death that will consume everything. I see your hopes, and your joys. Your wishes and dreams. Your sorrows and fears. I see the paths that you can walk, and the heartache that will shadow so many of them.”

The fire between you burns lower, barely more than embers and small puffs of flame compared to the small campfire it was just moments before. Skuld waves her hand over the embers, the fire banking until it is little more than glowing embers. The Weaver waves her hand over the fire again, and the embers begin to shift and glow in new patterns.

“I know which moment I must tell you. Are you prepared to hear?”

You suck in a breath and nod. Your heart thunders loudly in your chest. Anticipation chokes your limbs and shortens your breaths.

“Yes. I am prepared, Weaver.”

“Then listen closely to what I have to tell you, young one.”

Skuld gestures to the embers. You watch as they begin to glow in a way that forms the shape of a person. Her hand is outstretched, reaching for the hand of someone you can’t see, the image cut off. All the embers show of the other person is their hand, the details lost on you.

“This is what you must know,” Skuld begins. “You were whispered to my ancestors by Yggdrasill. Foretold by It to bring change to a great many things across Yggdrasil’s many branches. You will grow into a power that few will rival, blessed by beings far greater and more powerful than the vættir.

“Your path begins with this moment: on the day of your Soul Awakening. Much of your fate shall be sealed in the days after, for on the day of your ceremony, you will find the soul that the Voiceless One has bound you to in this life.”

You straighten up, mouth dropping open at Skuld’s words. You look at her with open awe. Warmth and giddiness floods your veins, and you don’t even attempt to hide the happiness this brings you — not that you could if you’d tried. To have your path align with your soulmate so early on? It is nothing short of a blessing by Yggdrasill for the bond the Voiceless One wove you.

You wait with bated breath for her to tell you more. To reveal any more scraps about the day of your Soul Awakening Ceremony. When she doesn’t say more, you hesitantly ask, “What else can you tell me, Weaver?”

Silence permeates the cavern, broken only by the sounds of breathing, of your heart thudding loudly, and the faint sound of trickling water. Finally, Skuld speaks once more.

“There is nothing else that I can tell you. That which I find worth telling you I cannot, for it might change the path you walk currently in ways that cannot be undone.” You bite your tongue, stopping yourself from pleading with the Weaver to reveal more to you anyway. If Skuld is concerned about changing the path you walk, then you must heed her. She's directing you towards the future you should walk, in the only way that she can in this moment. It surprises you when she speaks again. “Though, I can say this, for it is but a simple reminder. Protect your soulmate. Stand by them through all hardships, and always live for them. The Voiceless One chose this bond for a reason.”

“A simple reminder,” you murmur.

Tucking the words into your heart, you silently vow to never forget them. You’ve heard similar variations to that reminder before. More times than you can remember, your family has told you the Voiceless One chooses each bond for a reason.

It reminds you of when Frigga told you that the soulmate bond is a mixture of soul and blood magic. Of when you worried and wondered about if the bond was truly a curse in disguise, and how Lord Ivarr and Lady Tryggvadóttir’s interactions as a newly bonded pair banished such an idea. That afternoon showed you how well the Voiceless One chooses the bond for each of her children.

After all, how can something so effortless and comforting ever be a curse?

You do your best not to remember your exchange with Loki in the garden. Or the heavy, unspoken distance that lives in so many of the silences between the two of you these days in the presence of your conflagration.

Skuld stands without another word, beckoning you to follow her. You stand quickly, trailing after her as she returns to the mouth of the cavern. She stops before the mouth, and you step to the other side, but stop so you can turn and look at her. You place your left hand over your heart, bowing to the Weaver.

“Winds favour you, Weaver Skuld,” you tell her. Skuld pauses, as if your gesture has surprised her, and then copies you.

“Winds favour you, Lady Kárudóttir. I look forward to our next meeting. It will not be long now, before the vættir know your name.”

A shiver of excitement works its way down your spine. Skuld’s words promise to you that your godnaming will be soon. You smile, bowing to her once more. And then you turn around, and head back down the tunnel so you can return to your mother.

Each step is another one towards the destiny that awaits you.

( next chapter )

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Light as a Feather, Dark as Brine

The Forsaken and the Forsworn | Early Years | Hugo Melançon | 3k words | T rated

The true heat of summer proves an unwelcome guest on the shores of Watcher’s Cove. Whether it’s because of the preternatural damp of the Umbra and its fog-wreathed waters or some consequence of the storm wards lingering off the coast remains a mystery to Hugo.

Today, it’s a mystery he does not care to solve.

Sun cracks through the velvet grey clouds and bathes the black sands in gleaming light. Warmth permeates past his rough-spun, Fold-made shirtsleeves and straight to his bones, chasing off the deep and lingering chill within them. The ink of his bondmark is as new as the flatness of his chest this Rising; his sanctified skin tightens as if recoiling from the light, but Hugo quickly dismisses it as a flight of fancy. The Fury has more important matters to concern herself with than a single young man barely initiated into her mysteries.

So he’s been told.

Were he alone, Hugo would indulge in a moment of forbidden idleness away from prying eyes—stretch out in the sun, light a roll of smokeleaf bartered from his fellow deckhands back aboard the Boiling Brine. But he’s not alone, and there’s work to do.

There’s an older acolyte from the Siren’s Maw with him. Camille. For guidance, so the Furysworn claim, but Hugo’s not so easily fooled. Only the novices like him—the ones whose inductions to the fold were borne in force or violence—are subjected to ‘mentorship’ when about their roster tasks at the fold. It’s one of the many reasons he’d rather be aboard the Brine.

Still, she’s not bad company, as far as his minders go. She doesn’t share Hugo’s reservations about enjoying the unexpected summer day either. Stripped to the waist, her bondmark undulates across her muscles as she raises her free arm and shades her eyes, black ink a void against her brown skin. The bucket full of oysters clacks like a sack of bones where it dangles from the other.

“About halfway through the best stretch,” she says, shaking her bucket for emphasis. “We keep harvesting this good, there might be a free evening in the offing for us.”

“Seems unlikely.” Hugo looks down at his own bucket, battered pilfered metal heaped heavy with clusters of oysters. An ache thrums through his tendons in anticipation of the repetitive task of shelling them, of digging for precious Fury-black pearls beneath their slimy tongues.

“Not if I have anything to say about it. I’ve got plans after sundown I intend to keep.” Camille takes a deep breath. She faces west, brushing sand from the gentle slope of her breast as she thinks. Then she turns to Hugo, eyebrows lifted in conspiratorial arches. “Follow me. I’ve got an idea.”

Inwardly, Hugo bristles at the command, but he’s learned well these past four Risings the importance of obedience to those more blessed with Xeheia’s favour than him. He flicks his fingers in silent agreement, pursing his lips at the salt-crusted state of his brown leather gloves; soon, they’ll be fit only for the scrap pile.

He follows Camille for a quarter of a turn, he guesses. His boots, necessary to avoid jagged cuts and paying unintentional salt prices during such harvests, crunch along the sand. A sea wind gusts in from the water and whips his hair, now down to mid-back and in dire need of cutting he’s yet to earn, into a frenzy, lashing at his lips and eyes. Hugo pauses to tie it back though it means breaking into a light jog to catch up with Camille by the time he’s finished.

She stops at the point where the beach curves around the sheer cliff face, the area pockmarked by tidepools before dropping off to the seafloor proper.

“Most folks don’t come this far or want to get waist-deep wet just for some oysters. They love clustering on the long stretch of rock on the opposite side. It’ll be enough to finish these and earn our keep for one day.” She runs her finger along an invisible line, pointing to the middle distance.

Hugo also doesn’t want to trudge back to the Cove in sopping clothes, wet and sticky and deeply uncomfortable, but there’s no point in voicing his objection. There never is here. He sets off towards the area Camille indicated, bucket in tow, resolved to finish this as quickly as possible.

“Hold a moment,” Camille says, lifting a hand. Hugo clenches his jaw and stops. “I’ll help a different way, this time.”

She shakes her arm until a bone-laden bracelet slides from her forearm to her wrist, draped over enough of her palm for her to curl her fingers backwards and clasp it. Camille closes her eyes as she runs her fingertips along its jagged surface. A frisson of the Fury’s magic along his newly marked skin confirms Hugo’s suspicions—it is Camille’s focus, and she’s using it to dip into communion with Xeheia.

Moments later and the pull of the Fury’s tide becomes frustratingly apparent; Hugo’s flesh and spirit surge towards it, denied and out of reach of the Watcher’s embrace due to his lack of a proper focus. Camille opens her eyes, ink-black and luminous, and Hugo hungers—not for her, but for the power she teems with.

“It’s tough to keep hold without the brine, but I can get enough hold to do…” Camille trails off, gesturing in supplication to the water.

Hugo watches as the grey waters of the Umbra retreat further from the shore, rippling backwards as though blown back by a strong storm wind. There’s a narrow gap just big enough for the two of them to fit, granting them access to underwater portion of the rocky beach—and its copious amount of oysters, as Camille promised.

“Hurry,” Camille says. The eldritch twist to her rich voice, the evidence of the Fury’s presence, sends a bullet of yearning tearing through Hugo’s core. “I can’t keep this up for long.”

Hugo steadies himself, nods, and jumps down into the gap with her. They work quickly, boots squelching in the wet seafloor sand as they strip every inch of the miniature wall, oysters clacking and pinging into the buckets in a staccato rhythm. Hugo focuses on the pervasive smell of the sea—salt, rot, fish—with every breath, trying to ignore the way his bondmark sizzles like lightning made flesh.

Once his pail overflows with his harvest, Hugo reaches high above his head to balance it on the edge of the tidepools above him, then climbs back up, careful to avoid cutting himself on the jagged edges. Camille wordlessly hoists her bucket in his direction; he takes both towards the shore as she makes her own climb out.

As soon as she joins him on the shore, she releases her focus and her grip on the Fury’s magic. It echoes through Hugo like the deep crack of a spine, punching a breath of relief and exhaustion out of him. Camille sways on her feet. He offers her an arm and a questioning eyebrow, but she shakes her head.

“Thanks be to the Fury for her storm and her sea,” Camille intones.

“Thanks be to the Fury,” Hugo echoes, his part of the call-and-response.

They make it back to the Cove without incident to deliver their bounty. True to her word, their combined harvest earns them both a reprieve from evening duties. Camille inclines her head, offers a wink when Furysworn Barbier has her broad back turned, and slinks off into the twisting tunnels of the Cove for her own pursuits. Some social engagement, no doubt. Hugo pays enough to attention to know Camille’s popular amongst her cohort of shipmates and acolytes.

As for Hugo? His plans have changed.

-----

By the time Hugo gets back outside the Cove and descends to his favourite beach, the sun sets in a dazzling display, red spilling across sky and water like blood.

Time and time again, Hugo’s presented a crux for his focus for approval, the last step in his initiation, and time and time again, Furysworn Eloi has denied him. The Fury demands sacrifice, he tells Hugo. She demands a salt price worth the taking. What sacrifice is there in the bits and trifles he’s embarrassingly brought to the Fury’s altar for consideration?

Hugo will no longer be denied.

He bears her mark, he senses her presence, and he deserves her gifts. Why else would they have bothered to bring him here at all? Xeheia is his as much as anyone’s here, and if she wants a sacrifice, a sacrifice she will get.

Secret caves and smuggler’s nooks abound around Watcher’s Cove. Hugo knows the path to his favourite by heart.

He finds the hideaway as he last left it: the lean-to constructed from pilfered driftwood, blankets appropriated from the scrap heaps to soften the ground, a rusted lantern with dimly glowing fauna scraped from the walls of the Cove. It’s salt-rotted and damp, but it’s his.

Creature comforts are not what Hugo’s in search of tonight, however. Tonight, he looks for creatures of the literal sort.

The signs are there. On a natural shelf carved into the dark grey rock of his nook, offerings of a different sort rest: a bronze coin from foreign shores stamped with a face he doesn’t recognize, a discarded triangle-shaped gold earring, and three buttons of varying sizes and shapes. Hugo’s befriended the unkindness of ravens that also call Watcher’s Cove home, and in return, they leave him bits and baubles they’ve found, including the hoop now pierced through his own ear.

He can remember the mainland books his mother read him better than he can recall the shape of her face or the colour of her favourite dress. In a flight of fancy, he named the ravens after characters in those stories, the last remnants of a different life: Reyr, Skafti, Finnur, Eldmey. One in particular, the one who leaves the trinkets, bonded to Hugo swiftly.

It’s only now Hugo’s intent sinks into his body, spreading like delayed poison. Nausea churns in his stomach, and a suspicious ache tightens in his chest, a familiar one, a pale imitation of what he felt after a different slaughter in a different place. Red and black, black and red, spreading across a distant deck.

Can he really do this?

He scoffs aloud, disgusted by his own weakness. No wonder the Fury’s found his propositions lacking. Xeheia’s influence and power are as boundless as her very Depths, Depths Hugo has only glimpsed in brief through brine-hazed ritual.

He won’t be kept from them longer. He’s no longer a shaking child with a stolen gun. He will be—is—a force to be reckoned with. On his terms.

Cold salt spray kisses his ankles and soaks his worn-out boots as he scatters his handout. Bits of oyster, thinly sliced with the knife hanging at his hip, spread from the entrance of the cove to where Hugo sits and waits.

It could have been any of the ravens swooping in from the distant cliffs.

But of course, it’s Akkeri.

Perfect.

Hugo schools himself to stillness as Akkeri pecks at the flecks of fresh shellfish, gobbling them up in greedy tosses of his head. He was ten-and-three the first time he escaped to this nook, the first time he found the unkindness living here. Akkeri had been a fledgling too, a bold scavenger, wary of Hugo but determined to steal the bone buttons right off his shirt nonetheless.

Now, he’s even more fearless, tilting his head at a crooked angle and fixing Hugo with a gimlet eye. He lingers just out of arm’s reach. Hugo can’t catch a full breath, like his lungs are full of water.

You don’t get something for nothing. This was a lesson imparted to Hugo long before Watcher’s Cove, before creche and brine and deepest dark. The fold only heightens the stakes:

You consume, or you are consumed.

Akkeri caws, raucous and impatient. Hugo hands over the last of the oyster, a cool sliver in his palm. Stone joins the water his lungs. Tension bleeds through his chest which has nothing to do with the fresh scars across it.

Hugo pounces.

Lulled by longstanding trust, Akkeri doesn’t struggle much in his grip at first, aside from the cawing protests at his newfound confinement. But as the moments pass, he begins to thrash; Hugo’s hands tighten in a vise-like grip, barely big enough to hold him. Akkeri’s nearly the size of a hawk, and realizing the imminent danger, struggles with all his might, talons glancing and wings thrashing.

Hugo knows the feeling.

And he knows the swiftest way to end it.

Akkeri fixes Hugo with one black eye. His body’s almost hot in Hugo’s grasp, his tiny bird heart beating in frantic pulses against Hugo’s palm. It’s like the Fury herself guides Hugo’s hand to Akkeri’s neck. He calls out louder, his cries echoing off the cavernous walls.

The caws stop when Hugo twists his wrist and snaps Akkeri’s neck in a near-effortless motion. The hollow crunch echoes through Hugo’s spirit like Akkeri’s final cry throughout the cave.

In an instant, he’s a warm, dead weight in Hugo’s hand. A promise and an offering.

As Hugo reaches for the knife in his belt, his vision blurs, smearing the cavern into shades of blue and black and bleeding red. Hugo blinks hard to clear it and only then realizes he’s crying. There’s no matching pang in his heart or ache in his chest— only the traitorous shake of his chest and shoulders as sobs he can’t control hiccup through him. Only darkened speckles of stone where his tears fall.

A salt price is a salt price. Let the Fury have two this evening.

Hugo walks to the mouth of the cave where twilight spreads across the sky, Akkeri’s body cradled reverently in one hand. He kneels on the stone beside the ocean, gazing out at the salt-dark of Xeheia’s sea, and withdraws his knife from his belt.

It’s easy, too easy, to invert Akkeri’s body, his clouding eyes unseeing as they face the water. To tuck the blade against his neck and slit his throat with one firm pull. To hold him upside-down over the Fury’s altar and watch the steady flow of red as it vanishes in the sea. Smaller droplets join the waters from the tears still coursing down Hugo's cheeks.

Despite his foolish crying, his voice does not crack or waver as he declares, “Xeheia, Watcher of the Depths, accept this sacrifice given in your name. Let this salt price be a gift worthy of your blessing.”

----

The next time Hugo presents his would-be focus to Furysworn Eloi’s black, unblinking gaze, there’s no doubt in his mind of the Fury’s approval.

Long hair braided, eyes painted, and garbed from head to toe in Fury-black, Hugo presents a painting of the perfect aspiring acolyte.

The necklace he fashioned by hand drapes across his collarbones. Leather cord and punctured shells form the bulk of it, accented by long, black feathers that brush the skin of his bare chest. Akkeri’s skull, picked clean by the members of his own unkindness and the Fury’s tide, sits in the center, its weight tucked beneath the hollow of Hugo’s throat.

Eloi sneers. “Feathers? They’ll be worn down by salt and sea faster than you can ask the Fury to forgive you for your carelessness.”

Hugo inclines his head in the deference Eloi expects, even if his words don’t match. “If I have to make another, I will, and consider it her due worship.”

“Then go on. Let’s get this over with.”

Without the ceremony Hugo deserves—and with a grave trespass even for a novice—Eloi grabs at Hugo’s focus. His fingers close around the raven skull. Hugo fights down the nausea of being touched at all, let alone so intimately violated.

A heavy pause descends like the heartbeats counted between lightning and thunder. Hugo’s bondmark thrills with an electric surge as the eddies of the Depths rise within him.

Eloi gasps, releasing the skull as though burned—and he has been burned, by an errant spark of the lightning dancing along Hugo’s skin.

Because Hugo’s called to the Fury.

And the Fury has finally answered.

#the forsaken and the forsworn #hugo melançon #cw: pet death #cw: animal death #my writing #started thinking sometime this year about how Hugo got his focus and here we are #rounding out the F&F anniversary weekend with some real sad feels #qliatori

[jinx-blackout-84]

Just a quick potential end chapter (dw guys ill give u a good ending too, I'm just feelin angsty and existential rn) also, if this makes no fucking sense, which it probably dosen't, I have not slept in 17 hours and physically cannot fall asleep so. Blame the sleep deprivation.

Quackity looked at Wilbur, who was curled over his brother's body. Wilbur was bleeding out. Tommy was dead.

"You should kill me," Quackity said.

"But that's not what I want to do," Wilbur said.

"I know."

"Okay."

"You have to let him go," Quackity said softly.

"I know."

"Okay."

Wilbur laid Tommy's body down.

He did not look at Tommy's eyes.

Wilbur looked at his sword instead.

Anguish crossed his face.

"I don’t want to lose you again, songbird," Wilbur said.

"I know," Quackity whispered, "but we don't get to decide things like that."

Wilbur held the silver blade just in front of Quackity's stomach. It stayed there for a moment.

He pulled his arm back so he could pull Quackity towards him without harming him.

The man was poetry on old parchment. He was love and life and the small stones that are smooth at the bottom of a river. He was the smell of the air when it rains.

Quackity watched him with starlight eyes.

"I think," Quackity muttered into the man's hair, "that I might love you, in another life."

He continued "You might be mine, somewhere in a life where we weren't scripted to die to the other's hand."

Wilbur looked at him, eyes deep pools of chocolate and earth, "I think I would have loved you too, Quackity Nevadas," he said sadly.

"I'm sorry things had to be this way," Wilbur said, sinking the blade through Quackity's chest, pulling it out with a coldness and sorrow that splashed across his face like spilled ink.

Quackity cried out, he choked on his own blood as Wilbur died slowly beside him.

"Goodnight songbird."

"Goodnight my love."

He pulled Quackity close, humming to him as the sun rose on an ashen landscape. Wilbur pulled Tommy's body towards him. He held Quackity closer than they had ever gotten to be.

And Quackity's legacy died with him. The tune Wilbur hummed was sorrowful and light. It was aching and glorious, sweet and golden like a river of honey, like the tears running down his face, like the wings Quackity hadn't wanted.

Quackity liked to think he would wake in a different body, in a different life. One where he would be loved by Wilbur. One where he would have a family.

One where Tommy would live to eighteen.

Gods, Tommy was so young. He was so young and so naive.

He saw Tommy's eyes, still and glassy, somehow having lost all of the ocean sky blue. Somehow grey and unmoving, unremarkable like a square of concrete in a city.

Quackity hoped he would wake up in a world where the wounds could be healed, where he had a different path to follow, a different destiny.

Could he have changed this? Could he have loved? Could he have been redeemed? Did he deserve it? Did that matter?

Quackity died in the arms of the man he was fated to kill.

Wilbur died with a song on his lips, the one he had always wanted to sing. He did get to sing it to someone he loved, he supposed.

Philza would find them, hours later, when they were cold and quiet, grey and unmoving.

Philza would cry out to the Gods, sobs wrenching from his chest, the universal language of suffering and agony. He wpuld plead to have them back, would trade anything to see Tommy's smile, to hear Wilbur's laugh.

The Gods would not hear him.

Techno would run to Philza's side, confusion etched onto his face, and he would see.

He would see his little brothers.

He would see Wilbur.

He would see Tommy.

He would see the way Wilbur's hands were still, no longer conducting a symphony that played only for him.

He would see the way Tommy's mouth was slack, missing the smile that always seemed present, the one that could light up the sun.

Technoblade would fall to his knees beside his father, holding the body of Wilbur and Tommy Watson close to his chest. He would see Quackity laying in the dust and turn away.

Technoblade never recovered. It was always there. He always felt it in the back of his mind, that loss. He would wake in the mornings and bicker with Phil as he made breakfast. They stopped accidentally setting out enough plates for four people after two years. Techno stopped downloading every meme he saw to send to Tommy later after five. Philza never stopped waking in his sleep and checking In Wilbur and Tommy's rooms to see if they were there this time.

Tubbo and Ranboo visited Tommy's grave every month, and would visit the Watsons every year on Tommy and Wilbur's birthdays for dinner. Most years they would laugh with true joy and reminisce, and some years they just cried. Some years they almost forgot.

They never recovered.

It changed them.

Philza never found another son. Tubbo never showed his code to another person. Techno never trained with another person. Ranboo never showed his Memory book to another person. Nobody ever loved again the way they had loved Tommy and Wilbur.

They died after long, beautiful lives of poetry and melancholy. They woke in a new world. And perhaps this world was one that could heal them, just a bit.

Perhaps this world was the same life they had lived, just a happier ending.

Perhaps they would never meet in this new life.

Perhaps things were easier in this life, they had a life free of tribulation.

Perhaps it was a different universe, one where a father stabbed his son, and a broken man with pink hair was betrayed by his only ally. Perhaps it was one where a young boy was driven to death by an oddly familiar voice. Perhaps there was a man with a bomb and nothing to lose. Perhaps it was a world where a bench that caught the sun would sit and collect dust for years. Perhaps it was a world where a boy was forced into too much power when he was far too young. Perhaps it was a world where a boy would write in a small notebook, and the words were not ones he knew.

Or perhaps it was this world. The one you live in right now. Perhaps they live just miles, or countries, or continents away from you.

Perhaps their world is yours, perhaps you were the narrarator this entire time.

Perhaps their fate is in your hands.

Perhaps you are the Gods.

Perhaps this world never existed outside your own, perhaps they exist only in the very world you live in.

Perhaps they were reborn as you. Perhaps you hold the spark of Tommy or loyalty of Techno or artistry or Wilbur or ambition of Quackity. Perhaps you hold the gentleness of Philza or the compassion of Kristin. Perhaps you hold the determination of Tubbo or the wisdom of Ranboo.

Do you remember your past life?

Do you know who you have been?

#TNTduo #Angst #Death #Murder #Blood #cw: corpses #Swords #Stabbing #Violence #dsmp #quackity #fic stuff #quackbur #technoblade

[tinymoonrider]

Blue Moon — WIP

Summary: It's that time of year again... Do you think you can survive? He sure doesn't... Not without help at least...

Warnings: Yandere themes, Purge Themes, NOT PROOF READ AT ALL and it ends on a Cliff Hanger

The reader is Gender Neutral :)

A/N: This is an unfinished WIP that I was trying to get done for months now and haven't been able to. I wanted to publish it instead of just deleting it completely.

I do apologize for not being able to get it done. Hopefully you'll still enjoy it.

———02:06:34:08———

I tugged my jacket closer towards my body, my head turning down towards my feet. As I walked faster towards my building, I tried to ignore those on the streets harassing passersby. Unable to drown out the sounds of their chanting and prying questions, I look away from them. “‘Ey, don’t ya need some protection?” A man wearing a blue beanie and thick matching sweatshirt sidesteps in front of me, hands out in front of his chest to show me no harm. Shaking my head, I force a polite smile trying to evade his blocking body.

“Oh come on? I know where you live, I doubt you have any weapons that will actually protect you…” My lips drop as I force my way through. “I’m sorry, that’s… I didn’t mean it like that! I swear!” Walking faster down the street, I don’t look back at him.

Now in front of my building, I slip my card out of my pocket and across the reader. Wiggling my way through the rusted door with a groan, I carefully look around before continuing through. Once my body was finally in the safety of my building, I forced the door shut and straightened my clothes. Heading down towards the lobby, I spot the building manager, Mr. Faux wiping down the grey stained counter tops of the front desk. Looking up at me he smiles, eyes crinkling more at the gesture.

“(Y/n), how are you?” He stops wiping, his body straightening slightly.

I smile, “Doing alright. Still can’t fix the front door?” He shakes his head, blinking a couple of times.

“I called management, they said they’d send someone over…” Chuckling solemnly, I shake my head along with him.

“At this point, I’ll just call someone up. It’s getting ridiculous.” Mr. Faux laughs, his body shaking along with the movement.

“Don’t worry about it. My son can take care of it. That way no one has to pay for something so ridiculous… Have a good day alright, (Y/n)?” I nod, watching as Mr. Faux waddles away.

Heading up to the eighth floor, I walked down the empty hallway towards my unit, the flickering florescent lights above buzzing in an agitated manner. Getting into my apartment, I set down my things and started to prepare dinner. Washing my hands and gathering my ingredients, I stumble upon a yellow envelope pinned to the fridge, my name printed on the front. Dark blue, curly letters stretch along the paper, every swirl and curl drawing me in more and more. Taking it out of the clip I notice the red embossing sealing the letter shut. A small Delilah flower colored in black ink marks the waxy seal. Running my fingertips over it, each and every bump vibrates my skin faster and faster. Peeling it away from the paper, I carefully take out the contents and placed them down onto the counter in front of me.

The white stock paper a stark contrast to the red ink scrawled in the front in bold lettering. Based off of the way the ink sticks to the page, it was printed, not handwritten:

Dear (Y/n),

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you aren’t planning on participating in the events taking place on: March 21. Although it is your given right, granted by our New Founding Fathers of America, I do ask that you join us at La Belle’s @ 6:00 PM. Although any and all crimes are legal on this day, we do ask that you keep any and all weapons at home. The events taking place on this day will not be required. In fact, we wish to keep any and all patrons as safe as possible.

We do understand the possible fears and risks you may be having, especially on this day, but do know that we will ensure your protection. After all, your protection means our lives are protected as well!

At exactly 5:30 PM on March 21, a car with the license plate: AV2782 will be waiting for you at the back of your building. We do hope you will willingly join us as more details will be provided on the drive there.

——Koala

My eyebrows furrowed down to a singular line the more I kept reading. Biting back the noise that wanted to escape my throat, I looked around the room, a cold chill running up my spine. As I set down the letter, I take a peak inside the envelope, a sticker name tag with the picture of a small brown mouse was printed on the front. On the back it said, “Not to be put on until you have arrived at the event!” Putting it off to the side, I then pulled out a small bingo card with a random assortment of letters. Flipping it over two small shapes were burned into the back. Quickly placing all contents back into its original packaging, I rushed towards my room only to find Gus laying on the bed, eyes focused on his phone.

“Hey, you…” He grinned, his phone being thrown into his lap. “I see you found your letter,” sitting up he crawls over towards me. Pulling me closer, he traps me between his legs before trailing kisses up my arms and towards my sternum, his eyebrows raising, obviously waiting for some sort of answer.

“What?” My hands push against his chest for a moment as I try to create space.

“What was the letter about?” My gaze focuses onto his features for a moment.

“You weren’t the one who wrote it to me?” He shakes his head, concern creeping onto his features. Before he can say anything, I interrupt him, “Where did you get it?”

He shrugs leaning back on his forearms, “‘Was in our mailbox… Why?” He studies my features for a moment before sitting up, hands reached out towards mine, but not quite touching. “Something wrong? What was in it?”

I shake my head my nails scraping against my skin, “I think it was some sort of prank… It— It was about the purge…” He nods his head slowly. With a deep breath, he flashes me a charming smile.

“I’m sure it will be alright. The building will be on lock down… Do you know who it’s from?” Closing my eyes I take a deep breath.

“I don’t know. They called themselves Koala… There’s some sort of event taking place at La Belle’s… It starts at six.” When I open my eyes, Gus’ hazel ones peer at me from his spot on the couch.

“I’m sure that whoever is sending those letters are trying to trick people into become martyrs for ‘the holiday’.” His fingers scrunch up angrily at the words, “Just ignore it for now. There’s not much we can do about it anyway…” I nod.

“You’re probably right.”

Gus smiles up at me, his lips pressing a kiss against my stomach, “I’m going to start dinner. Go ahead and rest up.”

Mumbling out a “thank you,” I take Gus’ spot before flopping back onto the soft mattress. With the warm comforter wrapped around my body, I drift off to the noise of my blind’s rustling slightly.

————02:01:57:09———

Walking out into the bright living room, I searched for Gus, my eyes squinting slightly. Gus’ arms wrap around my body before I can process, his breath fanning against my neck and ears. Sharp tingles run through my body quickly as he pulls me closer towards him, a hum tickling my ears.

His head buries in the crook of my neck as he mumbles out, “How was your nap?” I nodded, leaning more into the warm embrace.

“Very, nice. Thank you for taking care of things for me.” He hums again as his fingers trace my back line.

I let him pull me towards the couch, fuzzy blankets with yellow ducks scattered along the fabric soon engulfs me. Cushions pressed along my sides, he leans into me, his hand running down my arms. Turning on the TV, the news flashes on screen. Two women in blazers sit behind a clear crystal desk, their papers and laptops sitting just off to the side, perfectly framing them in the middle. The one with a deep maroon blazer and black tight curls looks into the camera with such ferocity it shakes me. The other, with a much softer look placed onto her face, wears a soft blue blazer that compliments her skin perfectly. Their names slide on screen in front of them momentarily.

“Just as a reminder for all citizens and purge tourists: At seven o’ clock on March twenty first, all crimes, including murder will be legal. What an exciting day for us all…” She pauses, her fingers pushing back curls, “However our New Founding Father’s of America wants to remind everyone that any and all crimes committed on this day, although legal here, isn’t out there.”

Her partner chimes in, “That’s right Monica. Many countries around the world are appalled at our Purge practices every year as many of our citizens, including theirs, participate in such ‘barbaric acts’. From what our resources have been telling us, this also includes world wide illegal acts such as identity theft. Selling this information to hackers across the world, even if you are still in the country, is still illegal. You will be forced to hold up to these crimes if you do participate, so we all urge you to be safe. Be careful and may your deity—or lack thereof—be with you all on this upcoming holiday.”

Her partner Monica nods, “Thank you Lindsey. This brings us to our next segment; should the warning announcement be changed as not everyone believes in the same type of God, one God—as some faiths are polytheistic, or a God at all. What if it’s just a higher power or mantra? All of this and more, coming up next…” The screen fades to black as a commercial blinds us a moment later.

Gus snickers quietly next to me, his body shaking mine involuntarily. Looking at him, he shakes his head, looking away from me, “It’s nothing I promise. I just… I never thought things would end up this way…” A sad look takes over his features, body leaning heavier against mine, “I just wish she wasn’t taken from us. Had it not been… We thought it would work.” I nod my head.

“It’s not your fault you know. Things happen and nothing is fool proof.” My hand rubs his back as tears spill from his waterline.

“I would give anything to get her back. Anything.” He looks away from me momentarily, his hands wiping his cheeks.

“I know… I would too.” He pulls me into a hug, his chin hooking over my shoulder.

———00:00:48:55———

It was less than an hour before commencement. My work was merciful enough to give us the week off so I was allowed to stay home while I prepared for the Purge. Gus, on the other hand wasn’t so lucky. As soon as he rushed through the door he locked himself in the bathroom, the shower running. Leaning against the door, I listened for anything out of the ordinary. Satisfied that the only noises I could hear were the pelting of water against tile, I pulled away and started on dinner. As soon as he got out of the shower, he pressed his sticky skin against my back with a chuckle.

“Hey…”

I rolled my eyes playfully, “Hey yourself…” Wiggling my body so I could face him, my hands push against his chest. “Why don’t you get dressed. We’re going to start lock down soon.” He nods, his expression dropping down along with his head. With a deep inhale he pulls himself away from me before dragging himself into the shared bedroom.

As I rushed around the kitchen, the news and their countdown timer as background noise, I gathered all of the ingredients for some stuffed bell peppers. ‘Hopefully this will help you get your mind off of things…’ Just as I was about to start chopping a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A pulsing feeling running through my body as Gus slips on a shirt, eyes locking with mine before going over to the door. I watch as he takes a look through the peephole, his shoulders relaxing. He shakes his head with a sad smile.

“I’ll be right back. It’s Mr. Faux, I ran into him earlier, I think he’s here to continue our conversation…” As he cracks the door open, he waits for me to leave.

“What about?”

His head shakes once more, “Nothing important… Just about the front door. It won’t be a problem after tonight.” I nod, smiling. Just as I’m about to head back into the kitchen, I look back at him once more.

“Is everything alright? I know this day is pretty hard for you… I’m here if you want to talk about it.” My hands fiddle with the side of my shirt, “You know that right?” The corners of his mouth lift up but his eyes don’t shine like they usually do. He nods before slipping outside. My fingers tighten around my shirt as I head back to the kitchen, the pulsing feeling still not leaving my body.

As soon as I had placed the peppers in the oven, Gus walked back in his eyes darting everywhere else but mine. Going over towards him, I watched as he ran his fingers along the pictures of us together hung up on the wall. Placing a hand onto his shoulder, I let him shrug me away, a sigh escaping his lips. Turning back towards me, he opens his mouth to speak but the TV interrupts him. The screen flashing blue, the monotone voice playing through the speakers as the alarm blares at us. Commencement.

———00:11:59:59———

"(Y/n)… Mr. Faux said there's a car waiting for you outside. Are you planning to go to that party?" I shook my head.

"No. Are they still there?" Gus shrugs a sigh escaping his throat. I watch as he swings himself over the couch, a groan escaping his throat. I watched as he leaned forward, hands cupping the back of his head before leaning back once more.

"There's something I need to tell you… Come here." He waves me over. Cautiously walking over towards him, I take a seat and let my fingers thread through his. His eyebrows furrow into a thin line, "About that letter—"

All the lights go out followed by accompanying screams. His fingers tighten around mine, "What's going on?"

"I need to get you out of here. This isn't worth it. It isn't worth it let's go." He tugs me up and drags me around the unit, through the darkness, the screams get louder. His hand never left mine as he swung the front door open. Leading me through the building, a sliver of light hits our eyes as I realize we're at the back of the building. "Once you're out, run to my car," he hands me his set of keys, "get in and lock it. If I'm not there in ten minutes, start driving without me. Go to this location. Take the back roads. Once you arrive, the password is written on the back of the paper. In the glove compartment there is a mask with neon lights. Turn it on and cover your identity. No matter what, you will not take it off until this night is over and you are safe. Completely. Without a doubt, safe. Got that?"

My head spins, "Gus, please." His fingers curl around my shoulders. Looking behind him, he sighs.

"Please. Please just do it. Okay?" Nodding, he presses his lips to mine, warmth flooding my body, "I love you so much. Please, stay safe." Carefully he takes off the barricades from the door and props it open. Checking the immediate surroundings around the building, he nods at me. "Go first, I'll be behind you to cover you."

Nodding, I make a full sprint towards his car, both items clenched tight between my fingers. Moments later, I jumped into the drivers seat, the doors locked behind me as I waited for him to catch up. I feel my uneven breaths escape from my slightly parted lips.

Gus pops up next to me, hand slamming against the window. "(Y/n), I'm here, unlock the door!" After following his command, I clamber over the side console and into the passenger seat. Once Gus settles in, he combs his hair with his slender fingers. His eyes were wide as he gripped the steering wheel. "Are… Are you ready?" He says somewhat breathlessly. I nod and let him drive us to our destination.

———00:11:24:19———

After about thirty minutes into the drive, we finally arrived at a large office-like building. Giant spotlights bolted into the ground shined up at the tinted windows. Pulling up towards the front drive, two men in fully padded suits waited at the front door, eyes trained forward guns strapped to their backs and legs. Turning towards Gus, who has refused to answer any of my questions so far, reaches into the glove compartment and places the mask over his face. Reaching inside once again, he takes out a similar mask, only mine has a wider toothy grin plastered on the front.

Handing it to me, he waits for it to cover my features before exiting the car. Opening my door, he takes my hand and pulls me so I stand behind him, his left hand roughly gripping my right one as he leads us up towards the padded suits. One turns towards him, a grimace etched into his lips as he leans forward. A deep booming voice growls out, "Password."

"AV 2782." The suit nods to their counterpart as they swing the doors open for us. Inside, a crushed velvet carpet and matching curtains decorate the room. Figures donned in blank white masks stand single file blocking us from moving anywhere but forward. Letting Gus lead the way, I follow him to the front desk where a figure donned in a splitting, two faced mask holds out his hands. I watch as Gus reaches into his pocket, pulling out his ID and placing it into the form's hands, Gus turns towards me.

"I don't have my ID… I left it in the apartment…" I whisper, hands clutching his shirt. He shakes his head.

"Don't worry. Do you still have the letter?" I nodded. "Good. Hand it to them and when we get inside, stick to me." Pulling it out of my pocket, my gut twists as I let them take it from me. After a quick scan at both, the white masked figures create a small opening for us to walk through.

Heading into the elevator and up to the top floor, Gus' fingers slap away my hands, his eyes unable to meet mine. Even behind closed doors. Once they open, dim lights and people sitting at circular tables, all focus onto us.

A figure donned in a feathery mask stands, somewhat elevated, at the front of the room. With a microphone in hand, they take a deep breath in, a smile creeping up onto their face, "Let the games begin."

———00:10:59:59———

We are lead to a table in the back of the room, the lights dimming around us. Now seated, Gus grabs my hand, squeezing me tight. A light flashes towards the front. An exhibition. A red dot at the corner of the screen projected onto the wall indicating that what we’re currently seeing is live. A series of images flashes before us. A padded room with a singular chair placed in the middle, several shots of a park, another of an office building. The screen goes black for a moment as a spotlight shines onto a mask-less announcer stands before us. Her attire is unlike anyone else’s. Tight leather wraps around her figure like a second skin, bright neon makeup painting her features. In smeary purple lipstick, she raises her microphone to her lips, a slurty voice putting us all in a trance.

“Welcome everyone… I’m so glad to announce this year’s contestants for the Purge Party,” she pauses, pulling out a paper, “Out of the thirty six invitations sent out to our people, only three of them came willingly… One is missing.” She purrs. Turning towards the screen she scans the faces that have now popped up on screen.

“Well, not really…” her eyes lock with mine, tongue running along her lips with a moan, “It seems as though our little runaway wanted to join our fun…” A spotlight illuminates our table, Gus’ fingers squeezing mine tightly. “And here I thought we would have to say goodbye to little Sara. You know the rules, Hon. We need all thirty six players… Is Sara our replacement for your little Mouse?”

Gus stands up, his fingers shaking as he looks down towards me. His hand never leaving mine he looks back up towards the announcer. “I wanted to deliver this one personally. They’re quite the fighter…” his voice cracks, “It was the most logical decision.” The crowd cheers as two bulky frames rush to my side, pulling me from my seat and dragging me away behind metal doors.

My mask drops from my face as I scream out to Gus. He doesn’t look back.

#yandere #male yandere #tw obsession #tw kidnapping #tw betrayal #tw purge #tw cliff hanger #tmrwrites #I'll get this done one day... #maybe #I'll try my best :)

[ybcpatrick]

HC that post!YBC Patrick and Joe both spend an unhealthy amount of time working in the studio to “cope.” Joe notices Patrick has a problem but insists it’s different when he himself does it because it “isn’t as bad.”

i've had both of these asks for almost two calendar years. i am SO fucking sorry about that. i'm gonna group these two together, and i hope this maybe makes up for it. 💖

"How's he doing?" Joe asks as he approaches, voice kept carefully low. Andy sighs, gently closing the door to the studio behind him.

"Patrick's fast asleep at the desk. He wore himself out with his episode earlier." Andy runs his hands over his hair, scraping at the shaven sides, and adds, "I was gonna move them both, but I know Patrick would probably flip out again if I did, so I just saved his work and threw a blanket over him."

"Good idea," Joe murmurs, then pauses. "Wait, both?"

"Pete's in there, too," Andy clarifies. "He passed out on the floor beside Patrick's chair."

Joe winces at that, brows knitting together. "Their backs are gonna kill 'em tomorrow."

"I know, but they're sleeping," Andy emphasizes, "and I'm not sure how long it's been since either of them have gotten more than an hour or two." He throws his hands up in faux surrender, backing away from the door as he says, "I'm not touching them. They can go ahead and hate me tomorrow if they wanna, I don't really care."

Joe elects just to shrug, and they fall into a pensive silence. Staring at the studio door, a familiar itch comes crawling up Joe's back; his fingers twitch where they're shoved into his pockets. He clears his throat softly, and his socks scuff against the carpet as he takes a deliberately-casual step forward.

"Ooookay, well, if they're both out for the night, I'm just gonna pop in quick and grab an acoustic–"

"Joe–"

"–I'll take it to the basement, don't worry, I'll make sure they don't hear me at all–"

"Joe."

"– I just wanna finish off that hook I had going earlier, I think I've almo–"

"Joe."

Joe freezes, fingers barely ghosting over the door handle. When he peers over his shoulder, Andy is already staring back, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. His grey eyes are nearly black in the dim light of the hallway, and he looks tired. Guilt briefly squeezes its cold fist around Joe's ribs.

"Joe, it's nearly midnight," says Andy. He brings a hand up to rub at the sides of his nose (an old habit from when he still had his glasses he hasn't managed to kick yet), and falls against the opposite wall in defeat. His voice is unbearably soft as he pleads, "Come to sleep?"

And the thing is, Joe wants to.

He really does.

He just...

The thought of not finishing his work makes his stomach roll.

So instead of acquiescing, Joe crosses the hallway, leaning into Andy's space. He traces his fingertips, feather-light, over the ink-dark skin of Andy's forearms. Saccharine-sweet, he whispers, "I just wanna finish the hook. I'll do it quick, record it on my phone so I don't forget it in the morning, and then I'll be right there in bed. Then you can do your weird-ass impression of a spidermonkey-octopus thing while we cuddle like teenagers, or whatever." Joe tilts Andy's chin up to look him in the eye, flashing a reassuring grin at him. "Sound okay?"

Andy stares at Joe for a long moment. His typical silence feels more pronounced here, as his gaze darts all over Joe's face, seemingly searching for something there. That damned itch dances its way up Joe's spine again, leaving the chill of uneasiness in its wake; the corners of Joe's mouth crack like plaster as he forces his expression to stay light.

(He prays to anything for Andy not to notice.)

After another beat, Andy's shoulders slump, and a small smile graces his face. His hands find Joe's with practiced ease, weaving their fingers together tightly. He arches off the wall, using Joe's weight as leverage, and crowds so far into Joe's space that there's hardly anywhere left where they aren't touching.

"Just the hook?" Andy asks, his breath ghosting over Joe's lips as he cranes up, tip-toed, to nuzzle their noses together. Joe makes a small sound of assent, not trusting himself to say anything more as warm relief washes over him. He brings their joined hands up to his mouth and drops a lingering kiss on each of Andy's knuckles, his gaze trained on the way Andy's lashes flutter against his cheeks in response.

Andy's grip on him tightens for just a second, then falls slack as he whispers, "m'kay, go get the guitar. I'll meet you downstairs." At Joe's perplexed look, he adds, "I'm gonna come sit with you 'til you're done." Guilt lances through Joe once more, his eyes blowing wide.

"Dee, you don't have to stay up for me–"

"I don't have to, I want to. I like hearing you work." Andy cuts him off, with a finger against his lips. After a second, he shifts his hand, carefully cradling Joe's cheek. He smiles again, but it's tinged with something else, something that makes Joe's heart ache in his chest. "I just like you."

Sudden heat pricks at Joe's eyes and he quickly snaps them shut, leaning into Andy's touch. That awful itch, along with the guilt, takes a backseat in his brain for the time being, corralled there by the warmth of Andy's hand and the simplicity of his words; for just a moment, he savours it.

Before long, Andy's pulling away, nudging Joe towards the studio door. He gives Joe a stern warning about waking up Pete and Patrick as he walks away, and Joe keeps his eyes locked on Andy's back until he's completely disappeared from sight.

Quiet as a mouse, Joe slips into the studio. As promised, Patrick is bent over the desk, his folded arms shielding his face from view. Pete is sitting slumped beside him on the floor, unflatteringly open-mouthed and folded up like a pretzel. The throw blanket is haphazardly spread out over Patrick's broad shoulders, the edge fluttering mere inches over the crown of Pete's head. Even in sleep, the pair look utterly exhausted; Joe can't help the way he frowns.

He feels them. He's tired, too. Really fucking tired. And so is Andy.

But Joe can't stop yet, and Andy knows that. And Andy is waiting for him in the basement, because he's sweet like that. Because he's thoughtful.

Because Andy gets Joe, perhaps even more than Joe gets Joe, and he understands that Joe can't give it up quite yet.

Carefully, Joe slinks around the sleeping pair, grabbing his acoustic from the loveseat he'd abandoned it on earlier. On his way back out, the telltale whisper of fabric shifting stops Joe dead in his tracks at the door. Heart in his throat and apologies at the ready, he peers over his shoulder at Pete and Patrick.

Patrick has shifted in his sleep. His good arm has fallen into his lap, palm up. His slack hand is close enough to Pete's head that his fingers are tucked, just slightly, into Pete's dark hair. Pete snuffles, a little gross-sounding, and subconsciously leans into the contact.

Neither one stirs again. Watching them for a moment longer, Joe's smile grows a bit wobbly. Drawing in a deep breath, he eases the door shut once more, and leaves them to their slumber. (With any luck, they'll wake up at some point through the night, and at least have the sense to lay down on the furniture or something, but Joe's not counting on it.)

As Joe makes the descent to the basement, slinging the guitar strap over his shoulder on his way, his thoughts become preoccupied once more with the hook from earlier. Perhaps Andy, though sleepy and spent as he is from the day, may have some ideas for how Joe can nail it down.

After all, the sooner he does, and the sooner he satisfies the itch, the sooner Joe can get some rest, too.

He's just gotta finish, first.

#shut up kell #ask #anonymous #post!ybc #trohley #rpf #ficlet #I'M SO SORRY. TWO YEARS. I AM SO SO SORRY #I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS THO. MY HEART BLEEDS 4 THEM....