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kayentokk · 5 months

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Easy Peasy Sukuna Squeezey(Part 1);A Lot More Ice Cream

Pairing;Sukuna x Fem! Reader

Summary;Sukuna always knows what to do when you’re upset, but this time he thinks he’s gonna need a lot more ice cream to fix the problem.

Contains;feelings, some sadness, cheating mentions, angst kinda (not in a death way), comfort(Sukuna comfort), 🥹

wc; 1,261

A/N;uhmmm y’all I think imma make this a series. Cuz I wanna drag it out and I have more ideas for this storyline, so bear with me. And I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

Series M.list Next

The smell coming from inside was musk, and humid. You could feel it radiating through the door. You knew this was coming, hell this is what you came over here for. But it still hurts like a bitch to know your boyfriend, ex, is in the middle of sex with one of your mutual, ex, friends.

You were tipped off today by one of your ex’s friends, the only reason he told you was because quote unquote he “can give you a better time than that prick.” At the time you thought, he’s probably not wrong, maybe you’ll even take him up on the offer after this. That’s not likely though. You’re just, rightfully so, in your feelings and feeling angry about the whole situation.

You still wanted to see for yourself though, so you went to his apartment. You quietly unlocked the door and turned the knob, you just needed to know for yourself. You didn’t want to be privy or see the adulterous, disgusting act.

As if the clothes, that obviously belonged to him and his little- thing, that were in a trail leading to the bedroom weren’t enough, a loud, keening, high-pitched whine was let out. You didn’t need to see or hear anymore, that was enough.

You had tried to tried mentally prepare yourself before you got there, deciding to walk there for the commute instead of driving because you could clear your head better, but nothing prepares you for betrayal. And this was betrayal at its finest.

You placed the keys on the counter, opened the door, and slammed it shut loudly on your way out. You were hoping to startle them, but you’d be long gone before they got a clue.

You didn’t want to go home, so you didn’t. It’s not like you had anything waiting on you there, besides the memories that were once happy of you and him. And that’s just depressing.

After walking for a while, you noticed where you were headed. Sukuna’s house. It was only natural to want to go there. Sukuna is your best friend, of sorts. You guys grew up together, you went to the same schools your whole life, and your mothers were best friends. So you guys were destined to be close in some way.

You stopped yourself right across the street from his complex. All the intrusive thoughts immediately rolled in, what if he has girls over? Or he’s having a party? Or maybe he’s not home? M-maybe he doesn’t want to-

“Hey,” a gruff voice greets you.

It’s Sukuna.

He’s in his car, the windows are rolled down and the music is low so that you can hear him, he has a couple of bags in the front seat, he must have just been returning from somewhere.

“Hellooo? Earth to y/n?”

You snapped out of it, “hey,” you greet him lowly.

“Were you coming to see me?,” he asks reaching for his phone from his back pocket, “I didn’t think I got a message from you.”

“You didn’t. I didn’t know I was coming here either to be honest.”

“Oh…well, are you gonna get in or what? It’s freezing outside and you’re letting all my heat out of the window you psycho.”

It’s cold? Yeah, it is the middle of winter. You hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it. He moved the bags to the backseat without even having to get out of the car, the perks of having long arms, and you got in. It was warm, and your fingers started to defrost.

He parked the car in his designated spot, and you went to get out of the car but not before he stopped you by grabbing the hood of your coat. You turned your head and looked at him. His bright garnet eyes were piercing right through you, and you wanted to break. You wanted to crumble and cry and scream, you hate that look. Like he knows something is wrong.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong? or we jus’ not gonna talk today?”

Your lip quivers and at that small twitch Sukuna’s face drops. The normal irritated grimace that dawns his face is replaced with something else, something you’ve never seen before. It’s almost a saddening expression, it doesn’t suit Sukuna at all, you think.

In all the years you guys have been with each other, Sukuna thinks, he’s never seen you look so delicate or fragile. He’s seen you cry over getting a “boo-boo” or “ouchie” when you were small, he’s seen you cry over being reprimanded, hell he’s even seen you cry during your period, but all those things he could fix. A bandaid, a cookies and cream waffle cone, and a movie. Easy peasy, Sukuna squeezey. But a part of him felt like this ouchie would be harder to fix if he could fix it at all.

“He cheated ‘kuna,” you spoke plainly. It was harder to admit than you thought. You immediately felt repulsed from it.

He didn’t know what to say, he was in utter shock and he wanted to kill the dirty bastard. How could he? You devoted yourself to him and you cared and treated him with all the kindness in your heart. Sukuna was so enraged and he also felt….sad? This wasn’t the usual agitated feeling he got when you were upset, this was different. He knew this was different. You weren’t even crying yet, just sitting silently in pure consciousness.

You didn’t really want to talk about it if you’re being honest. Your boyfriend-ex, cheated on you. What else was there to say about it? But the silence was killing you.

“You could say something y’know,” you sniffled bringing a hand up to rub your nose. “It’s more embarrassing if you don’t,” you chuckled dryly.

Sukuna, however, didn’t find it funny. Nothing about this was funny. And it was becoming apparent to him, that he’d need a lot more ice cream.

What do you want him to say though? If he told you he’d kill him that wouldn’t solve the issue or lessen your hurt, If he acts out of character and said sorry you’d just think he’s taking pity on you and he knows you hate that.

So Sukuna does what he knows best, he “ignores” it. When you were both in your adolescent stage and you were mad at him about something harsh that he probably said that’s what he did.

He’d still talk to you even if you were ignoring him, which pissed him the hell off by the way, he’d do anything you wanted. And eventually you’d forget why you were mad at him in the first place, it was his way of apologizing. That was the only way he knew how to treat you without you feeling like he’s pitying you.

So he turns off the car, gets out, grabs the bags he put in the back seat, and when he sees you’re still in the car he gives you a nod and says, “come on, we don’t want you to freeze do we?” And you smile, it’s only a fragment of what it normally is, but you smile. And Sukuna feels relief, of course if you wanted to talk about it he’d listen. But right now, it’s freezing outside and he doesn’t think a car is the right place to have that conversation. All the people passing by while you’re hyperventilating and crying over your jerk of an ex is not exactly what you want to happen either.

So you follow him into the apartment.

@/cafekitsune for the divider

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verysium · 6 months

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『01』呪術廻戦: jujutsu kaisen recs

五条悟: gojo satoru

i know you still think about the times we had by @saetoru

satoru will always comes when you call him, he just never thought you’d stop calling. notes: satoru is so desperate and pathetic here it is just delicious; has the right amount of angst to cause tension but a good ending to soothe my poor heart; traditional rich boy and disapproving mother/father scenario but implemented relatively well; miscommunication and feelings of inadequacy; reader realizing the extent to which satoru loves them

pretty eyes by @quirklessidiot

in which the right eye is mine and the left eye is yours and when we meet for the first time, you see your own eyes staring back at you. notes: takes tragic star-crossed lovers to a whole new level; riddled with parallels and symbolism; idea of illness and loving someone at their worst; right person, wrong time at its finest; fate being unnecessarily cruel; surprising moments of humor

minazuki by @quirklessidiot

In which Y/N L/N is placed under a union she has no choice but to partake for the sake of her survival. notes: this series needs to be scientifically studied; it is just that good; halfway in and i fell in love with the reader instead of gojo; strong and somewhat morally grey characters; dark themes around femininity in a patriarchal society but concept was executed flawlessly

21: only by @tenjiiku

“What do you want, Satoru?” You do not use his last name or any honorific to address him despite his age. He was older than you by a few years — but certainly did not act the part — so you do not think he deserves your respect. Your host father told you he does — something about his being from a prominent private school as an educator, which you cannot possibly fathom being the truth — but only in front of you is Satoru Gojo an inane, odd man with a need for clean, dry-cleaned clothes that, for some strange reason he has conjectured in his equally baffling mind, that only you can provide. He smiles at you, placing his cheek in his hand. “You.” notes: this fic embodies the duality between gojo and satoru; he is easy-going until he isn’t and you realize he actually has a considerable amount of depth; the plot twist did it for me; satoru being a loud-mouthed tease but secretly harboring feelings

soulswap by @orphxus (impxria)

this is where the evening splits in half, love or death. grab an end, pull hard, & make a wish. notes: short but realistically describes everything wrong with jujutsu society; poetic voice; gojo being serious for once; disillusionment and tragic hero archetype; being the strongest yet being unable to save anybody; geto would read this fic and feel seen

両面宿儺: ryomen sukuna

nocuous by @quirklessidiot

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? I knew how this was going to end but I’m still terribly hurt by it.” notes: the heian era setting is so complex and established even through dialogue and subtle description; reader strikes me as older and able to deal with sukuna’s chaotic nature; sukuna being an absolute menace is sending me; tragic angst but almost didn’t notice it due to how beautifully the images are presented

avīci by @rotpeach

Several years ago, Satoru Gojo was involved in the exorcism of a uniquely stubborn curse. The official report states that one of Ryomen Sukuna's fingers was recovered from the scene, and nothing else. Only the two of you know the truth. notes: gore, gore, and even more gore; boy was this fic a wild ride; imagine a work that condenses the ugliest and most revolting parts of human nature yet presents them so elegantly you start questioning the blurred lines of morality; cannibalism, violence, and love triangles; japanese mythology & folklore; heian period references; cursed spirit reader tries to grapple with the idea of self after being created for the sole purpose of serving others; themes of existentialism, identity crisis, obsession

#fic recs #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader

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hd-junglebook · 6 days

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Little Dove

Quinn Hughes x Reader

a:n Here is part 2, the only thing I could think of while writing this was 'The Gold' by Phoebe Bridgers. I think it really speaks for how y/n sees the situation and her life at the moment.

Masterlist Link

Summary: He's everything she wants. He's everything she wished she had. All she wanted was him. The hot and cold game has finally reached its limit.

Word Count - 5046

The sleek, black limo glided up the long, winding driveway, its polished exterior gleaming under the warm sunlight. As it approached the magnificent mansion, Y/N couldn't help but marvel at the opulent surroundings.

The meticulously manicured lawn stretched out before her, a lush carpet of vibrant green grass that looked almost too perfect to be real.

In the center of the sprawling grounds, a grand fountain stood tall, its crystal-clear water cascading down the intricately carved stone tiers, creating a soothing symphony of gentle splashes.

As the limo came to a stop near the impressive front steps, a group of well-dressed helpers emerged from the mansion's large, ornate doors. They stood at attention, their crisp uniforms and shoes polished.

Just then, the front doors swung open, and Y/N's grandmother stepped out, a vision of elegance and grace. She was dressed in an all-white ensemble, the flowing fabric of her dress billowing gently in the breeze.

Her delicate hands were adorned with pristine white gloves, and a strand of exquisite pearls rested against her neck, catching the light and adding to her air of sophistication.

The driver swiftly exited the limo and rushed to Y/N's side, opening the door with a practiced flourish. He offered his hand, assisting Y/N and her mother out of the vehicle with the utmost care and reverence.

As they walked closer to the steps, Y/N's grandmother's face lit up with a warm, genuine smile. "Oh, darling, how I've longed to see you," she exclaimed, her voice filled with affection. "Come here, little dove."

Y/N couldn't help but feel a surge of emotion as she stepped into her grandmother's embrace. The older woman's arms wrapped around her, enveloping her in a comforting warmth that seemed to chase away all the stress and disappointment she had been carrying. It had been so long since anyone in her family had shown her such pure, unconditional love and acceptance.

Y/N breathed in the sweet, familiar scent of her grandmother's perfume, a delicate blend of chamomile and sugar.

The softness of her grandmother's gloves against her skin was a soothing contrast to the cold, impersonal interactions she was used to with her parents.

Around them, the grandeur of the mansion seemed to fade into the background, the lavish furnishings and priceless works of art becoming mere footnotes in the presence of Y/N and her grandmother.

Once they separated Y/N's grandmother cupped her face with her gloved hands, her eyes shining with pride and adoration. "Let me look at you, my dear," she said softly, taking in every detail of Y/N's appearance. "You've grown into such a beautiful young woman."

…

The posse entered the sun room, Y/N was struck by the sheer elegance of the space. The room was flooded with natural light, the sun's rays filtering through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the meticulously landscaped gardens beyond.

In the center of the room, a grand table was set with the finest china and silverware, each place setting arranged with precision and care. The aroma of freshly prepared delicacies filled the air, making Y/N's mouth water in anticipation.

As they took their seats, the conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and the clinking of glasses. However, after a while, Cherise turned to Y/N with a knowing smile and asked her to accompany her for a walk in the garden.

Arm in arm, the two women strolled through the lush, meticulously maintained grounds. The garden was a true work of art, with winding paths that led through a maze of fragrant rose bushes, towering topiaries, and bubbling fountains.

Cherise broached the subject that had been weighing on her mind. "Tell me, dear, when will you settle down?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. "It hurts me to see you alone."

Y/N shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. "I'm not alone, grandmother," she replied, her voice soft but filled with contentment. "I am with someone. Nothing serious, but things are going smoothly now. He makes me happy."

The steady click of their heels against the pavement punctuated their words. Cherise listened intently, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Then give me a grandbaby already, if you're so happy," she teased, her laughter ringing out like a bell in the garden. Y/N couldn't help but join in, their laughter mingling with the chirping of the birds and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Y/N smiled softly as her grandmother continued, her words filled with wisdom and understanding. "I'm only joking, little dove. I would like to meet him, maybe when things get 'serious,' I guess. I want you to feel love like I have with your grandfather. You deserve that, not some beneficial marriage like your mother and father. I don't know where I went wrong with her."

Y/N nodded along, finding no reason to disagree with her grandmother's sentiment. She knew that her parents' relationship was one of convenience and status, lacking the warmth and genuine connection she craved. "I think you'd like him," she said, a hint of hope in her voice.

As they neared the house, Dedra rushed down the stairs, her face tight with impatience. "Let's go, we have to get back to work," she demanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

…

Y/N stepped into her bedroom, exhaustion weighing heavily on her shoulders. She slipped out of her clothes and into a comfortable robe, the soft fabric caressing her skin. Settling down at her vanity, she began removing her makeup, the process of wiping away the day's mask a soothing ritual.

As she reached for her phone, she noticed a message from Quinn. Her heart skipped a beat as she opened the conversation, eager to connect with him after the emotionally draining day.

Y/N: I wish you were here with me. Today was intense.

Quinn: I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?

Y/N: It's just family stuff. They have all these expectations, and I feel like I'm constantly disappointing them.

They texted back and forth, Y/N continued getting ready, applying her makeup with practiced precision. Once she finished her base, she stood up and slipped into the red dress she had chosen for their date. The fabric hugged her curves perfectly, accentuating her figure in all the right places.

She admired her reflection in the mirror, a small smile playing on her lips as she imagined Quinn's reaction. Just then, her phone buzzed with another message.

Quinn: I'm outside.

Y/N felt a flutter of excitement mixed with nerves as she grabbed her purse and made her way to the front door. She stepped outside, the cool evening air kissing her skin as she walked towards Quinn's car.

He had his windows rolled down, a smile on his face as he watched her approach. His eyes roamed over her body appreciatively, taking in the sight of her in the stunning red dress.

"Looking good," he said, his voice smooth and filled with admiration.

Y/N felt a blush creep onto her cheeks, a mixture of pleasure and uncertainty swirling within her. “Thanks hottie.” she said as she slid into the passenger seat. She knew that her feelings for Quinn were growing stronger each day, but the fear of him not wanting her scared beyond comprehension.

Quinn pulled out of Y/N's driveway, he glanced over at her, his gaze lingering for a few seconds. The curiosity in his eyes was evident. "So where is this restaurant you were telling me about or is it some kind of surprise?" she asked, leaning over the middle console.

He smiled mysteriously, enjoying the playful anticipation that hung in the air between them. "You'll just have to wait and see," he teased. Quinn chuckled at her betrayed expression, shaking his head in amusement as he focused on the road ahead.

conversation flowed easily between them, filled with laughter and the occasional playful jab. Even though they talked about nothing of great importance, Y/N found herself thoroughly enjoying the simple pleasure of Quinn's company.

city lights flashed by the windows, painting the interior of the car with a kaleidoscope of colors. Y/N leaned back in her seat, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her.

As they continued driving, y/n’s curiosity got the better of her once more. "Come on, Y/N, give me a hint," she pleaded, eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'm dying to know where you're taking me."

Quinn laughed, the sound filled with genuine joy. "Patience, dear," he chided gently, reaching over to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. "I promise it'll be worth the wait."

…

Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine as Quinn's strong hands grasped her waist, his touch both thrilling and comforting. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and saw a glimmer of affection and excitement reflected back at her.

"Lead the way," she said softly, a smile playing on her lips as she allowed him to guide her towards the restaurant.

As they approached the entrance, Y/N couldn't help but marvel at the grandeur of the establishment. The facade was a masterpiece of modern architecture. The name of the restaurant was emblazoned above the doors in elegant, golden script.

Quinn's arm remained securely around her waist as they stepped through the doors. The interior of the restaurant was just as breathtaking as the exterior, with plush carpets, glittering chandeliers, and rich, velvet draperies.

The hostess led them to their table, she glanced at Quinn, taking in the way his suit hugged his athletic frame and the confident, easy smile that played on his lips. When they were seated, Quinn reached across the table and took her hand in his, his fingers intertwining with hers. She squeezed his hand in return.

They perused the menu, discussing the various options and sharing bites of each other's dishes. Quinn enthusiastically shared his plans for preparing his hockey team for the upcoming season. He spoke about new training regimens, team-building exercises, and strategies he hoped to implement.

Y/N listened intently, her eyes focused on Quinn as he passionately described his goals and aspirations.

However, at one point, Quinn glanced over at Y/N, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. He wondered if she was truly interested in the intricacies of his hockey career or if he was boring her with the details. Y/N, sensing his uncertainty, quickly broke into a smile and laughed, hoping to ease his worries.

"Everything about you interests me, Quinn," she said earnestly, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers. "I could never get bored of you. Being around you makes me happy, ya know?"

The sincerity in her voice was evident, but Quinn's reaction was not what Y/N had expected. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his hand stiffening under her touch. An awkward silence fell between them, the air thick with tension.

Quinn cleared his throat, his eyes darting around the restaurant as if searching for an escape. "Y/N," he began, his voice strained, "I... I think we need to talk."

Y/N felt her heart sink, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. She withdrew her hand from his, folding her arms across her chest as if to protect herself from the words she knew were coming.

"I care about you, Y/N. I really do," Quinn continued, his gaze finally settling on her face. "But I need you to understand that I'm not looking for anything too serious right now. I thought we were on the same page about that."

Y/N nodded slowly, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. She knew Quinn had been clear about his intentions from the start, but somewhere along the way, she had allowed herself to hope for more.

"I know," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to pressure you."

Quinn sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not your fault, Y/N. I should have been more clear. I just... I don't want to hurt you."

The words hung heavy in the air between them, a reminder of the fragility of their connection. Y/N forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

"It's okay, Quinn. We can take things slow. I'm just happy to be here with you." Quinn returned her smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The rest of the evening was spent in polite conversation, but the earlier ease and warmth between them had dissipated.

…

The pulsing rhythms of the music filled the crowded nightclub, the bass thumping through the floor and vibrating in Y/N's chest as she carefully navigated her way back to the booth where her friends were waiting. In her hands, she balanced a tray laden with six colorful cocktails, each one adorned with a tiny umbrella and a slice of fruit.

Y/N couldn't help but smile at the sight of her five best friends, all dressed to the nines and ready for a night of fun and laughter. She shimmied into the booth, sliding in next to Raven, her closest confidante.

"Ladies, I present to you six drinks for six beautiful women," Y/N announced, her voice rising above the din of the club. She passed out the cocktails, each one met with a chorus of excited cheers and appreciative nods.

The women wasted no time in downing their drinks, the sweet, fruity flavors masking the potent alcohol within. As they finished, they let out exaggerated gasps and howls of delight, the alcohol already beginning to work its magic and loosen their inhibitions.

Raven leaned in close to Y/N, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "So, see anyone you like?" she drawled out, her voice low and conspiratorial.

Y/N surveyed the dance floor, her gaze roving over the writhing bodies and the flashing lights. She had to admit, there were plenty of attractive men in the club tonight, their bodies moving in perfect sync with the pulsing beat.

"A few," she admitted, a sly smile playing on her lips. "But no one interesting enough to take home, that's for sure."

Raven giggled at Y/N's response, her laughter infectious and carefree. She scanned the room herself, her eyes suddenly widening as she spotted someone across the way.

"Well, I see one eyeing you up over there," she said, pointing discreetly in the direction of the bar.

Y/N followed Raven's finger, her gaze landing on a devastatingly handsome man with curly black hair and a chiseled jawline. He was leaning against the bar, his back pressed against the polished wood, and his eyes were locked on Y/N, a smoldering intensity in his gaze.

Y/N felt a flush of heat rush through her body as she met his stare, her heart skipping a beat in her chest. She raised her hand in a small wave, a coy smile playing on her lips.

But even as she flirted with the stranger across the room, Y/N couldn't shake the nagging feeling of guilt that tugged at the back of her mind. She thought of Quinn and the uncertain status of their relationship.

"I don't know, Raven," she said, her voice tinged with hesitation. "I haven't ended things with Quinn yet. It would feel wrong to pursue someone else."

A collective groan sounded from the table, as her friends all chimed in with their opinions.

"Girl, you're single. Do what you want," one said, her voice firm and encouraging.

"Quinn's not here tonight. What he doesn't know won't hurt him," another added, her tone mischievous and daring.

Y/N bit her lip, torn between her desire to let loose and have fun and her loyalty to the man she cared for.

She knew things with Quinn were complicated, that he had been distant and evasive in recent days. But still, the thought of betraying his trust, even in a moment of drunken weakness, made her stomach churn.

As she sat there, surrounded by the pulsing energy of the club and the encouraging words of her friends, Y/N knew she had a decision to make. She could play it safe, go home alone and wait for Quinn to come around. Or she could take a chance, let herself get swept up in the moment and see where the night might lead her.

With a deep breath and a final glance at the handsome stranger across the room, Y/N made her choice.

…

The heat of the crowded dance floor was almost unbearable as Y/N swayed to the pulsing beat, her body moving in perfect sync with the mysterious man from the bar. His hands were on her hips, his touch searing through the thin fabric of her dress and setting her skin ablaze.

The dance floor was a sea of moving bodies, gyrating and swaying to the music as the multicolored lights flashed and swirled overhead, casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the sweat-slicked skin of the dancers.

Y/N felt the heat rising from the packed bodies around her, the air thick with the scent of perfume, alcohol, and pheromones. She moved in perfect rhythm with the mysterious man from the bar, their bodies impossibly close as they lost themselves in the primal, sensual flow of the music.

His hands roamed over her curves, his touch both electrifying and possessive as he pulled her flush against his muscular frame. Y/N could feel the hard planes of his chest pressing against her back, his hips grinding against hers in a way that sent shivers of desire racing down her spine.

Clinking glasses and raucous laughter from the nearby bar mixed with the pounding bass, creating a heady cocktail of sensory overload.

Y/N felt dizzy with the rush of it all, her head spinning from the alcohol and the intoxicating presence of the man behind her. As the song reached its crescendo, he leaned in close, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin of her neck as he mumbled something in her ear, his words almost lost in the pounding music.

Y/N turned in his hold, pressing her back against his chest and feigning ignorance. "Sorry, the music is really loud. I can't hear you," she shouted over the din, a coy smile playing on her lips.

She felt his chest rumble with laughter, the vibrations sending shivers down her spine. He tightened his grip on her arm, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

"I said, come home with me," he repeated, his voice low and husky, filled with unmistakable desire. Y/N's heart raced at his bold suggestion. She knew she should say no, that leaving with a stranger was a dangerous game. But the alcohol in her system and the electric chemistry between them made it hard to think straight.

She turned to face him, a playful shrug on her shoulders. "I can't leave my friends alone tonight," she said, her voice apologetic. "But how about I give you my number instead?"

The man's face hardened, a flash of annoyance crossing his features. He scoffed, as if offended by her suggestion, and shook his head in disbelief.

"Fine," he said, his tone clipped as he extended his phone towards her. "Put it in."

Y/N took the device, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed in a fake number, purposely transposing the digits. She couldn't risk giving him her real contact information, not when she was still unsure of her feelings for Quinn.

She handed the phone back and fixed him with a stern look. "Now, shut up and dance," she said, her voice firm and unyielding. The man's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger burning in their depths. He grabbed her wrist, his grip tight and possessive.

"You think you can just tease me like that and walk away?" he growled, his face inches from hers. "I don't take kindly to being led on." Y/N's heart hammered in her chest, fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. She tried to pull away, but his hold was too strong.

"Let go of me," she said, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear. "I don't owe you anything."

Around them, the other dancers continued to move, oblivious to the drama unfolding in their midst. Y/N's friends were nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of writhing bodies and flashing lights.

The man's grip tightened, his fingers digging into her skin. "No one rejects me!”

With a sudden burst of strength, Y/N wrenched her arm free, stumbling backwards and nearly losing her balance. She turned on her heel, pushing through the crowd as she desperately searched for her friends.

Her heart was racing, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

…

Y/N stumbled out of the nightclub, her heart pounding and her head spinning from the encounter. The cool night air hit her skin, providing a momentary relief from the stifling heat of the dance floor.

She leaned against the rough brick wall, her hands shaking as she fumbled with her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found Quinn's name.

She hesitated for a moment, her thumb hovering over the call button. Things between her and Quinn had been strained lately, and she wasn't sure if he would even answer. But as a wave of nausea washed over her, the severity of the situation hit her, and she knew she needed help.

Y/N pressed the button, holding the phone to her ear as she tried to steady her breathing. The line rang once, twice, and then a third time before Quinn's voice finally filled her ear.

"Hello?" he answered, the sound of music and laughter echoing in the background.

"Quinn," Y/N said, her voice trembling. "I... I need you."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Y/N feared he would hang up on her. But then Quinn's voice returned, this time laced with concern.

"Y/N? What's wrong? Where are you?"

She took a shuddering breath, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "I'm at Taipei," she said, her words coming out in a rush. "I... I was dancing with this guy, and he... he tried to... I don't know, I just... I need you to come get me. Please."

There was another pause, and Y/N could hear the sound of Quinn moving, the background noise fading as he stepped away from wherever he was. "I'm on my way," he said, his voice firm and reassuring. "Stay where you are, okay? I'll be there as soon as I can."

Y/N nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbeat.

As the call ended, Y/N slid down the wall, hugging her knees to her chest as the tears finally spilled over. She felt sick to her stomach.

…

"Y/N!"

She looked up, her vision blurry with tears, to see Quinn running towards her, his face etched with worry. He dropped to his knees beside her, his arms instinctively wrapping around her trembling frame.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice soft and soothing.

Y/N clung to him, burying her face in his chest as the emotions she had been holding back finally broke free. She sobbed openly, her body shaking with the force of her tears as Quinn held her close, his hands rubbing gentle circles on her back.

Y/N's voice trembled as she spoke, her words laced with a mixture of sadness and desperation. "What have you been doing? It's been days, Quinn. Days without a single word from you."

Quinn froze, caught off guard by her sudden questioning. He stumbled over his words, trying to find the right response. "I... I've been busy, Y/N. You know how it is."

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "No, I don't know how it is. You don't want to talk to me? Is that what this is?" Her voice cracked, the pain in her heart spilling out into her words. "I don't want to do this with you anymore if you don't want to be with me eventually, Quinn. I can't keep going on like this."

Quinn reached out to her, his eyes pleading. "Y/N, please. Let's not do this now. We'll talk in the morning, okay? When we've both had a chance to clear our mind, and we’re home in bed."

But Y/N couldn't hold back the flood of emotions any longer. She looked at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of the affection she so desperately craved. "Do you feel anything for me, Quinn? Even just a little?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Of course I do Y/N..."

"Please," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just be honest with me then. Am I not good enough? Is that why you've been pulling away?"

Quinn's heart ached at the sight of her pain, but he couldn't find the words to comfort her. He knew that his own doubts and fears had been holding him back, preventing him from fully committing to their relationship.

"It's not that, Y/N. It's just... complicated."

She let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the cool night air. "Complicated. Right. That's what it always is with you, isn't it?"

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling incredibly small and vulnerable. She looked up at the sky, the stars blurring together through her tears. "I can't keep doing this, Quinn. I can't keep going on dates and sleeping with you, only to be pushed away. It hurts too much."

Quinn's voice wavered as he spoke, his words laced with a deep, aching sadness. "Y/N, please just let me explain at a better time."

But Y/N couldn't hold back the flood of emotions that threatened to consume her. She looked at him, her eyes shimmering with tears that refused to fall.

"If I could go back to the night we met, I would never have agreed to this," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her own heart. "You make me feel so loved and like you care about me, then you ignore me when I say anything that sounds like I care about you."

The night seemed to grow colder around them, the stars fading into the inky blackness of the sky.

Quinn took a step towards her, his hand outstretched. "I don't mean to hurt you. At all," he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

"What I want is complicated, Y/N. You're so good to me. If I allowed myself to ruin it, I would never forgive myself." Quinn felt his own heart constrict, the depth of her pain hitting him like a physical blow.

Y/N shook her head, a single tear finally escaping and rolling down her cheek. "But don't you see? You're already ruining it. By pushing me away, by refusing to let yourself feel what I know is there."

He wanted so badly to take her in his arms, to promise her that everything would be okay. But he knew that he couldn't make that promise, not when he was still so unsure of his own heart.

Y/N's shoulders shook with silent sobs, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to hold the pieces of her shattered heart together. "I don't need you to be perfect, Quinn. I just need you to be honest with me. To stop running away from what we both know is true."

She turned to walk away, Quinn reached out and grabbed her hand. With a gentle tug, he pulled her into his chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around her trembling frame. Y/N's breath caught in her throat as Quinn's lips brushed against her forehead.

Quinn inhaled deeply, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his own. Before Y/N had a chance to protest, to pull away from his embrace, Quinn gently guided her towards his car.

He opened the passenger side door, his hand resting on the small of her back as he helped her inside. With a tender touch, he reached over and clipped her seatbelt, his fingers lingering on the soft skin of her neck for just a moment longer than necessary.

As Quinn slid into the driver's seat, he could feel the weight of Y/N's gaze on him but he couldn't find the words to reassure her, couldn't find the courage to voice the depths of his own feelings.

Instead, he put the car in drive, the engine humming to life as they pulled away from the curb. Y/N turned her head towards the window, her eyes fixed on the expanse of the city that stretched out before them. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, the glittering lights of the skyline blurring together through her watery vision.

The drive was silent, the only sound the steady thrum of the engine and the distant wail of sirens in the night. Quinn's hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension as he navigated the familiar streets that led to Y/N's home.

The sight of her own front door, the promise of solitude and comfort, was a balm to her aching heart. Quinn cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening in the confines of the car.

He moved quickly, exiting the driver's side and rounding the front of the car to open Y/N's door. She stumbled slightly as she stepped out, her legs unsteady beneath her. Quinn's hand found the small of her back once more, his touch a gentle guide as they walked together towards her front door.

With a sense of déjà vu, Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out the spare key Y/N had given him months ago, he slid the key into the lock, the click of the tumblers echoing loudly in the stillness of the night.

As the door swung open, Y/N stepped inside, the familiar scent of home enveloping her like a warm embrace. She turned to face Quinn, her eyes searching his face for any sign of the love and affection she so desperately craved.

But his expression was unreadable, his own emotions carefully guarded behind a mask of stoic resolve.

…

Message me to be added to the tag list!! feedback is always appreciated. Lmk how you feel.

Tag List <3

@poppysbestie

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insomniac-dot-ink · 3 months

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The Language of Wolves, a Fairy Tale

There is a wolf with the voice of a person up on the hill. Travelers were sent there, both the lucky and unlucky sorts, if they could not speak the common tongue. The wolf had mastered any language he had ever heard and the people of the valley were both reasonable and warry. Send the travelers to the wolf, they said, bound by hospitality, and ask him who taught him how to speak or else whose witches throat he tore out and stitched into his own.

Many unsuspecting pilgrims, soldiers, merchants, and wayward souls, found themselves on the doorstep of a creature wearing silks and smiling in fangs. He knew their local songs though, every bit of story, and they woke in the morning with their lives intact and bags un-stolen. So the wolf remained even as borders shifted and languages died, even as scholars arrived and the wolf refused all questions on the nature of its knowledge. A humble beast it said, wearing coats of finest red only as the lords allow it.

Monks whispered of a miracle, nuns gave a pilgrimage of fresh goats and blood to the wolf at his doorstep, holy wanderers said perhaps even wolves had souls–even wolves could be saved. Others, of course, only asked more questions.

Finally, there came a tricky man. Aged and silver, unwed, a scholar and a soldier both, coming from afar and very close all at once. The Scholar Soldier came in the downpour and the night, shed his muddy boots on the poor beast’s rug, and spoke in guttural tongues. The wolf’s eyes narrowed, and he used the voice of every person to ask where the Scholar Soldier came from. And the man spoke in tongues until the wolf’s ears laid flat against his head.

Do you not recognize it? said the Scholar Soldier, how can you not? The Scholar Soldier threw back his head and let out a howl–for he had fought in fairy wars, on the side of beasts, and knew the language of the wolves from the very first. The wolf tore off his fine red coat, tore at his beautiful cravat, and wept upon his floor. Can you take it back? he cried, can you make me whole?

Not a gift, of course, but a curse. As a mother turns away from her cub, placing a thorn in his throat that made him able to practice every language in the world but his own. Thrown out. The Scholar Soldier took pity on the old wolf and took him as a groom. They could be happy, he said, even if they were speaking with words never their own.

#I am doing a hundred day microfiction challenge #fairy tales #flash fic #fantasy story #spilled ink #flash fiction #micro fiction

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throwaway-yandere · 4 months

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19th Century YANDERE!WANDERER x F!Reader idea:

You were once a well-liked farmer in a remote village. Despite owning a small library of your own, which was a massive social symbol of wealth at the time, you experienced no discrimination from both the rich and the poor. Each side treated you with respect for you grew the finest of fruits and vegetables at such a cheap price. Go any lower, and they'd think you were positively doing charity work. Every poor man and noble maids would line up each morning for a chance to buy "Lady (Y/n)'s produce".

However, you faced your peaceful life's turning point when a hooded young man opted to cut the line. With grace, you approached him and politely told him to follow the rules. You see, if he cannot respect others, how can he respect the food you've grown with such kindness and care?

That's when WANDERER's interest piqued. He understood little of the North's customs. Where he's from— most transactions can be accelerated with the help of a Fixer. When (Y/n) raised an eyebrow at the sight of his bribery, he understood that he royally messed up. He didn't apologize, but he admitted that he was wrong and left the marketplace. But that was when he knew, there might finally be a place for him after all the traveling he had done.

If the village thought your prices were near charitable, your approach to befriending the WANDERER certainly was saint-like behavior. You visited his inn and presented him with a bread basket. With a hearty laugh, you uttered hopes that you were not bothering him as you watched him fix his bed-head. The dark-haired man could only watch perplexed as you motioned to the chair and asked to sit down. You asked for his name, he didn't comply. You asked if you could call him "Iris", just like how you'd assign flower petnames to close friends, and he only replied with a morning grunt and a pinkish hue on his cheeks.

Iris Ensata, in the royal gardens, meant "a gentle heart". Whether you knew floral languages or not, each time you called him by that name, his chest tightens as though he has one.

He's grown fond of your conversations, but his travels cannot cease. WANDERER's goal had always been to find an ancient artifact his mother preached. Attaining it meant he would be the next to rule the land, for he was secretly the Crown Prince. He was vague whenever he talked about his troubles to you, but you instantly related to his musings. You yourself managed the farm because you wanted to please your father. He saw you as a lesser human, and decided that to prove your worth, you needed to manage your own small "empire". His mother was the same. Both of you were tested, and you are now standing on the same crossroad. To be a slave to a kin's whims, or to carve your own path? He had yet to decide that for himself...

Hence, when stress had taken its toll, he pulls out his map to find his way back to you. Moonshines later, he reached the point where he no longer required one. His soul knew where you were. Where home was. Stopping by the village just to see you was always a lull before the storm. And he was incredibly excited to tell you that his adventure is now finished, and the crown now rests on his head.

But what if he was too late to salvage what was left of such a natural disaster? What if the lull was eerie? What if the lull was a silent void he could never get rid off?

In his return, he found not a storm, but a rain of fire. There, at the center of the square, was you. The smell of singed hair defiled his senses, and your face burned in his mind. He saw you everytime he closed his eyes.

"BURN THE WITCH!!! BURN THE WITCH!!!"

The mob drags on. And on. And on. The chant does not stop. He stands there, petrified.

When only the lull remains, he pulled down his hood and looked over to the stake you once stood.

"It's just ashes..." He muttered. "Nothing left but a-ashes..."

He chuckled, humorless. His voice was once a small crackling sound, like the fire that took you, until it erupted into a full blown laughter. His eyes were wide, and his grip on both your ashes and the earth you once tended to and loved made his knuckles white. The WANDERER— no, The CROWN PRINCE laughed hard in his mind, but that was not what the townsfolk heard.

What they heard was the alarming anguished screams of a lover who had everything he had stolen away.

He will be merciful, for he knew you still loved your friends and neighbors even when they had tied and burnt you to crisps. He will make their deaths brief. As brief as his soldiers could make this whole village burn and purged off all its filth.

Maybe when the spring comes back, so too will you return. Maybe once he had purged off all the filth in this village's wreckage, he'll find his home.

But until then, there is no longer any sense of gentleness in his own heart.

#ansy-drabbles #yandere scaramouche #yandere wanderer #yandere scaramouche x reader #no beta we die like demetrius-

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forgottenarthur · 21 days

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Eithne/Arthur - “ why are you looking at me like that? ”

flashback

Arthur looked quickly away at the sound of her words. He rubbed the back of his neck. Bit out a self-conscious laugh.

The day was gorgeous, the sun streaming beyond a canopy of gently waving trees. All around them, the field was bursting with wild grasses and flowers that seemed to dot the landscape with bursts of vibrant color: her greens mingling with his reds and blues, till the whole world seemed decked out for only them. And amongst all this, ensconced on rugs and pillows stretched out against the roots the sheltering oaks, motes of light filtered between the boughs, bathing Eithne in golden light as she spoke of her beloved Malconaire, her whole face beaming like the sun.

She was transcendant -- at once more a creature of this earth than he could ever be, and yet so untouchably ethereal he held his breath, almost afraid she might melt away at the slightest of breezes. A chorus of birds sang all around her as if they sang with delight just to be near her, and the dappled light wound round her like will-o-the-whisp attendants sighing upon their liege lady. The radiance of the sun was her nimbus, not glowing upon her but, rather, shining because of her and, despite himself, Arthur smiled again, this time a meditative look taking hold of his features as he stole a glance once more at her.

He'd seen her at balls and at tourneys, but as stunning as she was all made up in Roisin's finest glamors, they could not match her natural beauty here in this wild place, so much a part of her that it seemed to breathe as she did, the very wind stirring with her words. Her tresses were all the finer simply framing her face than caught up in a golden net, and Arthur thought that perhaps all that finery appeared garish against the smooth porcelain of her skin, beaming as it did here in serene sunshine. Her eyes blazed an azure so fine he was sure the sky blushed to be compared to a tint so luminous, and her smile, so rosy, seemed to capture the full lustre of the floral hedges that danced in the attendant zephyrs all around them.

Arthur smiled then, arching a soft brow as he looked at her. His voice, when he spoke, was very soft. "I should have thought that obvious."

For a moment, Eithne looked at him and then, suddenly seeming to catch his meaning, or perhaps -- he hoped -- thinking something similar herself, she colored slightly and looked away. "You mustn't say such foolish things, Arthur. Anyone might think you meant them."

"It would showcase their wisdom."

Laughing, Eithne made herself busy, then, leaning forward to draw a repast from the wicker basket at her knee. Her gown was a simple roughspun, but somehow, out here amongst the gently tilting trees, he did not think anything could have appeared more becoming and, sighing, he gazed heavenward.

"Tell me -- before...before my father," began Arthur, gesturing vaguely, as if to indicate a time before the conquest. "How did you spend days like these?"

Eithne paused in her ministrations, and Arthur was conscious, then, of the weight of her gaze upon him. He smiled, slightly, still looking skyward. "Well...when we could, much like this."

"Oh?"

"But, most often, taking baskets to the village, of course."

Arthur frowned, turning to look at her, then. "Are...are they fond of...wicker?"

She laughed. His confusion did not dissipate. It was Eithne's turn to look quizzical. "Do...I don't suppose you take baskets to people? Or...or perhaps your sisters? Your mother and stepmother?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know that most people in the Empire have much...inclination towards--" he shrugged, gaze sliding to the basket at her knee. "Baskets. They're useful, certainly, but--"

"No, it's not--we don't take empty baskets."

Arthur shook his head, shrugging.

"They're filled with goods. Gifts. Bread and cheese and lettuce and jams and...anything that might help those...less well off."

"So...its some form of...charity?"

"Yes! Precisely."

Arthur frowned at the basket before them, doubt churning inside him. Then, a moment, and he pointed. "And? Is...this...charity?"

"What?"

"I just--It's a basket."

Laughing suddenly, Eithne set a plate with cheese and cold chicken before him. "In this case, it's hospitality. I daresay, you're better off than I am, or don't they feed imperial princes?" she teased, grinning.

Laughing, Arthur watched her laughter, her whole face seeming to somehow brighten even further as her limpid eyes danced. Somewhere deep in his belly, Arthur felt warmth suffuse him, something bright and briliant blooming in his chest as he joined her in laughter. "Why do you think we all come here so very often?"

"I did not imagine you came as beggars."

Arthur paused, watched the merriness in her face. It seemed to him the birds were singing more quietly now, as if they were alone in all the world, with no other earlthy creature to witness. This moment was theirs. "Any man, even a prince, is a beggar before someone like you." I didn't think someone like you could exist... he thought.

She frowned. "You make me sound a tyrant."

He shook his head, sat up a little straighter. "No, I..." he shrugged, sighing. "Eithne, what I mean is...There's no one else in the world like you. No one. Anywhere, and..." he shrugged, laughed. "I would know. I've been most places in the world, after all, and...You've no equal, Eithne. No rival. To know you is to wish to know you better. To be with you is to wish never to be parted." Arthur sighed, then, self-conscious, shrugged. "I'm not much with words, Eithne...I just mean there is no one like you. You're the sort of woman a man would beg, borrow, or steal just to please but, despite it all, I know that...My father may own half the world, but that won't make you mine. I could shower you with gems and you'd frown just," he laughed. "Just as you do now at the idea. Riches aren't what matter to you so...we're all beggars. You see? I've got nothing you want. And that's...that's something I've never encountered before."

"You're wrong!" blurted Eithne.

Arthur frowned. "I--"

"You do have something I want."

"What is it? It's yours, I--"

"Oh, hush," whispered Eithne and, leaning close, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "There," she said, smiling, a blush blooming upon her cheeks as she leaned back again.

"Oh no you don't," chuckled Arthur, one hand slipping into the veil of her hair to cradle her neck as he leaned close. Her lips were soft as roses petals. Her breath was a warm zephyr. And her eyes, when he opened his own to see them, were brighter than the whole sky.

#idk what this is!!#ask #askbox #eithne malconaire #arthur: im not a romatic #also arthur: eithne is literally outshining the sun sm that the dappled light looks like it must be her fairy attendants #he's such a dumbass aljskdaflkjsdf #arthur have you ever thought that maybe part of why you're LIVING sm out here in nature urself is bc you don't actually like court life????#arthur: impossible #arthur: we're just out here basking in the sunshine bc that's what ~eithne wants #drabble

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 11 months

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Promises 2: First Sight

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

I was serious about trying to update every other day! They will be short chapters, but whatever. At least for the first few bits. NOT EDITED. PRAY FOR ME, LOL Would you like a bardcore song suggestion to go with each chapter? Let me know in the comments. Enjoy!

First Sight

She walked into a golden scene of candle smoke and gilded lilies with mud on her boots and one stubborn myrtle leaf in her hair.

Hardly fine court attire, but folk she cared for called her in fear, so she rode in haste from the far side of Meiren, and she’d lost any need to impress the court a long time ago. She’d survived the worst they could do before the current king assumed his father’s throne, and it never hurt to remind them all that she was not part of their games or under their thumbs. So she didn’t stop to comb her hair, or dig out the myrtle leaf, or even shuck her stained green traveling cloak.

Hard as she rode, she didn’t arrive before the festivities began, and she spied the king sitting on the high dais beside his honored guest, for whom a second throne had been crafted. Clearly in haste. Probably merely the queen’s old seat altered to be less feminine. It looked cheap and small beneath its occupant.

Dream of the fucking Endless. King of Dreams and Lord of Nightmares.

He sat above the glittering host like the darkness behind the stars. Ethereal, unknowable, frigidly beautiful as only untouchable things could be.

Even seeing him there, in the flesh, she struggled to believe it. She couldn’t believe their fool king would go so far.

The King of Meiren didn’t hide the festivities’ goal in the invitations (threats and demands) he sent to his people. Dream would find a queen among the best and brightest of the kingdom, and the chosen would gratefully accept the honor.

Only ignorant fools courted the attention of the Endless. Her mother had been one such fool, and she only dared befriend the kindest of the seven. Dream of the Endless was far more terrible, and he sought more than a friend in the king of Meiren’s court. Yet mothers shepherded noble children dressed in their finest silks and velvets, the softest, sweetest things welcoming a stranger’s wondering caress. Family heirlooms dripped from ears and gleamed around fine throats, daring the eye to wander lower. Girls smelling of flowers and boys scented with fruit and musk turned the hall into a stinking hell of vanity and hubris.

Then there were her folk – the wiser birds with drab plumage clustering in the dimmest corners, away from the dances and merrymaking. Parents who wanted their children to live. Grandparents who understood some risks simply weren’t worth taking. Young lovers who were bound in heart and mind but not yet by law. The king’s greed would spare none if the Endless chose them. Though she had not received an official invitation, several families who knew her of old called for her help. Officially, she belonged to no fewer than five noble houses’ retinues for the event, but the guards wouldn’t have barred her entry even without their help.

No one turned a bard away from a party.

Though the long trestle tables had been ferried away by an army of servants to make room for dancing, the ghosts of a feast remained. The king planned the celebrations like a royal engagement. Seven wedding feasts. Seven days to inspire a force of nature to grow a heart and stitch it to another. She smelled grease from venison and partridge, the first victims of the king’s folly, and she hoped the only sacrifices. Better a thousand lambs, ducks, and cows than one of the young folk all dressed up for the fire.

She didn’t dither or ask for her charge’s insights before approaching the dais. Truth would always out. The king was not clever, and she trusted her own opinions of an Endless over any courtier’s.

Striding up to the throne, she waited on the verge of the crowd for the chamberlain to announce her. Her name. A few meaningless titles. Finally her occupation. She liked it best when the king was reminded she was a bard. That she carried an ounce of authority in any royal circle.

Neither king really needed any of it, of course. The Endless knew all, and she’d plagued the King of Meiren’s nightmares for decades. But manners were manners, and politics demanded performance.

She sank low, graceful as a willow frond, angling her face so the king would see the barest hint of her smirk. Not entirely mocking. But knowing. Far from a loyal subject’s easy smile or overwrought frown. The smirk made a game of her courtesies, drawing the king low to meet her, even as her knees brushed the floor and he remained in his throne. No threat. No demand. She asked for nothing. She told him what she was, where she stood, and how little power he wielded over her that she did not choose to give.

As a boy he watched his father’s men draw and quarter her. Now he must suffer her freedom in his court.

“Majesties.”

“I hope you do not bring trouble to my court.” The King of Meiren glowered down, playing the dread king. He wasn’t even a dying candle compared to the sun-bright force at his side. Not that he’d ever been a great power even before he dared weave himself into the story of an Endless.

She sprang up as lithely as she bowed. “Your majesty must think very highly of me indeed to think I could bring anything grander or more concerning than an Endless to your throne room.”

The human ruler tensed, but the eldritch ruler at his side…shifted. She’d sparked his momentary attention, and unlike the first king’s attempt to intimidate her, Dream’s look chilled her until it burned. His gaze, however, did not focus on her like a mortal’s would. His starry eyes saw too much for that. They swallowed her, washing her in the loneliness of the night sky.

Unfathomable. Incredible. Cold as stone and livelier than a sea breeze. Entirely inhuman and everything that led a soul to dream. That gaze made her ache for a shield to lift against him.

So. She offered the smallest, polite smile in recognition and returned to the mere human on the throne.

“A shame the years haven’t blunted your tongue,” the King of Meiren said, struggling to reclaim the authority she’d so neatly plucked from the conversation.

“I prefer to think of them as a whetstone, majesty.”

“I do not recall issuing an invitation in your name.”

“And yet I found my place through the names of others. Several houses requested my attendance in their support.”

Gods, he looked so petulant. But she’d laugh later. He wasn’t above sending a guard to run her through in the hall, and while she didn’t fear death, she didn’t enjoy pain. Or ruining good clothes. No need for more drama in this fraught production, anyway.

The best he could do was insult her clothes, eying the mud and bracken. “Clearly you came in haste.”

“But of course, your majesty.” Wide eyes and an innocent expression couldn’t bury the implicit insult entirely – she had not come for him, her very presence was a kind of defiance, and she would never ride so hard or long without care for her appearance to preserve him or his honor – but they did well enough. A little simpering would stay the blade, and any words said sweetly must be born, even if they soured the king’s stomach.

After all, she would outlive him and his kingdom both. She’d carry what stories she chose to the generations that came after, and no threat or sentence in his power to levy against her would give him back control of his legacy. At least he was smart enough to understand that much.

“Perhaps you should retire for the evening, then.” The king looked pointedly at her boots, reminding her they did not belong on his polished floors. She, in her rough clothes and wild hair did not belong. But she’d worked hard to ensure she never entirely belonged in places like these, always a step out of line, a loose thread that escaped the warp and weft of society’s patterns.

Othered and free for it.

“A most gracious suggestion.” Another, shallower, curtsy. Her eyes dipped to the floor but didn’t linger with any kind of reverence. “I take my leave.”

She moved back through the crowd, unable to disappear between the fine people in their fine clothes. A dark look touched her, stayed under her skin as she passed through the doors and turned down the hall, and she refused to name its owner. There was no time to fear him. Or – if she was very careful – reason to. She had plans to make and riddles to solve, and what was she to an Endless?

Her patrons would request her advice in the morning. She did, actually, need to wash the road off her gear. And her lute was in need of tuning. She retired to her work.

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x female reader #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x female reader #x reader #oc #fic: promises

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velidewrites · 3 months

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The Chocolate Incident || Elucien Drabble

Summary: Exactly what you’re expecting - just come inside

Word Count: 800

Warnings: None, just fluff!

To no surprise, Lucien had found his book entirely uninteresting. Discarded in his lap, it laid patiently—waiting to be picked back up again, blissfully unaware that the moment would never come. Despite its heavy weight, Lucien had practically forgotten about the tome, his gaze drifting somewhere out to the sparkling azure of the sea. The open archways serving as windows in his personal chambers provided excellent view, and with the sharpness of his Fae gaze, he could make out the pearly white foam gently coating the shore, prompted by the quiet, rolling waves. The sight reminded him of the earrings he’d purchased all those decades ago—it had been this very city he had gone to, the Day Court’s capital well known for procuring the finest jewellery.

After all, his mate deserved only the finest things.

Despite the nearing Solstice, people still wore loose tunics and dresses out in the sun-veiled streets, their fabric floating atop the breeze the sea had carried in. Helion’s magic would keep the Court warm for as long as the Mother willed it, allowing the seasons’ natural course to stall for just a little bit longer.

Lucien was grateful for his father’s stubbornness. He was never a devoted fan of the cold, a sentiment Elain, too, had shared with him the moment her belongings had been moved into the palace.

A small huff sounded somewhere near the door as it clicked shut, snapping him out of his thoughts, and there she was.

She was so beautiful his chest hurt. That golden flame inside him blazed alive at the sight of her at his doorstep—the way it always did whenever she was near. Elain was like the rising sun, brightening up every space she stepped into, the honey glow of her eyes and the shining bronze of her hair practically begging him to never look away.

As if he ever would.

He rose abruptly from his chair, the book falling to the stone floor with a loud thud, a sound far too insignificant for him to so much as register it. He wasn’t usually so careless with his books, but wherever Elain was concerned, Lucien’s priorities seemed to shift with as little as a wave of her hand. Not that he would ever stop them, Cauldron forbid.

She slid the plush, woollen hat off her hair, revealing a mess of those golden brown waves he was practically longing to tangle between his fingers. She must’ve winnowed in less than a minute ago—the snow woven here and there into her hair, her cheeks still rosy with the frost. Elain’s lips parted slightly as she huffed again in what was unmistakably exasperation, reaching for the scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.

Lucien smiled brightly.

“Not a word,” Elain warned, as if she could sense his grin without casting a look in his direction—she probably could, truthfully. Something about the thought made that flame inside him sing.

Throwing the scarf to the couch, Elain finally stepped into the room, her steps leaving wet marks atop the pristine marble. Lucien couldn’t help his chuckle, then—she truly was no fan of the winter, if the fervour she’d stripped off her coat with any indication.

In the sweetest, most innocent voice he could muster, he asked her, “And how was Winter, my beautiful, wonderful mate?”

Those doe-like eyes narrowed, the sparkle in them calling his bluff. “You’re trying to butter me up,” she accused.

Lucien stepped in closer, hand reaching to brush a stray curl off her face. “That could be arranged,” he purred.

The blush on her cheeks deepened—though Lucien was willing to bet it had little to do with the cold breeze she’d brought in. “Not after the chocolate incident,” Elain countered, voice dropping conspiratorially as though everyone in the palace could hear. Lucien couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility—his father was an insufferable gossip, after all.

Lucien hummed. “Those sheets were no good anyway.”

Elain laughed then—and Lucien followed suit, knowing the slight furrow of her golden brows would not return for the rest of the night. She leaned into his touch, letting his thumb brush over the pink staining her cheeks, over the crest of her bottom lip.

Lucien’s breath caught in his throat when she pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb. “I missed you,” he told her, voice thick.

Elain looked up from beneath her long lashes and met his gaze. “Did you, now?” she asked sweetly. “How much?”

He took her hand in his own, pressing a slow kiss to her palm. “I’ll go get the chocolate.”

“You’re impossible,” she said, a traitorous smile tugging at her mouth all the same.

“I love you,” he told her simply.

The smile bloomed on his mate’s face at that. “I love you, too.”

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elucien fic #elucien fanfiction #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

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prolekult · 7 months

Text

Yesterday marked the death of Sylvia Pankhurst - one of the finest revolutionary communists to have ever graced Britain's shores. We have rarely seen such fighters on this earth.

Sylvia was the most tortured suffragette, targetted for her insistence on including working class women within the demands of women's suffrage (much to the disdain of her mother and sister). She did not balk against repeated forced feeding, hunger striking and sleep striking.

She was one of a handful of communists in Britain who opposed the first world war. Her criticism of the war was ceaseless. Practically isolated, she organised relief for working class people in London with cost-price restaurants, free child care for mothers, and more.

She broke with the Labour Party over this, and never returned despite the enormous pressure put upon her by the British labour movement and, later, the Third Internationale. Her arguments with Lenin remain a key debate in communist and British politics.

Pankhurst stood resolutely with the Bolshevik revolution at its outbreak, and was pivotal in organising the "Hands Off Russia" campaign in Britain - which culminated in dock workers across the country refusing to load any munitions to ships.

Pankhurst was an outspoken opponent of racism. Her newspaper - then the Worker's Dreadnought - was the first newspaper in Britain to hire black journalists. When articles written by the Jamaican journalist, Claude McKay, were viewed as seditious, she went to jail for him.

Her support for Irish independence never wavered. She supported Larkin, the Irish Transport and General Workers' Union and United Builders' Labourers Union during the Dublin lock-outs. She stood by the Irish Citizen Army during the Easter Rising.

She was one of the first in Britain to recognise the dangers of fascism, her warnings and agitation beginning as early as 1920. Through this struggle, she became deeply involved in Ethiopian national liberation, where she spent the last years of her life.

All of this is just the tip of the iceberg of the contributions Sylvia made in her life. She did all of this at great cost to herself, enduring her mother and sister denouncing her in the press repeatedly, endless slander, rejection by the mainstream communist movement and worse.

Sylvia also belongs to the great pantheon of disabled revolutionaries, being diagnosed with endometriosis whilst in prison. This, along with the damage done to her organs by forced feeding, left her with often crippling stomach problems.

"I am going to fight capitalism even if it kills me. It is wrong that people like you should be comfortable and well fed while all around you people are starving." She fought until she died, but capitalism didn't kill her. At aged 78, Sylvia passed on.

She was given a state funeral in Ethiopia, and remains the only foreigner buried in the front of Holy Trinity Cathedral. An Ethiopian migrant, cited anonymously in Rachel Holmes' biography of Pankhurst, summed up what she meant to him thus:

"After God, Sylvia Pankhurst".

To learn more about Sylvia, we highly recommend Rachel Holmes' biography, "Sylvia Pankhurst: Natural Born Rebel".

#sylvia pankhurst #communism #politics #marxism #philosophy #communist #anti imperialism #history #leftism #world history #working class #feminism #womens rights #smash the patriarchy #suffragette #suffragists #women's suffrage

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horrorisunknowntoyou · 1 year

Text

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Mexican! Fem-Reader

A/N: Self indulgence at its finest.

Reader is first gen (USA), parents are old fashion folks. Also Simon's backstory.

TW// mentioned of abuse, sexism and death.

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You were the newbie in the team, it was hard warming up to team. Luckily most were very welcoming, however a certain skull masked individual prefered to keep his distance. He reminded you of the "Catrin."

It was kinda lonesome in the beginning as you didn't know them well, not to mention you kinda kept to yourself. During times like this, Ghost slowly started to warm up to you and start conversations. Once he fully trusted you, which took a very long time.

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Once you two started your relationship which each other. You started to open up more, be that your culture or simply being more talkative now that you're finally assured.

But first let's get the work part out.

Anything revolving translating, or communicating with Spanish or Spanish speakers was your call. Since the other boys accents were too rough to speak it naturally it was your job to do.

The boys found out quickly that when you're stressed out or extremely tired, you speak Spanish. Ghost found out, when he asked you something and you just replied back in Spanish without a thought and fell back asleep in your cot. He stood there confused.

Also when your pissed, which isn't often you start fumbling your words. And when your truly pissed off, you start cussing out in Spanish. Let's just say none of the boys were prepared for that.

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Now for the fun stuff, introducing the boys specifically Ghost to your culture.

The first thing you introduced to them was actually games.

Specifically "Loteria", Ghost was having such a hard time saying the cards names. Soap would get frustrated and looked over his shoulder and take the card out his hand and say it. You just liked watching the chaos it brought out between them. From being frustrated from the names or being too competitive.

Then you brought out toys you used to play with, like clackers. Trompos and boleros as examples.

"I warn you, it's kinda loud and if you messed up it hurts. " You mentioned to the boys. "My mom can do this so it shouldn't be too hard." You gave them a quick demonstration.

Gaz looked at it, " are you sure this is safe? "

"Eh, maybe?" You shrugged.

Soap was the first one to try it and immediately hit his face because he went too hard.

"GAH, FUCK'EN HELL."

Ghost laughed at it, as he was messing around with those poppers you get from swap meets.

Price had those plastic cheap ass phones that played that random song with butterflies.

You giggled watching these grown men enjoying these toys you used to played with.

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The struggles of being you.

Even though you loved your culture and accepted who you are as a person. That doesn't mean there's not any faults within it either likey any other culture.

You struggled alot in the beginning of you and Ghost relationship, not because of him refusing to open up. Actually you were fine that he didn't show his face or him telling you his backstory. He will tell you when the time is right and when he feels comfortable. No, your issue is... you didn't know whether to tell him yours.

You loved him, but you worried about things that's cultural norm for you but to him it could be awful or even triggering.

Like you had to have to worry about machismo and sexism. You struggled alot growing up first gen in the US. You, yourself was confused of your own identity crying that you wished you were white to be pretty like them or to be accepted. You learned to cook later in life because you didn't want to become an other housewife to some alcoholic man like your mother in an act of rebellion.

And you knew your parents suffered alot, for you to grow up in US. Yeah, you know they neglected you but they still provide so much. And it's not fault either, as much you tell yourself.

You just wanted to make them proud.

Eventually you open this part of yourself to Ghost and he accepted it. He didn't rush you to say everything but he was willing to be there for you. And that's all that matters.

All you could do was cry "thank you's" into his shoulders.

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Now to the domestic side of things.

When you started to live together it was certainly an adjustment to what Ghost was used to. It was a little awkward at first but he soon adjusted to it.

First things first, he can't sleep without you near him. You ease his mind and comfort him both at home and in missions.

Especially during nights where his night terrors we're really bad. You'll play soft melodies you knew for him to calm down.

You also taught him how to dance bachata for fun, he was kinda flustered at it.

He adores your cooking, haft the time he doesn't even know what the hell he's eating. And any leftovers are given to the crew since you make so much.

Speaking of cooking, ingredients depending where you live are hard to come by. ( Depending if in US or UK) so sometimes you can't make certain foods.

Also Ghost is so dramatic over chilis specifically cooking chili's on the stove, because he is not used to it at all. He has to step outside. Especially if he's wearing his mask. You have no issues with it though lol.

One of the first ever gifts you gave Ghost was those tiger blankets he was surprised how comfortable it was for the cold. He uses it all time now, unless it's summer.

You also got Ghost into those shitty soap operas, once an awhile he'll join in them. You did tell him ones he can watch and some that he can't. *Cough" la Rosa de Guadalupe. *cough*

He also gets mad when you watch an episode without him.

But your favorite is when they involve the military or police. He critiques it hard. Making fun at how idiotic it is.

"It was unnecessary to use that in that situation it makes no fuckin sense." Simon says, arms crossed sitting on the couch. You perked up to look over the TV as you were in the kitchen making lunch.

"well maybe they used it so she can survive? After all they need her so they can find out what happened. " He scoffs at the response.

"What they did, should have killed them because the blast radius. That's bullshit. "

You shrugged, " I don't know...plot I guess?"

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But there was one memory that'll you hold close to your heart.

It was related to "dia de los muetos."

You celebrate it but the days were coming close to the celebrations. By this time, you knew of Simon's past. It was a heart breaking one, that's for certain, so you asked him.

You gently knocked on the door and let yourself in, "Simon, can I ask you something. If that's alright with you. " He looked up from what he's doing.

"What is it?"

You explained your intentions. "Is that alright with you? Im asking Incase it bothered you. " He agreed but he was silent about it, you leaned on the door frame. " Your more then welcome to add to it, your my family too."

And with that, you left the room.

You set up the alter near the living room, with your grandparents and old pets on it. You gave Simon the option if he wanted to join.

And he did, you can tell he's trembling and your hand gently reaches his and you help him place the photos. And the little trinkets and things on top. You took it slow with him, it was obviously emotional for him. But it felt like he can finally process it. It still hurts, that will never go away.

But the fact, you lend your hand out and accept all of him even the part of him hes burden with including their death.

It was therapeutic, he kinda just sat down in front of the altar and cried.

You put your arm around him reassuringly and just let him breathe.

And for that, he was forever grateful for you.

A/n: hope you guys liked this! It was a alot lol. I kinda teared up at the day of dead part. Shit makes me emotional. But overall I really enjoyed this. It's not my best work but I hoped I did it justice.

Also for bachata, I imagine the song is "Eres Mia" by Romeo Santos lol.

#simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost imagine #call of duty x reader

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misswonderfrojustice · 2 months

Note

Why do you write Hola and Papi with tildes? They don't have them. It's not Papí, but Papi. The ´ over a vowel changes the pronunciation of the word. The way you're writing it, it would be "pa-PEE" instead of the correct "PA-pee", which is why it's incorrect the way you're writing it, and Spanish doesn't use the ´ going in the opposite direction so... if it's an aesthetic choice then sure, you do you, but if this is an attempt to be politically acceptable to Mexicans and Latinamericans then at least use the correct grammar 😉

Well, as I've mentioned before in other past posts, I'm not Latino {African American here}, and I'm still trying to learn the language (as well as many other cultural tongues), so you'll have to forgive the me and other people who aren't that familiar with how to write it or speak it fluently. My backwaters-n-woods high school refused to pay for having a proper teacher for Spanish, so we all cheated using Google Translate to pass the class. Typical Standard for Louisiana but eh!

Thank you for your input though, it's much appreciated, just remember to give people some grace when it comes down to the language barrier! If you know anyone who is willing to teach me, please send them my way!

#inspiration #original work #artists on tumblr #spiders #mother nature at its finest #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #miguel fanfic #miguel o hara #miguel o hara x reader

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pleasantboatpress · 1 year

Text

Work of All Saints by @kaikamahine

Her mother sends her a letter, after. We cannot help you, Imelda, it says. You are the consequence of your actions.

"This is not my fault!" Imelda shouts.

Imelda Rivera (b. 1899 - d. 1969), a story that includes but is not limited to: the finest music school this side of the Santo Domingo, three traveling musicians and the mess they made of love, the twice-cursed assassination of Venustiano Carranza, all the patron saints, and ninety-six ways a man can try to cross a bridge.

title/chapter headings/page numbers: Bodoni 72 Oldstyle body text: Libre Baskerville

210,703 words | 667 pages

You know how fics can grab you and not let go of you? This is that fic. It is a fic for the Disney movie Coco, and it gives Imelda a wonderful, thoughtful back story that made me have a cathartic cry at the end of it. It also gives a well researched look at Mexico’s history, and has such beautiful, clean prose that is so refreshing to read. I have made 2 copies, one for me, and one for the author! As for the design, I used the design used in the film for the infamous guitar, painted in gold on turquoise book cloth that I dyed myself. Turquoise and gold are important colours that are repeated throughout the fic, and I thought it was fitting, binding the book in those. For the typesetting, I had fun emulating the styles used in historical works, as a way to show the historical nature of the fic and its setting. This book is also a springback binding, so it opens all nice and flat, and it feels extremely solid in my hands haha. They’re typically used for journals or visitor books, as they sit flat and are appealing to write in, but I wanted to try my hand at this construction, and such a wonderful fic deserves to have a solid presence.

#coco #kaikamahine #bookbinding #fanbinding #ficbinding #pleasantboat press

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no-less-than-a-god · 3 months

Text

of Harvest, of Celebration, and of Rest (part 1)

Like clockwork, the area around the cult grounds cools around the same time every year. Leaves turn from green to shades of red, orange, and brown with slow death, and drift away from their mother branches as the wind begins to chill. Grass begins to lose its vibrancy. Followers’ fur starts growing in thicker. A warning from nature: prepare now, for the cold will be cruel.

It’s almost officially autumn in the cult. And with autumn, there’s harvest.

The harvest ritual has been done on the same morning as it has been done for many, many years. A day both the Lamb and Narinder feel in their immortal bones as the season officially changes, where preparations need to be planned and started to make sure the cult remains fed and warm throughout winter.

Out of all the rituals the Lamb has ever performed under the Red Crown, the harvest ritual is one created of simpler ingredients. Bones and organic substances for the crops to feed on, seeds and flowers for offerings, and the caster’s own blood are all that it needs.

But that doesn’t mean the ritual itself is easy. That doesn’t mean the ritual isn’t one known to fail, as the Lamb fights against not only nature, but their own domain. Preventing the deaths of important crops, urging their growth…it takes a lot of power.

Which is why, for the years the ritual succeeds, the cult celebrates.

Dawn breaks around the cult grounds, and two figures are already on the prowl, routine engraved in their actions. The Lamb ducks in and out of storage units made of sturdy wood and stone flanking the wide farm of the cult, where new seeds below the freshly tilled soil wait for eldritch power to wash over them; Narinder follows them like a shadow, a second pair of eyes to make sure the Lamb is not forgetting a single ingredient in their frenzied state of mind.

The seeds for this year’s ritual had been scavenged from their best pumpkin from the year before, and the flowers are fresh from Darkwood, gathered by Narinder before the sun winked awake. The bones are from fallen enemies over the past year, scraped and washed clean.

Last year’s ritual had failed, leaving the cult to scramble for food; the favored pumpkin, the one the Lamb had harvested for seeds, was one of the few things that grew. They’re determined to have it succeed this year, for both their followers’ and their own sakes. One winter of hunger in a row is bad enough.

With arms full of prized ingredients, the Lamb swiftly crosses the cult grounds towards the Temple that stands proud and tall near the center of the grounds. Although being one of the first structures built during the Lamb’s vesselhood, the Temple remains unaffected by the passage of time. The only time it has been touched upon in all its years of service was not too long after it was built, where a simple, unassuming room was added among the rafters to serve as a place of rest for the Lamb.

Narinder slinks away as the Lamb enters the Temple’s open doors, and he walks to the statue in the heart of the settlement. He places a hand upon it, feeling the warmth of devotion captured among the lamb-shaped block of stone.

The right half of the Red Crown above the god’s head quivers, and he walks away.

Rousing the cult for the harvest ritual has gotten easier over time, as the date slowly sinks into the follower’s tissues and bones and becomes an instinctive memory that shapes their bodies. Whether they realize it or not, all of them have been sleeping lightly the entire night, waiting for morning.

There was a large bell built many decades ago to help corral followers for days such as the following. Strong and made of the finest gold, the sound of it struck is loud enough to be heard from outside the cult.

Narinder finds his place at the bell, situated between the statue and summoning grounds for new cultists, and waits for the Lamb. It’s not long before his counterpart exits the Temple, and approaches the statue.

He idly watches as the Lamb places a hand upon the statue, shuts their eyes, and inhales deeply.

Followers cannot see it, and for a long time the Lamb couldn’t either, but Narinder watches as the devotion spills from the statue as wispy trails of white, orbiting the Lamb as they sink into their being; their half of the Red Crown shakes with regained power as the last of the devotion is consumed for a few moments before it settles again, and stills.

The Lamb opens their eyes and looks at Narinder, gives them a silent nod, and retreats back to the Temple. When the last of their robes have disappeared behind the doors, Narinder turns back to the summoning bell; he grabs the mallet settled on its rack above the golden shape just starting to gleam in the rising sun, winds his arm back, and strikes.

The bell tolls, loud enough that Narinder’s ears instinctively pin to the back of his skull in an attempt to dampen the sound. He strikes it again with the mallet, and by the third toll, the compound is alive with sleep-muddled followers.

“What is it?” a possum asks as she approaches the bell, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Is it an emergency?” another, an axolotl, asks.

“You grass-brained dolts!” That comes from an elder, a blind rabbit, who approaches her fellow follows with her cane raised in self-righteous annoyance. She does not trip as she shuffles over. “Do you two not remember the days?”

“It’s the harvest ritual!” a young pup calls from the back of the quickly-growing crowd. His parents are too busy wrangling his younger sister and brother to stop him from screaming out, “Ma, do you think it’ll work this time?”

“Silence.” Narinder’s command is forgiving but firm; he does not need his and the Lamb’s followers sewing any drops of doubt right now, even from the kids. A hush immediately falls upon the crowd, and Narinder places the mallet back onto its rack as he addresses them, “The harvest ritual is nigh. Your leaders command those who are able to partake to don their ritual robes and make way to the Temple. Be hasty, preparations are almost done.” He bows his head slightly to dismiss the followers, and as quickly as they had gathered they are scattered once more.

Once upon a time, every ritual required the devotion and support of the entire cult to be cast. Now, it takes less than half. The followers involved in the harvest ritual, a select group, one that includes all farmers in the cult, rush to change to their robes as the rest of the cult makes way to the farm to surround it. If the ritual works, it will be a sight for all to behold.

Narinder stations himself at the Temple doors as the followers prepare. His eyes are focused around the settlement grounds, watching, as his ears listen intently to keep track of the Lamb’s movements from within, listening. Waiting.

He hears the sound of a blade being picked off the stone ground, soft footsteps approaching. Wordlessly, Narinder reaches his left hand behind him, and the Lamb clasps it between strong, hoofed fingers.

A thumb strokes his wrist, parting fur, and the blade in the Lamb’s hand swiftly cuts across his skin.

Blood from the caster is needed for the ritual, so both of them need to bleed. Narinder hears his own blood—a mixture of red and black ichor—drip viciously into the bowl the Lamb had already prepared of ground seeds and flowers. They let him bleed as Narinder continues keeping watch, and it’s not long before the Lamb has let go of Narinder’s hand. It drops gently to his side, where his sleeve will cover his blood-matted fur and quickly healing wound.

The first follower partaking in the ritual, a tortoiseshell cat with a golden skull necklace, approaches the Temple as Narinder hears the sound of the Lamb’s blade cut into their own wrist. He stands taller in the doorway, blocking the view and way inside.

They both would rather not let their followers see them bleed.

The cat follower settles her walk a short distance from Narinder, and looks at him with knowing eyes. She says nothing, but respectfully waits.

He doesn’t move to allow her inside until he hears the Lamb beginning to paint symbols upon the Temple floor with intertwined blood. The follower bows her head as she passes Narinder, and makes her way to her place. She doesn’t need to be told to not step on the bloody sigil.

More followers arrive after her. In total, there are twelve of them partaking in the ritual, each dressed in red, formal robes not too different from the Lamb’s own attire. They stand on the stone floor, each follower in their place at each of the sigil’s points, feet surrounded in their own circle of blood. The Lamb and Narinder stand above them, at the altar. The doors have long been closed.

The ritual begins with a chant that only the gods understand the words of. The followers kneel where they stood, hands clasping as they offer more devotion to the Lamb, to the ritual. The Temple begins to glow from the inside, the sigil alighting as if in flames, and the followers have to shut their eyes to save their vision. The bones piled into the middle of the room begin to dissolve as an eldritch force consumes them, and that’s when the Lamb strikes with their power.

It’s not a fight that’s visible, but it’s one fought valiantly. Their eyes begin to bleed with exertion, with their power, and Narinder allows his own devotion and power to mix in for support. He might not be the main caster of the ritual, but that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to help. The chanting does not stop as the fight for rights and control continues. Both halves of the Red Crown shake. Narinder keeps his eyes glued to the Lamb.

A deep thrum suddenly sparks in both of their veins. The ritual had taken, and succeeded.

A tangible snap was felt inside the Temple as the ritual fell to its end, leaving nothing in its wake except for twelve slightly disoriented followers, who were beginning to open their eyes and look around, and their gods.

The Lamb’s eyes still drip slightly with blood, and they quickly duck their head to wipe it away with the hem of their robes; Narinder stands close by, keeping two eyes on the Lamb, and the third on the followers.

They’re standing up from the stone floor as he watches them, brushing their robes off and discovering the lack of what was there before with slight confusion, before realization dawns. They make eye contact with each other, and the excitement is palpable in the air as they turn towards the Temple doors and rush out to the farm to see the year’s spoils. The door slams shut behind the last follower, the tortoiseshell, but not before she gives one last look back to her leaders, and nods her head respectfully before following her comrades.

The Lamb sighs once the two of them are alone, a fraction of their weight shifting to the leftt; Narinder shifts to the right, and presses his side against theirs, holding the weight. He knows this ritual specifically takes much energy out of the Lamb, and they will not have many moments to rest until the cult’s celebration has ceased.

“Tired?” Narinder asks. He allows them to remain standing at the altar, where the two can catch a moment of tranquility before the cult truly shifts into a lively and chaotic energy.

“Yes,” the Lamb replies, and rubs away the rest of the blood from around their eyes as they continue, “but also relieved.”

“Shall we take a moment of repose before helping the farmers with their harvest?” All of Narinder’s eyes are watching the Lamb, carefully observing them. He watches as they remain at his side for a few moments, before they straighten back to their full height.

“Rest shall come after reward. It will be beneficial to help our flock, so that they may begin their own preparations.”

Narinder doesn’t reply, but he falls in step with the Lamb as they walk away from the altar and to the doors. Together, the gods leave the Temple, and approach the farm.

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Hello! I meant for this to be a short and sweet drabble to post as my first official piece of actual story for this au yesterday, but it... got out of hand. What you just read was 2.1k words, and roughly only half of what I plan to write, hence the "part 1" in the title. I plan to have the second part out this upcoming Tuesday, though; hopefully, I can post it much earlier than that

If you enjoyed this, please reblog! Or, maybe send an ask about this au if you're curious!

#cotl #cult of the lamb #narilamb #fickle thing #loredump #shout out to my pal spider for giving me the idea for this!

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zodiyack · 2 years

Text

Flowers

Pairings: Eddie Munson x reader

Warnings: fluff, swearing

Request: reader who would always give eddie hand picked flowers because she liked him but once they got to high school they went their separate ways until eddies birthday when he wakes up and flowers are waiting for him outside his door

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Taglist: @dpaccione, @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read-it, @simonsbluee, @sebastianstanslefteyebrow, @sebby-staan sorry i forgot to add others, i posted this directly from my drafts

As the little boy brushed the dirt from his knees, he felt a presence looming above him. This presence did not instill fear, but joy. He knew this presence. He looked up to meet the eyes of the girl he'd been thinking about all morning.

She greeted him with a shy smile and reached out to help him up, her other hand behind her back with items hidden. "You're quite clumsy, Eddie."

He chuckled nervously, his cheeks beet red as he avoided her eyes. "I just tripped, that's all."

Her laugh made his stomach churn with butterflies. "Here, I picked these from my mother's garden for you." He watched her move her other arm out with a little bouquet of mixed flowers. Every day she gave him one, different flower combinations each time. Happily, he accepted the gift and thought to himself nervously.

Just as he was about to lean in and peck her on cheek, her mother called her inside, causing her to smile at him softly and walk away after telling him goodbye. Little Eddie beat himself up every day for years for that missed opportunity.

Eddie sighed and dragged himself out of bed, his heart heavy with the love that never died. He fell for her long ago, but she was gone now. The last time he saw her was a week before highschool started. The two were so excited about becoming freshmen, but the excitement didn't last long. She moved away and his heart shattered.

"Eddie... I have to tell you something." She sighed, avoiding his eyes as to not worry him with her glossy ones.

"Yeah? What's up?"

"I..." Her voice quivered for a second, ripping Eddie's attention away from the log he was attempting to balance on. "I'm moving in a few days."

At first he laughed, denial at its finest. But then he saw her face. Nose red from crying, eyes watering to the brims, bags under her eyes. How had he not noticed? "W-what?"

"I don't want to...but my mom...we have to move." She wiped her tears away and reached behind her. Another bouquet. He'd received one every day since they met. Unfortunately he had a daunting feeling that this would be one of the last ones. "Remember me whenever you see flowers, yeah?"

He nodded, staring at the flowers in his hand. She sniffled and moved to go around him, but she was caught off-guard as he pulled her into him, the scent of nature and honey filling his senses, smoke and cologne filling hers. Neither of them wanted to let go, but the time came when they were required to go their separate ways.

Eddie looked into her eyes, her e/c orbs taunting him, her lips tempting. He was about to lean in, when the opportunity slipped by once again, his uncle calling out and him cursing the man under his breath in return. They hugged each other once more and said their goodbyes.

The day of the move came, and all he could do was hug her and receive one last bouquet.

He wiped his teary eyes and got ready for the day to come. As he left the trailer, he began to dwell on the time. It was nearing his birthday, and all he could do was think about the girl who remembered it when no one else did. Just when he tried to think of anyone, anything but her, she clouded his mind.

Hellfire Club was still functional and a great topic for his focus, especially when it came to campaigns. Why not think of a new one? Perhaps one with a cute little maiden who gifts the adventurers flowers after they aid her on a side quest?

'Fuck.' Eddie thought. 'cute little maiden? Flowers?' even in his attempt to drown her out of his mind, she just kept finding ways to peek out and into the spotlight. All throughout the day, she was his main focus. His only thought.

Normally, it wasn't this bad. He had dreams about her, in fact, he'd been having them since the day she left. He couldn't pass by flowers of any type in any place for arrangement without thinking of her. The scent of any flower to exist drove his mind to her. But why was she more active in his mind lately?

Eddie got home and lied on his bed. Still no clue as to why his long lost crush suddenly became the main character of his thoughts. The curiosity kept him awake until dawn, cause and effect taking place the next night, effect having him pass out almost at the exact second his head hit the pillow. She was in his dreams that night, clearer than ever. Her smile shining and warming his heart, her laugh sending butterflies into his stomach and making his head dizzy with how flustered he was.

Reality set in once again when he woke up, shaking his head as he tried to get a grip. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched as per usual. Eddie went through his morning routine, head still hostage by the girl. She was so entrancing, he forgot to eat, and tried to head directly out the door the instant he was finished getting ready.

However,

Something was in his way. Halting all thoughts and actions, Eddie looked down at the object in front of him curiously. He picked it up, closing his eyes as he inhaled through his nose. The scent was more familiar than any other he'd smelt the past few years. He moved the flowers around, the crinkle of newspaper wrapped around the homemade bouquet echoing throughout his trailer as he did so. A note slipped out from between the flowers. Shifting his attention to the loose paper, he read it carefully with a full heart.

He knew that handwriting anywhere.

"I hope these jogged your memory. I missed you." A little heart beside the last word made his own full and begin to beat faster. "Happy birthday, Eddie."

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