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glassrowboat · 2 months

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Daydream in a Nightmare

Authors note: I read a soulmate au where with dream sharing. Everytime you fall asleep you and your SM would meet in a world that would reflect your consciousness and who you were. So down below are the boys and what I think the places their dreams would depict.

Mondstadt

Diluc: The cathedral. His mom, back when she was alive, used to play during service and afterwards Diluc ran over greeting her with the biggest smile, asking her to play him one more song. She never failed to. Maybe that's why there's always a gentle melody playing whenever you see him as he rests his fingers over the same white tiles, simply trying to remember how to play.

Kaeya: The Dawn Winery. Or at least parts of it. Behind closed doors there's the scent of grass, of dirt, and the faintest smell of ash. He says it's simply the vineyard that in the real world would be right outside, but he knows well as he pulls your hand from the doorknob that it's ruins of a fallen nation haunting him right on the other side.

Albedo: Glass walls. A maze of mirrors and reflections. If you ever have stopped to bother to count between Albedo’s musings as he shares with you the secrets of the world, you'd notice that for some reason he always has more reflections in the walls around you than of your own figure. Like there's more of him than there is of you.

Venti: Old Mondstadt. Back before the revolution, back when there were people in the streets wishing their God weren't so unjust, but in his dreams that wall of spiraling wind is never there. A warped perception of a life he wished to have lived as he sits in your lap not as Venti the bard, but a wind sprite trying to bury into your clothes for warmth. Just don't call him pipsqueek or he'll try and bite your fingers. Playfully. You think.

Liyue

Zhongli: A place that no longer exists, one torn away by this world during the archon war. It's unlike him not to comment on a place, a trinket, an item, as you pick something up and fiddle with it, but this place he never goes into full detail on. However, he will tell you all about the artisanship of the table you two are sharing tea over.

Baizhu: His home back in Chenyu Vale, back before the illness hit his village, back before his parents passed away. Just a modest home that shows signs of being truly well lived in and loved. Mindlessly while you two talk he'll be cleaning the place, just the way he always does at the pharmacy. Though it does help give him something to fill the silence. It turns out he's a lot more used to Changsheng chiming in with comments than he thought. He just hopes you two get along when the time to meet in person finally comes about.

Ga ming: A festival. There's water kicking up at everyone's feet, up to everyones ankles as people with their face covered in all manner of masks walk you both by. Ga ming would pull you along from booth to booth, trying his best to win prizes despite the fact you both know they'll be gone by the time you wake.

Xiao: A Chinese pavilion in the sky. You walk among the clouds as you follow the path of the street, looking over the accents that seem somehow both rich in color and dull, muddied all at the same time. Something you've noticed from his dreams compared to yours, his always have a lingering black fog creeping in at the corner of your eyes. It makes you feel like someone else is in this world with you, like there's eyes waiting to do more than just watch.

Inazuma

Kazooha: A meadow. The wind passes you both by, stirring up pages of books you two sit reading in silence. You can't help but wonder if these are all books he's read before, especially the ones that wax poetry or something else. His thoughts, perhaps? Maybe Kazuha's very own writings? But that matters little as his head is resting on your shoulder as you try to catch words between the fluttering sheets of paper.

Itto: A kabuki play. It always ends up in you two hiding away in the back room where the performers would get ready before getting back out on stage for the next act. You would see the brightest of colors, richest of fabrics, and practiced movements so fine tuned that you can't understand why Itto is so focused on taking the makeup on the vanity in the back simply so he can paint your face with red marks just like his. To each their own you suppose, and who are you to complain when it means drawing hearts on his arm when Itto isn't paying attention?

Gorou: A tea house. It's a small place, simple, but certainly not lacking charm as Gorou pours you a cup. At first the fact you could actually taste the rich herbs on your tongue in this dreamscape threw you off, but now it's just another part of this odd reality. But saying that, the first time you spat out the drink he offered as soon as the bitter taste hit you. Apparently he never expected you to not already be used to green tea. The poor fella was apologizing for the rest of the night, ears laid flat on his head and tail tucked between his legs. It's okay though, you made it even by trying to give him dog treats. It was you having to beg for forgiveness then.

Thoma: It was different this time. No glowing blue flowers and a forest that you two would stroll through mindlessly while chatting for hours. No, this time Thoma was sitting on a wooden platform below a giant stone statue. Intriguing, yes, but mattered little compared to the rope burns around his wrist. He tried to tell you not to worry about it. That it was an accident. But that mattered little as your lips pressed to the red, irritated skin and he gave you a strained smile. You knew better than to ask about it more from there.

Ayato: It's ever changing. It's like he is constantly thinking of something whenever He falls asleep and it reflects in his dreams. Once it was a Japanese styled room the next it was some room in Fontaine's architecture. But it's always a bedroom. A place of relaxation as Ayato buries his head in your lap like it was a pillow. He'll whine about being overworked until you're tempted to pull on his hair just to make the man shut up for once, but last time you did that it led to the bed being used for a lot more than just rest. For now just pat his head and let him vent, the man needs it.

Sumeru

Kaveh: A sketch brought to life from his mothers blueprints. One he saw his mother sketching back when Kaveh was a boy and she would let him sit on her lap, let him comment on the drawings. She would always find some way to incorporate his addictions into the sketch. Nowadays he knows the building that was actually constructed in the end to be simpler, duller than the one his mother wanted, but in his dreams with you it stands tall and proud.

Al Haitham: An attic. It's dusty and it clearly had a hole in the roof that was covered over by some wooden planks and nails. A patch work job that needs to be fixed but if you ever take the time to bother with it while Al Haitham sits in an old rocking chair covered by a quilt reading the night away it will only be there the next dream cycle. It pisses you off. He pisses you off. All nonchalance and an apathetic look even as you plop yourself in his lap and take that book away. And what pisses you off even more? How he dares to call you needy as he holds you close. It's best to ignore the fact he started reading over your shoulder.

Tighnari: Pardis Dhyai. He'll sit on the walkway watching you kick the water of the ponds around, paying no mind to when you splash at him. Not anymore at least. He's learned quickly if he makes a snarky comment you'll give one back and it'll go on and on until somehow it ends in him getting dragged into the pond with you. Both dripping algae filled water as he wondered what gods made this numbskull his mate.

Cyno: Lambad's Tavern. Everytime he would come back from treks in the desert he would go there, get a drink, and play a round of cards with whoever was willing. It was a pattern. Work, work, rest, and more work. But now he didn't have to constantly be on work mode as he sat with you in the old booth shuffling cards as he tried to explain to you how TCG works. So far everytime you lose you've thrown those elemental dice and him, and with a smile he lets them hit him in the head despite being fully able to dodge them. His soulmate is such a sore loser.

Wanderer: Shakkei Pavilion. He hates it. Hates that this is the place his unconscious has chosen to sink onto so stubbornly. His wooden fingers would slide over the paintings depicting Scaramouche’s past that has now been severed from him in everyone's eyes but Nahida and the Traveler. If you knew, would you still hold his hand? Would you still trace the details of his joints and comment that you find his pretty face such a stark contrast to his sharp words? He's afraid to find out, the idea that you might be his fourth betrayal always lingering in the back of his mind.

Fontaine

Neuvillette: Under the water where the currents would carry stray bits of seaweed and fish swimming past. The first time you shared a dream with him here he had to calm you down as instinctively you held your breath, taking your hands in his and assuring you if he can talk like this, you can suck in air just as well. It took some time getting used to, but now he watches as you grab starfish off the ocean floor and bring them over to him like a prize to be presented. This is what humans must be like Neuvillette tells himself as you braid them into his hair.

Worcestershire sauce: A home. A nice one at that. Big, had decent furnishings, pictures of kids hung up on the wall. If you listened closely enough you could even hear children playing outside from the cracked open windows that showed the brightest sky outside. Wriothesly would walk behind you as you would watch the grass blowing in the wind, not saying a word as he rested his chin on top of your head. He never thought he'd be back here again. The very place made him feel sick to his stomach, but with you? It was bearable. Even as you tried to grab his handcuffs from him.

Snezhnaya

Childe: His childhood home. Back before the renovations he bought for the place with his money as a harbinger, back before the redecorating of rooms to fit more children, and back to what the house was like when he was just a boy yet to fall into the abyss. Back when everything was simpler. He would pick up toys that have gone missing, never to be seen again and stare in wonder how it all is exactly how he remembers it. It makes it so much easier to be Ajax with you, rather than Tartaglia.

Dottore: The hospital he was working in when trying to help Eleazar patients. For the life of him does he hate it, being back in the desert always having to tip his shoes out of sand that never seems to fully clear off. It doesn't help you try and pour sand down his shirt, but in a way he supposes it's better you two stay out here under that blistering sun than you going inside to be met with the smell of death. No, you don't need to know about that side of him just yet.

Pantalone: His office. It always makes it hard to tell at first if he's awake, not when the same scene greets him either way. You always joke about him being married to his work and you're the mistress in this relationship. At this point he counts on the comment as soon as his eyes flutter open and he's greeted with the sight of you sitting on the desk he's been using as a pillow. Still, he can never help the genuine smile at seeing you once again.

Captain: A flower field. The snowdrops peek out from under the fluffy blanket of white powder, crunching under every step he takes. Even in his dreams the cold of Snezhnaya is ever present, ever biting. It only makes sense you are shivering behind him even as he lets you steal his cloak that is more of a blanket on you than anything. This field, he knows it well, knows that what waters these flowers is more blood than anything else, but that matters little as he wraps his arms around you. Maybe he can find a way to dream you a proper jacket.

Pierro: A grand hall. It reminds you of the way ballrooms are described in romance stories as the couple depicted would dance the night away. Columns so high you have to tilt your head back just to see where they meet the ceiling covered in paintings you've never seen before. That is until Pierro steps into your view. He always offered his hand to you before you could ask, and as your fingers interlocked he would tell you about them. Always ready to answer your questions. It meant someone was curious about a part of his long lost nation. So, of course, he was always happy to share.

Scaramouche: A never ending fire. It's a small shack, engulfed by flames that never seem to dwindle or burn out the wood it feeds on. Like this place was stuck in time in his mind. He doesn't talk to you, not any more than a sharp shut up. The only time that glare he showed you disappeared is when you pulled your hand back from the curious fire with a hiss, not expecting it to actually hurt in this fake reality. For a moment you could have sworn he took a step towards you, but he never came any closer than that as he hissed at you to be careful. Dumb mortals should at least know not to burn themselves.

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 months

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Campaign Starter: Tales from the Bonecart

Whether it's due to superstition or a distaste for a toilsome and muddy trade, folk tend to pay little attention to gravediggers. This makes for an awfully convenient cover for your travelling troupe of tombrobbers as they tour around the realm's backroads filling their pockets with mementos purloined from the dead.

Planning adventures for "evil" campaigns can be tough, but sometimes you and your players just want an excuse to get your hands dirty. What better opportunity to get DEEP down in the dirt than to hand out shovels and have them start out as a group of travelling undertakers/thieves?

Setup: A handful of crews have run the bonecart scam over the past several generations, tempering their skullduggerous actions with a bit of honest gravemaking. This dichotomy is no better represented in the current heads of the operation: Dour and hardworking Heliana, who minds the cart's reigns and keeps the crew on track, and the knavish academic Benjamin Eelpot who loves delving into things that should best stay buried. These two have taken the party on for a series of jobs that will likely require a cold heart and a strong stomach, stealing from both the living and the dead and hoping not to get caught in the meantime.

Adventure Hooks:

The party's first outing on the bonecart should be a meat-and-potatoes sort of job, used to set the tone of the campaign, which happens to sound like "Someone old and rich and lonely has died, leaving their house haunted and their valuables unguarded".

While being stewards of the dead is a great cover, it sometimes attracts the wrong sort of attention, such as when a nobleman offers the party a great reward to investigate an abandoned necropolis and the source of the terrifying dreams that haunt him. Gold is gold though, and surely this couldn't have too many long reaching complications for them.

Irony of ironies, Shortly after one of their scores the party is setupon by a group of bandits disguised as dead men, who manage to make off with a good portion of their illgotten gain. There's no way to recover their goods through official channels, so they'll have to do it themselves.

Throughout their early adventures the party will need to avoid the attention of the heavy handed sheriff hired by the local nobility to quietly and brutally dispose of criminals like themselves.

You get a lot of weird jobs being a gravedigger, but "limo service" is not usually one of them. Still, money is money, and when a bloodsoaked countess offers to pay the bonecart well to defend and transport her coffin across the lands so she can attend a gathering of the great and the ghoulish who are they to say no?

Heliana will eventually approach the party once they've gotten enough shared time , experience, and nightmarish close calls under their belts. She's got some personal matters to attend to, which involve a list of names belonging to an old secret society and a series of graves across the countryside that may contain clues to the locations of some great treasure. Its a bolder job then the crew usually pulls, and will draw unwanted attention, but they can rely on eachother to pull through, right?

Art 1 Art 2 Art 3

#press start #evil party #necromancer #undead #thief #faction #ally necromancer #ally #ally rogue #rogue #dnd #d&d #adventure compendium

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forthelostones · 8 months

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humans can lick too ─── ⋆ (kinktober)

☄. *. ⋆ fem!reader x dom!abby x perv!ellie ☄. *. ⋆

synopsis: halloween night just turned into another day for you, until you're visited by two desperate ladies.

warnings. 18+ (mdni); threesome, perv!ellie, dom!abby, fingering, nipple play (all receiving), and strap penetration & sucking (r!rec), jealousy, breaking & entering. pet names: baby & dove.

an: this will be my last (purely) smutty post for a while, i want to focus on a different style these next couple of days! this isnt my best & its a bit silly i think but i love this urban legend and i saw someone KB list this as an option. also thanks for 200 follows, much love. (i am taking any requests!)

wc: 2.5k

most halloweens you spend it doing a bar crawl or sitting on your porch, wine in hand, passing out treats. this night was different, you weren’t going out or even entertaining the idea of halloween - it became a normal day to you. earlier this afternoon you took your pup on a walk around the neighborhood and waved to your neighbors who were setting up for tonight.

“well, city hall sent out an email saying it was imperative that we stay vigilant tonight, y’know.” your across the street neighbor mentioned.

“that’s every year isn’t it? i thought it was typically some teens who come and ruin the fun for all the little ones.”

“i don’t know, tonight feels different, i'm turning in before 9 tonight just in case. especially with those incidents that happened last month.”

you took what they said with a grain of salt. you were the youngest among your neighbors and they were always shaken up by the smallest occurrences. but tonight it felt like they may have been right, you couldn’t help but feel a dark cloud follow you on your walk. almost as if someone was watching you. every crunch on the ground your body stiffened, what if something bad is supposed to happen tonight? you and pup rush home in a paranoid frenzy, triple-checking if the front door is locked.

as soon as you unleash your baby and remove your muddy shoes, you notice how warm the house has become. you checked the thermostat and it wasn’t set, but you still couldn’t ignore the beads of sweat forming on your forehead. you walk over to the window above the kitchen sink and make a mental note that you should close it before sunset.

after lounging lazily on the couch you hear the beginnings of laughter and soft screaming in the street for the holiday. you decided you’d do the bowl method tonight and place a note on the front porch, take candy, please! you scroll on your phone waiting for your dinner to heat up and you receive a phone call from your on-and-off against fling, abby. you guys have a strictly fuck only relationship — she comes and bends you over, then leave. this didn’t bother you, for the most part.

"you coming out tonight?" she questions.

"nope, staying in."

your ears perk up at how quiet she’s speaking, but you didn’t care, you liked hearing her voice ring so sweet in your ears.

"i would love to see you tonight, baby.”

you hear the shuffling of what your paranoid brain assumes to be footsteps coming from your bedroom. you walk towards the steps leading upstairs and get hit with the dial tone.

“abs? hello?”

you grip your fingers to form a fist, attempting not to breathe too loudly. just when your foot reaches the first step, the timer on your phone blares, startling you into a silly laugh. you can't believe how spooked you felt.

hey, what happened, why’d you hang up?

sorry, idk bad service, sorry.

can i see you tonight?

you just throw your phone on the counter as you finish your food and wash your dishes out before going to bed. you reach down to pet your sleepy pup who is also ready for bed. you both travel to your bedroom, belly full and eyes heavy, ready for your head to hit the pillow. you strip off your clothes, throwing them on the floor, not even bothering to throw your laundry in the hamper. you look at abby’s message, wondering if you should reply or not, but you just let your mind drift off.

in the middle of the night, your neighborhood stood silently as you tussled in bed, wrapping your legs in the sheets. you reach over the edge of your bed to feel your pup. their tongue tickles your fingertips and you smile into your pillow. your heart beats violently when you realize you didn’t close the window downstairs. in a blur you run down and close it, you peer out the window to see the leaves running away in the wind, it brings you some relief.

you flop back in your bed and stroke your pup again to help you drift away. you feel their tongue caress your palm as you try and regulate your anxious mind. but then they didn’t stop and you became worried, you lean over the edge of your mattress, heart in your belly, and you see a woman in all black. she was lying under your bed, eyes closed, tongue wrapping around your fingertips. she had today's panties laced in between fingers pressed against her nose.

you tremble as you pull your hand away slowly and her eyes shoot open, her arms wrapped in a dark hoodie come from under the frame and she pulls herself up. you blink twice in attempts to see if this was one of those dreams when you’d open your mouth to scream and it was silent.

“happy halloween,” she mutters from her mask and from initial examination, she didn’t have any weapons.

she brings her hand to the underside of the mask and removes it completely. the familiar face stunned you as you recognized it was your next-door neighbor, ellie. she came from the nicest house on the block, freshly repaved driveway and new cars adorning it, you couldn’t think of a reason why she would want to rob you. in this moment the memories of her flash before you as you two stand toe to toe. you had visited her house a few times for dinner with joel, who had introduced you to everyone in the neighborhood. but she would sit quietly and oftentimes just stare intensely at your face.

“ellie, dont be rude.” joel would spit, and she would scurry off to her room.

“ellie? what’s going on?”

“i watch you sometimes, dove. i knew you would be spending this wonderful day alone. i thought i should come and treat you.”

“treat me how?” you feel a curiousness glaze over your anxious body.

“i see her every time,” she begins to pace. “she comes over here, fucking you in my face.”

“what?”

your mind went blurry.

“the blonde one.”

“abby?”

she says walking towards you slowly. “do you remember that one time we almost fucked?”

her hands come around your waist. “i do, ellie, i don't understand—”

“but then you said it would be weird because we live so close and if it ever went south…”

her lips were close to your ear, you could hear her tongue snap against her teeth, and feel the heat brush gently against your cheek. her fingertips were playing a tracing game against your lower back. you recall the passionate kiss you both shared at the local bar, her desperate longing to just touch you in a tipsy frenzy.

“i know, el.”

the florescent haze of headlights pulls into your driveway and interrupts the scene, blasting the sounds of call me little sunshine by ghost— it was abby. ellie’s face scrunched up as the familiar red pick-up shut cut off quickly.

“what the fuck!” she groaned.

“ellie, it’s okay, i can talk to her.”

angrily, ellie snatched your wrist up in her hand and dragged you to the first floor. she shoved you towards the door where abby’s fist was pounding the glass.

“get rid of her.”

upon opening the door you see abby scouring the leftover candy in the bowl. she smiles with a faded look behind her eyes. “hi, baby.”

you pretend to be normal, throw in a yawn, rub your eyes and she comes to pull you into her. her hands come around your ass as she’s one foot in the door already. her lips come to your neck, another leg in the door, and you shove her slyly.

“what you don’t want to see me or something.”

“abigail,” you say sternly. “not tonight.”

she scuffs, “you didn’t get my text did you?”

“i’ve been sleeping so no i didn’t get it.”

“well i said, don’t reply if you want me to come see you.” she giggles.

you grip her toned arms as she walks you backward into the corridor. ellie slams the door behind you both, which causes abby to step in front of you.

“who is this?” she asks.

you put your hand on her chest, “this is ellie, my neighbor, we were just about to—“

“what?” abby mutters, she gets so defensive that she doesn’t realize she how hard she forced you away.

“wouldn't you like to know?” ellie smirks.

in one swift motion, abby is gripping ellie by her hoodie and nearly lifting her off the ground. that’s when you step in between the both of them and make abby release her.

“you can both have me, how about that?”

𓆩⟡𓆪

all three of you sat on the edge of your bed. ellie’s hand slithered up towards your swollen cunt, while abby took your other leg and spread you open. ellie was more focused on getting as close to you as possible, desperate. she brought her lips to your cheek and gently pressed it against your feverish skin. she brings her red, bursting lips to yours and crashes into you. it was better than last time like she had been practicing. abby watched her, seeing where she could fit in, and began sucking on your neck. both your hands fall on their thighs, caressing them.

“so how you wanna do this baby?” abby asks in a whisper.

“ellie told me she’s been waiting for this. she watches us.”

ellie looks slightly embarrassed at the fact, but abby smiles mischievously.

“so you know how good she fucks me?” abby says.

ellie nods silently, which leads you to then kiss her softly, bringing your tongue past her teeth into her mouth. she moaned obnoxiously at the taste of you. you bring your hands to her shoulders and lay her on her back while abby starts undressing herself. ellie watches you under the bright moon remove her black jeans to expose her nude, lace panties. she cups your face as you see how wet she had gotten throughout the night.

you bring your hand up her drenched pussy and she trembles, swimming in her hoodie. “you look so cute.”

she smiles nervously as you pull away her panties to view her swollen clit. abby sits at the head of the bed, completely undressed, skin tickled by the cool air, fingers brushing gently against her nipples, watching you both intently. you look up to her as you begin to bite ellie’s hot thighs.

“come on, don't tease. fuck her.” abby spat.

with no hesitation, you indulge in ellie’s sweet slick. she hoists herself up on her elbows to watch you suck on her clit. you knew she had been turned on all night so no foreplay was needed. abby had worked herself up by now rubbing her clit slowly, keeping her unwavering eye contact. ellie swallowed all her moans and flexed her belly at the pleasure your tongue was bringing her.

she brought her hand up to your head and fucked your face, sloshing all her juices on the tip of your nose and chin. abby gets up and comes around your backside. she slaps your ass, which makes you choke a little. she spreads her lips and comes to the curvature of your ass and starts rubbing her clit against you. being used by the both of them at the same time made your pussy throb.

“fuck, im so close dove.” ellie moans.

abby plants another smack on your ass, even harder this time. you give ellie two fingers, which instantly causes her to cum in your mouth, she pushed her cunt in your mouth so hard that when she removed it, you were breathless.

“come here.” she says, dragging you over her body to kiss her.

she drags her tongue all around your face, tasting herself. abby is now hovering over you both, not knowing if she should be angry or turned on. you crawl over to her and she takes a firm grasp of your neck and leans down to kiss you. she bites your bottom lip which makes you wince and you feel the weight of the bed shift under you as ellie brings her mouth to your ass.

abby then stuffs your face into her core, lifting up one leg onto the bed so you can slip your tongue inside of her.

“yes baby.” she melted. you liked when she got like that, submissive.

“open up for me abs.” you muttered, which was a command you said to her often. while she pulled back her clit hood, ellie brought her mouth to your pussy, which made you moan into abby’s. ellie brought two fingers to your wet hole and started pounding you so hard your ass moved in waves.

you remove your mouth away from abby’s body and start moaning ellie’s name while looking upwards to abby. she bit her lip out of anger and walked over to your closet to get your strap. she brought your lips up to the toy and commanded you to suck. you knew she hated hearing another woman’s name come from your lips. tears bulb in your eyes from feeling the length fill your mouth.

once she pulls away, strings of spit coax your chin and abby shoves you on your back. ellie’s fingers popped out of you just when you were so close. abby teases your pussy with her tip and brings her hand to your throat. ellie’s eyebrows knit together, jealous at abby’s dominance. she slips her hand to your clit as abby enters you.

“say it.” abby said.

“ellie,” you mewl, leaning over to bring her lips to yours.

that’s when abby grunts as she presses down on you, making your pussy swallow every inch.

“spit in my mouth ellie, let me taste you.”

ellie doesn’t hesitate to perch her lips and allow her spit to spread over your tongue, the sight alone makes abby pound harder. she brings her hand to your cheeks and makes you watch her, pulling you away from ellie. you can’t help but pull her in deeper as she slaps into your bruised cunt. ellie wraps her lips sloppily around your nipple and bites it without any warning. you yelp at the mixture of pain both women are putting you in, but it feels so good. your pussy is aching to cum as abby purposely bruises your cervix. abby wraps your legs around her waist and lays her full body weight on top of you, her hips cracking against your thighs.

“abby! please.” you yell.

“that’s right scream for me, c’mon.” she says in your ear, sweat dripping onto your neck.

you twitch under the presser and come so hard that your eyes roll in the back of your head. abby and ellie don’t stop until your legs shake and you try and find the power to push them both away. you twitch at feeling the strap exit your abused hole, feeling gapped, as ellie leaned in to plant a final kiss on your lips. abby exhales and lays beside you and you turn to kiss her too, in disbelief that you’re fucked out of your mind.

↓ if you don't know this urban legend here's the original! ↓

tw: mentions of pet death, blood, breaking, and entering, & l*nching.

Once there was a nice old lady who had a lovely little dog. One day, the old lady heard on the radio that a crazy murderer had escaped from jail and that she should lock all her doors and windows. So she locked every door and window in the house except one tiny one to let some air in. No murderer would ever get in through there! So that night she went to bed as usual. She knew everything was okay because when she put down her hand the dog licked it. But later in the night, she heard a drip, drip, drip. She put her hand down and the dog licked it. She felt that everything was okay but the dripping was annoying her, so she went downstairs to check on the tap. But the tap wasn’t dripping. So she went to bed again. She woke up again later in the night and thought the dripping sound was coming from the shower. She went into the bathroom, and there was her dog, dead, hanging in the shower, and dripping blood. Written on the mirror in blood was: ‘Humans can lick too!

#ellie williams smut #lesbian #abby anderson smut #abby x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams fanfic #abby anderson x you #ellie williams #ellabs #ellie smut #abby smut #abby tlou #abby the last of us #ellabs tlou

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owlespresso · 2 months

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the golden ivy which clings

omega!luocha/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is more interested in you than you'd like. tags: blackmail, coerced intimacy done as a part of @lorelune's a/b/o collab.

Your legs ache. Your muscles twitch with the extended exertion. The last five hours spent on your feet are catching up to you. It’s a trapping of the occupation. Being a courier on the Luofu means you regularly bounce up and down its many layers and areas, rushing from district to district, from the boughs to the canopy. After three years, you’ve long memorized the thin corridors and hardly beaten paths, mapped every vein and pipe and ligament in your seemingly endless pursuit of planning the optimal delivery routes.

Faces blend together in your line of work. You doubt your clients remember much anything about you. You’re a muddy sparrow flitting from branch to branch, a bee gliding from flower to flower, as nameless as any other customer service worker. You earn more than most of your peers, but that’s mostly because you’ve extended your services to stations and ships beyond the Luofu orbit.

…And also because of your status as a perfectly even beta, liberated from the debilitating symptoms of heats or ruts. You have no need for bimonthly off days, and needn’t fear the voracious gazes or grasping claws of wayward alphas. No one is likely to notice a lone, scentless courier, even in areas where the Cloud Knights frequently patrol.

Today’s business sees you on the far ends of Aurum Alley, where night has slipped over the artificial skies like silk over skin, streets steeped in deep shadow. You stick to the walls, underneath awnings and through narrow side paths. Silvery moonlight dapples through a canopy of sunset orange leaves, touching the aged stone path, the askew benches next to the food stalls.

On the furthest side, mist billows from the waters and onto the red wood docks. Quiet, still. Hardly a customer to be seen. It’s been the very same every other time you’ve visited. The only people you’ve seen have been members of the IPC. They’re surely thrilled at the minimal returns the businesses here are receiving. Filthy hawkers, intent on contaminating every locale unfortunate enough to make contact with them. You hope they never see another coin in their entire lives.

Not that it’s any of your business. You’re just a courier. It’s in your best interests to keep your head down and keep your eyes from wandering, lest you attract their attention… or the attention of any other governing body who would disprove of the wares you ferry from place to place.

Near the docks, where the wind churns the briny waves, stands the blond man. A repeat customer, a man you’ve come to know as ‘Luocha’.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” is the first thing you say to him, adjusting the straps of your heavy bag. Your shoulders have started to ache from the strain of the day's long treks. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures you. He has a delicate kind of beauty, the kind you see in fairytale picture books or depictions of soft omegas in gravure magazines. His cheeks are thin, set of his nose regal. His lips are soft rose, petals curled into a winsome smile. His lashes, thick and blonde, fan against his cheeks every time he blinks. It’s all at odds with his imposing height and strange, cold aura. “Shall we head inside?”

“It’s whatever you want,” you reply drolly.

“Inside, then. You look... tired. Have you been on your feet all day long?” Luocha’s hair sways when he turns and bobs which each sway of his hips. Dim lantern light catches on the ornamental pin which holds his strands in place. Just as striking as the rest of him. You really don’t know how he’s come this far without finding a mate. He surely turns the head of any alpha who catches a whiff of him. Even with your muted sense of smell, you still detect undercurrents of that delicate sweetness. Frosted finger cakes and clean face powder. It’s buried under something bitter and medicinal—only able to be caught in the tender hours of the night. After his work is long done.

“That’s just the job. It doesn’t bother me,” you assure him. The apartment building is darkly lit and nondescript. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in all his whites and golds, pristine and put together and perfectly pressed.

“Still,” he glances back at you. “You won’t be able to do your job at all if you don’t get enough rest. And I would hate to be deprived of my favorite courier’s company.”

You don’t know what kind of face you’re making, but he takes one look at you and laughs quietly.

“My apologies. Given my occupation, it’s practically second nature for me to be concerned about these sorts of things.” He says with a small shrug. You don’t reply, lips nettling into a frown. If you were kinder, perhaps more naive, perhaps you would have mistaken the sentiment to be genuine.

He doesn’t live in the hollow apartment he leads you to. It’s too ramshackle, mostly undecorated space with a couch, a table and a mismatched arm chair when you walk in. He’s dressed too nicely to tolerate moth-eaten curtains and layers of dust.

“Pardon the state of this place—I don’t actually live here. If it were up to me, we would hold our meetings in a nicer place.” he sighs. You don’t know why he feels the need for small talk. He hasn’t always been like this. During the first few months of serving him, the only words exchanged between you both were basic greetings and fleeting formalities.

“It’s fine. ‘S not like you live here,” you wave him off and deposit your bag onto the leather. It’s an earthy green, the color nearly the same as the worn upholstery. It squelches at the impact, and you tug it open by the zipper. The vacuum of created space is chilled around your arm, goosebumps rolling over your skin. A square package wrapped in plastic, off-worlder medicine banned aboard the Luofu, favored by certain members of Sanctus Medicus.

“Are you a member of Sanctus Medicus?” you’re not sure why you ask.

“Oh? I can’t recall you ever asking me such a personal question,” Luocha observes, a mote of mischief in his voice. “Why? Would you dislike it if I was?”

“No. It’s not my place to police anyone's beliefs—but the members I’ve met seem…” you trail off. It isn’t like you to give your opinion so freely, but you can’t imagine someone so discerning falling in line with those quacks.

“Sanctimonious? Self-righteous? Gullible?” Luocha lists for you, leaning against the back of that dowdy couch. He doesn’t move to accept the package, even when you pointedly zip the bag back up. His smile is unreadable.

“All of those things,” you agree, making the three steps it takes to reach him. “Though, I can’t really blame them.”

“And how could you? The long-lived of the Luofu will be roaming the galaxy and enjoying its many fruits hundreds of years after they’re dead and gone. It’s only natural to pursue that which they feel has been hoarded from them.” Luocha plucks the package from your waiting hands, eyeing it with mildly fond intrigue.

“I suppose,” you hum. You’ve already spoken too much. This isn’t a discourse you should be involved in. Sanctus Medicus, despite their incompetence, is still a faction of individuals with enough outreach to meddle in your business, should this conversation get back to them.

Long fingers wrap around your wrist. Your eyes blow wide as you stumble into his chest—sturdy, so different from what you’d expect from someone so beautiful, built well beneath his layers. There is no presage, no forewarning.

Underneath the chamomile slides forth the tender, ambrosial scent which betrays his status as an omega. Your pulse hums in your ears, body frozen stiff—but you remain unblemished by the adrenaline.

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

“So steady, even now,” he observes with infuriating tenderness, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I suppose I should have expected that from an emanator of Harmony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, unable but to be proud of how steady your voice remains. Every meeting you have ever had with him replays in your head, rolls by all at once like jittering strips of old-timey film as you pull them from the rusty bank of your memory. What could have given you away in the brief moments you’ve shared together? What in the way that you’ve handed him his contraband belied your true nature? Nothing, you’re sure. He’s discovered this piece of you on his own, and that worries you the most.

“Come now,” Luocha coaxes, the euphony of his voice slipping into something softer and sweeter. “You can be honest with me. We’ve already shared so much with each other, haven’t we?”

“The only thing I’ve ever shared with you are the poisons you order,” you inform him, hands braced against his chest. He tuts at you, and his scent grows all the sweeter. Even you can recognize the excited pheromones he pumps into the air. Your senses are replete with him, tongue made sticky by the devious croon of his voice.

“And you give so much of yourself with that alone,” he insists. “Your willingness to pass illicit drugs into the hands of your customers tells me far more about you than any small talk ever has. A shame, really. You have such interesting thoughts, whenever you deign to share them.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask flatly. Your eyes narrow with undisguised suspicion.

“A great many things, but to start...” His fingers tap a gentle drumbeat atop your shoulder. You shrug him off. A contemplative sound hums deep within his chest, quiet but loud in the dusty still of the room. “Share more of your thoughts with me, Courier.” he beseeches. “You’re always so quiet, when we’re together. I think we’ve known each other long enough to hold better conversations.” His hands slide off of you, smooth and quick as oil slick. It’s a concentrated effort to not bolt out of his reach like a startled fawn.

His gaze bores into your back as you take several measured, extremely normal and calm steps over to your abandoned bag, zipping it back up with renewed zeal.

“I think that was extremely inappropriate.” you share generously.

“I apologize. I only meant to tease, but it seems I’ve pushed too far,” he confesses, genuinely contrite. There is something else about his inflection. Something which sparks alive the long distant urge to soothe. “I don’t often forget myself like this. You must bring it out of me.”

You frown. The feeling dies. It’s not your responsibility to comfort this weirdo. He’s done nothing to earn your sympathy. Pesky biology, however, would dictate otherwise.

“You’ll be delivering to me again tomorrow, won’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. Your internal discourse snaps to a halt, instinct shafted to the side to make way for the sacred tradition known as “doing business”.

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

“Yes—and a Core Esse, if you’ve the means to procure one—”

You give him a look, but you nod regardless. “Understood. I’ll meet you at the docks, tomorrow—” It’s not professional to walk away while making arrangements with a client, but you very badly want to be out of this stuffy apartment and away from the new, bizarre scrutiny he looks at you with.

You typically avoid knowing anything about your customers beyond the bare basics. However, you can no longer afford Luocha that same distance. Just how much does he know? And where exactly has he pulled your precious secrets from?

The investigation begins tonight. You’re hesitant to call on her, but you may very well need to reach out to a particular contact.

—

Hours worth of feverish research inevitably lead to you just calling the Stellaron Hunter who owes you a favor. You have not the slightest clue where Luocha procured such private information, or how much of it he has. Penacony’s travel logs will be the first place to look. If your bothersome merchant has been there before, it’ll be no mystery where he figured you out. Does The Family still talk about you? And do they look back on your brief term of leadership with nostalgic fondness or embittered hatred?

You care not. Those mistakes are long behind you. The Luofu is a kinder place, somehow easier to navigate despite its Abundance soaked innards, where only the engineers dare wander. Without the protections they are outfitted with, you suppose you’re more vulnerable to mara exposure and all it entails, but you never dwell longer than half-an-hour at a time.

Roots and vines cling to the aged metal paneling and jutting pipes, green and gold particles sour the dim air. The pipes rattle and groan, portions of something neon yellow shooting through the complex web of them at irregular intervals. Flowers sprout from the ropey greenery, some bulbs shut and others agape. Pale petals of pink and white and periwinkle peeled wide open against slick silver and rusted brown. The closed bulbs look oddly wooden, but you’re not stupid enough to touch one.

Luocha could surely excuse you for being mara-struck. The Cloud Knights, on the other hand…

Well. It’s not worth thinking about. The overworld welcomes you back with a gust of fresh wind, washing away the acrid tang of the tunnels. The shallowest of them have several discreet exit and entry points. Crevices in the walls swallow you whole and deposit you in nondescript locations across the Luofu, random alleys and average apartment buildings where it’s easy to sink into the crowds.

Today, it’s a high end district, populated by the high-end homes of diplomats and ranking officials from the Luofu’s sister ships. They come to roost in these behemoth manors a few times a year at most, meaning the streets are emptier than you’re accustomed to. There’s not a soul to be seen or heard, not one resident there to share the wide open road with you. The houses leer at you with wide windows and lacquered doors, sat fat and happy behind their tall gates and gaping lawns.

Luocha calling you here, after all of those clandestine exchanges in that dowdy shell of an apartment, is a statement in itself. Is he threatening you with this obscene display of opulence? You can’t begin to fathom why he’d bother with bothering a simple courier. What does he possibly hope to gain?

The address he sent is among the smallest houses you’ve seen so far. One of the least extravagant, which is to say, still pretty fucking extravagant. The latticework fence is wreathed with delicate cotton roses and the yard is a veritable Eden in comparison to the other lots. The path forward is lined by patches of vibrant wildflowers.

The air is cleaner here, and for the first time since entering the district, you can hear birdsong echoing from the tops of the trees.

How much of this did he plant himself? And how have his neighbors handled living next to a miniature forest? You reach out, palm sliding over the closest oak’s trunk, the bark coarse under your cold palms. Beyond the path, to your left, you hear the babbling of flowing water. The yard isn’t large enough to have a creek, you reason, and the time of your appointment looms close—but you figure you have enough legroom to at very least sneak a glance. Your curiosity for once gets the better of you, sending you through the thicket of green, beyond a copse of trees lined up like appointed sentinels, and over an emerging path of flat stones.

The forest opens into a small clearing. A massive, rock-lined pond nests at the center, surrounded by cattails and watergrasses and other waterfaring plants. The babbling, as you expected, comes from a filtration system stealthily hidden amongst the many reeds.

Sunlight shivers across the gentle waters, stirred up by the afternoon breeze.

A chair has been left unfolded beneath the low-hanging branches of a stout, red maple—a splash of crimson among earthy greens and cool browns.

Cautiously, you pick your way down the slope to the pool, squinting at the fish which flicker and dart between rocks and lotus stems. Mostly koi. Pretty, glimmering things which likely cost an arm and a leg. You’ve been to many aquatic markets, even ferried a few live specimens yourself. You settle by the edge, elbows resting on your bent knees. Cautiously, you extend outstretched fingers towards the water, dragging along the silken smooth surface.

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says. One moment you’re above water and the next under, your startled flailing sending you straight over the lip.

Luocha is at very least apologetic about your unfortunate (humiliating) spill. He shows you to the washroom and closes the door with a contrite little smile. You run up the water bill for your trouble, the shiver chased from your drenched frame as you step under the hot spray. The shower has room enough for three people, easily. There are two heads and a bunch of silver knobs and dials you don’t feel like fucking with. Rich people and their needlessly complicated household appliances.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend in there, but the mirrors have fogged over by the time you get out. Only once you’ve properly scrubbed the pond water from your skin and tended to your hair do you turn the shower off. The mist sticks to your skin even after a decent toweling. You go through two until you give up and throw on the plush robe he so generously provided. It’s as fine quality as the porcelain tub you spy nestled against the western wall.

The brass glows near gold beneath the warm light. The entire bathroom is all golds and black. Utterly resplendent, but it doesn’t really seem his style.

Is this even his home? You can’t help but wonder as you stroll out the bathroom and into the rest of the house. Most of the interior chambers are linked by wide circular arches. The furniture is cream cushions paired with lacquered dark wood. A sweet smell hangs in the air, but you can’t tell if the potted white lilies on the table beside the sofa are the source.

Luocha stands by the window. Beams of sun hit his face and cast his hair in vibrant gold. He’s ethereal in those shades of sun. He looks delicate, somehow, curves of his body lean under the flowing press of his silken robe.

He looks at you. The dreamy green of his gaze clears your brain of the remaining fog, leaving you cold and alone with the fact that you are alone, together, in an empty house. In a mostly empty neighborhood.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” he smiles. “They’ll be clean in around an hour. Once again, I apologize for startling you—”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t have been skulking around in your front yard in the first place.” The sooner your humiliating slip is forgotten, the better. “Let’s just get down to it. You wanted something delivered, right?”

“All business with you, even now,” Luocha sighs, forlorn disappointment wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to be so uneasy around me, you know. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll brew us some tea.”

You do not sit. “You called me here for a reason. I deserve to know what it is.”

“Is your company not reason enough?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s closer now, close enough for you to see how glassy his eyes are. The cloying, sweet smell grows stronger with each step taken, reckless pheromones enough to send a shudder down your spine. Is he… “What if I said I simply wanted to see you?” he breathes, gently cupping your chin. “Should I admit that you’ve haunted my near every thought for the past month, or would that be going too far? Would it frighten you?”

A ruddy flush paints his pale cheeks, cracks in his composure beginning to show. He’s always been the perfect picture of composure, to an irritating degree. The certain grace he moves with used to almost annoy you. So steady, in a world contaminated by constant disruption and imbalance. The very pinnacle of perceived harmony. Perhaps you envied the way in which he carried himself or the freedom he enjoyed as an interstellar merchant, but now—

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

“I would say that you should wait until your heat is over before making any confessions,” you observe, resisting the urge to swallow and make the problem worse. Omega or not, he still looms large over you.

“I’m in pre-heat, where I’ll most likely stay for the next few days,” one of his hands graces your right shoulder, thumb rolling delicate circles there. “I won’t ask you to… service me through the heat itself, but your company would help soothe the symptoms.” The touch wanders down your upper arm, a smooth, repetitive caress. It feels more like an unconscious gesture or a nervous tic than anything else. A self-soothing sort of motion.

“I’m a courier, not an on-call heat partner,” you inform him. How desperate must he be, to seek out the assistance of a courier of all people? “And I’m a beta. I can’t help you in the same way an alpha could. You know that.”

“And how do you know what will and won’t satisfy me?” he replies cooly, haughtily, as if he did not just sing your praises and plead for succor by your hand. “Betas are known to be particularly adept heat and rut partners due to their versatile nature—”

“I too have read the ‘Galaxy Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dynamics and All their Intricacies’. You don’t need to quote it verbatim to me.” you reply flatly, sounding as unconvinced as possible. Luocha is—dangerous. He is handsome, and he seems very sweet, and always seems well of manners, but you know he hides his daggers deep in his sleeves. The moment you realized you are considering his offer, you feel apart from yourself. Because it is ludicrous an idea.

Luocha’s eyes close. His bright lashes fan against flushed cheeks. “No sexual intimacy has to be involved. While skin-to-skin contact is the most effective method to ease the pain, simply being in the same room as you will suffice.”

The heat of him slips onto your skin, the layers between you thinner than you realized. An absentminded hand roams to the sash tied ‘round your waist, idly toying with the knot. His palm, after a moment of fidgeting, settles on the round of your hip. He gives you a gentle squeeze, but it reminds you more of a cat flexing its claws than a gesture of simple appreciation. He inundates you with scent and touch, pins you like a butterfly to a board, wings splayed open for his searching eyes.

Not that you’ve really tried to fly away at all. A flush of newfound heat encompasses you, unbidden as his scent washes over your palate. You draw him into your mouth and swallow, thighs pressing tight together. It’s ridiculous, really. Inane. Who is he to make you feel so unbalanced?

You find him so utterly vexing. No other man could do this to you, you think. You wouldn’t dare step foot into anyone else’s private home. You wouldn’t consider breaking the strict code of propriety you keep with your customers. But for Luocha, denizen of the Abundance and keeper of your most precious secret, you fear you may do anything.

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

Luocha remains undiscouraged by your disquiet. Baffling creature, bold beyond reason and reckoning behind his steady, at times coquettish mien. “You can still help me, if you would like. I’m not in the practice of taking unwilling partners.”

You let a poignant pause settle between you, as if you are legitimately considering his request. He leans in, ever so slightly, as if leering at you from three centimeters away is any better than leering at you from five.

Then, finally, after remaining silent for at least thirty long seconds. “Do you prefer blackmailed ones?”

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it, entire face lighting up with genuine fondness. So utterly vexing, this man.

“Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he presses a kiss to your temple.

—

It isn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because Luocha seems to lack shame in almost everything he does. True to his word, he doesn’t touch you without permission. The rest of the day is spent sitting together in the lounge. He reads a book while you sit on the couch, half-paying attention to the news program you’ve put on. Dinner is takeout. The conversation is… bearable. It helps distract you from how close he is, pressed tight to the side of his body.

You stay in the living room until the sun sets, vivid orange light descending to dusky twilight. Eventually, Luocha stands to head to the washroom. A chill replaces the space he once occupied. You don’t allow yourself to mourn the loss. Instead, you haul yourself onto your feet. Black spots swim at the corners of your vision as your body lags a few seconds behind your brain.

It’s just more time wasted, as far as you're concerned, so you push yourself. You stagger until your eyesight clears, intending to make a break for the guest room that certainly must exist. Somewhere. A house this extravagant must have a guest room.

You manage to peek into two rooms, one a particularly extravagant closet and the other a sunroom.

You sullenly retreat back into the main hallway and head for the next door. Luocha slides out of the bathroom and fixes you with a questioning stare. “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

“Ah,” he stands there and looks at you for a long moment, like you are a stranger in his home. Which is partially true, you suppose. You are little more than strangers. “There is, but I was hoping…” he looks off to the side with a pointed sigh. “you would spend the night in my bed.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a new head. He stares back, completely unrepentant.

“Because skin-to-skin contact helps?” you supply wryly.

“Right,” he smiles, as though glad you understand. “During pre-heat, an omega craves the constant companionship of a trusted person, preferably a mate, but that label doesn’t apply to our arrangement. Remaining isolated during this time could cause anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, headaches, migraines—”

“You’ve gotten all the pity you’re gonna get out of me.” you inform him crisply. You relent anyway. The wooden floor is chilly as you pad towards him.

Your stoicism “Wonderful. Thank you for accommodating,” At very least, he seems to know that he’s putting this upon you. Luocha’s bed, you think, is far from the worst place you could spend your night. He’s far from unappealing. He smells good. He’s been weird to you, before, but he’s also unwaveringly polite and currently weaker than usual, hazier.

Not like you have much of a choice.

He could easily leak your location to your former allies. The Family’s connections span the universe wide. They could easily track you down and cause you all sorts of trouble, maybe even get you kicked off the Luofu. It’s best to cooperate with him, for the time being. And it’s not like he’s terrible company. He holds the door open for you even now, when you’re here for his sake.

His bedroom is as luxurious as the rest of the house. The floor is dark wood and the walls are black with golden accents. Tapestries hang over tall windows, blocking out the moonlight. A porcelain vase sits atop a combination dresser-vanity, its knobs and gnarled claws a warm bronze. The rest of the furniture is similarly colored, and of similar quality.

What draws your attention the most is the bed. It’s a wide mattress held aloft atop a platform. Gauzy black curtains hang from the top of the thin gold frame, parted to give you a good look at the mountain of pillows and blankets stacked atop of it. This, you recognize.

“Ah, that’s…” you begin, not quite sure how to phrase it. Aren’t some omegas super touchy about their nests? You haven’t the slightest clue as to which compliments to pay and to which part.

“A nest. I typically don’t indulge in the baser instincts that come with heat, but the urge was stronger than usual,” Luocha informs you, padding over to the mattress. He flops backwards on it, swimming through silks and satins like a minnow up a stream. Soon enough, you’ve lost him in the pile. “There isn’t much else for me to do besides twiddle my fingers, and I can only watch television for so long. So I thought: why not? It’ll be as good a way to keep busy as any other.”

There’s a small pause. Luocha hesitates by the vanity, drumming his slender fingers atop the hard wood. There’s something uncharacteristically fretful about the gesture. “What do you think?”

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

“What glowing praise,” he says, almost beaming. You’re kind of annoyed at how… no, you won’t call him cute. Not even within your own internal dialogue. “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you join me?”

He rests up against the headboard, lines of his body lean and lithe. He looks like something out of an old painting, long locks and pale limbs flowing over the dark sheets like

The green of his eyes is startling in the dim of the room. He looks you over, haughty like a monarch on a gilded throne, until his eyelids dip and his head tilts.

“Come here,” he beseeches again. “Please.”

And you do. You cross the threshold of the room, slipping past the open curtains and into the bower of his bed. The mattress dips plush under your hands and knees. Once you’re halfway across, you sit back on your knees—but this is not close enough for him. He needles and pleads with you until you’re close enough to grab. One of his hands wraps around your upper arm, the other at your hip as he tugs you to him, fitting your back snuggly against his front.

You still, but the tension remains wound tight in your shoulders. You’re more amazed at your own stupidity more than anything else. Wasn’t it you who insisted on keeping your clients at arm’s length? All of that haughty professionalism was tossed out the window the moment you succumbed to his pleading—if it could even be called that. He asked nicely.

Your eyes flutter shut. You lean backwards into his chest. His wide hands slide over your body, thumbs rolling circles onto your hips. A soft and sticky feeling settles underneath your skin as his thighs (bigger than you imagined) cradle your own, silken fabric of his robe pooled over the sheets. A low sound rumbles in his chest, suspiciously close to a contented purr.

“I’m so glad you decided to spend time with me, courier.” he coos. His hand glides up your arm to cup your own, long fingers interlacing with yours. A contemplative hum rumbles within his chest as he turns it over. His thumb traces the lines and creases of your palm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s why it means all the more to me that you stayed,” Luocha murmurs. He reaches over to the nightstand, and the lamp flickers off. The room is plunged into matte darkness, hardly a glimmer of moonbeam slipping in. “I think that you’re more considerate than you pass yourself off to be. Does that frighten you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk this much,” your brow wrinkles. “Aren’t you supposed to be too horny to think?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m currently in pre-heat—a process my body uses to prepare for the actual heat.” he says with a light sigh. “Believe me. If I were in heat,” his breath brushed against the shell of your ear, a warm and heady caress. “You would know.” He delicately presses the shell between his teeth, nosing the space behind it with another pleased sigh.

You shudder, and close your eyes. “And what’s the difference between heat and preheat?”

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to tell… The pheromones for one,” Luocha squeezes your hand. “Are different. They’re similar to the ones we give off when under threat, a signal that we’ll need help soon… Not all omegas go through it—only an estimated forty percent.”

“I see.”

Luocha smiles, the curve of it pressed against your throat. You don’t like not being able to see him. A predator looming in the dreary dark of his den. “The desire is still present. Less a raging storm, more the gentle lapping of the waves.”

“Poetic. But I still don’t get why you picked me. They have services for this kinda thing. People who know more about it than I do.” If you doubted his sanity before, you certainly do now. What kind of sane omega enlisted the help of a postwoman above paid professionals?

“I would rather you than an unfamiliar alpha some service decided would be an adequate match. Even if vetted, a stranger is still just that. A stranger.” Luocha idly toys with your fingers, thumb rubbing circles onto your palm. It’s a touch too familiar, too tender for what you are. But Luocha permits himself to it, and the rest of your body, with a natural ease. You can’t help but feel lulled by it.

“I see. And you feel safe sharing a bed with your dealer?” Tempting as the siren song of slumber may be, you retain enough wit to pry. The whole thing is too absurd to not badger him a bit more. The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in reply.

“I trust someone who has never been late, never sold my personal information or purchase history and has been nothing but courteous to me.” Luocha lists off your credentials with ease. They feel like they’re straight out of an EULA, or some sort of contract. Out of place in a situation as delicate as this. You could easily tell him as much, but he’s starting to sound sleepy. You would rather he get his rest. And be quiet.

“Of course,” he squeezes the space above your hip, making your pulse spike. “Having the endorsement of an Aeon helps. Especially if said Aeon rules over the Harmony. What a lovely and orderly path to tread, courier. She chose you so well.”

“You should have told me that this thing was gonna make you delusional,” you grumble, writhing in his hold to simply signify your displeasure. A part of you wants to come clean and ask where the hell he learned your secret. It’s obvious that he won’t change his mind, or be swayed by your protestations. But you’re still too stubborn to admit he’s right.

You’re almost annoyed by how comfortable this is. He laughs, breath brushing the crown of your head, but he says nothing else, perhaps sensing that he’s reached your tolerance threshold for silliness. His breathing evens out a few minutes later, chest rising and falling beneath you.

You adjust yourself, settling into his side. Over the next few minutes, he contorts around you, the weight of his arm settling around your waist. Time slips away from you, after that.

The rampant pounding of your heart at last begins to slow. You’re almost calm, wedged between the blankets and body. Your sleep shirt is still wrenched upwards, his bare arm pressed against your stomach. The contact is a boundary crossed, a spark to a hunger you didn’t know you had been harboring. You don’t like it. Some part of your hindbrain rejoices at seeing this man’s needs met, and that delight worries you more than literally anything else Luocha has done or said today.

You stare across the room at the covered window. Slowly and steadily, you untangle your legs, curling them to your stomach. Outside, a frog croaks. The pond babbles in the distance. The air above the blankets is cool on your face and legs as you gently kick the covers back. The chill caresses your skin, sneaks between your robes to give you bumbling gooseflesh. The walls of the nest vent out the worst of the cold. Maybe you’ll ask him about cracking a window open tomorrow. Just a little bit.

—

You wake up a few hours later, and blink into the dark. Luocha stirs next to you. He’s awake. You don’t know how you know, but you can tell. His finger curl ever so slightly against the soft core of you. A shiver ripples across you, robe parted just enough for his fingertips to touch your bare skin.

“...Did you plant the garden outside?” you don’t know why you ask, but you do.

Luocha hums into the crook of your neck. He strokes your stomach, petting you.

“I did,” he answers after a moment, a contented sigh ruffling your hair. “Now get some rest.”

—

You leave the next morning, without breakfast. Luocha is a surprisingly deep sleeper, though perhaps you owe that to his current affliction. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re also not going to be lured into skipping work by your own foolish sympathy. He can take care of himself for a miserly ten hours.

The day goes as any other does, at first. You take the shortest route you can find through the Luofu’s abundance-ridden innards, starting at the lower decks first. Packages and envelopes pass hands with little delay.

One of your clients, a buxom woman who owns a silk shop, covers her giggling mouth with an oversized sleeve. You eye her with suspicion. She notices, and giggles harder.

“I don’t mean to offend you, dear courier—it’s just—I hadn’t taken you the type to so openly… wear that kind of perfume.” she says, as if elaborating. You don’t understand what she’s talking about, and you don’t particularly care. You leave her to her frivolities and spirit away, merging back into the crowd with casual ease.

The next few clients each make some degree of face at you. One goes wide-eyed, before schooling his features into his typical, customer-service smile. The next looks at you like you have just thrice cursed his family line, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed into a beady glare. You resist the quite mean-spirited urge to remind of the legality of his purchases, shoring up your mental fortitude by recalling the sumptuous tips he usually gives.

Your seventh customer meets you beneath the crimson awning of a local cafe. You’re glad to be out of the beating sun.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says with a smile, nursing a cup of iced tea and ah—you realize, something about you has really changed.

“Thank you, but may I ask what you are congratulating me for?”

“Oh!” she looks startled, and then sheepish. “On the relationship? I didn’t mean to presume….but your scent, today…” she trails off, looking awkwardly to the side.

Fortunately, you don’t need her to elaborate. The context clues snap together with sudden, startling clarity, the peevish behavior you’ve endured all day granted perfect context. Of course, evidence of your business with the merchant would be more apparent to those with keener noses. Your cheeks blood with abashed warmth. You resist the urge to shrivel like an old apple peel, overwhelmed all at once with humiliation, with indignation at yourself and the man who cast this misfortune upon you.

Heavens, how outrageous you must have seemed, walking into the esteemed establishments and parlors of your clients bathed in that ridiculous fellow’s scent! It’s but another consequence of yesterday’s poor decisions. You fume silently as you leave, making a beeline for your apartment. It’ll delay the rest of your deliveries, but that can’t be helped.

Your phone jitters in your pocket as soon as you step through the threshold of your dwelling.

You drop your bag onto the grey throw rug. It lands with a mighty thud, loud enough to make you silently hope the downstairs neighbors had not been enjoying an early afternoon nap. Your jacket gets tossed onto the sofa, keys thudding onto the upholstery. Then, you roundabout to the door. A row of locks catch stray rays of sun. You swiftly latch each one and give the door a rough, cursory shove.

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

Your brow furrows. You’d never taken him to be this needy. Every other message above this exchange is polite, but ultimately curt. Most of his recent prying has been done in person.

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

I’ll buy you out. How much do you earn in a day?

Honestly, the nerve of this man! You type a series of poignant expletives out before tactfully deleting them.

It’s more than the money. my clients are powerful. i cant lose those connections

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

The tension drops off your shoulders. You expected him, in truth, to let loose a most potent threat to ensure your immediate return. A part of you, small and illogical, fears he’ll do his worst regardless. The thought of The Family learning your whereabouts nauseates you, bile churning at the very base of your throat, but surely a man possessed of his many sins is too wise to open his mouth about yours.

Without even realizing it, you have completely trapped each other.

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

It’s better not to think about it. You have hours more left to move, and your line of work demands utmost focus, lest you drop an organ into the wrong customer’s hands.

Fifteen minutes, you afford yourself. The water chases the sweat from your skin, soap and sponge raking your skin raw. The evidence of him washes down the drain with the suds, leaving you remarkably less agitated. Because, really, who gave him permission to linger on your skin and on your clothes and in your thoughts—who gave him leave to evoke your fear and sympathy and intrigue and misplaced affections? Not you, that much is for certain!

You determine yourself free of the vexing beast’s cloying scent and return to the Xianzhou’s busy streets.

—

Arrogance is one of humanity’s most populated wheelhouses. Next door, its foundations built by fools and geniuses both, stands proud senselessness. If you had to name a tenant they share, then with abrupt acuity, you would surely name the Stellaron Hunters, who, as far as you can ascertain, base their stratagems off the ravings of a lunatic. As you wander to the edge between land and space, you cannot help but wonder what his credentials are, and if anyone has ever laid eyes upon them.

You don’t care enough to ask, though, when you reach the jagged edge. The end of the cargo hold, where the Xianzhou’s artificial sky breaks. Fragments of pale blue and white float amongst the void, growing smaller and sparser until none remain. The ground ends in a series of jagged, shiny edges, as though the metal had been cut clean through. You duck underneath a smattering of ships and starskiffs and cranes and cargo containers. Cold, silvery chrome gives way to the cold, open empty. That is where the man in black waits.

“Blade” is his name. He is a vision against the star-scattered expanse of the empty. Stood beneath a bright, red star, unbothered hy the thin oxygen levels and freezing temperatures. Tall and looming and perhaps irredeemably beautiful. It could be the lack of air talking. You like him more than you like Silver Wolf. She wastes your time with always unnecessary and often personal questions.

“Here for Silver Wolf, I assume?” you ask, already rifling through your bag for the cables and strange, circuit-board devices which she has ordered from you.

“Yes,” he nods, and you appreciate how he says nothing else.

“Alright. Here you are, then. Make sure she knows that she owes me another favor. These things were hard to find. She’s getting the discount of a lifetime.” you hand him three small boxes and he leaves with a nod. A polite and concise interaction. As distant as mostly-strangers should be.

—

“Home” is after that. The skies have gone a bright gold, nighttime looming in the near distance.

Luocha’s home is not your home. You refuse to identify it as such, for doing so opens dangerous doors and implications which are most inappropriate for what you have. You make a brief pit stop to your apartment to gather a night bag, changes of clothes haphazardly crammed into the black canvas alongside a toothbrush and other necessary toiletries.

You nudge the door open with your hip. Pale orange light falls across the threshold and into the dimly lit living room. Luocha sits on the couch, or rather, he lounges. The silken collar of his robe drapes over his right shoulder, exposing a frankly indecent amount of his chest. You pay his naked skin no heed, plonking your bags onto the floor. It’s a welcome weight off your shoulders. You wish you could lay on the floor. A good sleep on that fine, polished wood would fix you.

“Welcome home,” he greets you, daintily depositing the book he’d been reading onto the side table. “I never realized just how long your hours are. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to it,” you reply, but you flop onto the opposite end of the sofa regardless. A heavy sigh punches out of you, weary eyes shutting.

“With how much you charge me, I would think you could afford to shorten your shifts,” he says, with sympathy you know is feigned. You crack an eye open to cast him a cursory look—but the room shifts around you in a blur as long fingers curl around your wrist and pull, tugging you onto his side of the couch.

You land with a disgruntled squawk. Your hands curl into silken fabric. and you realize belatedly that you’ve all but been dragged atop of him, left laid out between his legs. You twist, top half of your body turning to the side to level him with a nasty glare.

He’s flushed, is the first thing you noticed. More so than yesterday. His cheeks are dusted in pale pink, a delicate blush that runs all the way to his shoulders. He’s warmer, too. You can feel the heat of him pressed along your body.

“You didn’t have to do that. You could have just asked,” How does someone who looks so willowy have such a strong grip? It’s beyond you, truly.

“Forgive me,” Predictably, he looks completely, and utterly, unrepentant. “You were just so unsuspecting, I couldn’t help but want to surprise you…” You make a point of looking as surly as possible, and the fiend laughs. Quietly, and behind his oversized, crimson sleeve. Unbidden comes to you the shape of his lips around that euphonic sound, what they might look like when parted by soft breaths and dulcet moans— “Ah, please don’t make that face. It only makes me want to tease you more.”

“Enough of your insanity. ” you bite out, pointedly pressing your elbow into his side. You wriggle in his arms. His grip curls tighter around your waist and he sighs, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to take a long inhale. “Let me up!”

“Just a few more moments?” he asks, words mouthed into your skin. You feel hot all the way down to your shoulders. You muster all your resilience with a swallow, but it isn’t enough. A hush falls over the living room.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself lulled by the gentle sound of his breathing, by his warmth at your back. Nearly ever part of you aches. Your legs throb, the tight muscles of your thighs worn and throbbing from a long day’s labor. The scorching pains dig deep into your shoulders and your back—you’re due a nice, long shower, you think.

The dappled sun against the adjacent wall writhes and shifts with the artificial breeze. You can hear the winds shifting through the canopy outside. A songbird sings a trilling little tune. It’s easier to focus on these things while you indulge him and wait to be let up, even if he is being unusually quiet. You’re wise enough to not necessarily be glad for the silence.

His hand cups your hip, shifting you even closer. It’s only a centimeter or two, but it lets you feel the pointed hard thing jutting into your back in greater clarity. Unbidden, your cunt throbs between your thighs. The arousal and exhaustion makes your mind sticky, concrete thoughts difficult to come by among the haze.

“Luocha,” you murmur, and he moans softly, breath brushing against your tender skin. Goosebumps flare across your shoulders and arms despite the heat—the sound the shock you needed to get moving. “This is—” you cut yourself off with a swallow as his lips press to the column of your neck. Your already flagging resistance whimpers out into nothing. Each heavy inhale draws him further in, the scent so sweet and cloying in spite of your muffled senses.

“You must have had such a hard day. Doesn’t it hurt? Always going home to that empty apartment?” he purrs, voice indulging, dripping with a delirious sort of fondness. And isn’t that always the trouble with these sorts of situations? Does he want you, or are you the closest warm body available for him to rut into? How strong is his grip on reality? You writhe in his lap and he gasps. His grip tightens in response, holding you fast with surprising strength. “You must be so lonely…”

“I’m not, really,” you nearly snarl, finally losing patience with your clinger’s affections. Your voice, alongside the elbow you jab into his side, jars him from his twisted reverie. He chokes, and muffles a groan into the collar of your jacket, at last lifting his lips away from your skin. The breath whooshes out of him at the force of the blow, but his grip barely loosens. “Behave. Or I’ll leave.”

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

Over your brief stay in his lavish home, you have perhaps twice (or thrice) wondered if keeping to your principles was worth it. Why not sink into his touch? Why not drink deep of the physical affection he saturates you in? The fact that you’re contemplating the subject at all is deeply ruffling. Little less than two weeks ago, you would have scoffed at the idea.

Alas, the creature at your back is more siren than man. It wounds your pride. You aren’t just any beta. You’re a prime beta, a beta noticed and beloved by Xipe herself. The gift of Harmony should allow you to smother the scents around you completely. It should grant you immunity to the bothersome urges which so often get in the way of business. He weakens your shored-up defenses, somehow.

“Of course… My apologies.” he sounds contrite, and despite yourself, you soften. Just a tad. “It’s just—well, a little difficult to hold back when you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

Luocha evades the question, without even pretending to humor it.

“Your last customer was an alpha, wasn’t he?” He lifts his head from the hollow of your throat, looking down at your intertwined fingers over your shoulder. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand before he flips it over. His fingertips brush over yours, before curling into a fist around your pointer and middle, giving a gentle tug. He idly toys with your hand while he speaks. Voice a light, low murmur. “A tall man. Black hair, pretty red eyes… They look like candle wicks, don’t they?” He says it fondly, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

Of course he knows Blade. Why wouldn’t he?

You’ve never bought anything from Luocha, but you can tell from what he orders that he’s a merchant who idles in the same, seedy markets as yourself. A man who had asked you to trade him an organ brushing shoulders with a Stellaron Hunter somewhere in the darkest corners of the Luofu sounds completely and utterly plausible. A group of little coincidences which occurred just to be a thorn in your side. How did they meet? You can’t help but wonder. How well do they know each other? What kind of relationship do they have?

You don’t ask any questions. It’s not your place. Getting involved anymore than you already are is just asking for more trouble.

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

“Well. I am almost in heat. Perhaps I just became… a bit defensive when you came back, smelling just like him. Omegas in heat can be just as territorial of their dens as alphas in rut, though that's often overlooked in the social narrative. We’re supposed to be weak, dainty little things, you know?” If he feels self-conscious about this, he doesn’t show it. He has a tighter leash on himself, now. He sounds more contemplative than resentful.

“You, weak and dainty? I have to laugh,” you don’t.

“I appreciate how open-minded you are,” he says sweetly.

A brief silence falls over the room. You take in the soft sound of the breeze outside. The steady shifting of the trees’ canopies. The steady breathing of that small ecosystem he has birthed and nurtured.

He’s hesitating. A question hangs in the air, tangles on the tip of his tongue. You can’t see his face, but you have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. That, and it’s typical of him to demand more than you’re willing to give. No more ground will you cede to him. If he begs again for you to remain during the duration of his heat, he’ll find himself succinctly refused.

Still, you’d rather not have to go through the uncomfortable hassle of rejecting him. But he clearly thinks better of it, because he stays quiet—only breaking the contemplative quiet to ask you what you would like for dinner, his thumb rolling circles onto your palm.

#hungering for hsr #luocha/reader #luocha #imagine hsr

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laylajeffany · 25 days

Text

Crying at the Texas Roadhouse | Wenclair One-Shot for @cruciokilljoy

Rating: G WC: 4,500 Summary: Enid’s feelings are hurt and Wednesday tries to resolve them, requiring her to find her soft spot (in public) when Enid starts sobbing in the middle of a chain restaurant in Jericho. Enid's POV, established relationship, unrelated to any of my multi-chapter work TW: Esther Sinclair being herself

@cruciokilljoy You were probably looking for more physical hurt/comfort but both my multi-chap fics have explored that pretty throughly and I am tired of writing the girls in physical pain so I put them through emotional pain instead. Certainly not based on actual, recent conversations with my own hateful mother not at all ☠️

“You were crying.”

Duh.

“Like, an hour ago,” Enid clarified, looking at Wednesday as she stepped into their room with her jacket draped over her arm, sleeves rolled up, hands filthy. She could only imagine what her girlfriend had gotten into (literally, looking at the caked-on mud on her Oxfords that ran up to her stocking-covered knees). “I hardly think that’s the most pressing thing we need to talk about. Why are you covered in dirt?”

“Mud wrestling,” Wednesday replied dryly.

“Not enough on you for that.” Enid rolled her eyes and crossed her sweater-covered arms. She almost didn’t want to know but would certainly rather discuss Wednesday's potentially illegal antics than herself after the challenging evening that she’d already had.

She wasn’t in the mood for bickering, either way - so maybe quiet time would be best.

“Why were you upset?” Clearly, she wasn't going to drop it with her own deflection. Wednesday draped her jacket over the side of her desk chair and toed off her muddy shoes, forcing her to lose the small boost of lift they gave her, putting her squarely two inches beneath Enid. She stood directly in front of her, a kiss away – bearing into Enid with her eyes and forcing truth out of her.

Knowing her lower lip trembled a little, hating her tells and trying to frown the feelings away, Enid looked at her own feet. There was no use lying to Wednesday about an actually serious subject when the evidence was still in the bloodshot veins of her eyes. “My mother called. It was…it’s just always upsetting,” She glanced back up with a forced, sad smile. Wednesday’s eyes lost their intensity from curiosity, but gained something that was largely new for her – sympathy.

How Enid hated it. Deciding to dangle a tantalizing offer in front of her, she forced her pitch to remain neutral as she stated, “I don’t want to dwell on it. Can we skip the part where I rehash how my mom is a miserable person and…just go to dinner? You could edit my lycan paper after, I could use the help…”

Wednesday’s stare continued to be gentle and Enid was about ready to march out of the room if she didn’t quit. She couldn’t stand that. “Stop, please? Wednesday, honestly. I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want you to pacify me this evening. My mother always manages to upset me. And even if I stand up to her on the phone, I sometimes need to cry it out after. It’s like…” Deciding to use a weapon analogy, Enid expressed, “Like a fuse. She lit it, I detonated on her, and now there’s some debris to clean up, but I’m actually fine. I want to move on.”

Obviously a little put out by the way her jaw shifted just slightly, Wednesday disappeared wordlessly, returning from the community washroom down the hall with clean hands and sans her stockings, which Enid assumed she’d tossed rather than get any more flak from the on-site laundry service about soiling other people’s clothing.

She disappeared into her closet, coming out in a pair of wide-legged pants and an oversized black sweatshirt that fell nearly to her knees. If Enid could hide her emotions, she supposed she couldn’t comment on Wednesday hiding her body.

To her surprise, Wednesday actually let her not speak about her feelings and folded a hand into hers as she waved to Thing, nonverbally communicating that she wanted to be alone with Enid. Thing had been quite helpful to the whole affair – had heard her mother’s hurtful words, passed her tissues after she finished crying into her pillow, patted her back sweetly…

Wednesday led her to the foyer but didn’t turn to the right to take them to the cafeteria. Enid blinked a few times when Wednesday tugged her right out the front door and down the front steps. Confused, and really not in the mood to go investigating anything, particularly to discover whatever had Wednesday so dirty, Enid whined a little, “Can’t we just eat?”

“It’s Monday,” Her voice was just a touch darker than it had been in their room. “Nevermore’s infamous attempt at cowering to the vegetarians is tonight, and I don’t think their imitation beef is going to help you feel any better. We’re heading into town – I’m getting you a steak.” Well, that certainly perked her up just a little bit. “Withdrawing red meat once a week in an effort to be more environmentally friendly when ten percent of the student campus requires it as part of their metabolic diet is cruel, performative activism and we don’t need to be part of it. It makes as much sense as banning plastic straws. You don’t create systems change by following trends. Meatless Monday is going to meet my full-meat fist one of these days. But tonight, we’re going to crush peanut shells underfoot at a chain restaurant instead.”

More than okay with getting that salty coating in between the grooves of her furry, pink boots, Enid pulled Wednesday to her in a hug when they arrived to the edge of the forest trail that would take them into Jericho. Wednesday sucked in a breath of surprise at being forced into her hold but returned it after just a second of processing what was happening to her. “I don’t mean to take my bad mood out on you,” Enid apologized.

“I do it to you all the time,” Wednesday mumbled into her shoulder, sighing as she hooked her arms around her middle, hanging on just as tightly. “Usually for far-less valid reasons.” She pulled away to put her palms on Enid’s shoulders and met her eyes without that sympathy…instead…

Wednesday’s brown gaze in the setting sun was highly empathetic and made Enid drop half the tension in her shoulders. “I might also be a little hangry,” She confessed as her stomach roared suddenly between them.

There was a flirtation of a smirk on Wednesday’s lips at the noise and she said nothing, merely took her hand again, leading them boldly through the woods for a twenty-minute walk into town.

Enid swore she felt better just at the sight of the neon lights outlining the state of Texas with a cowboy hat perched on top of it when the restaurant was in view. Inside promised at least a feeling of satisfaction for the wolf within her, and that could often soften the meltdown of her personhood, too.

“Two, please,” Wednesday politely replied when the hostess, a too-cool Jericho High student with rapidly growing roots sticking out of her bleach blonde hair snapped her gum and looked irritated to have to ask how many were in their party.

Holding back her own growl of irritation, Enid would admit, she was relatively surprised by how well-behaved Wednesday could be in spaces like public restaurants. She often claimed that staff were simply victims of the State or something about labor rights, and generally tipped far more than Enid would’ve thought that they had earned.

Enid watched a basket of rolls be taken into a waitress’ hands and swallowed the saliva that threatened to slip out of her lips, thinking Wednesday was about to drop her hand as she often did in public – but not that day. She must’ve sensed some of her mother’s conversation had been about, willing to take on any bigot that might’ve had something to say about the two of them in a relationship. Vermont might’ve been one of the more progressive states in the country, but – certainly, so was California, and her mother had a whole lot to say from there that evening…

Once they were seated, Enid took a roll without waiting even a beat for the young woman who would be taking care of them to go through her required spiel, while Wednesday simply gave a curt nod at her before giving all of her attention to Enid as she went to return with water. (Enid could hardly wait for the day she could down one of those massive margaritas in the advertisements all over the establishment.)

She was halfway through with her first roll when Wednesday’s harsh stare asked the question before she needed to confirm, “You missed lunch with that extra dance practice today.”

“I’m sorry,” Enid said, just about ready to own up to anything – even things she hadn’t done, in an effort to just keep everyone from blowing up at her anymore that day. She really couldn’t handle Wednesday being frustrated with her, too -

“Next time, tell me,” Wednesday ordered, her voice clipped; Enid stared hard at the rings on the wooden, lacquered tabletop, willing her next round of sadness to stay internal. “I’ll bring you something to class. Don’t apologize to me.”

About to say ‘sorry’ again, Enid just bit her lip, seeing the tears that were threatening to well up in her gaze. She tried to blink them away, and was grateful when the waitress asked if they needed more time with the menu when she brought their water over. Enid just shook her head, while Wednesday started, then said her name in a very gentle tone – and all the up and down of soft and hard was really –

“Um, the twelve-ounce New York strip, please – rare.”

“You know that means pink, possibly bloo-”

Wednesday was quick to defend her. “She knows what her body requires.”

Enid let out a shuddered breath, quietly asking for her sides before the waitress left. Wednesday reached across the table and took both of Enid’s hands, clearly needing to understand more about what was making her act so small and miserable. “Tell me what your mother said.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Enid argued, feeling her tone rising as hysteria was pouring out of each vein, flooding her body.

“You obviously already are. It’s weighing on you. Release the burden, and you’ll feel relief.”

As the first tear fell, Wednesday’s face contorted from intensity and certainty to overwhelmed and near helplessness as she obviously hadn't thought through the fact that Enid was going to cry in public. She squeezed Enid’s hands, but the gesture only caused the second one to dribble, then the third, and the fourth, and Enid brought her sweater up over her face to keep from letting out an audible sob in the restaurant.

Thankfully, Wednesday had some sort of awareness about what to do – they’d been dating for months and friends for so long, she’d seen her fair share of Enid’s breakdowns and generally knew what did and didn’t help. When the preventative measures clearly weren’t working that Monday, she stood up and rounded to the space beside her, putting an arm around her and letting Enid fold herself into her chest. The unexpected display of affection was actually bringing out even more of her release. God – that hug to soothe her emotions into was exactly what Enid needed, and the fact that Wednesday had it in her to be soft enough around her to let her break down, in a half-full restaurant, into her arms? She loved her more than anything, and Enid knew that, she just wished, maybe – well, Wednesday was probably right. She did just need to talk about it to work through it.

When she met the black strings of her hoodie, Enid knew she let out a cry of a sniffly sound. It was embarrassing, devastating, really, to be having a full breakdown at the Texas Roadhouse. But Wednesday had been determined to try and make her feel better that evening and was going to have to finish what she started, even if that meant snuggling her in a vinyl-covered booth while the waitress awkwardly put their salads down on the same side of the table a few minutes after the crying began.

Wednesday unrolled one of the fabric napkins, shaking out a knife and the forks. For a brief, split-second, Enid thought she really might eat one-handed while she continued to snivel all over her chest, but Wednesday instead used the square to dab Enid’s cheeks, soaking up the tears that hadn’t been absorbed into her sweatshirt. She adjusted her hold on her girlfriend and looked at her with something new –

Sincerity.

Almost blubbering again, Enid just nodded, knowing it would do well to admit what Esther had said to her on the phone. “My…mother – she was …on her weekly rampage, about…everything. Nevermore, administration refusing to split us up – you not receiving any consequences from last semester…the usual. Then…it shifted,” She sniffed. “She brought up my late blooming, how I’d been so privileged to have been even have parents who cared enough to offer to send me to lycanthropy conversion camp…”

Wednesday’s hand curled on her upper thigh at that.

“And when she wasn’t getting a rise out of me for that, she dug deeper – the normal line of inane ramblings of how she couldn’t believe after all that time, ‘that Addams girl’ was what got me to shift for the first time…and, when I reminded her, ‘that Addams girl’ is Wednesday, my girlfriend, she…she…just said, ‘we don’t talk about that,’ and started bitching about the value of a Nevermore education not matching up to the price tag, not that it mattered – since none of her pack were scoring above a 3.5 on the ‘mediocre’ grading system, moved on to my scar tissue and wanting me to come home to have a consultation with a plastic surgeon for a revision procedure, and I said that wasn’t going to happen and hung up on her. Then I cried.”

Watching Wednesday respond to the entirety of the call was like discovering something new hidden in a sensory tube every other second. While she was short for words, Wednesday’s eyes always spoke volumes about what she would say if she dared to put her thoughts out verbally. Mr. Addams had described her tongue as that of a viper to Enid more than once when telling stories about her, so she was pretty sure it was often for the best that Wednesday focused on taking in all the information before reacting. She knew that Wednesday tended to get into it with administrators and authority, but at least with Enid – she was far more even-tempered in how she responded to hearing words she didn’t like.

Enid let out a long breath and picked up one of the forks that Wednesday had shaken out of the napkin, needing to channel her energy into anything but crying again. She speared leafy greens onto the tines, trying not to visualize doing the same to any of her mother’s more vulnerable body parts, for that matter – wondering which Wednesday would fantasize about ripping out first in her defense.

“I’m sorry, Enid,” Wednesday spoke through a near whisper of a tone.

Hearing those words come out of Wednesday was like hearing foreign language that she needed to interpret. Her fork fell out of her hand. Not wanting to startle her anymore, Enid brought her longing, hopeful sort of gaze to Wednesday’s. “Why are you apologizing now?”

Wednesday drew her hands into her lap, staring straight ahead. It took her some time to form her response, likely, if Enid had to guess, because of the emotion that was pooling in her own eyes. She knew her damn well enough that she wouldn’t shed anything close to a tear in public, but Wednesday was very much on the edge. It didn’t make sense – she’d done nothing wrong, aside from maybe push her into talking about it when Enid knew what that would unleash, but even then – it’s not like she had been the one to say all those hurtful things…

“I suppose I am not apologizing with my sorry. But I am sorry that I contributed to enough of your mother’s ire that she took it out on you. I’m sorry that she continues to refuse to acknowledge that you are in a non-traditional relationship, let alone demonstrate any sort of positive feeling about it. I’m sorry that she continues to bring up painful events of the past, and attempt to shame you for them, or think you should have been grateful for her wanting to send you to an abusive situation. I’m sorry that she thinks your grades aren’t good enough – you’ve got a 3.87 right now, which is Magna cum laude and I’m really proud of you for working diligently at increasing your grade point average. I’m sorry that she thinks you need plastic surgery. If you wanted to, that would be your choice. But I love your scars, and I think they’re beautiful.”

Enid could barely breathe. She wasn’t sure if Wednesday had ever said so many words consecutively, let alone that indicated her true feelings on any subject matter…that she was harboring so many about her, in particular. Trying not to let herself curl up into the faux-wooden logs that made up the side wall of their booth, Enid finally found the ability to expand her lungs and release the last of the tension she’d been harboring. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“It’s not in pity,” Wednesday clarified. “It’s not. It’s…perhaps a feeling that I don’t have a schema for.” She gave a rare blink as she seemed to be trying to find the emotional vocabulary within her to better explain herself, staring at Enid, who was pretty sure she was going to need an inhaler by the end of dinner at the rate Wednesday was taking her breath away. Finally, she gave a nearly-invisible shrug as she further clarified, “I just know, that I love you. And I despise that anyone would attempt to make you feel small, or anything else negative, especially someone who is also supposed to love you unconditionally. And I am sorry, that you were forced to endure that. All your life. So…I’m sorry, and I hope to make it up to you.”

Tilting her head, sniffing just a little, finding the shiest hint of a smile, Enid promised in a watery whisper, “You are. Right now. You…knew that I needed to take care of myself, and that school wasn’t going to cut it, and you brought me to the Texas Roadhouse,” She let out a small bubble of a laugh. “Here, I’ll get what I need to sustain me, but while we’re waiting,” She paused, reaching over for one of Wednesday’s clasped hands, forcing them apart so they could squeeze one another’s. “You’re giving me the opportunity to release what doesn’t. Thank you, Wednesday.”

There was a new wave on Wednesday’s features – a distinct mark of relief in her gaze as she swept it, unblinking onto Enid again. “It is hardly my forte to make someone who was sad return to baseline, let alone anything akin to happiness…”

“You’ve done a pretty remarkable job for me,” Enid assured her when the waitress brought out their main courses, looking a little awkward as she put them near their still-full salad plates.

“Uh…anything else I can bring you girls?”

“A total end to the heteronormative, compulsory, traditional society we continue to find ourselves existing in,” Wednesday said without hesitating.

The waitress blinked.

Enid shook her head. “I think we’ve got anything we need, right here.”

The woman left with wide, confused eyes and Enid sighed, cutting into her steak without thinking twice, watching the red ooze out onto her plate. The sight grossed her out, but she knew it would do her body good.

Sure enough – halfway into the steak, she was feeling remarkably better already. “Try to finish it,” Wednesday prompted her. “The full moon is on Thursday, you should be nearly doubling your caloric intake.”

Kissing her cheek, earning the slightest twinge of red to her cheeks, Enid thanked her and followed through, polishing off the meat, picking at her vegetables while Wednesday ate with a distinct sort of raised-higher-class slowness that she usually did.

After finishing and watching Wednesday tip the waitress almost double what the bill had been, Enid took her hand and made it her turn to lead them – the yellow glow of a Dollar General sign across the street tempting her. “I feel like properly finishing up my breakdown by making a frivolous, five-dollar purchase.”

Wednesday’s eyes rolled but she didn’t fight her. Mid 2000s soft-pop radio was playing as they stepped into the nearly desolate discount store, one that Enid liked because of the deadstock that featured some of her favorite comfort characters from her childhood. Knowing exactly what she wanted, she led Wednesday through precariously stacked makeshift aisles of cardboard boxes filled with inventory that would be put out by the one employee working there over the course of several weeks. She hummed along to the music, singing along softly with Colbie Caillat, feeling a little bubbly herself as Wednesday refrained from spewing out comments on late-stage capitalism or some such true, but nonsensical arguing that would accomplish nothing between them. “Here they are,” She said, gesturing to a host of children’s coloring books. Wondering if Wednesday's limited access to traditional children's media would kick in, Enid playfully wondered, “Anybody look familiar to you?”

“Even someone who spent a significant portion of her childhood exploring the caves below the house like myself can recognize the ultimate example of corporate greed, the mouse that is Mickey.”

“Yikes,” Enid commented, “I’ll steer clear of the Disney characters.” Mentally retracting her statement to herself about Wednesday being able to hold back full-punch societal comments, she smirked, spotting what she wanted pretty much right away, taking a pink, Strawberry Shortcake book into her hold. “Will you color with me?”

“I cannot promise that I won’t be giving the fruitcake a makeover. And a knife.”

Giggling, then singing along a little more as she took Wednesday’s hand and wove her through the maze of mess before checking out – spending a whopping two dollars and twelve cents to achieve the final release in neurotransmitters that would complete her night.

After a walk back to Ophelia Hall that included a great production of sneaking back into the campus as they’d left without permission, Enid and Wednesday both found themselves in their pajamas and ready for bed before Enid took her art supplies out from a basket, revealing about three hundred colored pencils in different shades.

Wednesday flipped through the coloring book with a touch of a nose wrinkle, staring at the smiley, fruit-themed girls. She was going out of her way, clearly setting every intention of getting through the moment to make her girlfriend happy as she'd claimed. Finally letting out a real, whole laugh, Enid earned her perplexed stare. “You did it,” She promised. Wednesday waited and Enid winked. “You didn’t just reset me to factory settings, but you made me happy. I promise. You totally do not have to color with me. You can read or edit papers or whatever else is going to make you happy, too. So long as you’re not out solving mysteries, but here with me.”

There was a beat of relief as Wednesday took out a book she’d been reading through, curling up beside Enid, who took some creative liberties as Wednesday would have, forcing a picture of Lemon Meringue, the pigtailed character, and Strawberry Shortcake to look as close to herself and Wednesday as possible, even adding a little knife into Lemon’s hand. Wednesday let Enid pick the music, but she went with one of her playlists of cello covers as a compromise for both of them.

When she finished and flashed the coloring sheet to her girlfriend, Wednesday almost smiled, amusement evident in her eyes as she took a knife out of her pajama pocket (naturally – everyone needed a bedtime knife), evenly slicing it out of the book. She tacked it up on Enid’s bulletin board before putting all the coloring supplies away while Enid watched. Finally, she turned off all the lights except the strand of twinkling ones she’d magically learned to tolerate once they started dating.

She brought Enid to the floor-bed they’d made with a roll-away mattress that was more comfortable than cramming into either of their twin beds, lying on her back as usual, and inviting Enid to curl up with her with silence, just vague gestures – a pat of her own chest, a small nod…

“Wednesday, I love you. Thank you, for making me feel one hundred percent better. I feel even better than before my mom called,” Enid said softly, nuzzling into her.

Wednesday’s fingers instinctively wove into her hair. “I’m tempted to block her number on your phone so she can’t get a hold of you. I can’t promise that if I’m in the room the next time she calls, I won’t make her feel something about herself that is more than true.”

“Good,” Enid encouraged with a contented huff. “She deserves that.”

“You didn’t deserve what she said or attempted to do to you in the past. And I hope that…her comments about…us, don’t make you second guess things. I am always here – to repair and comfort what she has hurt or damaged, as long as you want me to.”

Enid squeezed her affectionately. “You are excellent at comforting my hurts.”

There was a small breath of alleviation she felt from Wednesday. Wanting her to really understand that, she added, “You went out of your way for me tonight. You could’ve just given me a hug, taken me down to the dining hall, and come up to edit my paper. But you didn’t. You knew what very specific things would make me physically feel better, then opened yourself up emotionally for me, too. You’re the best. I love you.”

Wednesday clutched her tightly with one palm wrapped around her back, the other gently tracing the skin near Enid’s scars. Her words felt a little surprising when she added, “I would like to apologize for forcing you to talk about what happened before you were ready. I’m sure you would have liked to not cry in public at the Texas Roadhouse.”

“I think it’s a perfectly lovely public place to have a breakdown,” Enid said with a giggle at her own expense.

Wednesday said nothing other than a quiet, “I love you. Go to sleep.”

Closing her eyes so she could follow the direction, Enid sighed very contently, reflecting on the evening as she drifted off to have the chance to start over in a new day.

Layla is working through prompts and determined to write the Black Menagerie epilogue for the weekend - stay tuned for more ✌🏼

#Wednesday 2022 #Fanfic #Wenclair #One-Shot #visual for my non-american readers of what a Texas Roadhouse looks like 🫶🏻#who among us hasn't cried in a chain restaurant?#unbeta’d #the collection of one-shots I write mostly in a closet at work is bringing me great joy #thank you for all the prompts I struggle to do any kind of one-shot on my own #layla's >5k challenge

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emberfrostlovesloki · 8 months

Text

Mean It [Emily x Reader]

Photo credits: (Left) @coffeefirstpleaze (Center) @amekeii (Right) @flowersforfrancis

Prompt: Character accidentally dumps their coffee on someone in a very dramatic fashion; aka when Emily and the reader have their first date and it does not go to plan.

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 4.5K

Content Warnings: Minor language and mention of drinking.

A/N: This is just some pure Emily x reader fluff! The prompt is another from @imagining-in-the-margins and her lovely Meet Cute Writing Challenge. You could read this as a standalone or as a sequel to my story Moschino and Muddy Water. (linked). I hope you enjoy this story, and if you do, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! I hope you all have a good rest of your week. - Levi

List with all stories

_y/n_ = your name

_f/c_= your favorite color

_y/f/s_ = your favorite senator

_y/f/h/m_ = your favorite horror movie

As Emily walked outside to the terrace, the rest of the ladies from the team semi-stood and ushered her over. Em’s chunky heels made small clicking sounds on the smooth cement floor. When Emily had pulled out the sleek metal chair, JJ leaned over and gave her a hug, quietly asking, “How are you?” Emily smiled and said, “Pretty good given everything that happened on Friday.” Penelope had overheard the comment but stopped the question she desperately wanted to ask due to the fact that a waiter was walking over to them. The waiter pushed Emily’s chair in for her and asked, “How are we doing today ladies? Are we here celebrating anything?” There was a choruses of, “Goods,” and one “Fantastic!” from Penelope. Emily answered the second question stating, “We’re not celebrating anything in particular today. Just a girl's afternoon out.” The waiter nodded at Emily’s response and then replied, “Well thank you for joining us this afternoon? I’ll start you all with some still water. Has anything on the menu caught your eye, or do you need another moment?” JJ, who had been looking over the menu stated, “Yes, actually. Can we start with a bottle of Chablis -- the 2009 Au Revoir Simonne and the charcuterie board?” Emily and Penelope nodded their agreement. JJ always knew the best things to order at a wine bar, and they trusted her judgment. The waiter nodded and said, “Wonderful choices. Is there anything else I can get you?” Penelope spoke up, saying, “Yes, Can I also get a shot of espresso?” Again the waiter nodded and added the coffee to his list for the table. At the mention of coffee, Emily cringed but waited to jump into why. Inevitably the story would make a full appearance while they were together.

Once the waiter had gone, Emily turned to Garcia and asked, “How was your day in the office, Pen?” Garcia smiled and replied, “It was fine, but honestly when the team isn’t on a case it can be so boring. If the BAU isn’t needing my magnificent services, I can’t ethically ignore Stevenson’s Tax Crimes team. Stevenson’s research only requires me to code break and unencrypt, and as good at that as I am, it’s just boring. That’s junior hacker stuff and it rarely pushes me.” JJ smiled at that response and teasingly said, “Oh come on Penelope, you can just say that you miss having Morgan in your ear all day.” At this, Emily and Garcia laughed. When they had laughed it out, Garcia turned to JJ and asked the blonde agent, “Soooo, how is Will doing these days? Any updates for us?” JJ gave a small sigh and said, “You know I love him dearly, but he can be so uncertain at times. He’ll have an idea about where our relationship is going and then when I bring it up, he’ll backtrack. I know he loves me and wants to be with me, but it gets annoying you know?” Both of the other women nodded their understanding. Emily responded empathetically, “Maybe you should go and see him in person again soon? Even if you’re talking on the phone, tone can get mistranslated, and forget about texting. But I can tell he’s a good guy, and I hope it works out in the long run.” JJ smiled at her friends and their support of her and Will’s burgeoning relationship.

The waiter returned and set down three plates and a bucket of ice on the center of the table along with three long-stemmed wine glasses. The lean man then said, “I’ll be right back, ladies.” Emily, JJ, and Garcia refrained from talking about anything super deep because they knew the waiter would be back in a moment which he was. The man set the charcuterie board on the center of the table, then placed Garcia’s espresso in front of her, and finally poured each woman a glass of wine. He then nestled the half bottle of wine into the bucket of ice. The man took a step back and said, “I’ll leave you all to your conversation, and if you need anything, just call me over.” The women thanked him and watched him as he moved back inside. Garcia, Emily, and JJ took their glasses and clinked them at the center of the table saying, “Cheers!” They all took a sip of the dry wine and passed the glass plates around. When each of them had some food on their plates, JJ turned to Emily; who quite frankly, they were all here to listen to. After a moment of anticipatory silence, Garcia said, “Alright Em, are you telling us or what? I personally can’t wait much longer.” Emily chuckled, appreciating her friend's concern.

This whole girls' day had happened because on the Monday of that week, she had come into the office particularly gloomy. JJ noticed it immediately and asked what was up. All Emily had said was that she had had a bad date. That was all she needed to say apparently because due to that, JJ had asked Garcia if she had heard anything about this terrible date? By 5:00 p.m. that afternoon, Emily was being badgered by Garcia and JJ for details. Emily had acquiesced and agreed to tell the story of the date over drinks on Friday, but not before then. And now it was time to dish. Emily took a breath, and another sip of wine before saying, “Well. I had a date planned with someone.” Garcia could tell Emily was being evasive and said, “Come one Em, at least tell us their name. I promise not to stalk them online.” Emily gave Penelope a questioning glance to which the technical analyst said, “I pinky swear not to look this person up.” With this promise made, Emily said, “Well her name is _y/n_. We met sort of by accident in the Moschino dressing room. JJ, you were actually on the phone with me at the time.” JJ took on a look of understanding and said, “Wait, that’s the person! I didn't know you met her again!” Em nodded saying, “Yup. I actually ran into her again after the dressing room incident. She got me a coffee and we talked for a bit. It felt really natural, and I asked her out for a real date. Which happened last Friday.” At this point, JJ and Garcia were hanging onto her every word. It was a pleasure to have such attentive friends, and Emily continued, “Well we had a day and time set up, and I was really looking forward to it…” At Emily’s hesitation, JJ moved a hand over Emily's wrist saying, “But it didn’t work out with _y/n_? What happened?” Em gave her friend a soft smile and said, “No. It wasn’t _y/n_. She was great, but fate threw a few wrenches in my plan for a perfect date. I’ll give you all the details…”

Flashback to Friday Afternoon

Emily had secured a reservation at Noir 75th. It was one of the hardest spots to get a table at in D.C. She was getting ready in her Moschino dress to meet _y/n_ in half an hour at her apartment. This was when the first of the minor disasters had started. Emily heard her phone ping, and she swiped up to her messages. It was _y/n_ and the text read: “Hey, Emily. My car has a flat. I’m calling a cab and hope to be there in around twenty minutes. Sorry if I’m a bit late.” Emily blushed at the consideration and replied: “No problem. Sorry to hear about your car. See you in a bit. I’m looking forward to it.” Emily wasn’t worried about _y/n_ arriving on time. There was a leeway for their scheduled reservation and as long as _y/n_ was actually on her way, it would be totally fine. Emily turned back to her own pre-date ritual. She sat in front of her vanity and she pulled out her assortment of makeup. The next setback was when the restaurant called her, informing her that they had accidentally overbooked their reservations for the evening. Emily asked if there was any other way for them to get a table at the restaurant, but the maître ‘d had told her that he was extremely sorry, but there was nothing he could do. Em really had no backup plan for dinner. She knew that _y/n_ wasn’t expected to be wined and dined, but it had been so long since Emily had been on a real date that she wanted to make it special not only for herself but for _y/n_ too.

Emily decided that she would ask y/n_ if there was a place she liked that they might go to instead. There was really no reason to tell _y/n_ about the cancellation while she was on her way over. With a final swish of her lipstick, Emily finished her makeup and put away the cosmetics in their proper place in the cabinets near her sink. Just as she was closing the drawer, there was a knock on the door. Emily did one last check over her face and moved to the front door and opened it for _y/n_. _y/n_ was standing outside with a bouquet of roses and the most beautiful expression Emily had seen in a long time. _y/n_ was wearing black form-fitting pants and a _f/c_ turtle neck with a charcoal grey coat that accentuated her shape. It took a moment for Emily to realize that she was blocking the door, and she composed herself saying, “Sorry, please come in. You look amazing.” _y/n_ blushed and said, “So do you, Emily. I got these for you. I know roses are cliched, but all the other flowers at the store were wilted.” Emily nodded and took the flowers from _y/n_’s hand. As their skin brushed against each other, there was a jolt that shot up Emily’s arm, and from _y/n_’s expression, Emily could tell that her date felt the same thing she did. Given the chemistry they felt for each other, Emily leaned down slightly and kissed _y/n_ on the cheek before stepping back and saying, “Nothing is cliched if it’s coming from you _y/n_. You could pick some weeds from the sidewalk and I’d still be overjoyed to have them.” At the compliment and the kiss, _y/n_ flushed and said, “You’re so sweet, Emily.” They stood there for a moment, each transfixed on the other. Finally, the spell was broken when Emily moved to put the flowers in a vase with water. As she did this, she said, “I have some bad news.” _y/n_ who was now walking around the sleek space turned toward Prentiss and said, “Oh? What is it?” Emily sighed and said, “The restaurant accidentally overbooked tonight and our reservation got canceled.” _y/n_ let out a breath. For some reason, she had been expecting something worse. She replied, “It’s okay. We can go somewhere else.” At this point, Em was done with the flowers and had moved to _y/n_’s side. _y/n_ was looking at a picture of the team Emily had framed on a bookshelf that was half knickknacks, half Zadie Smith books. Emily was relieved that _y/n_ was cool about having to change plans on the fly. Not that Emily had expected her to throw a tantrum or anything; it was just that she personally had a hard time when plans didn’t work out. With the news shared, Emily asked, “Is there someplace that you like that we could go to instead?” _y/n_ thought for a moment and replied, “There’s a great Thai spot about five blocks from here if you like Thai. Their curry is unmatched.” Emily smiled at _y/n_’s enthusiasm and replied, “That sounds amazing. It is the perfect weather for some comfort food.” _y/n_ wanted to ask Emily about the photo. She wondered if the people in it were part of her family or extended family. None of the six others in the still looked much like Emily. She held off on the question, just in case their conversation stalled at dinner. Then she would have something to fall back on.

The two women made it down the hallway at to the elevator which was the spot of the next misfortune. With three floors left to the ground, the elevator jerked to a stop. _y/n_said, “Wow,” a bit out of surprise at the sudden stop. Emily and _y/na_ waited a moment, expecting the doors to open and someone from floor three to join them. However, after a few minutes, Emily softly said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” _y/n_ looked over to her date realizing that they might be stuck in the elevator. Emily moved to the litany of buttons near the doors and pressed the open door button with no response. She pressed it multiple times with the same result. Emily then pressed the help button. There was a momentary silence and then there was still nothing. Emily turned to _y/n_ and let out a small laugh at the ridiculous nature of their evening so far. _y/n_ joined in the laughter. Emily returned to _y/n_’s side. They both leaned against the railing and _y/n_ jokingly asked, “You’re not claustrophobic are you?”That got another laugh from Emily, and she was sincerely glad that _y/n_ was taking this all with a smile. Emily replied, “Thankfully not. I am, however, a bit upset that the elevator gave up the ghost right now. My neighbor told me it’s been finicky the last week, but he’s always complaining about something in the building so I didn’t really believe him. Maybe someone on the third floor will try and use the elevator and the doors will open?” _y/n_ nodded along and thought of something, saying, “There was a doorman that let me up to your unit? Could you call the front desk or something?” At this, Emily facepalmed and said, “I’m such a dummy. Why didn’t I think about that before.” Emily pulled out her phone and dialed the front desk. For a moment it seemed that the call was going through, but then it dropped. Emily tried once more and the call didn’t go through again. She took her bottom lip in her teeth saying, “The reception must be bad in here.” It took a half hour before someone on the third floor pushed the down button, releasing the two trapped women. At this point, Emily and _y/n_ were a bit tired and very hungry. Emily proposed just getting some takeout and staying in, to which _y/n_ readily agreed.

Things seemed to be looking up when their Chinese takeout arrived and they were happily eating with chopsticks and talking about whatever suited their fancy. _y/n_ swallowed a bite of low mein and looked back at the picture from before. She asked, “Can I ask who those people are in that photograph over there?” Emily’s eyes turned to the aforementioned picture. Seeing it brought a smile to her face, and she replied, “That’s my team. We took that picture at Friendsgiving last year.” _y/n_ nodded and asked, “I guess in your line of work you kind of have to be close-knit, huh?” Emily pondered the question for a moment as she took a bite of her egg roll. She wiped the sweet and sour sauce which she had managed to drip on her chin off with a napkin before she said, “Not always actually. The BAU team works well and we are friends, but it takes a long time to get close like we have. Even if we do spend a good bit of time together. Our team has integrated well, but I know other teams have lots of internal conflict and don’t get me started with inter-office relationships. I’m very lucky to be where I am at the Bureau.” After a moment, Emily said, “I assume it’s not the same dynamic at _y/f/s_’s office?” _y/n_ laughed hard at the suggestion, almost choking on her sip of water. Once her throat was clear, and she had wiped away the few tears that had escaped her eyes. _y/n_ said, “Are you kidding me? Even being cordial to some of the people I see every day is hard. I’m sure you have to work through a lot of bureaucratic red tape at the FBI and get annoyed with it. Well, I am that red tape. Being attached to a political party is a surefire way for half the people you're working with to hate you.” _y/n_ paused for a moment then clarified, “I don’t mean hate, hate. It’s just that you're working against them and there are inevitable winners and losers in politics. And the scandals, Emily. You have no idea how much we have to run around these people to stop them from ending their own careers.” Emily chuckled at this and said, “That bad?” _y/n_ nodded saying, “Talk about it. If you read the paper and you think that’s bad, the real thing would terrify you. It’s shocking we even have a semi-functioning government.” The conversation continued through the meal.

Emily took the empty take-out containers from the table and threw them in the trash can. She turned to _y/n_ and asked, “I’m going to make a cappuccino, would you like one?” _y/n_ said, “Yes please.” Emily moved to her espresso machine and got the grounds set up while steaming some milk. When the drinks were finished, Emily carefully moved to the couch where _y/n_ was seated. Unfortunately for Prentiss, she did not fully notice where the carpet and hardwood floor met. The lip of her sandal caught in the rug and she fell forward spilling the contents of both cups on _y/n_. _y/n_ was not expecting to be sloshed with the hot liquid, but she was more concerned about catching Emily before she fell into what looked like a very expensive glass table. Emily gave a little grunt as she fell into _y/n_’s arms. There was a moment where _y/n_ just held Emily who seemed to be a bit stunned. After that moment, Emily snapped back to herself, righting herself saying, “Oh my God, _y/n_ I am so sorry? Are you hurt? Did I burn you?” Her words were coming fast, filled with worry and concern. _y/n_ assessed her condition. She felt hot and wet and her skin was a bit red, but the pain had mostly gone and she replied, “I think I’m fine. Are you okay, Emily?” Prentiss nodded and said, “I’m fine, just a bit embarrassed. God, I am so sorry _y/n_” _y/n_ gave her a soft smile and said, “It’s okay, Emily, it’s just clothes.” Emily nodded and asked, “Do you want to borrow something of mine for now?” _y/n_ nodded and said, “That sounds nice.” Em stood and gestured for _y/n_ to follow her to her bedroom, which she did. Emily turned on a lamp moved to her closet and found one of her oversized sweaters and a pair of sweatpants. She offered the clothes to _y/n_ who took them and moved to the bathroom to change. As _y/n_ stripped, a loud crack of thunder rang around the room. _y/n_ was feeling cozy in Emily’s sweater, cozy and tired. She wasn’t sure how much longer the night would be, but she felt like relaxing and called to Emily through the door, saying, “Em. Do you mind if I take off my makeup? It kind of got smudged with the coffee.” From the other room, Emily said, “Of course. There are some clean towels in the drawer under the sink. The drawer on the left.” There was a contented, hum, and Emily heard the a drawer opening and the sink running. Emily took the moment to change herself. It felt a bit silly wearing a fancy dress at home when she could be in something comfortable instead. Just as Emily was finished changing, _y/n_ headed back out to the bedroom.

Emily looked over at _y/n_ and flushed. _y/n_ in her oversized shirt and pants was so cute. Emily moved forward and said, “Hey there.” _y/n_ took Emily’s hands and tipped her head up to which Emily leaned down and gave her a kiss. When they pulled apart, _y/n_ asked, “I’ve had such a lovely time tonight, but I don’t want to impose? Would you like me to head out soon?” Right after she asked this, there was another spectacular clap of thunder and lightning so bright that it momentarily filled the room with light. Right after this, the skies opened up in a torrential rainstorm. This wasn’t just a few drops or even a shower. This was rain pounding hard against the window. Rain that even with an umbrella trying to get in one’s car, the individual would get soaked. Emily looked out the window, and then replied, “_y/n_, you're not imposing. At all. Why don’t you stay the night? I don’t love the idea of you being in a car in this weather.” _y/n_’s eyes widened slightly as Em made the suggestion, and she asked, “Are you sure?” Emily nodded and said, “Of course. Why don’t you go to the living room and pick a movie for us to watch to wind down the night while I take off my makeup?” _y/n_ agreed and moved back to the living room. _y/n_ found a towel in the kitchen and cleaned up the spilled coffee as much as she could. She also moved the dropped cups to the sink. While Emily was washing off her makeup, _y/n_ asked, “How do you feel about horror?” While she patted her face dry, Emily responded with, “It’s okay with me, _y/n_.” Emily grabbed _y/n_’s stained clothes and hung them up so they wouldn’t wrinkle on a clotheshorse she kept in her closet. After a few minutes, Emily returned to the living room. She grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet and then moved to the fridge and got a bottle of wine and some glasses. She settled next to _y/n_ and set the blanket over both of them. With a glass of wine for each of them, they started watching _y/f/h/m_.

Just as they were settling in and getting ready for the scary part of the movie, the power shut off. Emily had her arm around _y/n_’s waist and was enjoying the warmth coming from her date. This time she couldn’t hold it in anymore and said, “Are you freaking kidding me? What do the fates have against us having a nice date?” _y/n_ chuckled again and said, “Em, I’m here to spend time with you. I’ve been happy this whole time, even when we were stuck in the elevator. Getting to know you and spending time with you is what’s important to me.” _y/n_ took Prentiss’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Emily took a moment to calm down and said, “I appreciate that, _y/n_. You really know how to handle these situations with grace.” _y/n_ hugged Em softly and said, “Thank sentator _y/f/s_ and his staff.” This had Emily laughing and when she regained her voice she said, “How about we head to bed? I don’t think anything too bad can happen there.” _y/n_ agreed saying, “Sounds good to me.” Both women disentangled themself from the blanket and Emily put the half-finished bottle of wine back in the fridge. With their phone flashlight to light the way, they made it to Em’s bed. Emily pulled the covers back and _y/n_ slipped off her socks before getting onto the mattress. Doing this, sleeping in Emily’s bed for the night had not been how she had expected this night to go. However, she didn’t mind. She was being bold, and putting herself out there, and doing that with Emily felt good. _y/n_ was surprised that Emily hadn’t taken her socks off, and she jokingly said, “Are you sure you’re not a psycho, what with you wearing socks in bed?” Emily replied back, “Hey. My feet get cold alright?” _y/n_ smiled in the darkness and said, “Well I could help you with that.” There was another comfortable silence as Emily moved closer to _y/n_. Em started slowly by grabbing _y/n_’s hand, and when _y/n_ nestled closer to her body, she pulled her into an embrace. They didn’t need to say anything. In the simple act of holding each other, they said all they needed. Before, _y/n_ and Emily fell asleep, _y/n_ ran her foot up Emily’s leg slightly and Emily sighed at the feeling. Emily hoped they would have other nights like this. Hopefully with a better start to the evening. When sleep took them, the rain lightened slightly, and the whole night felt okay, no matter how many bumps in the road there had been.

Back to Present

Emily had told it all, minus the fact that _y/n_ and slept together in her bed. That was a bit too private to share yet. Garcia was staring wide-eyed and asked, “So… are you seeing her again?” JJ, added on, “Yeah, that sounds like a pretty rough night for both of you.” Em finished her sip of wine and said, “We are actually. The date didn’t go as planned, but we both had a good time getting to know each other. She’s really nice and kind.” At hearing this, Garcia gave a little squeal, and JJ asked, “What are you doing for your second date? If you tell us will you jinx it?” Emily laughed and said, “We’re doing something very safe. I’m going to her place and we’re ordering pizza and drinking beer and finishing watching that movie.” ‘And we might just get snuggled up together in bed,’ Emily thought, which brought a blush to her face. Garcia clocked the color rising in her face and said, “JJ look, she’s blushing! When do we get to meet her?” Emily rolled her eyes and said, “Y’all, It’s too early for that. I’m still just getting to know her.” Garcia pouted slightly and said, “But we met Will for the first time with JJ.” Emily, slightly exasperated said, “Garcia, we were on a case.” Now JJ laughed and said, “And what a case that was. But to echo what Penelope said, if or when _y/n_ is ready, you know we’d love to meet her.” The ladies continued their conversation and got another bottle of wine, and in the cool afternoon, Emily felt that life might just be okay; and she really meant it.

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legionofpotatoes · 7 months

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All other criticisms of modern Star Wars aside, the thing that gets me the most is how every single story is being written to fit into some Avengers-level grand finale that just isn't laying a solid enough foundation to make it worth the wait. Regardless of whether the individual stories are good or bad, what makes them fall so short, imo, is that there's usually no real payoff within their own runtimes (unless you count cheap callbacks or loose promises of More, which you shouldn't)

Like, I already knew halfway through Ahsoka that we were in for a cliffhanger and it's just like...alright, guess we'll see how this ends in about 5 years? Even Mando, which had a great first season and was poised to stand on its own two feet and ride off on a rootin' tootin' bounty huntin' adventure, has ultimately become yet another dusty path on the road to the current Big Plot with an indeterminate due date. That's not deliciously addictive media, it's a dry-ass carrot on a spindly little stick, lol

Of course, this is a problem that many franchises are happily getting cozy with lately because everybody wants to have their own Infinity War / Endgame moment, but I guess it seems a bit more egregious with Star Wars because, ironically, it used to work best because it had less overall focus. Like, sure, we had concurrent movies, animated series, and games, but they were always happy to do their own things and tell their own stories with definitive conclusions. Now it all has to funnel into the Big New Plot and, man, I honestly just can't bring myself to care when it feels like an endless waiting game

I definitely need to get around to watching Visions at some point because, every time it pops up, it sounds like the lifeblood that Star Wars sorely needs atm

Yeah the setup-and-payoff a-to-b type dramatic clarity that seemed so entrenched into the very bones of cinematic grammar - up to around the emergence of streaming, wink wink nudge nudge - is sorely missed in star wars atm. sure maybe downsized writers rooms fidgeting with limited series formats instead of doing actual seasonal TV has something to do with it, but even that is probably such a small piece of the larger issue that spins all this longform storytelling bullshit ferry wheel around.

Another part is certainly chasing the MCU business model of it all like you said. Carrot on a stick is verbatim how I've often described these things myself, the endless promise of another promise of another promise instead of forming a complete thought with a beginning and an end. servicing the plot before story at all costs. another part still is reverence towards the aesthetic trappings of the source material instead of its themes, trying to nail the exact texture of tatooine's huts and dial in the perfect balance of lightsaber choreography and pay homage to a thousand iconic shots before articulating something true in the text.

And like it's an endless laundry list, this confluence of capital-I Issues both industry-scale and creatively-driven that seem to be flaying the skin off the bones of whatever star wars even "is" nowadays. no one can answer that in the context of billions of dollars made off toys and storylines centering around this one moment in fictional history about sons and fathers and empires and rebellions. so they just keep twisting in the wind filling in any gaps within that period. I don't know nonnie, it's all so bleak. ahsoka and obi wan and even mando tbh. as charming as season 1 was, it truly felt like it coasted on its incredible restraint to avoid muddying its aesthetic with cameos, and lucked into effective storytelling as a result of that utterly unintentional alchemy. that's obviously well and truly gone now as its true optics have reared head.

what star wars is by itself is such a pointless discussion, right? andor argues it's a perfectly functional heightened universe that can support incredibly nuanced and dramatically charged stories of grassroots rebellion and the bureaucratic strain of fascist regimes. visions argues it's a world beholden to the force, an endlessly mutable and elegant metaphor that can support infinite monomyths and fairy tales. both are equally fantastic at executing on their takes, despite being in diametrically opposite extremes of interpreting the source. so it's not really about that at all, why the other stuff sucks this bad.

they're just bad at the craft of it, that's really it. whether it's auteur worship or business decisions rotting that fish down, it still rots all the same. maybe the new writers' guild contracts can shift the winds a little, because I was so securely done with star wars and then the aforementioned 2 shows came and affected me. so, so profoundly that I'm back on the hook again. like a lil sucker!

#long post #anon #asks #boy howdy forgive me mister baby yoda for I have engaged in star wars discourse again #this will definitely not backfire on me as it never before has.

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quitealotofsodapop · 5 months

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Ao Lie

referencing posts like; baby Ao Lie meeting the bimawen, and Ao Lie wants to be a godfather.

I thought it would be pretty adorable if part of the reason Ao Lie is able to act a horse so well was because they were like his favorite animal as a little hatchling and while it was considered kinda weird among dragons ("Not even a seahorse? Just a... land horse???") it was fully embraced by a certain celestial stablemaster - Bimawen Sun Wukong.

Ao Lie would run off and "to be a ""play horsey" whenever he wandered away from his dad or brothers when they went to the Jade Palace for summits or banquets. He was too small to actually transform himself into a horse, but he'd turn into his noodley-snake dragon form and slink away into the stables.

Wukong likely came across the white baby dragon as he was riling up the curious horses (they all saw Ao Lie as a snake), and was like;

Wukong: "Damn, how did a baby dragon get in here? Ok little guy best get you back-" Ao Lie, hissing: "No!!! I'm horsey! I stay in stable!" Wukong, trying not to laugh: "Ok? I guess I was wrong. You're clearly a skinny white foal. My apologies." Ao Lie: :3

Even if Ao Lie doesn't remember the encounters that well, it did leave him with a positive opinion of horses, stablehands, and monkeys for some reason.

When the dragon is a teenager by the time of the Journey, all he knows about Sun Wukong is that 1: His dad and uncles don't like him, 2: He steals stuff, and 3: He's in jail. His brain doesn't make the mental connection until much later when Zhu Bajie calls Wukong a "useless bimawen!" during the Gold and Silver demons arc.

When Ao Lie first met Wukong in the stone egg au, he basically had the mental journey of; "Huh. The monkey king is kinda chubby- OMG its an egg!! Why is he walking?! Get off my back Tang monk! Don't you know mothers need plenty of rest?!"

After meeting the steed for the first time Tripitaka wonders why the "Bai Longma" is super insistent on letting Wukong ride him specifically. Remembering that the Monkey is "carrying a stone egg" (Tripitaka only knows that part and thinks its a metaphor), the monk in turn tells Wukong that he should ride instead.

Wukong, tired but still wanting to stretch his legs after 500 years under the mountain is like; "Huh? No way! I'm fine! You ride him."

After a while of Tripitaka insisting that the Monkey rides instead of him, Ao Lie gets annoyed and just sits down, causing the monk on his back to slide off into the mud. Holy cassock now muddy. Wukong gets the message but insists he'll only ride until the next village/when they get a second divine-given horse.

Zhu Bajie tries to ride Bai Longma *once* and he gets bucked off so hard he gets tossed into a lake. He swears the horse has it out for him.

I hc that this was around the time Ao Lie's older sister was having a baby, and he was really bummed out that he wouldn't be able to attend to his uncle-duties cus of his "community service" [ie. the Journey]. So he redirected some of that excitement onto Wukong, who was carrying the Stone Egg. Eggs are a huge cause for celebration among dragonkind either way since they only produce a few in their long livespan.

Wukong was a little surprised/confused by Ao Lie's doting behavior at first, but started to understand why the dragon-horse was acting that way when he spoke to Ao Moang later on during the Tuolong incident.

Prince Moang: "I must pass on congratulations. It's not common among either of our kind to behold future kin." Wukong: "Oh really? When's the last time you've seen a dragon egg?" Prince Moang: "Last year actually! Our sister Zhūlong's egg hatched around the time of your release." Wukong: "Oh. that explains why Ao Lie spoils me." Prince Moang, excitedly: "My little brother is here!? I have to tell him everything! I have woodblock paintings of the baby!" Ao Lie, running over still in horse-mode: "Show me! Show me!" Zhu Bajie, watching: "Weirdos. Its just babies. Everyone's having 'em."

And Ao Lie continues to be super doting and attentive to Wukong as the Journey continues, though he does ask after a few years when the Egg is supposed to be laid. Wukong doesn't have a clear answer for him.

After a while, Wukong says almost in jest; "With how well you've been tending to me and the Egg, I might as well make you their godfather!"

Ao Lie just *shrieks* with joy!! Yes yes yes! He would be so honoured!

Wukong doesn't even have time to explain it was a joke when the dragon hugs him, heavy tears falling on his fur.

Ao Lie: "I'm sorry. It's just that... no one at home has really trusted me with anything so important before. I know that you might... get really hurt when your Egg finally arrives and I am so glad that you trust me to care for them if you have to leave us."

Wukong realises in that moment... Ao Lie knows about Stone Eggs. He eavesdropped on a conversation held between Wukong and the Bodhisattva Guanyin early on, and silently held onto that knowledge until Wukong was comfortable sharing it with the others.

The Monkey King decides in that moment that he doesn't want to trust anyone other than the dragon prince to care for his future child. He's already proven his kind nature - and if the future Stone Monkey were to truly be born an orphan, Ao Lie would gladly help to raise them in secret away from the prying eyes of Heaven.

Unfortunately the Samadhi Fire made it so that Ao Lie would be unable to fufill this duty either...

#bai longma #lmk ao lie #sun wukong #jttw stone egged au #slow boiled stone egg au #pregnancy tw #jttw #journey the west #stone egg talk #the monkey king and the infant #the monkey king and the infant au #lego monkie kid #lmk #lmk aus #gif warning

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zvmz · 7 months

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A few Ashlynn Ella HCs <3

Despite being a royalty, Ashlynn grew up having normal household chores such as sweeping and washing the dishes, she's usually working alongside the maids

she is immensely loved by the entire castle staff

cinderella hosts a banquet every year on Ashlynn's birthday

and every year ashlynn asks as much as the staff as possible to eat alongside the royals

didn't get her own phone until she moved to eah

still almost never uses it. probably takes 2-3 business days to reply to a text message

briar ends up spamming her all the time to get her to finally reply

since its part of Ashlynn's destiny for her mom to die first, her mom probably fell ill shortly after Ashlynn signed the storybook of legends

which shouldn't have happened, since Ashlynn only signed the fake book

the truth is that milton grimm poisoned her to cover up the truth

hunter taught her how to use a bow

and she actually got pretty good at it

gets way too excited for pumpkin spice season

has SO MANY candles in her room

also has a huge collection of cardigans

grows her own veggies and herbs to cook with

she and hunter have like a thousand cringey pet names for each other

but she mostly calls him "sweet cheeks", "handsome", or "Honey Bunny"

while he will mostly call her "pumpkin", "babe" or "sweetie"

if they are together for too long their pet names will get progressively more absurd

like why did she just call him Hottie McHotpants

why did he just call her pookie wookie dookie bookie moo-

since Ashlynn's mom can also speak to animals, and is also very much against slaughtering animals, they only keep livestock for milk, eggs, ect. (these are for others who live in the castle, ashlynn and her mom are vegan)

before going to spellementary school and meeting briar and apple, she considered her best friend to be a cow

this cow was born the same week as ashlynn, so they kind of grew up together

she still comes to talk to the cow every time she visits home, unfortunately cows only live 15-20 years, so she doesn't have much time left

she always gets talked to by teachers for having muddy shoes and dirt under her fingernails

even when ashlynn was a royal, cerise always felt strangely at ease around her

never gets any of briars meme references, but laughs anyway

ALWAYS helps clean up after parties

she owns a car and has a license, but never drives unless absolutely necessary because its bad for the environment

she will either walk, bike, or ride horseback/carriage depending on the distance she needs to go

has multiple terrariums she uses to nurse little creatures back to health, before releasing them back into the wild

uses very little makeup day-to-day, just blush and mascara

has a bunch of dried flowers hanging upside-down in her dorm

uses work and cleaning as coping mechanisms

is definitely too nice for her own good. like customers or basically anyone can be SO rude to her and she will never stand up for herself

is constantly telling herself "maybe they just had a bad day?"

it drives briar nuts

if someone got her order wrong at a restaurant briar would have to tell a server because ashlynn was just going to eat it anyway

she'd still leave a huge tip, even if she didn't get good service

#eah #ever after high #ashlynn ella #briar beauty #apple white #cerise hood #eah headcanons

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serenescribe · 8 months

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I'm a *tad* obsessed with the idea of fae Lilia raising a completely different species son Silver, specifically jellyfish mer Silver. I am curious to see how you would interpret fae Lilia finding baby jelly Silver.

it's been a long while since the last long fic request :') slowly chipping away at them. uni is killing me. i hope you enjoy!

a side note: this was started beeeefore the latest update? actually started it before uni but then didn't get back to it till recently oTL

The thronging crowds of shoppers press in around him, making it harder for him to traverse through the crowd. Still, Lilia tries his best to shove his way past them, twisting his shoulders and ploughing through any gaps he can find. On instinct, one hand reaches up to pull down the hood of his cloak, masking his face further; it isn’t as though he’s in any danger here, or wanted in any capacity, but one should always exercise caution while exploring the boundaries of a black market.

For as long as Lilia can remember, he’s been searching for an old friend of his since the end of the war, travelling to different corners of the world in hopes of finding some inkling of his existence. Such a quest has brought him here, to a black market tucked away in the corner of a tiny island, but unfortunately for himself, Lilia has ended up empty-handed.

He’s trying to leave the area, pushing and shoving his way through the endless sea of patrons, when a sudden shrill cry stops him in his tracks. Lilia’s ears twitch. His head snaps to the side, following the source of the sound, only to come across a small group crowding around a rickety wooden stage. A tall man dressed in a patchwork suit jacket and a rumpled collared shirt talks to all of them, gesturing animatedly with his hands.

But it is what the man is gesturing at that snatches Lilia’s breath.

Because next to him, curled up in a too-small tank filled with muddied water, is a tiny little mer. Little tendrils of its tail tangle together as the creature presses thin fingers against the glass panes of the tank, auroral eyes flicking from side to side with a fervent desperation that Lilia feels in his soul. It is too young to be here, too small; Why in the name of the Thorn Fairy is this child here?

And for some reason, against the logic that tells him he should turn and leave, return to the Valley and carry on with his next mission, his next search, Lilia finds himself stepping towards the stage instead. He slips through the mob with silent steps, eyes fixated upon the petrified mer — a jellyfish, he recognises, his knowledge of aquatic animals rising to mind.

Within a matter of seconds, Lilia has gotten close enough that he catches wind of what the man is saying: “—a beauty, isn’t it?” he crows, tapping a dirty fingernail against the tank, causing the little mer child to shrink away. “We caught it out on the sea this mornin’, and we ain’t gonna let it go for anythin’ less than two thousand thaumarks!”

Disgust chokes his throat like a slimy wad of muck. How utterly deplorable, Lilia thinks, a rare flash of anger sparking through him. He still does not understand what has drawn him so much to this strange creature — the mer with dull silver hair who hugs itself, little bubbles floating through the water as its gills flutter, so impossibly tiny and small—

…Ah. He understands now.

In some way, looking upon this child, Lilia is reminded of Malleus. His mind whisks him back to a different time, when he had been tasked with raising the boy through his infant years, his childhood years, until he matured enough that Lilia no longer needed to keep an eye on him at all times. Is it no wonder, then, that his heart seizes at the sight of this blatant mistreatment? Regardless of whether the creature is fae or not — and it is not, evidently a child of the sea — it does not deserve to be sealed away like this.

Lilia could very well afford the mer. Two thousand thaumarks is quite the sum, but for someone who has been in the service of Briar Valley’s royalty for centuries like he has, he has more than enough money to afford it. But at the sight of the sleazy seller, who reeks of rotting fish and keeps toying with the child — banging his fists against the glass, sticking his grimy hand inside to grab its fragile wrist and yank it partially out of the dirty saltwater, yelling loud enough that its fins press against its head, clearly terrified—

The mer’s eyes flick towards him, locking with Lilia’s gaze. A fervent desperation flickers within them. It presses its hand against the glass again, scrabbling against the surface. A silent plea for help — and one that Lilia shall answer in the only way he knows how.

When night falls, Lilia strikes.

The auction for the jellyfish mer has been scheduled for tomorrow – a greedy move on the part of the fisherman selling it, to maximise profits as much as possible by drumming up heaps of attention. But it had worked; by the time evening fell and the terrified little child had been carted away to a dinky tent nearby, a sizable crowd of murmuring buyers had formed. Lilia had caught sight of some of them flipping through their stacks of thaumarks, counting their funds carefully.

He only has one shot at this. He has to make it count.

Closing his eyes, Lilia allows his magic to cloak him like a thin veil over his skin, shielding him from view. Stealth is his best option here; while he is more than capable of slaughtering everyone involved in kidnapping that young mer, Lilia does not wish to bloody his hands any more than he has to. His days of bloodshed and violence are long behind him, and as much as he wishes to teach the mer’s kidnappers a lesson, he figures that losing the child shall be punishment enough for them.

Besides, it wouldn’t do good if word got out that the general of Briar Valley was off slaughtering humans in another country.

With silent steps, Lilia steals past the guard — a man who keeps dozing off, jolting upwards every few seconds — and slides into the tent with scarcely a whisper. The interior is dank and dim; there is another guard there, this one alert and awake, arms crossed as he surveys the dirty tank left on the floor nearby.

A crushing feeling overtakes his heart at the sight of the mer. The young child curls into itself, tucking its chin into its chest, floating tufts of hair shielding its eyes from view. It looks lifeless, the only sign of its survival being the faint fluttering of gills. Something in his chest twists at the sight, a certainty settling within him. Lilia knows that what he is doing is right.

With the flick of a wrist, he conjures a small mist of magic, watching as it wafts over to the guard and swirls around him. Within a matter of seconds, though he fights to stay awake, the man has passed out, collapsing onto the ground — and it is only Lilia’s reflexes that allow him to cushion the fall, more from the need to avoid attracting attention than any care for the man. Slowly, he lowers him to the ground before releasing the invisibility spell, brushing off his hands on his cloak as he turns back towards the tank to see—

Wide eyes, hued with shades of baby blue and lavender and pink, gaze at him from behind muddied glass. Fingers press against the tank, and Lilia winces at the sound of a warbling trill.

In a flash, he darts forward, pressing a finger against his lips. “Shh!”

But he is too late.

Even as the child slaps its tiny webbed hands over its mouth, eyes widening as it realises what it has done, Lilia knows the guard outside must have heard it. There’s a creaking sound, heavy footsteps dragging across the ground, accompanied by a languid sigh, and it is only his quick reflexes, honed after years and years of war, that allow him to escape notice.

In a flash, Lilia has flung himself upwards, clinging to a corner of the tent, tucking himself in as closely as possible. If he’d had more time, he’d have thrown the same invisibility spell over himself but alas. All he can do is shrink back as much as possible, limbs wrapped around one of the poles holding the tent upright, and praying that the guard is stupid enough to not notice the shadow he’s casting across the floor.

He holds his breath, watching as the burly figure enters the tent.

“Oi,” the guard grunts sharply, narrowing his eyes at the mer in the tank — who thankfully avoids glancing over to Lilia, smart enough to avoid betraying his location. He ambles up to the tank before glancing off to the side. The man stiffens, having found the slumbering body of his fellow guard. “What the—”

Alright, that’s enough of that.

With the same spell he’d casted earlier, Lilia knocks out the second guard. The only caveat is that this time, the guard falls to the ground with nothing to cushion his landing, smashing into a nearby crate with a rather loud CRASH!

Lilia flinches, adrenaline igniting his veins. Dropping from the pole, he barely spares the scene a glance, racing back to the mer instead and lifting the heavy glass lid off its tank. “Can you breathe outside of the water?” he asks, constantly glancing over his shoulder for any signs of someone coming in, ears pricking as he strains to hear the barest bit of sound. As soon as the mer nods, Lilia’s reaching into the briney water as the mer raises its arms, thanking the fact that he’s wearing thick cloth and gloves, if only for the fact that the mer’s tendrils wrap around his limbs as he lifts it out and cradles it close to his chest. “Stay quiet,” he hisses, using his other hand to conjure the same spell from earlier, hoping it’ll hold through. “The last thing we want is to attract any unwanted attention.”

They slip out of the tent just before someone else arrives — another one of the fisherman’s nameless cronies, with the fisherman himself ambling after in ragged loungewear. Lilia holds his breath, skulking beneath the shadow of a tree, each step careful and calculated; he would teleport if he could, but he isn’t sure how that would affect the child, weakened and frail as it is.

So he sneaks away slowly and steadily, leaving the commotion behind, the pitching screams and demands for everyone to search for the missing mer, to get their product back — such an inhumane term that it makes Lilia want to puke. And the further he gets away, the faster he gets; before long, he’s sprinting, the spell melting off of him, out of distance from the captors for now.

The mer clings to him, snuggling close. Lilia holds it tight against him like a lifeline, a swell of such fervent protectiveness rising within him, washing over his mind and soul.

“Here we are,” Lilia breathes. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath. Ah, he is certainly growing old, more winded from this than he would have been in his prime. His boots dig deep gouges into the sand as he walks towards the shoreline, the night’s sky twinkling overhead, reflecting in the waves to form a sea of stars.

Initially, he’d headed straight for the nearest beach he could think of, all before arriving and already spotting a small group of stragglers searching around. It had taken much longer to travel to a different corner of this island, but it had been a necessary precaution in the end; the last thing Lilia wanted was for the mer to get recaptured after being returned to the sea.

The waves lick at his boots as he walks into the ocean, far enough that the water reaches his knees. “There you go,” Lilia says kindly as he leans down, pulling the little mer away from his chest, returning it to the sea. A soft smile spreads across his lips as he watches the child reach for the water before plunging in with a splash, its form a tiny shadow amidst the lapping waves before its head breaks back above the water.

“Isn’t that better now?” Lilia croons, a warmth wrapping around his heart as the mer nods eagerly, beaming brightly at Lilia, the moonlight shining down on its silver hair. “Good, good,” Lilia says, slowly straightening up. He yawns, stretching his arms above his head, a cracking noise accompanying the motion. “Oh, I hadn’t expected to do this much today,” he murmurs to himself before shaking his head. Giving the mer one last smile, Lilia says, “You take care of yourself now, hm? Don’t go getting caught in any nets again, khee hee.”

And that would have been the end of everything. Ideally, Lilia would have stepped out of the water, using his magic to dry himself off before teleporting to the pier at the other side of the island and waiting for the first ferry to start him on his journey home. The mer would have been relegated to little more than a story to recite to Malleus upon his return, a thrilling rescue he’d mounted in the midst of what would have been another ordinary trip.

But what Lilia didn’t account for was that the child would get attached.

Before he can even make it a few steps away, there’s a rapid-fire outburst of frantic trills and clicking before something heavy barrels right into his legs. Lilia stumbles, losing his balance and crashing down with a screech and a mighty splash. Water soaks through his clothes, his cloak; Lilia spits some of it out of his mouth, blinking the salt out of his eyes, all while something curls around his leg tightly, refusing to let go.

“Little one…” Lilia stares at the mer child, its arms wrapped around his leg, squeezing with a vice grip that a lesser human would not have been able to withstand. Where was all this strength while you were trapped? Lilia ponders briefly, before dismissing the thought. He leans forward, gently prying webbed fingers away from his pants, pulling the child off of him. “Your home is here,” Lilia insists, gesturing at the sea around them. “I live elsewhere; I cannot possibly stay.”

Another round of distressed clicking and trilling. The mer stares at him with big, pleading eyes, swimming forward between his legs to cling to the front of Lilia’s shirt. “Little one—” Lilia tries again, because how can he stay? He has a place to return to, obligations to attend to, people waiting for him. But the mer child ignores him, pressing itself against Lilia with a stubborn determination that surprises him.

“Surely your family should be coming to find you soon,” Lilia tries, only to be met with the shaking of a head, silver hair slicked against its forehead. He raises an eyebrow. “An orphan?” Lilia mutters — words intended for his ears only, except he knows the mer has heard him from the way its grip on him tightens. “But— dear, I cannot possibly bring you home. I live very far away from here, and not anywhere particularly close to the sea!”

But no matter how hard Lilia tries to protest, to gently push the mer off of him, to leave it here — because this is its home, here in the sea; what will become of it, if Lilia were to smuggle it into the Valley, bring it on such a lengthy journey? — it refuses to go. And as time ticks by, the hours passing until the sunrise begins to bleed on the horizon, Lilia finally concedes.

“What a headstrong child you are,” Lilia muses, ignoring the sopping wet cloth clinging to him as he stumbles out of the sea, giggling mer child held in his arms. He gazes at it— no, him, at the child in his hold. “Do you have a name, little one?”

The mer blinks at him. “I’ll take that as a no,” Lilia sighs. Ah… what could a good name possibly be? It’s something he ponders over during the entire trip back, using his magic to mimic a glamour over the mer such that everyone shall see him as only a human child.

But it’s not until he’s sitting in his cabin late at night with the mer curled in his arms that it hits him. Moonbeams streak through the porthole, reflecting off the boy’s shimmering hair, washing it in a silvery light.

“Silver,” Lilia decides, testing the name out on his tongue to find that it feels right.

Silver, this mer he rescued by chance, the one who clung to him, who didn’t want to let go. Silver, who is his.

Leaning back in his chair, Lilia closes his eyes and smiles.

#my writing tag #tumblr drabbles tag #writing requests #twst #twisted wonderland #spoilers are VERY minimal. one line. but just to be safe #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst ch7 #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #twst fanfiction #twst writing #one down seven to go #i usually have more witty tags here but i'm tired tonight ahfndhfgdg

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notknickers · 8 months

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it's here, barely in time. enjoy, or don't. i'm done. which is what matters.

synopsis: when colonel könig gets restless, he knows he can always count on his favourite recruit to put him in his place the way he needs to. warnings: unethical power imbalance, full-con otherwise, boot blacking, proud to messy submissive, slight degradation, manhandling, könig loves it when mummy steps on him, orgasm control, masturbation, praising, köning is a little worm who loves to squirm, smoking, light petting, aftercare, second-person narration in present tense, no gender mention, but reader assumed to be afab, military-related inaccuracies, probably. word count: 2643

a/n: i was stoked to write a boot blacking scene, so i hope it came out right.

if you are under 18, tentakönig doesn't want you to clik below. you don't want to make tentakönig sad, do you?

that day started exactly as expected. early wake, frugal breakfast and another simulation of a real mission. tomorrow will be the same, until, one day soon, it will not be just another realistic exercise to drag you from bed, but a real, multi-day operation with unbelievably high stakes. so you and your squad completed your tasks, competing against the others, making use of all the skills cultivated in the almost ten years of service before being hand-picked for your new position in the private sector, just to see if your current employer is satisfied with it, or thinks you could all use a few pointers and much more training to meet their very high standards. you cleared the assigned objectives to the best of your abilities, each member of the team there to shore up each other’s weaknesses and emphasise each other’s strength, then exfiltrated and had an end-of-day debrief. a very boring one, by then. with all the adrenaline spiking and dropping, all you could think of was supper, then the cot. not a recap of the day. even less so a reprimand for accidentally tracking mud inside. that one ended with the sergeant with a stick up his arse threatening all kinds of debasing chores around base to instil in you some sense of decorum. luckily, colonel könig stepped in to take the task of teaching you a lesson personally.

the sergeant really wanted to be the one to discipline you, before the colonel swept you from him! too bad.

you felt grateful, suspecting könig had far different plans in mind, even though exhausted, dirty and starved, you were not sure you could perform them as well as he had come to expect.

you found comfort in the fact that he did not appear to be in a full-on crisis like last time, even though you could sense nervousness exude from his fidgety fingers and pace.

when the two of you turned the corner of a corridor and he lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing – to avoid leaving any more mud prints and no other reason, surely – all worry dissipated like fluffy clouds battered by ruthless winds.

so, this is how you find yourself in the colonel’s private office, sitting on his incredibly comfortable – and duly reinforced – leather chair he usually keeps behind his desk, with one muddy boot rested on the kneeling man’s bulky right thigh, a boot blacking kit set on the floor beside him.

he has just finished wiping the worst of it from your soles and is now undoing the laces, pinching them between thumb and index to force the dried dirt to crumble on the towel he has intelligently spread under both of you.

you observe the meticulous care with which könig folds the lace into a hank and puts it on the corresponding side, so he will know to what boot it belonged. he does the same with the other.

perched up in his – now yours – chair, you watch the colonel dip the bigger brush in water and saddle soap a few times, before he begins to lather the leather until the whole surface froths with white foam, the circular motions soothing your aching feet even through the thick material.

but it’s not just the pleasant, physical sensation that captures you: it is always fascinating watching the colonel labour with such practised skill.

it’s not that you are a stranger to caring for each item of your uniform to the mandated standards yourself: minding your equipment is just another one of your duties. however, the fact that a man several ranks higher than you is hard at work on his knees to clean muck from your boots never ceases to tickle that well-hidden spot in the secret hallways of your mind. that spot that feels increasingly less concealed, as time goes by and colonel könig keeps, knowingly or not, to appeal to it with such naked candour and good will.

you sink into the padding a little, closing your eyes as the clean, slightly pungent, scent of soap fills your nostrils and the gentle rustle of cotton against the leather grain reaches your hearing with regular cadence. könig is vigorously wiping the foam with a rag, mercifully sending warmth up your stiff legs, weary from all the walking, scuttling and crawling.

he takes his time with it and you don’t dare say a word, lest you distract him and ruin the moment. you can envision his serious expression even under the mask he has not removed: brow knitted. intent focussed. mind clear.

you wonder if the colonel is the type who, when fully committed to a task, lets the tip of his tongue inadvertently snake and wander from the confines of his lips, leaving it to peep out for the duration. the thought makes you snigger, a small but crystalline sound that has könig halt a moment in question.

you shake your head in dismissal, mirth warming your features: «please, colonel, continue.»

the harsher sound of dry bristles from a smaller brush going through seams and metal eyelets resumes as he obeys, until this stage, too, is completed to his – and, implicitly yours – satisfaction.

as much as you crave the sight of him, so much you wish you could burn it in your retinas, you don’t have it in you to open your eyes when he firmly lifts your right leg to rest it on the bulging muscle of his quadriceps, like he just did with your left, to restore that boot, too.

you let the colonel serve, his movements and their sounds giving you a very clear idea of what is happening all the same, as you sink even more in your seat.

the clinking of a metal jar makes you grimace faintly, but the known smell of shoe grease gets you back in the moment. he works the stuff with his bare fingers, massaging it into the leather up to the ankle, which he carefully turns to slather the whole boot.

you almost wish you could get away with keeping your endowments in worse condition, as all it will take for your boots to rediscover their as-new shine will be a single coat. two at most. you can’t help but sigh, trying not to let your disappointment sift through: so attentive and attuned is the colonel, he would surely detect it and risk thinking he is the source of your displeasure.

a notion that could not be furthest from the truth.

as the left boot soaks in the wax, the colonel’s hands operate as deftly on the other. this time you indulge in watching him knead more product in with knowing touch. the time to buffer the other one with another clean clothe comes too soon, but you enjoy the care anyway. when the right one has also been thoroughly wiped, he takes both of your feet back on his thighs to laces them back up. making sure the length on each string is even.

quiet but proud, he waits for your verdict.

you peer at the renewed leather with critical eye, toying a bit with the colonel with long pauses and pensive frowns, the soft light of the desk lamp suffusing the outline of your right boot enough to let you admire its state.

«an impeccable job as always, colonel», you state as you plant your left boot on his shoulder, «however…»

you sense his tension at your objection, that sudden tautening that goes through every fibre of könig’s ample figure like lightening. his eyes lift to yours, expectant.

«however, i think they could use a spit shine… what do you say, colonel?»

könig eases right away as his neck turns towards your ankle. there’s no need to specify you expect his tongue to serve as both applicator and buffer, this time, as the colonel is already lifting his hood, using the bridge of his nose to secure its hem.

his eyes fix on yours as his tongue traces your boot from heel to toe, through the side, and a deep, intense shiver seizes you from within as he continues, lips smacking as he delivers a flurry of wet and languorous kisses on the leather itself.

his large hand firmly braces your ankle, further bending your knee. he cups the rubber sole with the other, as his tongue contours the shoe’s silhouette. he glances at you in between long sweeps of his tongue, desire glinting as bright as fireflies in the dark.

you take it all in from above. the fluid movements; the way his ruined, red lips, glowing with spit, part and suck; how his soft, pink tongue flutters over the dark surface, careful not to miss a single spot.

as diligent with his mouth as he is skilled with, you have come to believe, all he does. a quality of his you thoroughly appreciate.

you find your teeth pinching your bottom lip as the sight of him filters through the heave of your chest, getting slightly faster as it accommodates your heart picking up pace. so devoted to his task, he barely notices when your stamp your other boot on his muscled chest and push, shoving him down to the floor.

you abruptly stand as könig drags backwards on his elbows, resettling after the unexpected fall.

«tell me, colonel, do my boots taste good on your tongue?», there’s a hint of a cruel smirk pulling your lips in a tense line.

könig, eyes a little desperate in arousal, nods slowly.

you draw closer, speaking more softly: «do you miss it, colonel, their taste?»

again, he nods as he still holds himself up from the floor on his elbows as you loom closer.

«how much?», you breathe out as he watches you advance with no more room to escape.

you press the boot on his cheek, pushing his face between floor tiles and rubber, forcing könig to lie on his back.

«well?», you taunt, «show me how much you miss it, colonel.»

in that position, he has to strain his tongue to manage to feel the lovely leather back on it, where it belongs. where he aches for it. the tip of it almost reaches you several times as he groans at every attempt, saliva dripping down his mouth to his chin, where it pools thickly, before drooling down to the floor, wetting his reddened cheeks at its passage.

«go on, colonel. if anyone can manage, that is you», you taunt and encourage at once, until, indeed, his tongue brushes the boot that holds him down.

«good, pup!», you coo, dragging the rubber of your boot lower on his chest, the tread of it engraved in könig’s face.

you don’t stop your descent, slow though you decide to keep it, until it approaches könig’s waists. his hips jolt up a little of their own accord before you’ve even found balance, letting you know in unmistakeable terms what he hopes from you.

«you want me to go lower, puppy?»

he nods more emphatically, panting a little in anticipation.

«oh, colonel… do you really want me to use my shiny, black, leather boot to make you come in your drawers, like a pathetic adolescent?»

you rub the toes of your boot downwards, feeling könig’s impressive length struggle painfully against the durable material of his uniform, barely any room to accommodate his hard-on, his hips lifting up against you.

he whines pitifully when you pull away, leaving him to thrust into empty air in utter frustration.

«oh, puppy… but what would all the respectable men and women who serve under you think, if they knew that their colonel likes to make a sticky mess in his clothes?», your voice oozes mockery and sympathy in almost equal measure, as you rile him up.

just like the defeated way in which he peers back at you in supplication both pulls at your heart strings and makes you slick between your thighs at the same time.

you sigh: «alright, then. cock out, colonel.»

he’s not quick enough to react to your tastes, so you intimate again, voice much harsher and peremptory, this time: «cock out, i said!»

he quickly fumbles with belt and buttons, until his heavy member, slicked and leaky at the tip and swollen from all the constriction ill-endured inside his trousers, springs out, lending with a smack on his lower abdomen, on his enticing trail of blond curls.

your boot is quick to kiss it, further squeezing its shaft against könig’s stomach as he groans, full of longing and gratitude. he mindlessly grinds against you as you watch him, barely having to do any work yourself.

«my floor-loving, little worm… squirming so desperately…», you swear you can feel the warmth of his skin as you taunt him.

he’s incapable of uttering anything of meaning. only grunting and grinding. the sight of it makes you feel like your heart is racing from between your legs. it seems, for now, the only one between you who will be making a slicky mess in their drawers is yourself.

you bring your fingers to your mouth and quickly moisten them, before disappearing them in your trousers, a gesture the colonel’s eyes suddenly gain focus for.

under the clothes, you part your lower lips and trap your clit between your fingers, rubbing and pulling at it idly, at first. you are so wet you could have forgone licking your fingers and your breathing turns to sighing sooner than you expected, vying with the obscene squelching of your sex for könig’s senses.

the way the colonel rubs against the tread of the boot that presses down on him, you’re not the only one mere moments away from bliss.

your breath hitches and you barely avoid embarrassingly choking on your own saliva when you try to speak: «are you close, puppy?»

könig frantically nods affirmatively, motion almost matching the rhythm of his hips. a quick glance at him, at the interest with which he stares at you, at his own movements, could have told you as much. the known, mindless litany of german words is right behind his lips, ready to tumble out of them.

it will have to wait

«good puppies wait their turn, don’t they?»

könig whines in supplication, but he will not get any pity from you.

«you might be the big dog out there, but in here, colonel…»

you fail to finish your sentence that your voice breaks, head falling back in a whole-body shiver, as heat waves scorch your core. your cunt clenches tight on nothing. you swallow, panting and can’t help the snigger that emanates from your throat as your body still shakes.

pure euphoria.

könig is not far behind you, especially after that. a few more strokes from your boot and he spills on his own stomach, pumping his hips a little longer, before sagging to the floor.

exhaustion finally catches up with you. you join könig on the floor, after sweeping for papers and tobacco on his desk. he asks you to kindly roll a cigarette for the both of you, before indulging his hunger for your slicked fingers, now that you’re so close to him.

he’s such a nasty man. you oblige him in both favours, of course.

the two of you find yourselves passing cigarettes back and forth, occasionally blowing smoke in each other’s mouths, quietly lying on the floor.

you take a drag, cinders burning bright in the dim chamber, as he undoes the top of your fatigues, clearly tired of lying on your chest without feeling your skin on his, obviously finding there something more interesting to suck in his mouth than nicotine.

he gently cups and kisses, caresses and suckles tenderly on skin and breasts and collarbone, still half undressed and stained in his own juices. neither of you particularly disturbed by it, either way.

thank you for reading. if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging.

#cod #call of duty #könig #konig #könig cod #konig cod #könig mw2 #konig mw2 #könig mwii #konig mwii #könig x reader #konig x reader #könig x you #konig x you #könig smut #konig smut #submissive!könig #minors dni

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changingplumbob · 1 month

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Romero Household: Chapter 1, Part 3

Dia de los Muertos is here!

CW: Discussions of death

Marta’s first language is Spanish so she is teaching Keira (and me) some common phrases Spanish words Abuelo/Abuela: Grandfather/Grandmother Barrio: Neighbourhood Buenos días: Good morning Carino: Term of endearment for a loved one Gracias: Thank you Hasta luego: See you later Lo siento: Sorry Mi familia: My family Padre: Father Si: Yes Te amo: I love you

Poor Marta has an awful night with Burning Belly. She drinks green tea while checking out some midnight building show, forever hoping the nausea will die down. When it does she’s able to nap for a few hours. But before long her stomach forces her up and back to the tea and TV. Who is this house flipper person? Marta wants to improve her handiness but she doesn’t think that he looks trustworthy…

Keira: Good morning sweetheart. How did you sleep

Marta: *yawns* in patches but I feel much better now

Keira: That’s great news!

Marta: Oh you must come! I finished the ofrenda last night

The couple head downstairs and Marta excitedly shows Keira where she’s set up the bottles of wine and larger sugar skulls amongst the food she grilled.

Marta: Do you like it

Keira: Of course but I’m hardly an ofrenda expert

Marta pushes herself to tiptoes and kisses Keira on the cheek.

Marta: You will be carino

Keira: Why the sugar skulls?

Marta: Abuela, Abuelo, Padre and Mama each have one of the big ones, their names are carved in them to honour them. Then the four smaller ones on the second level, there’s one each for abuela Maria’s ancestors, abuelo Manuel’s ancestors and the ancestors of Mama’s parents.

Keira: I’m surprised you found someone here who makes them

Marta: The woman has made them for over 60 years

Keira: Wow, no wonder they’re so detailed. Why are we having chimi for breakfast, I thought it was for dinner

Marta: Family tradition carino. Every year Abuelo Manuel would make chimi with Padre. He claimed they were the best in town so he made extra to give away, you know to all the people to busy working to cook. We always had more than we needed by Dia de los Muertos so he would have us feast at breakfast as well as dinner

Keira: That’s cool, gracias for telling me

Keira volunteers to do the dishes and is glad to hear a healthy Marta singing away like normal as she collects their gear for the gym space at the rec center. Marta takes a moment to stop by the ofrenda and talk to her family before they leave.

Marta: Buenos días mi familia. Don’t be mad at me for not having a proper ofrenda in years, por favor. Liam never let… well, he’s gone now so what he stopped me doing is past. But I have Keira now, you’ll meet all her familia tonight. I hope you like them. Te amo, hasta luego

After a few hours at the nearby church service the couple make it to the rec center. It’s pretty quiet here by midday, the couple guess since the weather has less clouds the people in the area must be enjoying outdoors. Keira gets on a workout machine in the corner while Marta finds space to roll out her yoga mat. There’s no room in their unit and the ground outside was too muddy to risk it. Keira watches Marta as she stretches away. She’s always in the zone when doing her yoga, the oversized cat headphones ensuring the only sounds she hears are her beats.

After what seems like hours Marta lies down to finish her routine. Keira takes that as a cue to finish up her own exercise.

Marta: All done carino?

Keira: Si

Marta: *giggles* I guess we need to clean up before we receive your family

Keira: *smiles* Are you proposing what I think you’re proposing

Marta: *innocently* The showers are there to be used are they not

Keira: *laughs* you win

The pair head off to the changing rooms where they lock themselves in a suite and make very good use of the shower. Perks of leaving the house.

The Fosters arrive and are called to eat and share stories of those who are no longer with them.

Kayleigh: Oh Marta dear this looks delicious

Marta: I hope you enjoy it

Samir: Is any of it meat?

Reece: Don’t worry boss, I’ll grab you some chicken

Carson: Please tell me you vacuumed

Marta: Uh, not today lo siento

Carson grumbles but goes and grabs a plate.

Harvey: So how exactly do we do this

Marta: There’s no script. We just share tales of ones we love who are gone that we wish to honour and remember. Who wants to go first

The Fosters all look a bit hesitant so Marta figures she may as well start.

Marta: Let me tell you about my Abuela Maria. She was born back in Mexico. Growing up she was known as the girl who was always falling over. We think she had an inner ear problem but there were not many doctors in her barrio so we don’t know. She would fall over if she went too fast which she would do a lot *laughs* she was a speed loving kid, always had someone to go see

Keira: And she grew up to become a teacher. She emigrated to the Dominican Republic with a group from her college and that’s where she met Marta’s abuelo Manuel. He insisted on walking arm in arm to help her balance but later admitted that was just so he could be close to her

The girls start eating again, clearly having finished the tale.

Charlie: I… I had a great dog called Allie

Keira’s parents and siblings all murmur in agreement. They grew up with Allie and all had affection for her.

Charlie: She was always a good dog. She stuck to me like glue. I remember one time out on a run I twisted my ankle and she stood barking until a car stopped to help me

Carson: I miss her

Charlie: Me to. She’ll always be my first furbaby

Kaori: My grandmother Sachiko was a light in the darkness for me after my parents passed. No matter how angry or sad I got she always made sure I had everything I needed. Her favourite thing to do was garden. She was always out cutting from whatever plants we had and making big bouquets too send to others on the mountain

Harvey: What about your parents Samir

Harvey is obviously just trying to include Samir in the conversation but the large man looks very uncomfortable, having already perched himself on the lone chair by the stairs.

Reece: Actually dad we talked and I’m going to share a bit about his parents if that’s all right

Reece looks to Marta for reassurance and she nods.

Marta: We do not have to remember those only connected by blood, familia is much more than that

Reece: *smiles* So his ommi, Nadia Hadji, gave the best hugs in the whole world. Regardless of if she was in a good mood or not, she always had time for hugs. Samir fell out of a bunch of trees when he was little and when he’d get home his ommi would patch him up. When he was all clean she’d kiss every plaster before giving him a giant squeeze and letting him run off

Marta: That’s lovely

Samir digs into his food trying to ignore the blush in his cheeks.

Reece: His ab, Othman Hadji, loved the woods and the animals that inhabited it. He’s where Samir got his love of nature and he remembers having many adventures with his ab through the woods. Just like I remember having with dad

Harvey smiles and pulls Reece in for a hug.

Kaori: My dad’s the one who taught me how to snowboard. Or rather tried to teach me how to snowbard

Marta: I have so many questions already

Kaori: My dad wasn’t from Mt Komorebi, he was traveling there when he met mum and had never seen snow before

The evening passes with the family sharing stories of all those they have loved and lost over the years. Kaori’s parents Emica and Daiki had a lot of fun around Mt Komorebi which didn’t always impress Kaori’s stern grandfather Shigeru. Of course all the Fosters remember their shock at discovering Sachiko and Shigeru had become enemies, and divorced. Then Shigeru announced he’d married Geeta, a woman none of them knew.

Samir of course had lost his parents and he suspected his grandparents, no one pressed him on the subject. Both Kayleigh and Harvey’s parents were all in the forever save now, Harvey’s dad was there before even Charlie was born. At last the family understand why Harvey is so eager to become a grandparent. The sims were all gone now but as the stories continued to be shared and everyone got full bellies, the room did feel as though there was more life in it than just the sims that had still beating hearts.

Kayleigh: Thank you for including us Marta, it was nice

Marta: Dia de los Muertos is for familia

Kayleigh: Well I’m very glad you’re part of ours. You to Samir

Samir: Hmm? Oh, ah… thanks?

When the parents are out of earshot Keira pops over to her brother and his boyfriend.

Keira: You have to tell me, you must be responsible for that thing on his neck

Samir and Reece blush but while Samir is less than eager to elaborate, Reece is happy to report the hickey is intentional.

To wrap things up we have a couple of group photos and thank everyone for coming.

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#sims 4 #the sims #the sims 4 #simblr #my sims #ChangingPlumbobStorytime #R0903 #MartaRomero #KeiraFoster #KayleighFoster #HarveyFoster #CharlieNishidake #KaoriNishidake #ReeceFoster #SamirHadji #CarsonFoster

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prettyboykatsuki · 1 year

Text

✮ cw ; heavy bdsm but not explicitly sexual, lifestyle sub bakugou, dom + gn!reader, bkg spend a lot of time in subspace 18+

✮ a/n ; i want to treasure him so bad

Katsuki lives in a perpetual state of embarrassment while dating you.

This is true for more reasons than he can list on one hand. Being in love as it turns out, is fucking embarassing. Humiliating at times. You often treat him like he's as see through as a looking glass, matching his moods and his whims and doing all sorts of other things that make him really feel like he's being looked at.

And he doesn't hate it, which is the most embarassing part for him. He likes being favored by you. Likes being looked at, understood, cared for. He'd rather die early than fix his mouth to say anything about it.

But you know, usually. A soft tilt of head and a pat to the lap for invitation - you usually know what Katsuki needs. You have a code word, a quiet language. Because sometimes he really can't be fucked trying to tell you about his feelings. You always read Katsuki's moods, soothing and gentle. You always ask the same question when he gets in that headspace.

The whole world is hanging off his back, responsibility clinging to him like a shadow. Some weeks, it's a long and upward battle for weeks, sometimes with no end in sight. Muddy waters of paper work and emotional turmoil. Of loss and grief and all the darkness heroism has to offer.

Sometimes he just needs it all to go away. You're good at that, making everything go away.

So, when Katsuki comes to you with his hands trembling and his heart on your coffee table - and utters the words "Just tell me what to do," all you ever do is kiss his mouth and tell him okay.

It fascinates him how you always manage to work his mind out of the mess. You remind him of a lighthouse, drawing him to you in the fog. The weeks that follow work out the same way.

At first, having you tell him what to do makes him squirm. It's a period of contention for a little while no matter how many times you've done it. There's always punishment after his fits of disobedience, a reminder of his place. Even with the pain, you're the same as always.

"You'll be a good boy and listen to me, won't you sweetheart?"

It's always that back and forth. Of coming home after a long day to vent all his frustration, to punishment, to praise. A long cycle. Even when the tension dies, the emotions are all there and Katsuki lays in wait for the day you get tired of picking up the pieces.

You never do, though. It's always the same. Everything becomes typical and Katsuki re-learns what it means to be good. Katsuki relearns what it means to listen and all the static in his head goes quiet at the sound.

The commands are simple and straightforward. You fall into easy routine. His clothes are picked out for him. Pictures at meal time, promises of stretches when he's on his break. Everything accounted for. When he comes home, he gets to service you - earn the praise more readily than just listening to what you say.

He likes pleasing you. It's something he wants to best at it. He'll tug on the fine lace stockings just to hear you call his name, spread himself and arch his back to feel your hands smooth over the curves of his pale skin. Nails dug into his hips with a laugh at your lips that is full to the brim with affection.

"Well aren't you pretty?"

It's always been like that, truthfully. He's always loved being adored, but recently it's your adoration he cares about most. Rubbing the knots out of your back, or cooking dinner or cleaning the whole house. It's not work to him. Service is whatever you ask of him and he listens and listens if only to be granted the opportunity.

Let him earn it, like he earns everything. Only this time, there will be gratitude. This time there will be tangible reward that isn't boiled down to performance.

You'll come home to a clean kitchen and bring him to his knees. Pet his head and cradle his face, look him straight in his eyes and compliment him on a job well done.

"My good boy. You did a good job taking care of the house while I was away, didn't you? Would you like something special, hm?"

And oh, everything fades to nothing. It takes a while before things return to order. Before things can go back to baseline and he gets embarrassed again. The shame will hit him later and there isn't a whole lot he can do to stop it completely.

But when his heads empty, when he's being looked through at your expense - he wouldn't mind staying like that forever.

#aristotle.txt #writing tag #bakugou x reader #this is so personal will be honest im a little embarassed but ohhh i want to scream thinking about him

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oumaheroes · 10 months

Text

The Missing

(Victorian Snatched AU)

Summary: ‘For a moment, they stood looking at each other in silence. Alisdair felt the stirrings of something in his chest, a sensation of things being out of place and about to fall. ‘Is he not here?’‘

Arthur is missing. With no money and no help from the law, Alisdair searches alone.

Characters: England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales

Chapter 1

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Arthur, four. All quiet in the carriage on the way home from their mother’s funeral, Patrick riding up top with the driver and the rest of them inside. Arthur’s best clothes, not even that old, were still starch stiff and pristine despite the long day. He and Rhys were too young for proper black mourning attire but Arthur had treated his clothes as if they were just that, fearful of the puddles in the muddy path of the churchyard lest he dirty them. The biggest show of restraint Alisdair had ever seen him make.

Their father sat beside him, drunk. He’d been so the entire day, if Alisdair were to be more honest, but had continued to get worse throughout the service, a hidden flask on him at all times that allowed him to take secret swigs whenever he thought no one was looking. He filled the seat on his and Arthur’s side, a tense, swell of human being that hunched down to tug at his hair with his hands and rock backwards and forwards gently.

As they turned the corner away from the church, he choked back something, a sob or a curse Alisdair couldn’t tell, and suddenly he pulled Arthur into his arms to hold him close, pressing his face into his body.

Arthur stiffened and looked to Alisdair beseechingly. Their father never touched them, had never once held him as far as Alisdair had seen, but despite his displeasure Arthur stayed there quietly, looking to Alisdair the entire time.

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It was exceptional, how the brain handled panic. How it could take even the most horrifying situation and somehow skew some sense and calm into it.

On the annex outside Patrick and Arthur’s bedroom, Alisdair turned Arthur’s teddy over in his hands, noting its damp fur and smudges of moss which clung to it- residue from the drain and its night beside it.

Patrick thundered into the bedroom behind him, breathless and echoey on the bare floorboards, ‘Anything? Al!’

‘Out here.’ Alisdair stood. The night was still early enough for the streets to retain the last of the day’s traffic, the handover of commuters travelling home to public house wanderers still ongoing. A loud cackle from a lady of the night in the distance, a siren’s song by the docks.

Alisdair held up Arthur’s bear in answer to Patrick’s question and watched understanding grow across his features.

‘Jesus.’ Patrick held a hand to his mouth and sank heavily onto the window ledge by the bed. He looked out to the London skyline behind Alisdair, scanning the rooftops as if hoping to see Arthur somewhere out there, ‘How… He didn’t run aw-?‘

‘Of course he fucking didn’t.’

‘Well, then where-‘

‘Christ! I don’t know where. If I knew where we wouldn’t be here, would we? Fucking idiot.’

Patrick buried his face into his hands with a deep moan and Alisdair turned away to look at the homes on either side of them.

All of the houses in this area were the same, a quick springing up of brick tenements to deal with the influx of population as the inner city swelled and broke its banks. Old villages swallowed up under the growing capital, communities wiped out and redone in their newly mixing masses. The new factory-worker homes all had the same design; flat annex roofs rose like stairs up the hill of street, fat bellied chimney stacks shared by two homes each. Between them all a rabbit’s warren of streets, dark and winding to the dark glitter of the Thames.

It was immense. Alisdair felt his heartbeat quicken, a fist in his throat squeezing it tight.

‘I thought he was with you.’ Patrick said quietly, head still in his hands, ‘I would never have-‘

‘Don’t, Pat.’ Alisdair couldn’t handle that conversation yet.

‘I don’t understand. He… I thought-‘ Patrick cut himself off. Alisdair heard him breathe behind him, taking shallow and quick gulps of air, ‘What do we do now?’

Alisdair shook his head mutely, looking from one narrow alleyway to another. He heard Patrick come out onto the roof behind him, the wet crunch of his feet on the gritty concrete.

‘This can’t be happening.’ His brother’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Where did he go?’

Alisdair longed for a pipe, or a drink. Something to stop the numbness in his chest, something familiar and normal to force everything to make sense again. It was a struggle to speak.

‘I think someone took him.’

Patrick reared back, ‘Piss off. From where.’

‘Here. The bedroom.’

‘… the bedroom?’

‘Arthur told me the last night.’ Alisdair forced himself to name his own failures. ‘He’d come in to me and Rhys again and woke me up. When I took him back, he told me that he thought someone was watching him.’

Patrick moved to the window, closing the pane and opening it again with one hand. It moved cleanly and smoothly in one go. Alisdair remembered closing it the other night when he’d put Arthur back to bed, the rust from the fused catch sticking to his fingers. With no lock, it was far too easy to open, and Alisdair couldn’t think of why they’d chosen to leave it like that for so long. Maybe because they had nothing to steal, and anyone who knew them or stopped to glance at the house long enough would recognise that much.

Patrick must have been thinking along a similar train of thought. He opened the window again and leant inside to finger the fused metal catch at the top. ‘He’s been glad to see me when I’ve come home recently.’ He said, standing up from the bed and wiping his hands on his trousers, ‘He’s been awake each time, like he’s been waiting for me.’

‘He told me that someone had been coming up here when you weren’t in, walking about on the roof for the last week. He caught them looking through the gap in the curtain.’

Patrick was silent. Alisdair couldn’t look at him, he didn’t want to see either judgment or pity on his brother’s face. ‘I thought he had been having nightmares, or half-heard a chimney sweep passing over. I thought that he was scared and was saying anything he thought might get me to stay. But now…’

Alisdair had meant to only relay what had happened, the facts and nothing else, but his words sounded like an excuse to him once said out loud, like an attempted dismissal of guilt. Why had he left him. Why hadn’t he kept him with himself and Rhys. The questions were already haunting him.

Patrick clicked his tongue and walked out on the centre of the annex, looking to the houses and their roofs either side, ‘That can’t be it.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

Alisdair shook his head and joined him. There was nothing to indicate that anyone had been up there. No footprints or dropped items, or note explaining the situation. Windows were unbroken, the garden gate still closed. Whether it was locked or not didn’t matter, it was easy enough to climb over and if someone had been using the roofs to cut across, that wouldn’t even factor into it. The only thing out of place, Arthur’s bear, told them nothing other than Arthur had been out here at some point. Or, had thrown his most precious possession outside, to then leave another way without it. None of those options made sense.

None of this did.

‘He’s seven.’ Patrick chewed the inside of his cheek, ‘We don’t have any money to ransom him. No one we know would want him. We have nothing worth bargaining for. And he can’t… he can’t do anything; he’s not got a trade to be used.’

There was always more to offer than money. A life could go for anything, if the right price was asked.

‘He’s small.’ Alisdair said slowly, ‘and he can read and write. It’s more than most.’

‘It’s not worth-‘

‘It could be, Pat.’

Patrick’s jaw tightened. ‘Whatever happened, someone must have seen him go. Surely someone would have noticed if he was taken, Arthur wouldn’t exactly go gently.’

Alisdair breathed in deep through his nose, then out. Damp coal fire air, the smell of late nights and winter. He looked to Patrick; his one boot still untied. He looked young, half dressed in too large a coat like a teenager again masquerading as an adult version of himself. Alisdair checked his watch, tilting it until he could see the numbers of the dial in the moonlight, ‘You need to go to work.’

‘What?’

‘You’re going to be late if you don’t go now.’ Patrick’s mouth opened, then closed, and Alisdair looked back to the dark streets on the downward slope of the hill below. ‘They’ll drop you if you miss a day. You know that.’

‘I’m not going to work.’ Patrick said incredulously, ‘Are you serious?’

Alisdair felt the bear in his hand. Rhys had been telling Arthur that he’d fix it up for months now. It still wasn’t done.

‘I can’t go to work not knowing where he is.’ When Alisdair walked to the edge of the annex, wanting to calculate the drop, Patrick came around to join him and grabbed him by the shoulder, ‘Al, for God’s sake-‘

Alisdair shook him off, ‘You’re going to have to.’

‘Arthur’s gone.’

‘I know. He is.’

‘Then-‘

‘We can’t afford you not to.’

‘Alisdair-‘

‘Think about it Patrick! Do you think I want to ask you?’

Patrick said nothing for a while. Alisdair turned away again and heard Patrick shift his weight from one foot to another. Alisdair imagined that he was doing as he himself was- looking out to the shipyard on the river where the heavy barges were waiting to be unloaded. Hundreds of men waited there each morning, hoping for the chance that only a few of them would get to be taken on. Salaried men like Patrick were lucky to know there was a guaranteed place for them with pay at the end of the day.

The tight, choked feeling in Alisdair’s throat grew. He rubbed at his neck, hand shaking.

Eventually, Patrick said, ‘Then what are you going to do.’

‘Go looking. I’ll go around the streets and ask about.’

Another beat of silence. Alisdair could feel Patrick waiting behind him still, not wanting to leave things like this, broken and splintered like glass, but also knowing as Alisdair did that the rent was due. The debts were still there, even if Arthur wasn’t.

‘Try the sweeps.’ He said eventually, ‘There’s a local few always down by the King’s Arms around this time.’

Alisdair nodded but said nothing more. Patrick left, the door closed, and Alisdair watched his head pass under street lamps below until it vanished from view.

Rhys was in the kitchen when Alisdair went inside, sat at the table with a mug of something hot between his hands. He stared into it fixedly, drawn and dazed behind the steam in the yellow flicker of the tallow candle lamps.

Alisdair stopped in the doorway, his arms across his chest. ‘Did you hear, then?’ He asked softly.

Rhys nodded and hunched over his hands, pulling the mug in close. ‘Most of it. You were loud enough.’

Alisdair opened his mouth, a habitual platitude already there, and then closed it again. ‘I’ll go out and look. You go up knock up the street and then wait here, just in case.’

Rhys sniffed and looked up, ‘Just in case?’

Alisdair shook his head and reached for his coat.

--------------------

The alleyways and streets of London twisted around and in on themselves, thin, spindly webs of spider silk between wide caverns of thoroughfares.

Alisdair moved quickly and aimlessly through the unempty night, past drunks and the homeless in their makeshift beds, their huddled bodies revealed by the islands of light cast by the gas lamps as propped in corners or on front steps. They watched him curiously, noting him immediately as out of place, and he felt their eyes and judgement follow him home.

--------------------

‘No one saw anything.’

Rhy greeted Alisdair hours later in the dark, shoulders hidden under blankets by a dying fire. He jumped up when Alisdair came in, only to sink down again into the fraying armchair when he saw that he was alone.

‘Thirty-seven was asleep with her kids, thirty-five is still that single bloke who drinks in pubs alone- he wasn’t in.’ Rhys spoke his findings to the embers as Alisdair sat heavily in the spare chair, body bone tired and numb, ‘Thirty-three and thirty-six didn’t answer, Mr Tanner’s deaf, and thirty-four is the new family from China who don’t speak English.’

‘The rest of them?’

‘No.’

‘How far did you go?’

Rhys sat back on his haunches, his expressionless profile flickering orange as he looked into the fireplace. ‘Until I couldn’t see the house anymore.’ He turned to Alisdair, his lips tight, ‘Are you sure that-‘

‘Rhys.’

His brother shook his head and picked at the edges of the blanket, ‘Twenty-eight said they heard someone scream. Like a woman, or a child.’ He said the words quietly, hardly more than a whisper as if he were afraid to speak them. When Alisdair didn’t reply, Rhys looked at him, eyes searching, ‘We would have heard, wouldn’t we? If he had.’

Alisdair slowly began to untie his boots. Rhys moved closer across the floor on his knees, ‘We would know. You would have heard, Patrick might have-‘

Alisdair tugged off his boots and stood up abruptly, ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’

Rhy’s mouth tightened, lips pressing together to form a thin line. He shook his head and hunched over, fist under the blankets hard to his chest as if he were holding himself in.

Neither of them slept that night. Patrick came in to join them in bed hours later, the smell of fish clinging to his skin and hair like smoke under his bedclothes. They were too big to all fit together comfortable but he wedged himself in against the wall, Rhys in the middle like they had done years ago before Arthur was born.

Together they passed the night awake, listening to the sighs of the city until the collective church bells chimed morning.

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AN:

Okay, so I said that I probably wouldn’t flesh this AU out beyond the first chapter and I was happy enough to let it lie mean and painful vague, but the story still tugs me too much to leave it alone. I hope that you liked this and it was worth the year wait!

The comment about Victorian mourning is a small nod to a very complex and layered cultural movement in Victorian era Britain and parts of the extended empire. One easy site to read about this topic in brief can be found here, though please do some of your own research! I find it very interesting

Thanks for reading!

#aph england #aph scotland #aph ireland #aph wales #hws england #hws scotland #hws ireland #hws wales #aph uk bros #aph brit bros #hws british isles #victorian snatched au #heroes writes #hetalia #aph #hws

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