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virgincels · 3 months

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RIGOR MORTIS !

ft. og4 leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. las plagas!reader, he kills you, technically snuff ig but wasn’t intended oops, gore, canon-typical violence, reader is infected and out of it so she can’t really consent, dub-con, non-con, p in v, choking/asphyxiation, strangulation

note. god im plagued by writers block and it’s killing me it’s like walking on shattered glass rn. umm please ignore any mistakes, not very fond on this but haven’t posted in a bit :3 um it’s quite short. rbs are always appreciated :3 instead of asking for a part 2 please just tell me something nice.. feedback is really appreciated <3 comms are open! info in my pinned :3

Leon seeks refuge in what looks to have once been a humble abode. Now only a shack wearing a shroud of all things dead and rotten remains. Foetid water has soaked him to the bone, it seeps into the thick leather of his combat boots, leaves his socks soggy. He really hates that. Leon can handle cerebrospinal fluid leaving a sticky film on the toe of his boots, the blood caked beneath his fingernails is something he considers normal, but wet socks are a total inconvenience, it’s a shortcut to trench foot.

The hollow skulls of small critters occupy the corners, the cobwebs have cobwebs, the air is stagnant and stinking. Not of rot, but of sickness. A gaping wound crawling with infection, bacteria settling in the crevices of his mind, squirming like fat, juicy maggots—

Crack!

It’s a man, he was a man, now he’s a boneless lump of flesh, his spinal cord snapped under the weight of Leon’s boot. His yellowed teeth glisten under the golden warmth of a single lantern. Leon’s defence is choreographed at this point, a swift kick to intercept an impending strike, then his boot makes mincemeat of their brains.

When he takes a step back to review his current affair, it’s not so bad, certainly not Raccoon City. Leon would take a million murderous Spanish grandparents over a single zombie. Zombies are plain nasty, not a single limb intact, oozing pustules that peel back to reveal purpling flesh infested by larvae. They’re fuckin’ ugly. Slow and bloated and ugly. A sight no human being should see.

On the wall, there’s a shattered, grimy mirror. Leon sees the ghost of a boy staring back at him. Unwashed hair hanging limp, cheekbones carved out, his skin alabaster like the blocky lettering stitched into his uniform. R.P.D. it reads, muddied by blood and guts and chunks of vomit. All the good shit. He hasn’t grown into his body yet, the steel of his gun is cool on his temple and he’s young and these are all important things to know. In his arms is something small and lightweight, a bloodied little girl, leading him to a pyrrhic victory.

The floorboards groan under the weight of a pair of feet that don’t belong to him, the threat isn’t imminent. You don’t charge at him, no, it’s shambling he can only describe as zombie-like, dragging your bare feet like it hurts to lift them off the ground. Like you’re waterlogged and ready to pop.

You were pretty, he’s sure, a real looker. You’re pretty now, just not in your entirety. Strings of reddish muscle keep the fatty flesh of your right tit hanging on for dear life. Like an Amazonian woman. There’s no rot, no sign of decay, simply an act of self-mutilation.

Now, some might call him a pervert, but Leon’s a self-proclaimed iconoclast. And you, swaying from side to side in your torn linen nightdress, the skeletal pendant of Los Iluminados around your neck like a disfigured cross, draped in a veil of white that’s close enough to holy - it’s worth ruining. Santa Maria di Plagas or whatever.

He realises a few shattered bones have you walking funny, circles you easily and heads into the room you exited. The bed sheets are rumpled in unrest, he sits, there’s a hairline fracture between the two of you. The lantern light bares all, the white of your dress becomes gossamer-thin, he makes out your shape beneath the blood-soaked cloth that moulds to the shape of your torso, the smooth dip of your waist, a soft sinkage where the fabric clings to your belly button.

Leon has seen far worse. Can you blame a guy for getting hard at the sight of a real girl? In his line of work, he’s neck deep in pounds of flesh that spew pus and gore from each virus-clogged abscess. The layer of dirt on your skin does not deter him, that tit hanging by a tissuey thread, swinging back and forth like your necklace is child’s play to him. ‘Cause Leon’s a real man. The princely type.

(He’s anything but. One girl’s knight in shining armour is a monster under the bed for another. It’s not like you can complain, you’re quite the monster yourself.)

Hang in there Ashley. He’ll be there soon, but he’s got to do this. This is completely and utterly necessary. Hunnigan doesn’t need to know why he’ll be unreachable for a good thirty minutes or so. Less probably. ‘Cause your body is hot, clammy with fever, and that means your pussy is even hotter.

Something… Something… Plagas… Something… Lord Saddler…

Your mumbling is constant. Leon will have to do something about that. You gnash your teeth at him when you approach, held back only by the sluggishness that comes with, like, brainwashing cultish parasites.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no entiendo.” Leon loops a worn piece of rope around your neck. Ain’t that handy? Found it hung on your assumed-to-be father’s tool belt. Used for leading curly little lambs to the sacrificial altar. He strokes the underside of your chin, and you bare your teeth like a wild dog, albeit slowly. A late reaction. No fair, it’s like someone’s knocked you around already, who got here before him?

Getting his dick out at a time like this in a place like this, it’s not smart. Sneaky bugs could use his urethra as a water slide. A menacing minibeast might latch onto his balls pincher-first. However, needs are needs, and nothing gets in the way of Leon’s dick, not even a kidnapped First Daughter could stop the force of nature that is his boner.

With ease, he pushes you onto the ground. Not the bed. If you behave like an animal then he’ll have to fuck you like one. Plus, Leon’s not quite sure he trusts those sheets, at least the rusty nails on the floorboards are visible to the naked eye. Tetanus won’t be a nasty surprise, just a momentary lapse in judgement.

Your body contorts when he pulls the rope, back taking on a feline shape, spine bending inwards and your hips up. Puppetry is easier than it looks. The hem of your dress lifts to reveal your leaking chasm of a pussy. Better than nothing. Not like he’s eating it either way.

One hand on the rope, the other on his belt buckle, he lowers his jeans enough to pop his dick out. “Stay still, honey.” He instructs, but it’s like talking to a brick wall, or to a person who doesn’t understand a lick of English.

Leon chokes you with the rope. “I’ll only be a minute, sweetheart,” he coos, a tender kiss that he regrets merely seconds later placed on your shoulder.

He grips the base of his cock, the fat tip is red and leaky, precum bubbling like your foaming mouth. Leon’s too hard. His dick is totally upright, the soft curve pointing towards the ceiling, a thumb comes to press down on the tip, using it to guide himself into your pussy.

“Oh, there you go, honey, yeah, there you go.” His hold on the rope loosens, still firm enough to keep you in place, but now at least there’s oxygen flowing to your parasite-addled brain. “You feel that?”

Leon’s dick stretches you to the point of no return. He’s broken you in. Better off him than any of those grotesque old men. You’re a virgin surely, so it’s very considerate of him to fuck you before you die. No one should die a virgin, that’s cruel, it’s inhumane.

You thrash wildly, grunting each time his hips smack into the fat of your ass, he can’t tell if you’re enjoying it— You better be fuckin’ enjoying it. Know how risky this shit is? Fuck, what if you had a mutated cunt or something. Jagged teeth waiting to clamp down on a big fat dick and tear it straight off. He really needs to start thinking with his brain and not his cock. The thing just doesn’t shut up.

When he cums, the rope is tight around the column of your neck— It would be your hair, but he fears it might fall straight from your scalp in nasty, matted clamps. Your body rears like a wild Mustang, he gathers the rope and it wraps around his fingers until your back is flush to his chest and you grasp for something, anything— Eyes rolled so far back he can see the milky whites, and then he gives one last tug to make sure you’re stuck in that state. Mid-orgasm. Eyes in the back of your skull, back arched, pussy dripping with his load. Cute. He wishes rigor mortis set in right now so that you don’t fall slack into a heap of red and white when he lets go.

Leon leaves by barrelling out of a window like a true gentleman, the microscopic shards splinter your skin. He takes that pendant with him, tucks it in his back pocket, could be useful at some point in time.

It’s only when the blood in his veins runs black and viscous does Leon notice something is severely wrong. His blood flow slows to a halt, clots forming in every important artery. Mucousy black sludge leaks from his nose. An intense pain cuts through his senses with deadly precision, a surge of discomfort that has him kneeling over, hands on his knees in a clumsy attempt to steady himself.

His hands clasp around Ada’s neck— The rope. He pulls it tighter and tighter to get closer and closer. Her voice is distorted by the fog that clouds his brain, it creates a hazy barrier, mutes the world around him. A knife lodges in the meaty flesh of his thigh, he topples backwards when her knee makes contact with his groin.

“That bitch gave me crabs.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He brushes her off. “I said, uh, Lord Saddler almighty.” Leon’s heard that enough times to repeat it back to her rather fluently. Nice save.

“Right,” Ada says, unconvinced.

#leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy smut #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

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lokisgoodgirl · 2 years

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Role Play [Sub!Loki Laufeyson x Female Reader] 18+

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: To satisfy your curiosity, Loki brings magical spice into the bedroom by transforming you to the male version of yourself. (w/c 2.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. M/"M" Smut. Bisexual Loki. Praise kinks. Oral sex. Anal play. Anal sex. Dom! Reader/ Sub! Loki. Body transformation(F reader, M body) Kind of fluffy too - but mainly smut. A/N: I hope this is read in the spirit it was intended; curiosity and for love of Loki 💚

Loki’s warm lips pressed against the nape of your neck as he unclasped your necklace, trailing the pendant slowly up between your breasts.

“Can you believe it’s been a year, darling?”

You smiled as his fingers toyed at the zip of your dress, slowly pulling it down. He moved his mouth’s attentions to the smooth skin it revealed, working firm kisses between your shoulder-blades as you let out a reluctant sigh. It was now or never.

“Loki…?” you whispered, “I need to ask you something.”

He paused, hands on the curve of your waist held tightly by the rich fabric of your dress. You knew his face would be creased in expectation, his keen gaze narrowed in suspicion as he pulled you towards his firm torso.

“Yes?” he whispered, his hot breath ghosting your ear before sucking one earlobe between his lips.

You moaned, the loaded question hovering reluctantly behind your teeth.

“Do you ever miss being with men?” you mumbled cautiously, the seconds ticking by as he considered his answer; the pliable skin of your ear rolling across his tongue.

“My love, I’m with men constantly. One can’t get rid of them in this realm, they are quite resilient.” he murmured goadingly as you keened against him.

Your stomach flipped. He was avoiding the question. A classic Loki misdirection. Fuck.

“You know what I mean...” you said firmly, spinning in his embrace to wrap your hands around his neck, “I don’t want you to feel…stifled by our relationship.”

You felt your cheeks burn as the reluctant confession lay heavy on your heart. It needed to be said, but as for his answer? You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

He gazed at you intently, the twinkle of mischief that never left his eyes burning brightly as a smile crept to the corners of his lips.

“If that is what has been concerning you these past weeks, darling...I wouldn’t worry. You can give me everything I desire... should you wish."

You raised an eyebrow towards him as he lowered the straps of your dress, the last defence of your modesty gone as it fell to the floor around your feet. His hands cupped your naked ass, lifting you effortlessly to wind your legs around his waist as your slick pussy grazed against his growing arousal, hidden in the tight material of his suit.

“Would you like to try something new, my beautiful one?” he purred as he carried you across the room, setting you down before the ornate full length mirror in the corner.

You fizzed with anticipation at his words. His eyes darkening as he raced ahead in his mind, pupils blowing wide with lust as he stood behind you. Your head spun at the implications as your own thoughts caught up with his, hoping that your assumptions were correct.

“Loki do you mean…?” you stammered, running your eyes across your curved body in the reflection as he slid his hands up to cup your breasts.

“Yes, darling. What do you say?”

You nodded silently as his fingers toyed with your hardened nipples. “Very well.”

Loki drew you into a sideways kiss as his hands slid down your waist, running his palms across your skin as tingles followed in their wake. This was more than his intoxicating touch, this was magic.

Your head swam with vertigo as your tongue massaged his, an ache deep in your muscles as you felt his hands grip around your hips and pull you back towards him gently with a soft thump.

“Look at yourself, darling” he murmured.

Your gaze fluttered to the mirror and you gasped. It was you but…not you.

Loki’s arms were still wrapped around your hips, his thick forearms draped over the lines of your taunt lower abdomen as he grinned to your side.

You were…taller - your jaw thick; chiselled, handsome – not beautiful. A strong neck ran down to broad shoulders that flexed over the muscles beneath as you took in your flattened chest, defined pectorals resting above your firm stomach. Below Loki’s hands hung a generously sized manhood resting shyly against your elongated thigh.

“Like what you see?” Loki whispered as he lustfully drank in your masculine reflection. You couldn’t blame him. You looked good. Really good.

“What should you call--“you coughed abruptly, the unexpected gravel of your new voice choking you like dust.

Loki smirked behind you, pressing his lips to your hair; “Try that again...”

“…what should you call me?” you repeated, the vibrations feeling unnatural as you watched Loki’s amused reflection lower his hand to encase your soft cock.

“Well on any other night, you’re my good girl…I see no reason why tonight you can’t be my good boy, hmm?”

You shivered as you felt blood rushing to your lower body, emptying like a warm bath as your unfamiliar organ began to rise against Loki’s palm. You smiled.

“Maybe I’ll be your bad boy?” you narrowed your eyes, watching as your lover restrained himself from laughter.

“Let’s not run before we can walk, shall we?” he said, squeezing the hardening flesh in his hand as you groaned beneath him. “Tell me what you want, I want to please my precious mortal in any way he chooses…”

You panted as you thrust involuntarily into Loki’s palm, the thin skin of your member sliding gracefully against his hand as your temporary form reacted to the stimulation. Fuck, it felt good.

Waves of anticipation ran down your thick thighs as you stared intensely at the god behind you in the mirror. He was still dressed in his impeccably fitted white shirt, the top buttons undone. His snug trousers clung to his lower body, creases straining against his muscular hips as he pressed towards you, bracing your buckling knees against your pleasure as his hand slid back and forth.

“…blowjob?” you blurted, your eyes closing as you immediately regretted your uncouth neediness. Loki huffed disapprovingly, cutting through the jolts of pleasure coursing from your groin.

“If we’re going to do this…we’re doing it properly. Say it like a man.” he instructed gently, using his free hand to brush the shoulder length hair from your neck, watching your posture straighten.

You took a deep breath, lowering your chin to smoulder at his reflection as his gaze raised to watch you expectantly. “Suck my cock, Laufeyson.”

Loki’s lips curled in an approving smile as he circled in front of you, running his eyes down your naked form as your hard length twitched with need, “Good boy.”

Long fingers wrapped around the base of your manhood as he walked you backwards, kissing you deeply as you fought upwards against his grip, desperate for the friction to begin again.

Low heavy growls hazed from your throat as you inhaled his scent, clinging to his skin like his hand clung to your cock; restraining you, prolonging your anticipation.

The back of your legs hit the bed, unfamiliar muscled thighs colliding with the duvet as you relented to his will. He straightened his lithe body which now closely resembled your own as he rubbed large hands down his bulging thighs. His own cock begged to be freed from confinement, raging against the expensive fabric which held it firmly to his hip.

“The first time can be overwhelming, so its best you sit down…” he muttered darkly, the velvet tones of his voice driving you wild with need as he sank slowly to his knees.

“The act itself?” you panted, “…or you being the one performing it?”

“A bit of both.” he murmured coyly, before he swallowed your desperate cock between his lips.

You inhaled sharply, falling backwards to rest on your elbows as the feeling of his tongue enveloping your length washed over you like a tsunami. God, it felt amazing. You could see what all the fuss was about.

A deep groan escaped your throat as he sucked you slowly upwards from the base, his mouth forming a vacuum as hands slid firmly up the sides of your thighs to grip the toned flesh.

“Loki…fucckkkk” you moaned, the gruff strangeness of your voice forgotten as you wound one large hand in the God of Mischief’s hair, tugging his curls between your strong fingers. You stared at him in awe, his perfect chiselled faced in deep concentration, wisps of curl falling around his brow as he pleasured your male form.

His tongue swirled around the tip as you growled beneath him, thrusting your squared hips upwards deeper into his waiting throat. Loki’s cheekbones hollowed as he consumed you, your deep cries of pleasure spurring him on as you gripped the bedsheets beneath fists. The sight of his mouth around your cock was more than you could bear; a dark fantasy you never knew you had.

The intense need to take him, to own him…it burned as you watched your manhood disappear to slide over his warm tongue again and again as he knelt between your open thighs.

You began to pant with broken breaths, legs quivering as you felt a coil tighten somewhere down below. It was different…but the same. Loki felt the change, slowing his pace to a gentle suck as you strained your hips towards him – willing him to give you more.

“You’ve done so well for me, it must have been so difficult for you not to cum…” he murmured against your wet skin, slick with his saliva. His gaze never left yours as he placed a lingering kiss on the tip of your girth, lapping gently at a bead of pre-cum that languished there.

Those legendary long legs unfurled as he rose to crawl on top of you; biceps straining at the arms of his tight shirt as his mouth crashed to yours, pressing you back on the bed.

The wave of dark lust rose in you again, the intense energy of pure masculinity as you gripped his forearms and flipped him on his back with ease. Loki’s brow furrowed in confusion before a coy smile flirted at his lips, “well, well…it seems you may be a bad boy after all.”

You growled, rumbling from your throat like thunder as you pinned the god beneath your grip; between your thighs. Loki’s eyes widened as he searched your intense stare, his lap thrusting upwards involuntarily as the determined square of your jaw flexed above him.

Your hands flew to the middle of his chest, ripping the buttons from his shirt as his bare chest was exposed under your unrelenting control. You had never felt more powerful, and you weren’t going to let it go to waste.

Loki moaned beneath your touch, keening up into you as the pressure of his cock against his tight trousers became too much to bear. Your thick fingers wrapped around the metal of his belt, unbuckling it with force as he threw his head back, his dark curls flipping.

“Wait…wait…” he panted, raising a hand to your chest as magic dissolved the fabric clinging to his legs. He leant upwards, cradling your jaw in a rapturous kiss as his bare thighs pressed against your ass; his familiar cock rubbing tantalisingly against your skin.

“Take me.” he groaned needily into your mouth.

Your breath hitched as you had a moment of clarity, the reality of the bizarre scenario searing through your mind as he looked up at you with sincere and utter submission. You had never been more turned on in your life, and with Loki as your boyfriend…that was a bold admission.

A vial of oil manifested in his hand as he pressed it to your palm, raising an eyebrow as his eyes came alive with mischievous intent.

“You know what to do, my love…” he murmured, “just a bit of…role reversal, yes?”

You unplugged the vial, allowing the tepid oil to run over your fingers as he rested back on his elbows.

Cautiously, you reached between his thighs seeking the tight hole which hid between perfectly muscled cheeks; a hiss of approval falling from his lips as your wet fingertips brushed his entrance.

His legs jolted as you slid one finger inside him, pressing against the walls as he groaned desperately beneath you. A second finger joined as you eased the digits repeatedly into his channel, the tightness loosening as his body willingly submitted to your ministrations.

Loki’s eyes fluttered shut. His angular jaw raised to the ceiling as he thrust upwards; his straining cock seeking release. You lowered your head to suck at the tip gently as you listened to grateful praises spilling from his tongue, begging for more.

“Now go easy on me,” he mumbled coyly as he marinated in pleasure beneath your touch, “...it’s been a while.”

You nodded in acknowledgment, unable to form coherent words as a powerful storm of lust brewed in your belly. You had never felt anything like it, a sizzling line of explosives ready to blow at the sight of your typically dominant lover spread beneath you, waiting impatiently for you to take him.

You emptied the rest of the oil into your hand and cast the vial aside, clinking to the floor as your fingers returned to his entrance, slathering him in the viscous substance. The remnants found their way to your hard length, preparing yourself for him. God, he looked so fucking good. You were going to ruin him.

You towered over your lover; muscular torso lowering to his skin as you savoured the low groan from the god’s throat. Your hips pressed firmly against his desperate arousal as he met you in a needy kiss. One of your hands encased his jaw, tangling in his curls; the other lining your cock up at his keening entrance, pausing to rub the tip against the slick flesh.

“Give it to me…” Loki moaned, his tone laced with desperation as you smirked above him. You could get used to this.

The tip of your cock pressed gently against his tight channel, Loki’s breathing quickening as he braced his forehead against yours with one hand grasping around your neck to pull you close.

You edged forwards, your intertwining moans of pleasure signalling that you had breached him as you felt waves of primal electricity coursing through your body; building excruciatingly as you bottomed out.

“Good boy.” you whispered through strained breaths; an amused smile playing on Loki’s lips as he settled around your length.

You began to move inside him, gritting your teeth against the intense pressure of your quickly building orgasm; the exquisite tightness and novelty pulling you towards the edge faster than you could catch your breath.

Loki moaned roughly beneath you, beads of pre-cum leaking from his exposed cock as he pressed wantonly into your hips. He raised his muscled arms above him, pressing them against the headboard as he pushed down onto you, his perfect ass colliding with the flat expanse of your pelvis as he took you all the way.

“Loki…” you warned darkly.

The tenor of your voice matched your concentration, carefully controlling your thrusts as adrenaline begged you to fuck him as hard and as fast as you could. You moved one hand from his raised thigh, sliding it down to grip his cock to a growl of approval from your submissive god.

Slowly, you stroked his length as his ab muscles clenched beneath you, perfectly defined in his torment. The effort of restraint made his body flex around the cock buried deep inside him; you were losing yourself.

You had always wondered what it would be like to fuck as a man…but this? Nothing could have prepared you for this. For fucking Loki. It was everything.

He began to mutter ancient Nordic phrases beneath you, his chin raised to the ceiling as the muscles in his neck stood out from the strain.

“Does my good boy want to cum?” you heard yourself say, a sea of lust thundering in your veins carrying away any hint of embarrassment.

He nodded, heavy pants escaping his lips as he threw his head back in expectation.

“Use your words, love…” you growled, his own phrase that had goaded so many times close to climax tumbling from your tongue.

“Yesss… fuck, yes” he groaned in exasperation, “I want to cum, please let me…”

You tightened your grip around his length, sliding your widened palm fluidly across his skin as the sound of his cries rang in your ears, making you dizzy with need. You thrust into his hot channel, inching him towards the headboard as he tensed beneath you.

You weren’t sure who came first.

You felt yourself tighten and release like a weighted spring, boundless pleasure spurting from your cock with force as your hips buckled and shuddered into the man beneath you. Loki’s luxurious seed coated your hand as he came, his back arched on the bed as he roared your name. Your real name.

You laid your wide palms to rest on either side of his broad shoulders. Words weren't forthcoming as you closed your eyes, focusing on the heavy breaths leaving your body as you slid yourself from his entrance, sticky with your cum. Loki’s strong arms pulled you down to him, running over your broad shoulders lazily as he kissed the top of your head.

You felt the familiar ache of his magic as your body flexed and shifted beneath his touch.

The flat pressure of your chest against his became cushioned, his arms tightening around you as they found the familiar curve of your womanly waist. You raised your gaze to meet his, his eyes soft as he looked at you with pure love; running one finger down your cheek to brush a strand of your hair.

“There she is…” he murmured softly, “…well, what did you think?”

You rested in the crook of his neck as he fondled your breasts; inhaling the musk of his sweat laced with sex as you considered your answer.

“It was...enlightening.” you smiled, meeting his eyes which flickered with a knowing look.

“Remember, I will always want you, love. In any realm, in any form…” he whispered seductively in your ear, “with us, the possibilities are endless.”

The low embers of his sultry tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Tags

@lokisninerealms @lokischambermaid @lady-rose-moon @ravenwings73 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @mochie85 @gigglingtigger @november-rayne @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @lyn-soso @brokenthelovely @yelkmelk @loopsisloops @xorpsbane @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @mischief2sarawr @sititran @kats72 @imalovernotahater @mcufan72 @absentmindeduniverse @animnerd @thedistractedagglomeration @chantsdemarins @wheredafandomat @lokiprompts21 @lulubelle814 @lokis-tigress

#loki smut #loki x reader #sub!loki #loki fanfiction #hot loki #loki laufesyon x reader #loki x female reader smut #m/m smut #loki fanfic #loki x female reader #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson #loki fandom #loki #loki of asgard #loki god of mischief #bisexual loki #sub loki

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 year

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Hi so wednesday x reader who is basically itadori who has sukuna inside of them and has already eaten 2 fingers hope its not too complicated

This was a whole lot of words and none of them were probably even what you wanted.

Your an absolute sweetheart who could do no wrong nor harm a fly. Sure you could seemingly outrun a fucking cheetah but other then that there wasn’t anything unusual about that anyone could make by staring at you.

Only until you point out the two occasions where you had swallowed two of the twenty fingers of an all powerful king of curses. That earned you a few unconvinced stares until a sharp tongued mouth and a demonic eye appeared in tandem just under your cheekbone, spouting curses and death threats towards each and every one of your friends. Fun.

The demonic bastard ruined your perfectly normal life and made you an outcast in your old school, which you were then bullied out of the entrance doors by the kids you went out of your way to save and then sent away to Nevermore by your parents who had grown deathly scared of the monster within you that threaten to re decorate the walls of your home with their blood, use their internal organs for decorations and finally utilise their hollowed out heads as lamp shades/candle holders.

Weems was notified by the most notable names of the potential danger you could unintentionally bring upon the school should the king of curses continue to use you in his hunt for the remainder of his fingers and retaining every ounce of his long forgone and mythologised power.

So with two of the twenty fingers haven been swallowed, you were already too much of a problem for Weems and Nevermore but she knew that if she left you out into the streets of Jericho and the king of curses happens to greet everyone with his own eyes, Nevermore would be finished indefinitely when word got out that she sent you away because you were too much a danger to human life to be allowed in. So much so the entire town of Jericho was slaughtered because it.

So in order to satiate her growing fear, Weems tasked the nightshades to keep tabs on you and make sure that your…demonic friends didn’t come out to play. However after the first week of no evidence of you being a massive danger to the school. The nightshades -minus Xavier and Ajax because they went out of their way to befriend you during this time- didn’t see what Weems was so worried about and left you be to do their own thing that they would’ve liked to have been doing in the first place.

So when the one time that you did loose control to the king, Ho boy he was no at all entertained by the so called secrete society that was meant to keep tabs on him. That when Ajax and Xavier were about to head down to the library the saw you or what they thought was you standing near the Poe statue; almost as though you heard them breathing you moved to look them in they eye and that’s when they begun to know why Weems was so afraid. The person staring back at them wasn’t you but the king of cursed himself.

“Shouldn’t have let your guard down Nightshades,” he spat venomously as he threw Kent at their feet to see that his pendant had been obliterated to pieces much like his face was, “this is your line of defence against threats? How pathetic, I shouldn’t have to be trying this hard to maintain my presence within this body but this punk is stronger then I originally thought them out to be.” The king spat as he felt your tugging at him getting stronger by the second as he felt his time quickly slip away.

So before he could allow you to take this moment away from him, the curse stared at the two frightened boys and heeded a them a grave warning. “I shall come back for blood, for this puny moron couldn’t ever hold me back like this forever because one day, oh-ho one day, I shall slaughter every man, woman, child and how many others in this school and in Jericho.”

Once you had regained control, Ajax and Xavier were quick to realises that the black tattoos on your body also faded away. Weems told them that you had only swallowed two fingers and they were already shitting themselves at what you/the king of curses could do if you swallowed just one more if you/him were already able to hand Kent his ass on a silver plater at just two fingers. Ajax dragged Kent to the nurses office whilst Xavier carried you back to your dorm which you didn’t have a roommate as for their safety more so then yours and camped outside your dorm until the next morning.

Ever since Ajax and Xavier have been the only two nightshades to keep an eye on you 24/7. So when Wednesday came to school. She noted that there was something odd about you that she just couldn’t put her finger on. At the comment a mouth and an eye appeared just under your cheek bone, glaring/snarling angrily at her. “What did you just say about me you freaky little meat bag?!” You slapped a hand on the mouth to shut the curse up and looked at the addams apologetically. “I’m so sorry it’s just that I ugh, it’s a stupid story really so I’ll cut you the embarrassing part and tell you that I’m now the host of a potentially powerful curse king.”

“Potentially?! You piece of shit, I AM POWERFUL! I am the fucking King of curses!” The mouth then reappeared on the back of your hand as it boldly shouts to the heavens of it’s title. “Shut the fuck up!” You hissed at the mouth as you threateningly brought out a some sour candy juice spray from your back pocket. “Don��t make me fucking use this on you again!” The curse hissed in distain like a cat but disappeared back into your skin.

“He really hates this stuff, one time I missed my mouth by a long shot and it sprayed into his eye and he wouldn’t stop screaming for hours on end.” You laughed at the memory of the powerful king of curses howling in pain over a misjudged projectile of sour candy spray. You secretly hoped you didn’t ruin anything but were already preparing to move away if you had, however once you had prepared to move elsewhere Wednesday asked, “where are you going?”

“I’m…leaving you be as I don’t want him to hurt you or anyone else in this school and I don’t if you’ve heard but, I’ve already lost control once and almost killed Kent during my blackout.” You told her truthfully but she still looked unfazed by all that you’ve just said. “And?” She asks and that was when you were beginning to worry about her mental state. “And I don’t want you to be nearby incase I do black out and he does come out again.”

Wednesday looked you over before saying with confidence, “you look in control to me, so I have nothing to fear until later events and even then I wouldn’t run away as I would merely find some way to detain you until you regain consciousness.”

“She’s most certainly an interesting one, worm. Then again it must be a trait that every Addams descendant must’ve acquired at birth or something.” The curse told you that night as you were brushing your teeth, “one of ‘em got this close to actually ending me.” “How close again was it?” You asked, the curse groaned “I said this close.” The eye under your cheek bone then began to bring it’s lid down until you could just barely make out the eyelashes that were tickling your skin before it burst back open again.

“Did you catch it this time you twerp?” The curse asked you through the mirror. “Yes I did the first time actually but you were stupid enough to believe me and do it again for a second time.” You snarked back as the curse groaned at how he got duped but you told him to have it in the morning as you were already tired enough as it was and went immediately to bed and fast asleep the moment your head hit the pillow.

The closer you got with Wednesday the more it seemed that the curse also noticing the attachment you were forming with her. So on the occasion the curse would threaten to take over and kill her last so that when you woke up, you’d see her dead body in your bloody arms. Yet you’d always bite back that he had every opportunity to make that moment a reality for you but never did, you went as far as to call him chicken shit but the curse would just offhandedly told you that it unfortunately wasn’t time yet for that.

So whilst you waited for ‘that time’ you and Wednesday began having dates in cemeteries, crypts could abandoned house and so on with the king of curses being a nuisance now and then by popping up now and then in hopes of ruining your moment but to his dismay you had the sour candy spray on hand and would always spray it into his big mouth, where it hit him in the back of his throat and for the rest of your date you were forced to listen to him scream and cough overtly loud in reverb within your consciousness all the while you tried to remain outwardly unaffected.

Wednesday knew that you/the king of curses were a dangerous game but she was always drawn to those types of games but she would always make sure that you wouldn’t be taken over so easily like before. She also knew that the while you were conscious, the king was also conscious but to a lesser extent. His power flowed through you at a weaker rate then it did within himself which meant that when you were fighting to regain control, not only were you reliant on your own willpower but you were also somewhat reliant on a small portion of him that didn’t seek to fight those he was obviously on a whole other level then.

The curse was growing ever more intrigued by Wednesday and sooner or later abstained from his usual barbs with her in favour of doing to towards the likes of Ajax or Xavier who, in his opinion, were more fun to to scare shitless then you or Wednesday seeing as you’ve grown numb to his threats or too cocky in your ability to pull yourself back into consciousness. So he merely watched from within you, make his barbs before leaving to scheme for the day where he would finally obtain full control without your pretty interferences. One day, you, Weems, the nightshades, Nevermore and Jericho will rue the day that you dared crossed paths with the king of curses for it shall be your last.

Thornhill was already planning ahead in helping the king curse within you by tracking down the remaining fingers, then soon she’ll be on to her second phase which is to giving you the fingers then thirdly, allowing the king of curses to be able to create pure unadulterated chaos.

#wednesday addams fanfic #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #Wednesday Addams imagines #Wednesday Addams imagine #Wednesday Addams fic #Wednesday Addams x you #Wednesday x you #Wednesday imagines #Wednesday imagine #Wednesday fanfic #Wednesday fic

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ponder-the-orb · 18 days

Text

Broken Things

(Actually chapter one. Read the prologue here)

Pairing: Fem Tav (named)/Gale

Chapter Tags: Post-Canon, Mystra, Angst, dealing with trauma, hurt/no comfort (yet) , Tara

Word count: 4K words

Read chapter 1 below or on AO3.

***

The pain is instant.

It rips Gale from sleep like a fish speared in a pool, searing from his chest and burning into every nerve.

The silence of the dark study rings with his cry, then a series of duller thuds as he staggers from his desk. Papers flutter, something shatters and another flash of pain crumples his body to the floor.

He bites his lip until he tastes warm metal, trying to centre himself. He knows this ache, as familiar as an old nightmare.

This isn’t happening. It can’t.

The thought tears apart as he touches his chest. It pulses under his fingers, the dark outlines of the mark suddenly flaring with a nauseatingly bright blue light. A light he hasn’t seen in almost two years.

He squeezes his eyes shut and waits to wake up back in his bed, sweaty, aching but fine.

As if to spite such a thought, the feeling swells again and crashes through him. He swallows and hardens each joint, every piece of self control locked in on keeping it firmly inside him. The wave ebbs away slowly, along with his denial.

It’s no dream. The orb is awake and it's desperately angry.

Old reflexes snap to life. He pulls a ring from his finger and presses it to the glow. He feels the weave wrap around it like a delicate veil, then instantly rip apart. He grabs another and does it again, then his earring, his pendant, the sending stones in his pocket. One by one their magic disappears into the orb’s waiting maw, just enough to mute the very edge of the pain.

He sits up, shaking. He has minutes to write a plan lest his tower and the entirety of Waterdeep be levelled around him. The thought sits with cold weight on his shoulders as he heaves himself to his feet. How many people would be lost to his mistake? Babes sleeping in their Mother’s arms, wine-blushed patrons watching the stars through inn windows, sailors reclining on their boats and taking in the city’s wintery skies. A hundred thousand people, gone in a flash.

Ciri.

The wardrobe door shudders against the wall as he yanks it open. It’s a dark mess inside, the small space piled with clutter from their old adventure they’d yet to find a proper place for. Blindly he searches, grabbing the few magical items he can find and shoving them into his chest. Hungrily it devours each one, gorging itself on the weave until he reaches the very back of the wardrobe.

He touches the wall and breathes as slowly as he can. His body is sweaty and tight from the effort– but slightly calmer. He sinks to the floor, rubbing his damp forehead as he tries to piece the night together.

Whatever was keeping the orb dormant is gone, that much is clear. Why now or what caused it are questions Gale doesn’t have time to dwell on. The only thing that matters is finding a way to sate it in the precious few moments he’s managed to obtain.

His hands curl into fists as the only solution stares at him from a dark corner of the wardrobe.

The trinkets in here aren’t enough to hold it. Already he can feel his defences taking a battering under his skin, naught but paper strips holding a door closed against a hurricane. He needs its previous fix.

He carefully picks up a large wrapped object and carries it to the empty plinth at the back of the room. A fine layer of dust swirls in the air as he pulls the sheet free, revealing the effigy hidden beneath.

Mystra.

He lights the candles with a snap of his fingers, then grabs anything gold or silver he hasn’t already torn to shreds and leaves it in front of her.

Her flat eyes stare at him as he kneels. The statue stands a foot tall, but he feels smaller, sagging under the memory of her dispassionate expression from the last time he’d seen her. He can’t quite remember the exact immodesty in his words when he’d refused to blindly follow her orders; it would be foolish to hope she wouldn’t either.

“Mother of all Magic, I beseech you. As you spin the weave that lights our path, grant me the honour of your ear.”

The formality feels strange on his tongue. Such summons were usually draped in more lyrical praises, but he’s more than certain she’d know he wouldn’t mean them. She controls his power, not his life and certainly not his love.

It’s not a comforting thought right now.

His wedding ring bites against his finger as he repeats the words before continuing.

“I know it has been some time and I am sure you do not wish to hear from me. I know… I know that I failed you, but I swear I can offer something much greater than an apology.” The hidden bitterness to his words curdle at the back of his throat. He takes a breath, then firmly presses forward.

“Let me bring you the crown and I’ll right this wrong. Just grant me a little more time to do so.”

The silence stretches on. The air feels colder.

He swallows, then prostrates himself until the cool flagstones rub against his forehead. “The people of this city do not deserve to pay for what I did. So many wizards here will never finish their work. It’s an injustice to all magic.”

When no response comes, he sits up against his heels and finally looks her in the eye. He feels something piercing back, taking in all of him.

“You knew me once, better than anyone. That time together meant something.”

He touches the hand of the statue, gently rubbing its smooth surface.

“Mystra. Please.”

The candles snuff out the moment her name leaves his lips, her presence and his last hope dissolving into darkness.

He tears his hand away, doing nothing to stop the statue as it falls and shatters into pieces against the ground.

There’s no remorse. No fumble to fix her or quiet whisper of apology for his rashness. No. He wants to smash harder, grind each sorry lump into dust until his blasphemy permeates the very air. Let his last act on this plane be one of defiance, finally breaking that old fatuous hope that if he begged harder, worshipped harder, unmade every shred of his dignity for her, then he might finally find that she has a heart to turn.

The breath caught in his throat pushes out in a high, jagged laugh. It happens again as flames engulf his hand, then again as his fist repeatedly meets the flagstones, again and again and again until they morph into sharper, drier sobs.

The hero of Baldur’s Gate becomes the cur of Waterdeep . The thought taunts him as the ache in his chest begins to eclipse the one in his fist.

Another lightning bolt of pressure topples him to the floor before he can stop it. It tears at the restraints until his surroundings have melted into nothing but burning white pain. He wants to fight, to run, to do something to stop this but his body has long since given up the battle. The ache builds again as he desperately thinks, cresting like a tidal wave in his chest.

He closes his eyes, letting one final thought take him into oblivion.

Ciri. Please forgive me.

“Oh Mr. Dekarios. Look at you.”

His neck protests as he lifts his head. A familiar blur of charcoal and ginger fur sits in front of him, watching intently.

“Tara?”

The tressym stretches her wings, slinking closer until he can see the concern knit in her broad feline features. She taps his cheek, then his temple before shaking her head.

“Goodness this is quite the mess.”

He reaches out with a trembling hand. “You need to get out of–”

She shoves something small and shining against his chest before he can finish.

“Eat, Mr. Dekarios.”

More powerful strands of weave bind themselves around the orb as he takes the object in, strong enough so that each breath feels less like stones being forced up his throat.

A pair of gloves drop by his knee as he sits up. Tara hovers above with expectant eyes.

“Now these.”

Something heavier lands at his side as he finishes absorbing them: a large necromantic tome this time.

“And this,” she says as he picks it up, frowning when it doesn’t immediately comply.

He brushes the series of twisting skulls poking out from the worn surface. “There are only three of these on this plane, you know.”

“Then we’ll find the other two afterwards,” she replies, batting the cover with her paw. “ Eat . I won’t ask twice.”

She brings him item after item until the ground is littered with shards of what Gale assumes is every rare artefact he’s ever collected. Little by little the pain ebbs away, a fire quenched by a handful of sand at a time, until the glow finally stops.

He exhales and touches his chest again. It’s bound enough for him to think clearly, at least for now. He flicks the fireplace to life with his finger and props himself up against the nearest wall. Tara follows at his heels, taking her usual spot in his lap.

“How did you know what was happening?” he asks after a moment.

“I may not live here anymore but I am still your familiar. I’ll always know when you need me.” She presses her head to his palm, purring when he starts to pet her properly. “There was an awful lot of shouting between you and Mrs. Dekarios when I first arrived, so I decided to come back later– and it’s a good thing I did.”

He rubs his forehead. “You heard that?”

“The patriars on the other side of the city most likely heard that, but it isn’t the most pressing issue right now. Your condition has returned.”

“Returned and worse than ever. The artefacts are barely touching the sides anymore.” He traces the grooves of the orb as he speaks, trying to remember what it actually felt like when there wasn’t a permanent weight entrenched around his heart.

Tara stretches and turns away. “With this affliction there are worse places to be than a wizard’s tower. Stay here, I’ll find more.”

“I can’t hold it in anymore.”

“Then I’ll be quick.”

“Tara. Listen to me. I can’t hold it in anymore,” he rests a hand against her back and looks over to the broken statue. “She’s made sure of that.”

He watches the quiet steel of his words settle across her face.

“No. No, I won’t believe it,” she declares, leaping from his lap. “Mystra wouldn’t do this. She could never be this senselessly cruel.”

He fights a cold laugh. “We both know that could not be further from the truth.”

“Well then, we will just keep feeding it until we think of a more permanent solution. There are powerful forces other than the divine out there.”

“I could absorb every strand of the weave in this tower and it would give me days at most. It’s never going to be sated; it’s never going to stop and we don’t have enough time to experiment anymore.” He’s speaking the lines he’d rehearsed for weeks in solitude those years ago, the ones he’d thought that he’d folded away for good the moment he’d got on one knee for someone else.

She hisses and starts pawing through the broken items as if the answer could be found amongst the disarray. “There is always something to be done. You told me you’d been keeping a careful study of it.”

“I was. There has not been so much as a twinge in my chest for two years now and, believe me, I tested a variety of different magics to see if any would aggravate it. I thought, well– assumed that because nothing had changed all was well.” He drops his head against the wall, fingers digging bruising stars into his thighs. “I’m a fool.”

“You’re only a fool if you think that I’m going to sit here and watch you give up.”

“This is not giving up.”

“That’s exactly what it is, Mr. Dekarios.”

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to do!”

Tara jumps back at his sudden shout, her wings slamming flat against her body.

“Mr. Dekarios–”

“Go on, tell me then.” Blood thunders in his ears as he speaks, new tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “There is not a force on this plane that can stop it and the Gods that haven’t left me are not going to pull their fingers out for mortal affairs. They’d rather cower behind Ao then stop something that could potentially kill a city’s worth of people. So tell me. Tell me how I’m supposed to fix this. How I’m to pull the perverted power of a false God out of my chest and actually live the next sixty years like I so naively believed I could.” His voice breaks on the last few words, dropping to a more jagged whisper. “Please. Just tell me what to do.”

His words hang in the silence for a long moment. She sits quietly as his breathing evens out, before padding over and curling back in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” she says, resting her head against his thigh. “I really am.”

He sighs and lightly strokes the length of her back. “Me too, Tara. Me too.”

It’s as if all the heat of his anger has dissolved into the air. He should want to shout louder, scream, break everything around him until the whole tower is left in ruins but he can’t .

He’s just tired. So so tired.

Looking down, he remembers the first time she’d rested on him like this. She’d barely been an hour old: smaller, less grey, but just as fiery a presence. How nervous he’d been at scaring her off with a wrong word, but when she’d curled up warm as a fresh pastry in his lap, every silly fear just seemed to float away. What he'd give for it to be so easy now.

“So, what is to be done then?” she asks, lifting her head from his leg.

“The old plan,” he answers, still gently petting her fur. He doesn’t need to elaborate any further than that, the details have been clear for three years at this point. “And thus ends the tale of Gale Dekarios. At least it will be with a bang and not a whimper.”

She stiffens under his touch but stays quiet, letting him continue his rhythmic petting until the hearth dims into embers again.

Eventually she jumps from his lap, regarding him with a softer look. “Shall I wake Mrs. Dekarios for you?”

“No. Let me,” he says, his legs clicking with the effort as he finally stands.

He pauses when he reaches the door. “Tara,” he says softly, turning back to the waiting tressym. “You must know that-”

“I know, Mr. Dekarios,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “Unless you want the last memories of me to be a blubbering mess, you really do not have to tell me.” She nudges his calf and gently rubs the spot with her head. “It’s a terrible thing for a tressym to outlive their wizard, even if the one that summons them is as withered as an old boot. The most surprising thing to me when I first arrived here was that you were just a boy. A loud, talented, nervous little boy. And even though they say that only those with pure hearts can summon us, that doesn’t mean we are bound for good lives, so I really had no idea what was in store for me… or you.” She pauses and leaps into the air, hovering so he can feel every word. “Believe me when I say there is nowhere on this or any plane that I would rather have gone and I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. You may have stumbled sometimes and made some interesting choices when it came to your personal grooming, but you were never really lost.”

It takes every ounce of his faltering restraint to swallow back a fresh round of tears. It’s the shake in breath that betrays him as he gathers her in his arms one last time. He loses himself in the feeling and, for just a moment, lets himself be that child again: innocent, happy, completely oblivious to how the edges of greatness are far sharper than he could ever have imagined.

“Who’s the blubbering mess now?” he whispers as he deposits her back on the floor.

She taps the wet corner of his eye with her paw. “None of that Mr. Dekarios. It’s hardly becoming of you.”

He brushes his eyes, then his cheeks, completely at a loss for how he’s supposed to even begin to approach the next conversation. He rubs his wedding ring for a few seconds before looking back to Tara.

“Promise me you’ll take care of her.”

She bows her head, wings spread like a cape as he rises again.

“On my honour, I promise.”

***

Walking into their dark bedroom, he can almost forget the discord that has just unfolded below. There’s the pile of first year papers sitting unmarked on the desk, his slippers by the wardrobe, a copy of A Dark Day for Cormyr unopened on the bedside table– everything as neat as when he’d left them this morning. The only hint of disarray is a pile of Ciri’s clothes by the window from where she’d either dropped or thrown them.

She doesn’t rouse as he sits on the edge of the bed. She’s bundled herself in the majority of the blanket against the cold, the sliver of visible face a mask of calm. It’s a far cry from the last time he’d seen it, so twisted and scarlet with anger. He can’t quite remember half the things he’d said before she’d stormed up here, just how deliberately he’d chosen the words, refusing to be the one that broke first.

It all seems so stupid now, those problems a thousand miles away.

For the longest time death had always felt like his waiting mistress. Those years ago, he’d accepted it, made it welcome even as he rewrote his will over and over again in this very room with a calm steady hand. Falling into adventure had only strengthened that resolve, made him more ready than ever to jump into its waiting arms if it meant his failures could mean something.

But, something else happened. She happened. Someone who loved him beyond the measure of his usefulness, enough to pull him from that embrace and tell him that he deserved more than being the discarded plaything of one God and the current puppet of another.

So he did the hardest thing of all; he believed her. He turned away from Mystra’s forgiveness and the power of a God so he could make the choice to live. Really, honestly live.

He stops his hand as it lashes towards the bedside table.

And now all of that means absolutely nothing.

“I’m going to die,” he whispers into the darkness, then again, directly at Ciri’s sleeping form. “I’m actually going to die.”

The words don’t feel quite real as they linger in the air. He shifts closer and rests his hand on the warm curve of her cheek.

“Tell me that we will find another way,” he murmurs, brushing a few orange hairs away from her face. “You never stopped believing we could fix this, even when I thought I had exhausted every other possibility.”

He’d bore witness to the miracles she could perform first hand: commanding a devil to fall on his own sword, pulling an undead dragon from the sky, burning the very God of Death to cinders– why would it be such a foolish thing to hope she could stop this as well?

He leans closer, stopping but a breath from her face.

“I can’t do it. I’m not ready.”

She shifts slightly at the noise, the blanket slipping to reveal the patchwork of burn scars down her back and arms. He brushes each one softly, then her shoulder, the point of her ear, the sleek pattern of coppery scales by her eyes. She groans slightly as he presses her left hand to his lips, rolling towards him.

“I love you. I love you so much.” He kisses the words against her palm, then again, over and over until his voice is raw and sentiment tattooed into her skin.

Not even two years they’d been married. He has grey hairs older than that. It’s such a fleeting time for a human, but even more so for an elf. She could live another six centuries, him but a single page in the story of her existence.

The matter of their lifespans was a conversation they’d had but once and they’d both decided that it did not need revisiting. Enjoy the time we have , that’s what they had said. Back when the assumption was decades, not hours.

He pulls another blanket from the bottom of the bed and drapes it over her, some soft navy thing patterned with the Tears of Selûne. His touch lingers against the silvery threads. Thousands of nights he’d promised her under those very stars. It’s hard now not to count the number they’ve actually had and see just how much of a liar he’d turned out to be.

“I’m sorry, my love. I… I wish– ” He trails off, no idea where he’s supposed to go from there. What words can he possibly spin to soften this or lessen the hole he knows he’s about to rip into both the earth and her heart.

“Let this dream be a good one,” is what he settles on, pressing his lips to her forehead before quietly walking over to his desk.

Snow falls down in sheets through the crack in the curtains in front of him. He can imagine the children at Blackstaff lying awake and staring through the dormitory windows, grinning ear to ear at the thought of missing lessons. He’d already taken more than one snowball to the back of the head between classes, though he’s yet to work out whether those had been from his students or another faculty member. Now he never will.

He shakes the thought away, grabbing a fresh piece of parchment and quietly casting darkvision on himself.

He’s never liked winter all that much, but right now it’s a small mercy. Night will hang over Waterdeep that little bit longer, giving him a few more hours to plan and for Ciri to rest in blissful abandon.

He takes in the beautiful curve of her body one more time before turning back to his desk and beginning to write.

***

And there we go.

Updates will be posted on my AO3 and promoted here. (Hopefully every 2 weeks)

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #my writing #gale fic #gale bg3 #tara the tressym

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moon-tells-stories · 4 months

Text

Dear diary, i’m an idiot

Connor Stoll x gn ready

Part two of Heart Problems

Connor is completely in love with you, here is the embarrassing tale of how the new Apollo kid realised it.

Remy wanted to disappear from the face of the earth.

Why?!?! WHY WHY WHY??!?

Honestly at this point they deserved the “most likely to find themselves in awkward situations award”

Their father was the god of prophecy so why couldn’t he sometimes send Remy some sort of sign like: “hey! you shouldn’t do that!if you do you’ll find yourself in awkward situation, my dear!”

Could all of this even be considered an awkward situation?

What do you call it when you ask your crush’s love to set you up with him?????

Remy really really just wanted to hide themselves under their blankets and never come out.

Remy’s demise started when they found out that their father was actually a god. Their life completely turned upside down and they found themselves in a strange camp for demigods.

The first two day were spent in the Hermes cabin waiting for their father to claim them.

It was there that everything started going to shit.

Honestly at first it wasn’t so bad, Remy had finally found a place with people like them, that didn’t judge them or made fun of them.

Plus, the counsellor of cabin 11 was quite hot.

Connor seemed like a nice guy, obliviously without counting his mischievous eyes that made Remy think he had stole their wallet at first.

(he didn’t, but his younger brother did)

From what Remy had gathered he was the typical son of Hermes, with a pendant for trouble and great lying and stealing abilities.

As the counsellor of the Hermes cabin however Connor knew how to make people feel welcomed, he showed Remy around camp, introduced them to the rest of the Hermes kids, he taught them how to use a sword and reassured them that their father would soon claim them.

Remy couldn’t help it, he was cute, with his beautiful blue eyes and pretty brown curls.

They spent those two days hoping, praying, begging that their father wouldn’t be Hermes so that they wouldn’t be related.

Thankfully on the third day Apollo claimed them and they soon joined cabin 7 and met their siblings.

With the possibility of being related to Connor gone, Remy decided to shoot their shot. (like a true kid of the god of archery)

The problem was that while being generally friendly, Connor still seemed to prefer to stay with his friends, so every time Remy tried to talk to him he would simply joke around a bit but never really go into deeper conversation topics.

Remy’s new brother Will told them not to take it to heart, that Connor was simply a bit of a reserved person, he liked to joke around and talk to people but it took him a while to fully trust them and get close to them.

So, Remy created a perfect foolproof plan.

Said foolproof plan was the worst idea they’ve ever had. Damn them and their stupid crush.

Connor was close to most of the oldest campers, among whom were his brother Travis and his best friend.

Remy absolutely refused to ask Connor’s brother, it would just be extremely embarrassing, so they decided that his best friend was the best option.

(wrong.

completely and absolutely wrong.)

But in Remy’s defence how were they supposed to know?????

You seemed kind and when Remy asked you to help them with Connor you didn’t seem to mind.

(if only they had noticed the strange look in your eyes)

You promised Remy to try and help them, telling them a few things about Connor and offering to rely a message to him. Remy had thanked you profusely and felt warmed by your kindness.

In the end however Connor didn’t come to the offered meeting, obliviously it had hurt a little but after all he didn’t own Remy anything and they weren’t going to be an asshole about the rejection.

They thanked you for your help dismissing your apologies because it wasn’t your fault either, feelings can’t be controlled after all.

Then they went on with their life like normal, after all it was just a little crush, Remy didn’t even know Connor that well, so after around a week they were fully over it.

The revelation arrived after a particularly draining day spent helping Will in the infirmary.

Will was finishing putting away some bandages while Remy waited for him, Will turned towards them with a smile.

“So, what do you think about your first month at camp? Did you make some friends?” their brother asked them with a curious and caring expression.

Remy shrugged with a smile “it was nice, i met lots of kind people” they started recounting to their brother a few names and episodes that happened during the month, when your name came up Will sent them a confused look “really? how did you meet them?”

Remy felt a bit embarrassed but decided that it’s not really something to be conscious about, it’s normal to have crushes and even more normal for them to not always be returned.

“I had a crush on Connor and asked them to try and set us up” they laughed a bit awkwardly “it didn’t end the way i wanted but they were very kind and nice about it”

Will looked absolutely horrified.

Remy started feeling a bit worried when he breathlessly asked “sorry?”

Remy shrugged trying to play it off “yeah, it’s whatever really, i guess he didn’t return my feelings, it’s fine, it was just a crush” they say genuinely, but Will cringes.

“oh gods- you asked them to set you up with Connor?” he asks looking as if he wants to either laugh hysterically or face palm.

Remy shrugs “pretty much, was that wrong?” they ask self consciously, Will shakes his head softly with an embarrassed smile.

“No, it’s just-“ he takes a breath “Remy, Connor is in love with them.”

Remy just wants the ground to swallow them up.

How in the gods’s names do they always find themselves in such awkward situations?!??!

Sure, the rejection had hurt, but- how will have Connor felt? The person he apparently loves just tried to set him up with someone else.

Remy really really did not mean for things to get like this.

Remy understood the true extent of their idiocy at the camp fire.

Connor was sitting next to you as you conversed happily with Annabeth Chase.

And gods, that look.

Remy had always been a romantic at heart, they loved to watch romance dramas and daydream about meeting the perfect person for them.

Watching Connor look at you as if you had hung all the stars in the sky made Remy squeal with joy, whatever slight hurt they might have felt at the rejection had been completely forgotten because it was so oblivious that he was absolutely and totally in love with you that Remy couldn’t even feel bitter about being rejected.

They just wish you would simply notice too and finally get together because from what Will had told them, you and Connor had been in love for years.

The entire camp was just waiting for you to notice as well.

Dear diary,

This first month in camp half-blood has really been something.

A lot of things have happened, i finally know who my father is and i even have some siblings now!

I’ve made lots of friends here, and i’m pretty sure that a cute guy from Demeter cabin is flirting with me :)

Before i can however relax and fully enjoy my new life here, i need to complete a mission that i have personally assigned to myself.

Perhaps i’m not a child of Aphrodite but i’ve watched enough dramas and telenovelas to be able to complete this personal mission.

My attempt at getting together with the cute counsellor of cabin 11 failed miserably, but it’s fine because i decided that this time i will be the one doing the setting up part.

My personal mission this summer, is to help Connor Stoll get together with the one he loves.

PS: second personal mission is to not get into other awkward situations- Remy’s embarrassing era has come to an end, long live Remy’s love guru era.

-Remy

#connor stoll x gender neutral reader #connor stoll x you #connor stoll x reader #connor stoll #percy jackson imagine #annabeth chase #pjo x you #pjo x reader #non binary oc

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hey-im-okay · 1 year

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Wesper fic recs:

____

I Wanted To Ask You Something by Theres_Only_Soup_

“I wanted to ask you something,” Jesper started carefully, his hand rubbing soft circles into Wylan’s arm. His other hand had found his hair, blunt fingertips scratching at his scalp just the way he liked. Wylan hummed as a way to tell him he was listening, waiting for him to continue. “I want to ask, but I don’t… I don’t want to scare you away.”

“What do you want to know?” Wylan couldn’t hide the edge in his voice, bracing to be patronized or berated or pitied.

Wylan and Jesper have a talk about Wylan's reading while cuddling in bed.

——

(This was just genuinely very sweet)

Wylan Van Eck: Demolition Expert and Professional Clothes Thief by Silverstar1

In Wylan’s defence, he didn’t intentionally set out to borrow anything from the Crows. It was just that he picked up a couple of blankets here and there, fell asleep in his chair and woke up to a coat draped over his shoulders, tried on Jesper’s hat for a laugh and ended up keeping it… and before he knew where he was, it had become his thing. Or: Wylan has a habit of stealing clothes from his fellow Crows and no one really minds.

____

(Absolutely one of my favourites, very soft, not mainly about wesper but it’s absolutely there)

A Moment of Awe by ru_inn

Jesper's fingers traced the engraving on the pendant, an entangled J and W. It was flawless.

Jesper made something for Wylan. Now if only he could stop staring at Wylan long enough to give it to him.

——

(Short but good, it’s so fluffy)

The Nightmare of Broken People by brenn_was_here

Wylan has a lot of nightmares.

It was something that Jesper noticed after they moved in together. He pretended like he didn’t notice at first, not wanting to push Wylan to disclose something he wasn’t comfortable with. But, as the nights went on, Jesper got more and more concerned.

——

(Another short oneshot hurt with a lot of comfort <333)

#wesper #jesper x wylan #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #six of crows wylan #shadow and bone wylan #shadow and bone #fic rec #six of crows jesper #soc jesper

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sieclesetcieux · 2 years

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Book Recommendations on the French Revolution (the "short" list version)

(For some reason, the original anonymous ask and answer I thought I had saved in my drafts has disappeared? Did I accidentally delete it? Who knows with Tumblr. Anyway, good thing I screenshotted it, I guess.)

Since I am STILL working on my extremely long post series going in depth into recommendations, I guess I should really just answer this ask and give a plain and simple list, as it was requested -_- (Don't worry, the extremely long post series is still going to happen.)

First of all, let’s just say, again (and it really must be insisted on), that most Anglophone historiography is… not very good. There are exceptions, but not many. At least, not enough to satisfy me. Fortunately, some good French books have been translated to English – so that’s great news!

So here are my main recommendations:

Sophie Wahnich’s La liberté ou la mort. Essai sur la Terreur et le terrorisme (2003) which was translated to In Defence of the Terror: Liberty Or Death in the French Revolution with a foreword by Slavoj Zizek in 2012.

This essay basically changed my life, and led me to take the path I have walked since as a historian. Zizek’s foreword is very good in summarizing the ideological oppositions to the French Revolution (until he rambles the way he usually does).

It opens with a quote from Résistant poet René Char which perfectly sets the tone:

“I want never to forget how I was forced to become – for how long? – a monster of justice and intolerance, a narrow-minded simplifier, an arctic character uninterested in anyone who was not in league with him to kill the dogs of hell.”

Keep in mind that when I first read it, in 2003, the very notion of anything like the Charlottesville rally happening was still in the realm of pure fantasy.

Marie-Hélène Huet’s Mourning Glory: The Will of the French Revolution (1997). One of the rare books in my list that was originally written in English (!). I think a lot of it might be available to read via Google Books, but it’s worth buying.

This book is hard to categorize: it talks of historiography and ideology, and it’s overall a fascinating book.

It feels a lot like Sophie Wahnich’s first essay – it was also similarly influential on my research. It inspired a lot of my M.A. thesis. I’ve recently found my book version of it, and this book was annotated like I’ve rarely annotated a book. It was quite impressive.

Dominique Godineau’s Citoyennes Tricoteuses: Les femmes du peuple à Paris pendant la Révolution française (1988) which was translated to The Women of Paris and Their French Revolution (1998).

It’s the best book on women’s history during the French Revolution IMO. I really don’t have much more to say about it: it’s excellent. It talks of working class women, it talks of the conflicts between different women groups, it talks of what happened after Thermidor and the Prairial insurrections, and the women who were arrested. No book has compared to it yet.

Jean-Pierre Gross’s Fair Shares for All: Jacobin Egalitarianism in Practice (1997). You can download it for free via The Charnel House (link opens as pdf).

Another rare book that was originally written in English, and later translated to French, though the author is French! (I think some French authors have picked up that the real battlefield is in Anglophonia…) It’s very important to understand social rights, a founding legacy of the French Revolution.

François Gendron’s essential book on the Thermidorian Reaction: first published in Québec as La jeunesse dorée. Episodes de la Révolution française (1979) (The Gilded Youth. Episodes of the French Revolution). It was then published in France as La jeunesse sous Thermidor (The Youth During Thermidor). As I explained here, its publication history is quite controversial (though it seems no one noticed?). It was thankfully translated to English as The Gilded Youth of Thermidor (1993). However, the English translation follows Pierre Chaunu’s version – which didn’t alter the content per se, but removed the footnotes and has a terribly reactionary foreword – so be careful with that. If anything, that’s a very good example of all the problems in historiography and translations.

Much like Godineau’s book on women, no book can compare. In the case of women’s history during the French Revolution, it’s because most of it is abysmally terrible; in the case of the Thermidorian reaction, it’s because no one talks about it. And it’s not surprising once you start reading about it.

(You might notice that Gendron’s translated book, much like many others, are prohibitively expensive. I do own some of these so if you ever want to read any, send me a message and we’ll work it out!)

Antoine de Baecque’s The Body Politic. Corporeal Metaphor in Revolutionary France, 1770-1800 (1997), which is a translation of Le Corps de l’histoire : Métaphores et politique (1770-1800) (1993). (Here’s the table of contents.) It’s a peculiar book belonging to a peculiar field, and it can be a bit complicated/advanced in the same way most of Sophie Wahnich’s books are, but I still recommend them. See also: La gloire et l’effroi, Sept morts sous la Terreur (1997) and Les éclats du rire : la culture des rieurs aux 18e siècle (2000), but I don’t think either have been translated. Le Corps de l’histoire and La gloire et l’effroi also are nice complements to Marie-Hélène Huet’s book.

If you can read French, I really recommend the five essays reunited in Pour quoi faire la Révolution ? (2012), especially Guillaume Mazeau’s on the Terror (La Terreur, laboratoire de la modernité) – which I might try to eventually translate or at least summarize in English coz it’s really worth it.

The following books are extremely important to understand the historiographical feud and the controversies that surrounded the Bicentennial of the French Revolution in 1989 (and both have been translated to French so that’s cool too):

First, Steven L. Kaplan’s two volumes called Farewell, Revolution: Disputed Legacies (1995) and The Historians’ Feud (1996).

Then, Eric Hobsbawm’s Echoes of the Marseillaise: Two Centuries Look Back on the French Revolution (1990) which gives you the Marxist perspective on the debate. If you want to look for the non-Marxist perspective: look at literally any other book written on the French Revolution and its historiography (I’m not kidding). For example, you can read the introduction by Gwynne Lewis (1999 book edition; 2012 online edition) to Alfred Cobban’s The Social Interpretation of the French Revolution (1964), the founding “revisionist” book.

Again, if you can read French, I recommend Michel Vovelle’s Combats pour la Révolution française (1993) and 1789: L’héritage et la mémoire (2007). I have not read La bataille du Bicentenaire de la Révolution française (2017) but it might recycle parts of the previous two books, so I’d look that up first.

Marxist historiography is near inexistant in Anglophonia, because of reasons best explained in this short historiographical recap on Anglophone historiography and specifically Alfred Cobban (link opens as pdf), but there was Eric Hobsbawm, who wrote a series of very important books on “The Ages of…”:

The Age of Revolution: 1789-1848

The Age of Capital: 1848-1875

The Age of Empire: 1875-1914

The Age of Extremes: 1914-1991

Some of Albert Soboul’s works have been translated as well:

A Short History of the French Revolution, 1789-1799 (1977)

The Sans-Culottes: The Popular Movement and Revolutionary Government, 1793-1794 (1981)

Understanding the French Revolution (1988), which is a collection of various essays translated to English (here’s the table of contents)

While we’re on the subject of classics: I do need to re-read R. R. Palmer’s The Twelve Who Ruled (1941) to see if I still like it, but I believe it’s still positively received? I’ve never actually read C. L. R. James’ The Black Jacobins. Toussaint Louverture and the San Domingo Revolution (1963) but I’m going to rectify that this summer.

That’s a good way to segue into a final part.

Here is a list of books I technically have not read yet (I skimmed through them), but would still recommend because I trust the authors:

Michel Biard and Marisa Linton’s The French Revolution and Its Demons (2021) which was originally published in French as Terreur ! La Révolution française face à ses demons (2020). It looks like an excellent summary of all the controversies surrounding the Terror: Robespierre’s black legend, how the Terror was “invented”, the conflicts between different political factions and clubs, the Vendée, and stats on who actually died by the guillotine (no, there was no “noble purge”). (Here’s the table of contents.)

Peter McPhee wrote several good syntheses, the most recent being Liberty or Death: The French Revolution (2017). Others he wrote: Living the French Revolution, 1789-99 (2006) and A Social History of France, 1789-1914 (1992, reedited in 2004). Why 1914? The 19th century was defined by Hobsbawm (see above) as “the long 19th century” (by contrast with “the short 20th century”), or “the cultural and political 19th century”, which is regarded as lasting from the fall of Napoléon Bonaparte to the First World war.

Eric Hazan’s A People’s History of the French Revolution (2014) and A History of the Barricade (2015), which are translations (Une histoire de la Révolution française, 2012, and La barricade: Histoire d’un objet révolutionnaire, 2013). If you can read French, check out his essay published by La Fabrique: La dynamique de la révolte. Sur des insurrections passes et d’autres à venir (2015).

Just as a final note: this post is the equivalent of four half single-spaced pages in Times New Roman 12 pts. It also took two hours to write and format (and make the side-posts with table of contents) even though most of it is already written in several drafts – i.e. the long post series of in-depth recommendations, so that gives you an idea of why that other series of posts is taking so long to write.

I’m going to go lie down now. -_-

ETA: Corrected some typos and a link that didn't quite go to the right place.

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bonesandthebees · 6 months

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So it’s dinner time. [“Did your father tell you what the announcement is going to be?” Niki asked in a hushed whisper as soon as Wilbur sat down.] Wilbur really is just the point of information in this, isn’t he? In Niki’s defence, she’s nervous, and it is weird that he doesn’t know, but she still believes his father just didn’t tell him.

[There wasn’t any need to start sowing seeds of doubt in the confidence the King had in his Consil.] very true and understandable that he doesn’t want to tell Niki, especially in a room full of people, but without meaning to, Wilbur already made the decision to lie to Niki. He missed his last chance to be truthful even if he didn’t know it. And the lie of omission here, plays in his favour later because it would be a lot harder to like to Niki if she did know, or maybe it wouldn’t.

Gotta love how everyone dressed up for this even if they are all towing the line of it could just be a coincidence, if everyone does it it does stand out. Both Wilbur and Phil are mentioned to wear something only slightly fancier. This makes it seem like they might have know the announcement wasn’t as big as everyone thought it to be. It makes it seem like they know more than they do, but if anyone is paying attention to them they way see that that wasn’t the case.

1. There’s Phil shaking his head at Wilbur, which could honestly be anything communication wise and it’s subtly enough that people wouldn’t really notice unless they were specifically looking for it and everyone is Looking at Sam in this case.

Side note: Sam and Ponk have the most unsubtle gay thing ever going on. Like everyone knows. Do you have to do this in front of the kids? I am very much laughing at Wilbur slowly coming to realise what’s going on there as he gets older.

Side note 2: the matching emerald earrings! Like the pendants are to show status, but the earrings are kinda just for them. Like it still connects Phil and Wilbur, but they don’t need those too. Also, Phil has diamond studs too, do those match anyone or no?

Back on track 2. [Furrowing his brows, Wilbur looked to Sam’s right, where Phil was mirroring his expression. He gave him a confused look, and Phil shook his head as if to say don’t look at me, you know I wasn’t aware of this.] like father like son. Again pretty clear sign they don’t know about shit, but everyone might be too caught up in their own confusion to notice since I’d assume them both to recover quickly. Also, I’m going to be living for Wilbur and Phil”s future non-verbal conversations.

Side note 3: Niki and Wilbur holding hands is so cute. Rip their fingers with the rings though.

Then there’s sort of the 3rd instance of non-verbal communication when Phil leaves and Wilbur knows he needs to talk with him. Like that could just be because Wilbur wants to talk to him, but Phil is very much expecting him during the meeting.

Side note 4: Rip Wilbur and Hannah. That must be such an awkward goodbye after everyone else has essentially stormed off since Sam left. (Also this man has no concerns at all, he’s just living his best gay life.)

(4/?)

-🌲

why did this ask get lost when I was answering all the rose asks tumblr wth

wilbur has always been niki's source of information in a way. his father is the consil, he knows everything, so in turn wilbur usually knows more than the average noble in the palace. and wilbur has (usually) always told niki what he learns from phil. the two of them are a team, y'know?

yup... without even fully realizing it wilbur has already decided to lie to niki. it makes sense why he does it, but he's already sowing that distrust between them without even meaning to

everyone is trying so hard to not be too dressed up but to look nicer than usual just on the off chance this is the Big Thing. sam is having a fun time not giving anyone any proper info lmao

god yeah sam and ponk are NOT subtle literally everyone in the palace knows. wilbur was only oblivious for so long because he was a child. they still hide it for posterity's sake but literally everyone knows

the emerald earrings are the only matching earrings they have. phil's diamond studs are just there for looks lol

phil and wilbur are gonna have so many fun nonverbal conversations. they know each other extremely well and it shows so well in moments like those

childhood friends niki and wilbur holding hands for comfort means so much to me

LMAO YEAH rip wilbur and hannah both just sitting there after everyone else left

#ask #spruce anon #rose ch 1

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gay-dorito-dust · 2 years

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Taglist: @mess-in-side @buckys-pillow @16boyfriends-and-me @pinkybee926 @mahirublue and others for wanting a part two to this fic I pulled out my sleep deprived ass. This one’s for you.

It had been a short while since the fiasco in the library, Mathew doesn’t seem to think so and calls you dramatic. People were meant to interpret situations however they saw fit -whether it be good or bad- and you were aloud to see what went off in the library as a disaster plus fiasco! The solution? Hide away from Morpheus’ line of sight until you could muster the strength to stare into his starry blue eyes without the knowing inkling tickling the back of your head that he knew.

He knew whenever your eyes met, he knew whenever he allowed you to stand closer then usual, more so when he granted you the wish of laying your head on his shoulder as boldly as you did whenever you were in his presence. He knew when your pinkies touched that one night in the dreaming where you were both stood on the balcony of his palace, overlooking his kingdom together. He knew when you came to him during sleepless nights for his help that ended in you fast asleep within the comfort of his bed. You felt stupid for ignoring how blatant he was in showing you the comfort he felt within your presence nor how he’d seek you out as you were dreaming; watching over you like a silent guardian, never daring to get closer in fear of ruining the painting.

His mere presence in the corner of your dreams gave you the same message. Nothing was going to hurt you. Not when Morpheus was there and it made you feel as though you were worth everything. His ego maybe a hindrance but overall he was perfectly flawed in every way possible and it made you love him all the more for it. Yet it scared you knowing that he knew so in defence of not wanting your feelings smashed into stardust you remain within your own area of the dreaming for the time being, only going near the castle or to Cain and Able when asked of you. Other then that you remained in the backyard of your cottage, overlooking the griffons within your care that dream has gifted you long ago. You named them Jess, a shortened version of the name Jessamy, the name of Dreams’ last raven companion who died rather tragically.

You were rather fond of Jessamy as you’d find her upon your windowsill every morning when you woke up to start your day, this was before you met Morpheus, that wouldn’t come til you chased after the raven for stealing a pendant you no longer remembered the origins of off from the top shelf before flying out of the window with you hot on her trail. She didn’t stop even as she glided through a particular tricky forest until you found yourself at the doorstep of the palace, looking up at the very balcony you’d soon step foot on as the dark haired and clothed king looked down at you with a face who’s only purpose was to mimic that of a stone.

Now you’d find yourself unable to break such habits as now and then you would still find yourself awaiting Jessamy to steal something from you and lead you back to Morpheus’ palace. Yet you were only greeted with silence after her passing and it left a tear within your heart that you didn’t think would be healing so soon. You were so lost within your thoughts that you didn’t process that something had landed upon your shoulder nor the muffled sound of a voice that followed seconds after. “Y/n?” Mathew asked, staring into your blank visage. “Y/n?!” He tried again, this time taping his bird feet against your shoulder, nothing.

“Morpheus is worried.” Those words seemed to snap you out of your head without a cinch as you looked at your feathered companion/sometimes nemesis, “why would he be worried? Can’t be because of me can it?” Mathew groaned, he had been sent here by Morpheus to check up on you for something he clearly didn’t listen to because he knew that during your hiatus from Morpheus’ life, it had already caused worry to arise within him that he sent Mathew to make sure you were still within his realm, preferably living. “Your dense for someone who just recently was flirting with the literal king of dreams and nightmares. Yes he’s worried about you, for all he’s aware you just up and dissipated without saying anything to him about it. Anybody would be worried if the people we love pulled that shit.” Mathew cried as he flapped his wings.

“As you can see I am fine, now you can go back and report to Morpheus that I’m not dead yet and leave me alone.” You said as you brought yourself up to your feet to stretch your muscles, causing the raven to take refuge upon the lowest branch of a nearby tree. “What’s gotten into you?” Mathew asked concerned, this type of behaviour wasn’t like you, normally you would’ve been ecstatic that Morpheus was worried about you as you’d rant about how your plan to making him swoon over you was working like a charm but this was…something was wrong and he wasn’t about to let a friend suffer in silence. “What if he doesn’t want me and he’s only playing along to ease the rejection yet to come, I seem like I talk big and act big when really I fear over the tiniest things. My mind conjures up false realities on things that don’t even pose a great enough threat and yet here I am stressing over the possibility that Morpheus’ feelings for me aren’t what they are and I’m just being delusional.” You admitted to the raven, feeling your throat tighten up as tears welled behind your eyelids as you tried to regain enough composure to get through a civil conversation.

“Look,” Mathew began, “Morpheus may act like an angsty teenager who’s been told to put away the black eyeliner for one family gathering, “ you snorted at the comparison but allowed the raven to continue, “but i know for a fact that he loves you, craves you even, so much so that when you stopped hanging out with me, Lucienne, Cain, Able and Merv I could see the disheartened look in his eye whenever he comes back from standing on that balcony waiting for you to come visit only for that to never come to fruition…it breaks his heart. You’ve integrated yourself into his life so deeply that Morpheus can’t bring himself to imagine ever living as long as he had without you bringing your own pallet of colours to liven up his own in a weird yet compatible way.” The raven watched as your face falls once more and how your eyes darkened as you looked deep into the depths of your hands as if they hold the answer for everything.

Little did you know but Mathew would catch Morpheus doing the exact same when he thought he was alone to ponder his mind into a reason as to your sudden distancing. The heartbreak and anger within his eyes alone scared Mathew into taking flight if ever he were to be caught spying on the dream lord in his moment of uncharacteristic weakness. “Look, just go to him y/n, he needs you just as much as you need him. He’s -as afraid he is to say it-lost without you.”

#the sandman fic #the sandman fanfic #the sandman x you #the sandman imagine #the sandman imagines #the sandman x reader #morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #morpheus imagines #morpheus imagine #Morpheus fic #Morpheus fanfic #dream of the endless x you #dream of the endless imagines #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #Spotify

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the-queen-of-fools · 1 year

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Coffee & Cowboys

Chapter 7

——— Word count: 1168 Pairing: Jack ‘Agent Whiskey’ Daniels x English f!Reader (no y/n, no descriptions) Rating: Mature (For themes. No smut.) Warnings: Slow burn; minor angst; post-movie; AU, fix-it fic. A/N: I’m REALLY sorry for the long hiatus. I’m going to try my best to be more regular with updates (possibly a new chapter every 2 weeks?) Also posted on Ao3 ———

“So, why me?” You ask Ginger when you get back into her lab. “No idea about that. You ever been to Kentucky before?” “No.” “Ever visited any of the Statesman offices before?” “No.” You pause, thinking of another question that’s just as important. “What about why now? I mean, it’s been 8 months since the whole Poppy thing, why not then?” Ginger sighs, and places her tablet down on the desk next to her. “Jack can hear me, right?” You nod. “It may have had something to do with him dying.” Both you and Jack respond at the same time. “What?” “Only for about a minute.” Ginger quickly adds on, holding her hands up in defence. “…But you died, Whiskey.” The cowboy’s jaw is slack, and he looks a little like he did when you first saw him in your kitchen. It feels like a lifetime ago. Ginger continues to speak to the air, “when you were on the flight back from Cambodia, there were some complications from transport. The effects of those complications made you crash the other day, and you died. I’m sorry.”

You jerk your head up suddenly, “Wait, did you say Cambodia?” “Yeah, that’s where Whiskey… got hurt,” Ginger answers. “Shit.” You mumble, and clutch onto your necklace. “What is it, darlin’?” Jack whispers to you. “My necklace. My roommate visited Cambodia a while back, she bought me this necklace.” You hold onto the pendant. “Could it be coincidental, or have we figured something out?” “When Poppy died, her entire place was emptied, demolished and parts were recycled. It’s possible, I imagine that it could be some of that metal?” “So, some of the metal could have been melted down and made into my necklace?” “Still don’t explain why me though, darlin’” Jack says, frowning. “Um, Jack still doesn’t get the connection, and to be honest, neither do I?” “Is it possible that it just happened to be something that belonged to him?” Ginger says softly. Jack sighs, patting his hip. “My gun? It’d be one of the only things left behind?” You repeat it to Ginger, and she taps a tablet screen, watches something, and looks back up. “Jack’s knife was put through the meat grinder. If the metal was used for the necklace, it could be acting like some sort of talisman.” You look up to the cowboy standing next to you, him looking as dumbfounded as you feel. “So then, when you died, it brought you to me?” You whisper, as Jack looks at you, brows furrowed, and gives you a small nod.

A talisman, conduit, a lightning rod, for his what? Spirit? Soul? Consciousness? Your hand is still wrapped around the pendant, holding on to the necklace like an anchor, grounding yourself. This little thing, the smallest impossible chances, has connected the two of you together. “I need a minute.” You say, and Ginger simply nods as you turn towards the door. You leave her lab, and return to the small room with Whiskey’s unconscious form within, Jack close behind. “Darlin’?” whispers the cowboy, just a head through the wall, as if mounted on it, as you lean back against the door. Jack finishes walking through the wall, settling next to you, leaning back against it. Stupid metaphysical contradictions. “You alright, sugar?” “It’s stupid.” You whisper as you turn to face him, a shoulder now supporting you. He mirrors you, leaving you face to face with barely a foot between you. “If I didn’t have this necklace, or if you hadn’t lost your knife, or if the stupid building hadn’t been demolished and recycled, then what? You’d just be there,” you gesture towards the bed, “and that’s it?” “You could have gotten on with your life, sugar.” “Oh come on, Cowboy.” You shake your head at him, and lean it back against the wall, a smile spread on your face. “This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. If I had a choice, I’d pick your moustache and stetson following me around, any day.” A faint smirk pulls at his lips, and a low chuckle escapes him. “Well, thanks sugar. I’d pick the same.” He watches you blush a little, and you try to hide it from him, looking over to his physical form across the room. “Are you alright with all this? Being here, seeing yourself like that? You’d tell me right, if you wanted to go?” He looks at your face, the concern written on it, your brows pulled together, and your lips pulled to a thin line. He opens his mouth to speak, when a knock on the door interrupts, breaking through the moment. Ginger slowly appears through the doorway to check on you. “Let me guess, more tests?” You ask her, and she nods, smiling softly. “I’ve updated Champ, he said he might come down in a bit too, see our progress.”

“I imagine you want me to take the necklace off, right?” You ask Ginger back in the lab, though you’re sure of the answer already. “It’s just to see if it is that that’s connecting the two of you.” “But what happens if he disappears and doesn’t come back? What then?” “It’s… just a risk we’re going to have to take.” “But what if it’s one I don’t want to take?” You reply, accidentally snapping at Ginger. Jack chuckles lightly, touched at your concern. “Darlin’, I’ll be fine. I’m already in a coma, what else could go wrong?” “Well done for jinxing yourself there, Cowboy.” You look between the two, and sigh dramatically when you accept what needs to be done. “Fine. But I will say ‘I told you so’ if this goes badly.” “Sure thing, sugar.” You reach behind your neck, undoing the latch of the chain, and breathe out when you take it off, keeping your eyes on the man in front of you. You place it into Ginger’s hand, breaking contact with the metal. Nothing happens. Jack doesn’t vanish, fade or become blurry. “He’s still there,” you breathe out, a smile appearing on your face. Ginger watches your reaction, a small sad smile on her own lips too. “Okay, um, let me…” she says as she puts it on herself. She waits a moment. “Nothing. I don’t see him…” she shrugs, murmuring to herself, “must have been wrong, I guess.” She takes it off and passes the necklace back to you, still mumbling things to herself as she walks off to the other side of the room. You secure the necklace back in its rightful place as quickly as possible. Your shoulders relax a little, and you sigh, placing your hand over it in comfort. You look up at Jack again, and give the man a sad smile. “For what it’s worth Whiskey Cowboy, I’m sorry you’re stuck following me around.” You turn and start walking towards where Ginger’s stood, and Jack pauses for a moment before whispering to himself, “oh, English, I’m right where I wanna be.”

#Coffee & Cowboys fic #Martha writes #agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #kingsman 2 #kingsman: the golden circle

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