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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

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“Hide me hide me hide me hide me hide me.”

Nico blinks, watching blankly as Will ducks under his arm, situating himself behind the door and peeking around it. When Nico doesn’t move, he cranes his neck to look at him, face urgent, and says, “Close it, dude, hurry up!

“Solace!”

“Fuck,” Will curses.

Nico blinks again. He squints across the common, trying to suss out what Will’s staring at. It doesn’t take long. She’s hard to miss, especially in full armour.

“Are you…hiding from Clarisse?”

“Am I hiding from —” He scoffs. “No, I’m just behind this door for fun. Fucking obviously I’m hiding from Clarisse, Nico, now get with the program and close the damn —”

“Solace!”

Both of them jump. When Nico looks, Clarisse is already way closer than she should be. Before he can process enough to slam the door, and heedless of Will’s increasingly-harried oh my gods oh my gods oh my gods fuck fuck fuck fuck, Clarisse is closer, and closer, and then suddenly she’s barging inside, pushing Nico aside like it’s not his damn cabin.

Will groans. “Aw, come on, Clarisse!”

She doesn’t bother to humour him with words, choosing instead to grab him by the collar and drag him bodily out. Will does not make it easy, going completely limp and getting his clothes grass-stained beyond belief, because Clarisse tugs him along like a sled behind her, bouncing over every stone. Nico follows, on the grounds that it’s not being nosy if Will dragged him into it technically.

“You have siblings! You have a boyfriend!”

“And yet I’m choosing you,” Clarisse says easily. “I’ve already told Chiron. It’s a done deal, weatherboy. You’re chariot racing with me.”

Will groans, trying in vain to squirm out of Clarisse’s grip. “There is no reason for me to be your partner in the stupid chariot race, I am a healer, I am at camp to heal —”

She shakes him a little to shut him up. “All the more reason. You focus too much on one thing, brat. All you do is heal and study like a big nerd. You need to get out of your comfort zone.”

“Um, no way. I’m very comfortable in it. That’s why it’s called a comfort zone.”

“You could use some training,” Nico pipes up, and the betrayed look Will gives him would be more effective at making him feel bad if it wasn’t so funny. “Last time I tried to teach you how to use a sword you almost sliced off your own face, so.”

Clarisse looks at him with appraisal. “Maybe you do have some sense in you, di Angelo.”

Nico chooses to take that as the compliment it is.

“Ugh,” Will says dramatically, and finally manages to wrench out of Clarisse’s grip in order to embed the appropriate level of drama in his face-down flop to the floor.

Clarisse kicks him. “You’re pathetic.”

“Ugh.”

Notably, he stops protesting. She kicks him again, affectionately this time, and stomps away.

———

“If I work myself into another coma, I don’t have to chariot race,” Will says gleefully, shoving the bottles of nectar Nico hands him onto a shelf. He’s been buzzing around the infirmary all day, healing things he is meant to be healing with a band-aid and a stop being a clumsy dumbass, dumbass with hymns and salves. “I’m gonna try to cure cancer again.”

Kayla, walking by, reaches out and smacks him. “Try it and I’m crack your country CDs in half.”

Will turns to her, opening his mouth —

“Every single one of them,” she stresses, green eyes narrowed.

— and closes it again, huffing.

“I’ll find a way,” he says glumly.

Nico pats him delicately on the back. “There, there.” A pause. “I mean, personally, I can’t wait to watch you fall out of a chariot.”

The look Will shoots him is nothing short of wounded. “You think I’m so uncoordinated I’m gonna fall out of the chariot?”

“Gracefully!” assures Austin from across the infirmary, smiling supportively. He grins brightly when they turn to look, nose scrunching with the force of his smile. “I’m sure!”

Will’s scowl twitches in the face of his brother’s blind enthusiasm. (It is impossible not to be endeared by Austin. He is genuinely the sweetest kid in the entire universe. Nico even gets, to his horror, the occasional urge to squish him. Gently.) He sighs.

“Thanks, Austin.”

“Of course! Love you Will!”

The twitching scowl melts into a full smile. “Love you too, kiddo.”

———

Watching chariot race practices, very quickly, becomes Nico’s favourite pastime.

He sees, now, why Achilles would bring them up, unprompted, wistful look in his eye, every time Nico visited. There’s a beauty in the rawness of it; the whipping winds, wild horses. Squealing wheels and bending axels, open-backed and inches from death at all time. Dangerous, exhilarating. Humanity, at it’s most thrilling and old — some of the first tools, the first domestic animals, the first machines, all at once. It’s pure, raw excitement.

Also, Will falls out of the chariot, like, eight whole times. And there’s nothing funnier than watching him lose his shit at a splintered pile of wood that was once a carriage, helmet thrown to the ground in a fit of rage, accent so thick he’s literally incomprehensible. Nico never gets to see him like this. His stomach actually hurts from laughter on several occasions.

Slowly, though, he starts to get the hang of it. He’s smart — incredibly so — and when he stops spending half his time complaining, and the other half pouting, he actually gets pretty decent. He’s fast, after all, and quick to observe, to respond; the other teams struggle to land hits on him, in practice runs, and sabotage is difficult when your opponent seems to have an almost prophetic gift to see things coming.

He can’t, however, steel himself to hit back.

And therein lies the trouble.

“For fuck’s sake, Will, I’m not asking you to kill anybody,” Clarrise snaps. “You need to get your head in the game!”

Will’s shoulders curl defensively. “I know! I’m trying! It’s just —” He kicks at their broken wheel, in two clean pieces on the ground. “Do no harm.”

“Do some harm. Or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Will brightens. “And then ask somebody else to be your partner?”

“No, and then make you my partner forever.”

“Oh.”

Will’s sullen face is hard to look at. He’s got those big, puppy dog eyes, round and sad and pouty. Not even Clarisse is immune. (And certainly not Nico, who finds himself halfway off the spectator’s stands and jogging to the tracks before he wonders what exactly, the fresh fuck, he is doing, and sprints right back.)

“Shit, Solace, don’t look like I killed your goddamn mother.” She cuffs him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling with a muffled oof. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go again.”

Accepting the spare chariot someone wheels towards her, she pulls herself up, making space for Will to do the same. He doesn’t get on immediately, still looking miserable, but concedes eventually.

His forearms look kind of nice when he grips onto the rails for dear life, Nico notices. From a totally objective perspective.

The four practicing teams guide their horses to the starting line, running a few last minute checks. To avoid spilling any secrets or strategies, everyone uses the same practice-issue wooden chariot and wears the same armour, but it’s still obvious who’s who.

The Hephaestus team’s chariot, despite being standard issue, gleams like it’s brand-new. The wood is polished and looks to be altered, barely; a carved groove here, a sharper wing there. Nothing that could really be considered an upgrade, but definitely making the whole thing look smoother. The spears they hold promise a plethora of untold ability hidden within.

The Hermes chariot looks deceptively beat up. There’s a chunk missing from the top of the left side, and one of the wheels appears to be just slightly out of alignment. Upon careful inspection, though, Nico can see clear, hollow tubing attached along the rails and open to the back — definitely a quick rig of some sort. Base (not acid, Cecil had happily lectured him on the benefits of using a base rather than an acid when dissolving anything from steel to human flesh), if Nico has to guess, or maybe Greek fire.

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot doesn’t have to do much to look great. The whole thing seems to coast gracefully to the beginner line, and neither charioteer looks particularly bothered or preoccupied with the competition — if Nico recalls correctly, and he does, their goal is to win through “gay audacity”, which Nico does not understand but supports wholeheartedly.

Will and Clarisse’s chariot, by comparison, is pretty run-of-the-mill. They haven’t done much training with the Ares horses or the Apollo flying chariot, because Clarisse is primarily concerned with training Will — she knows the equipment is fine.

Lacy, standing at the edge of the track, puts a sparkly pink whistle to her lips and blows loudly. It’s not nearly as loud as one of Will’s sonic whistles, but it does the trick, and the teams are off in a blur of movement; Will and Clarisse in the lead, Hephaestus behind them, Aphrodite-Iris in third, and Hermes lagging slightly behind.

As they turn their first corner, positions largely unchanging, Nico hears footsteps from his left — Lou Ellen smiles at him as she climbs the stand, settling into the space he makes next to him.

“What’d I miss?” she asks, brushing dust off her hands.

He shrugs. “Not much. They were in the lead the last practice round, too, but on the last lap Hermes caught up.” He gestures to the heap that was once their practice chariot. “Julia had her sword at their wheels. They were on the inner ring, nowhere to move; the only way to get rid of them would have been to knock her arm, probably dislocate her shoulder. Will couldn’t do it.”

Lou Ellen winces. “Ah.”

There’s a ripping sound, followed by cackling — the Hermes chariot has finally made use of their hasty rigging, setting off an explosion behind them that rockets them forward. It has the added bonus of shaking the ground, slightly, unsettling the other drivers for just barely long enough for them to pull into third place. Far ahead, still in first, Nico can see Clarisse yelling instructions at Will, although he can’t hear what they are. His grip on the rail has tightened.

“Why,” starts Nico carefully, and based on Lou Ellen’s pinched face she knows exactly where he’s going, “does she make him — well, you know.”

Lou Ellen is silent for a good long while, watching the practice chariot race with eyes that aren’t paying attention. Hermes is gaining, but Hephaestus is gaining faster.

“Clarisse has always liked Will,” she says eventually. She meets Nico’s incredulous expression, snorting. “Well, as much as Clarisse can like people. I got here way after he did, so I don’t have any more details there than you do, but he’s never been afraid of her, and she likes that. He’s never been mean to her, either. I mean, I know she can be a bully, but people aren’t exactly light on her, to be fair.”

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot turns out to have some tricks up its sleeve — it starts to glow; barely at first, but quickly blinding. At its crux, everyone has to look away, allowing them to pull into first.

Well, except that Will doesn’t seem nearly as staggered as everyone else. In fact, he doesn’t look bothered at all — for the first time that Nico has seen, there’s something like competition pulling a crooked smile on his face. He stares straight at the still-too-bright chariot, reigns wrapped around his arms as he yanks them forward.

“Is that why she drags him away sometimes?” Nico asks. “To train?”

“Something like that. Most of his training was with —” she falters. “Well, you know who. Medicine and some archery.”

They’re both quiet for a while. Neither of them ever knew Lee or Michael well, if at all, but over time Nico has found himself almost clamming up at the mere thought of them, the way one might tiptoe around an authority figure when they have something to hide. Forbidden subjects, where before Nico simply didn’t think of them often.

“You can’t just not train, though,” Lou Ellen murmurs, eyes trained on the chariots. Hephaestus throws one of their spears, lodging it in the spokes of the Aphrodite-Iris chariot. They come to a very abrupt and very screechy halt, knocking them out of the race in any real capacity. “Not at Camp Half-Blood. She taught him hand-to-hand because she was the only one strong enough to physically drag him to the arena. Everyone else gave up after the first few tantrums — I think she was kind of amused by the challenge. Or something.”

“Or something,” Nico agrees. Privately, he thinks that there is something about Will Solace that makes you want to protect him. Not frailty — he is not by any means incapable — but something about his smile, his genuineness. The stubborn belief that people are good and kind and worthy of everything he has to give. A naivety, except someone who’s been through what he has (what they all have) cannot be naive — his hope in the world is hard-earned and well-won. It makes people want to protect his hold on it, by any means necessary.

Even, Nico reasons, ornery old fuckers like Clarisse LaRue.

The three remaining chariots start the last leg of the race — Apollo-Ares, barely squeezing out in front; then Hephaestus, quickly gaining; and finally Hermes, lagging slightly but not to be discarded. As they round the bend, Nico watches as Clarisse cuffs Will briefly on the arm, clearly proud. This is the farthest they’ve made in first so far, after two weeks of training. Will, reigns safely transferred back to Clarisse, beams at her — bright enough that Nico can see it from dozens of yards away.

With sudden, calculated speed, the Hephaestus chariot surges forward.

As if coordinated, Nico and Lou Ellen inhale sharply, leaning forward. He sees the scattered few other campers so the same in his peripherals, watching with single minded focus as the chariot levels exactly with Will and Clarisse. Nico eyes the spear nervously — of all weapons, they’re the easiest for Will to dodge, to fight off. More impersonal.

But the sons of the smartest god around would know that.

For at least a hundred feet, nothing happens. Ares-Apollo and Hephaestus stay neck in neck, every urge forward matched, every pesky road-blocking stone avoided. The finish line is dangerously close, but no one pulls ahead, nothing changes. Four shoulders remain tense, four helmets stare resolutely forward.

Then, in a quick movement, the taller Hephaestus charioteer hands the spear off to the shorter, swiftly taking the reigns, and the shorter lunges — aiming right for Will’s shoulder. Will’s quick, though, and has his own spear poised to parry in an instant. There’s a barely perceptible nudge from Clarisse, and then Will’s eyes harden, and he lifts his spear to jab right back, needle-thin tip gleaming in the late afternoon sun, right for the chink in the charioteer’s armour and then —

The charioteer rips their helmet off, dropping it at their feet.

It’s Harley.

Hephaestus’ darling; hell, the camp’s darling. One of their youngest and brightest, with big, mischievous brown eyes, contagious smiles, endless enthusiasm. Cute, clumsy Harley, the only one of Hephaestus’ children Will doesn’t have to nag to get treated, who walks dutifully over the infirmary every time he gets so much as a second-degree burn and treats each one of Will’s overcautious instructions with utmost seriousness. Who Will sends away each time with an affectionate kiss on the forehead and a prized purple sucker — who Will, frankly, favours. Who Will would never, in a million years, even consider hurting.

A dirty trick by the Hephaestus cabin.

But an effective one.

Immediately, Will flinches back, spear dropping from his hand and splintering under thundering hooves and spinning wheels. Without a second of hesitation, Harley launches his spear in the same move as before — sticking it in the wheel’s spokes, inertia sending the charioteer’s sprawling, knocking them out of the race.

Except, maybe it’s different when the chariots are so close. Or maybe the chariot was faulty to begin with. Because as soon as the spear gets wedged, the fragile floor of the chariot seems to implode — sending Will and Clarisse under the still-moving machine, instead of flying over. The horses, disoriented from the sudden change, rip free of their harness, adding more force to the already precarious tumble.

There’s a sharp, sickening crack, so loud Nico can hear it as if it’s next to him. In the brief nanosecond immediately afterwords, he closes his eyes, sending a prayer to his father: please be the axle. Please be the axle. Please be the axle.

As the Hephaestus and Hermes chariots rocket past the finish line, Clarisse lets out a shrill, blood-curdling scream.

———

Nico’s off the bench and halfway towards the crashed chariot before he can blink. He’s not the only one — he processes, barely, everyone else’s quick convergence, including the remaining charioteers — but he’s there first, diving into the wreckage seconds before anyone else is close enough.

There’s not a lot of actual debris, chariots being as small as they are, but the dust cloud from the track is so huge and the pieces of wood are so splintered that it feels like there is. As the dust settles, and he kicks some debris out of the way, he starts to see the shape of Will, kneeling, in front of a prone Clarisse and an ever-growing pool of blood.

There’s a bone sticking straight out of her thigh.

As the rest of the campers converge upon them, Will looks up and meets Nico’s eyes. His own blue eyes are dark, steely — determined, but afraid.

“I don’t have time,” is the only thing out of his mouth before he braces both hands on Clarisse’s leg, immediately starting to sing urgent hymns.

Nico understands.

“Lou, Julia, Chiara,” he barks, taking charge in absence of Will’s voice. The three girls snap forward to him immediately. “Sprint the the infirmary and tell them what happened. Austin’s on duty — make sure he doesn’t come with you, we need him to prep a surgical suite. Send everyone else and send them fast. Bring a stretcher.”

He turns to the Hephaestus kids. “Jake, Harley, start clearing the debris to make space. Damien, join them; move the big stuff first, small stuff is secondary. We need a space for Will to work and a space to lay the stretcher. Jen, Butch, Lacy —”

He barks off a list of orders, doing his best to channel the commands he’s watched Will give dozens and dozens of times. In minutes, he has the track cleared, Will’s medical bag dragged over from the stands, and everyone who is not helping stabilize out to the infirmary to help as needed.

As soon as there’s an opening, he rushes over to Will and Clarisse, kneeling by her head.

“Help is coming,” he promises, watching the glow dim and flicker in time with the rhythm of Will’s chanting. The bleeding has slowed, marginally, but he can tell from the volume of blood alone that this was an arterial hit. It’s going to take more than Will’s raw healing power, although there is a lot of it, to keep Clarisse alive and keep her leg functioning in recovery. He needs tools, he needs nectar and ambrosia; he needs the surgery suite. He needs time.

“Is it helpful for me to knock her out?”

Clarisse, of course, is still conscious. Barely — and in so much pain Nico will be surprised if she’s processing anything at all — but enough that every few seconds she lets out an agonised shout of pain, writhing and flinching so hard Will has to focus on steadying her as much as healing her.

Without breaking his song, eyes still trained on the injury, Will nods. Nico breathes, squaring his shoulders, then shuffled forward to rest Clarisse’s head gently in his lap, fingers pressed to her temples. He presses, hard enough to feel the beat of her heart — weak — through his fingertips, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s no son of Hypnos, but dreams are the Underworld’s domain. Are his domain, as heir and prince of the Underworld, in every way that matters, that can be counted.

He lets himself sink into careful limbo; body in physical space, mind and soul elsewhere. Not too much — he’s no use if he falls unconscious — but enough to slip into Clarisse’s mindscape, step into her subconscious.

The whole place bleeds white, hot anguish.

Nico stumbles when he first walks in, nauseous despite being nothing but his own mind. It’s been a while since he’s experienced this kind of pain, his own or not, and he has to consciously beat back memories of brimstone and rot; liquid fire, endless red, red, red.

“Clarisse?” he calls, softly as he dares.

She doesn’t respond. He’s not sure she knows how to respond, even if she could. Cautious of the memory and emotion swirling around him, he steps forward. If he focuses, her anguish is pointed — is central. She will be at the centre of it.

He has volunteered, but he’s not sure he wants to follow.

Steeling himself, he shoulders through swirling masses of pain, of hurt, of fear. It’s blisteringly hot, and feels not unlike the sandstorm he was once stranded within, in the middle of the New Mexico desert four years ago. His face prickles; he’s blinded.

He trudges forward.

“Clarisse? Clarisse! Can you hear me? It’s Nico!”

Desperately and uselessly, he wishes he had more practice. Will has offered, the few times he’s needed to anaesthetize someone, but for the most time Nico has foolishly declined. Why on Earth he would pass up a much easier mindscape to navigate through in preparation for something like this is a mystery to him. Fuck.

“Clarisse! Try to — focus on me, can you hear me?”

He forces himself forward, a few more — well, there’s no distance in a mindscape, nothing measurable, anyway. He forces himself to look up, braving the assault to his face, and try to scan his surroundings. The swirling mass is more centralized, now, almost hurricane-like and conal. He’s closer than he was before, but if he can only find…

He looks up, and almost cries in relief: weak against the roaring storm, but still present, is a flickering, golden light. A very familiar light. Nico squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting out his own energy in an uncoordinated mass — boy, is that going to be uncomfortable to extract later — and flails wildly until he finally feels the warmth of Will’s energy entangling with his own, grounding him. He opens his eyes, and suddenly everything is clearer.

Clarisse kneels in the centre of her mindscape, hands pressed tightly to her ears, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

“Hey,” Nico murmurs, kneeling in front of her. It takes a few seconds, and a few moments of gentle coaxing, before she looks up.

“It hurts,” she croaks.

She’s more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her — eyes brown and big and wet, pained, face twisted and chin trembling and achingly, unbelievably young. She is nineteen years old, but in that moment she appears almost childlike. The years of warrior’s hardness has abandoned her; she is armourless.

Nico swallows the lump in his throat. “I know.”

“Help me. Please.”

“Come here, Clarisse.” He reaches out and wraps a gentle hand around hers, tugging her close. The knee jerk discomfort at close contact is barely a flicker — he is so entwined in her right now that her fear has started to bleed into his; her rawness. He needs this comfort almost as much as she does. Right now she is a person, in agony, and so is he, and it is unbearable.

He holds her until the pain slowly stops.

———

Will is in the surgical suite for seven straight hours.

“Bed,” Nico says softly, rising up to meet him as he exits. It says something about how exhausted he is that he doesn’t even protest, letting Nico place a hand on the small of his back and guide him past the on-call room, past the patient cots, past the Big House living room couches, past Cabin 7. He leads him across the common and right into Cabin 13, with its double beds and blackout curtains, with its insulated, soundproof walls. With Nico.

He helps him out of his bloodstained scrubs, peeling them off his skin and tossing them directly into a trash can. He’d guide him to the shower, usually, but there’s a — glassiness, to his eyes, that there usually isn’t after surgery. Nico chooses instead to skip it, guiding him into the sweatpants he left behind the last time he was here and an oversized The Doors t-shirt of Nico’s, and then to the spare bed he always uses, across from Nico’s. He peels the covers back for him like he’s a child, tucking him in, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He’s asleep in minutes, curled tightly around a pillow, furrowed crease not leaving the space between his eyebrows, even in sleep. Nico smooths it away with his thumb.

“Goodnight, Will,” he murmurs, brushing the backs of his knuckles across his forehead.

He watches him sleep far past what is normal, and then slips back out of the cabin.

———

“On the bright side,” Will says, squeezing the hand that has left to leave Clarisse’s arm, “you’re free from your chariot race obligation! As am I!”

Predictably, she only glowers.

“Not a chance, Solace,” she rasps.

Will helpfully gets her a glass of water, fussing over her blankets while she drinks until she bats him away. Chris watches the whole thing with great amusement, shoulders brushing Nico’s.

“He’s a mother hen, isn’t he,” he comments, tilting his head in Will’s direction, who narrowly avoids having his fingers bitten off trying to feed her a square of ambrosia.

Nico snorts. “Yeah.” He watches the fussing for a few more seconds, making note of Will’s shaking hands, his shakier smile. “He’s guilty.”

“He didn’t do anything. She doesn’t blame him.”

Nico meets his dark look, mouth twisted in understanding. They both know this logic is futile.

“Yeah, well, someone tell him that.”

“Will — stop it.” In a startlingly quick move for someone on as much morphine as she is, Clarisse darts out and clutches Will’s fluttering hands. He hesitates, wondering if it’s worth it to pull out of her hold and possibly jostle her leg. “I’m fine. And you’re still charioting.”

“You’re not fine,” Will frowns, conveniently ignoring the part of the sentence he doesn’t want to deal with. “Your femur snapped in half and tore through your femoral artery on its way out of your leg. You’re going to be on bedrest for a week at least, and it’ll be tender for a good long while besides. That’s what we in the medical business call a Big Fucking Deal.”

She tightens her hold, staring at him until he finally meets her eyes.

“Will.” She narrows her eyes. “You are still participating in the chariot race. I’m not asking.”

“It’ll have to wait until you’re better,” he says lightly. “Besides, we’re focusing on you right now.”

Nico can see in her face when she decides to switch strategies.

“Okay,” she says, stubborn glean in her eye, “then I’m asking you, as a personal request, to stay in the race. Or else I’ll drag myself onto a goddamn horse myself, killing myself in the process, and that will be on your head.”

The tactic works.

Will scowls. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Clarisse doesn’t bother repeating herself, letting go of his wrists and readjusting her blankets.

“I am done talking now. I believe it’s time for morphine-induced unconsciousness. Please remember that I took down a drakon with my own bare hands; it is well within my abilities to drag myself out of heroin-haze and onto a chariot with no legs, let alone one. Good talk.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she leans back on her pillows and passes out. Genuinely, actually passes out — not closes her eyes, not behind to fall asleep; she is unconscious. Snores ring through the air.

“Well,” Chris says carefully, unfolding his arms. “It might be time to let Clarisse rest for a while.”

Will, healer that he is, cannot exactly argue with that. Will, drama queen that he is, decides to make his fury known by stomping out of the room, a feat in flip-flips possible by him alone.

“She is so infuriating!” he shouts the second they’re in the main room, startling several people. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I put effort in! I failed! She can’t even — it’s not even about spending time together, obviously, since I still have to do it! What does she want from me?!”

Chris, like Nico, has wisely decided to let the hypothetical questions remain hypothetical and stay silent, lest his fury be turned onto them. Ten minutes into Will’s rant, Chris excuses himself to go sit by Clarisse. Nico waves him off.

“Will,” Nico suggests the next time he takes a breath, “let’s maybe go for a walk.” He glances at the group of wide-eyed patients. “I think you’re scaring people.”

Deflating, Will nods, following Nico out the door. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go for a walk.”

The fresh air probably doesn’t fix things, per se, but as they lap around the cabins, Will seems to droop further and further, curling in on himself. The anger recedes from his features.

“I feel really shitty,” he admits softly. “Just, like, generally.”

Nico softens like a goddamn slab of ice cream on hot pavement. For the second time in three days, he opens his arms in offering, although this time it’s significantly less difficult.

“Come here.”

Without even a beat of hesitation, Will collapses into him, arms around his waist, head tucked under his chin. Nico fights the urge to wince — Will, usually, takes quite a bit of pride in his height. He likes to be the one to wrap around people, not the other way around. Nico has been indoctrinated into Will-affection, in the time since the Giant War, and if Will is the one curling into him, seeking comfort, than he is struggling.

Nico hates it when Will struggles. He always feels out of his depth.

“There, there,” he hedges, feeling a good bit like an NPC. “It’ll be okay.”

Will makes a small, wounded noise. “You don’t know that.”

“Um, yes I do, I know everything forever. I’ve never been wrong even one time in my life.”

His awkward attempt at lightening the mood is rewarded by Will’s laugh. It’s slight, and nowhere near the brightness it usually is, but it’s there and it’s genuine and that’s all Nico wanted, really.

“You good?” Nico asks softly, squeezing his arms.

Will nods. “Yes.” He hesitates. “Can I stay here a little longer?”

Nico wraps his arms impossibly tighter, aching at the quiet vulnerability in his voice.

“As long as you need.”

———

The last practice before the chariot race is nowhere near as fun to watch as the others. In fact, it’s not fun at all.

Clarisse, casted and upright, appoints her brother Sherman to race in her place, much to both his and Will’s very vocal complaints. Will’s, because he still doesn’t want to race at all and especially not now that Clarisse is out of the running, and Sherman’s because, well, when isn’t Sherman complaining about having to breathe the same air as someone or whatever.

Clarisse silences both of them with a glare. “Do it,” she orders.

They comply, stomping over to their practice chariot.

The practice race is awful. Nico is surprised, frankly, that they managed to finish at all, as badly behind as they managed. He could practically hear their squabbling all the way from the stands. For as much as Will is generally easy to get along with, he’s impossible when he’s stubborn, and worse when he’s petulant. He takes every command from Sherman like it’s a personal offence, and Sherman, being who he is, does too. Every shout to veer right or deflect an attack somehow sounds like a jab at Will’s speed, or a remark about his general intelligence. When they stomp off the track, helmets thrown in a heap with the rickety chariot, Nico is almost relieved.

“We’re going to lose, tomorrow, and I can’t wait,” hisses Will darkly, fists curled at his sides.

Nico watches him warily. “You’re not even going to try?”

“What, so he can remind me that even when I’m trying I’m a useless idiot? Not a chance.”

Nico has to almost jog to keep up with him, striding as powerfully as he is. He’s not even sure where he’s going — he seems to be, mostly, going away from the track and from Sherman, wherever that may be.

“You’re not a useless idiot,” Nico offers, when some of the stormcloud has lessened its hold on Will’s usually sunny face. “Nobody thinks you’re a useless idiot.”

Will closes his eyes, sighing. “I know.”

“And Sherman is just a generally grouchy person.”

“I know.”

“It feels very, very weird to be the optimistic and comforting one, right now.”

Will snorts, finally meeting his eyes. “I know.” He flops onto the ground, cheek resting in his knees, and pats the space next to him. Nico sits much more delicately. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole lately.”

“You’ve been stressed,” Nico points out. “A little assholery is warranted.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Nico knocks their shoulders together. “I forgive you, then.”

Will smiles. “Thank you.”

For a while they sit in comfortable silence, watching the hustle and bustle of camp. Will’s presence is a comforting one, even though Nico can feel the turmoil leeching off of him. Strangely because of that, actually — sometimes Nico feels like he’s the only one who struggles out of the two of them. Will spends so much of his time smiling and joking and lecturing, hands on his hips, that Nico had almost forgotten that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, either. He’s just good at faking it.

“I’ll be watching, tomorrow.” He bites his lip. “And I won’t, like, bring pom-poms, or anything, but I’ll be cheering you on.”

Will grins tiredly. “Silently and in your head?”

“Uh-huh.”

His smile softens considerably, melting into something almost shy, before he turns back to face forward.

“Well, then, damn. I guess I’ll have to try.”

———

On the morning of the chariot race, Will acts like Nico is escorting him to his goddamn execution.

“It is a race that will last a maximum of twenty minutes,” Nico says with no small amount of exasperation, “including prep time.”

Will looks no less grim. “A twenty minutes that will never be returned to me.”

Nico rolls his eyes and decides to stop humouring him.

He drops him off at his chariot with a quick pat on the shoulder, jogging back to the stands. They’re full, today, as expected, with every camper and countless others cramped into the minimal space. Nico looks at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, and is about to consider breaking his promise and fleeing back to his cabin before he sees a doodled-on hand stick in the air, waving wildly. He exhales in relief and heads over to sit in the spot Kayla and Austin have cleared between them.

“How miserable is he?” Kayla asks brightly, tapping her purple shoes. “He left before we woke up this morning. Assumedly to sprint around camp a few times like a feral cat.”

“Pretty miserable,” Nico answers. He reaches over to pat Austin’s head when he rests on his shoulder, knowing he’s nervous even if he tries not to show it. “A lot of it is self-induced, though. Like, yeah, Sherman is going to be a dick and it’s going to be stressful, but I feel like, in the grand scheme of things, this is among the least stressful things he’s ever been forced to deal with.”

“There was that one time he had to remove a brain tumour in the middle of the forest,” Austin muses. “I think that was probably pretty stressful for him.”

Nico opens his mouth. He closes it again.

“Demigod life is a nightmare,” he settles on eventually.

“Hear, hear,” both siblings mutter.

They lapse into silence as they turn back to the racetrack, evaluating the turnout.

Competition will be hefty.

Sherman has finally arrived, Ares horses in tow. The garish things look almost wrong next to the brightness off the flying Apollo chariot, but that may just be the tension between the team’s charioteers that’s so potent it seems to warp the air around them. Nico is vaguely surprised that they’re managing to stand so civilly next to each other, even if they could not be more visibly uncomfortable. Will, at least, tries for a smile, which drops immediately when Sherman mutters something too quiet to be picked up this far.

Nico sighs. This is going to be hard to watch.

There are about twenty other chariots lines up. Hermes, Hephaestus, and Aphrodite-Iris, like at practice, but Athena is competing too, as well as Nike, as per usual, and Tyche. In fact Nico, and by extension Hades, is one of the few cabins not participating — everyone else seems primed and ready for a chance of laurels and extra dessert. And, of course, settling personal rivalries via bloodshed, et cetera, et cetera.

The biggest competition, if Nico had to quantify it, will be Hephaestus, tricky as they were during practice; Athena, for obvious reasons; and Will and Sherman themselves will be their own worst enemy. He can’t tell if it would be better for them to fail out early to avoid racketing tension up further, or last close to the end to keep things at a healthy simmer.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The second warning whistle goes off, and the chariots rush to the starting line — Will and Sherman at third position, Demeter to their left, Dionysus-Hypnos to their right. The stands go silent, the charioteers get in position, and with a sharp, shrill whistle, they’re off.

The first few seconds, as always, are chaotic.

In the ground with the settling dust are three separate chariots, including, surprisingly, Hermes, whose rigging backfired and sent their entire chariot up in smoke. They are luckily unharmed due to their unusually well-prepared fireproof armour, but neither Julia nor Connor seem too pleased about being out so soon.

The rest of the race continues on without them. Athena has a decent stretch of first place, but Nike is following fast. Behind them, barely a hair’s breadth of distance, is Will and Sherman, rocketing forward smoothly. Unlike Clarisse, Sherman does not care for giving Will any learning opportunities — despite the horses being Ares’, Will is on the reigns. Sherman is armed with his sword and his spear, slashing and jabbing at anyone who gets too close. Neither Ares or Apollo is big on tricks, not like some of the craftier cabins, but together they’re fast and strong and make a formidable opponent.

Or, well, they would. If they were working together, rather than two people simply being in the same chariot.

They cross into the second lap, Will guiding them across the innermost ring to move them up past Nike. They’re gaining on Athena, now, but that won’t be an easy task — challenging the camp’s wisest never is.

Kayla hisses through her teeth. “Shit.” She purses her lip at the trailing Nike chariot — they’re gaining, and they’re seething. Damien — at least Nico thinks it’s Damien, it’s hard to tell with the helmets — has an arsenal of throwing knives poised in his left hand, and as his teammate steers them steady, he takes aim. Nico has to resist the urge to shout a warning.

As the short knife sails towards the reigns wrapped around Will’s hands, though, aim ringing true, Will’s spine goes ramrod straight. Almost as if he can feel it. With an eighth of a second to spare, he shifts and jerks his hands out of the way, avoiding the knife and managing, somehow, to stay on track.

With a skill and ferocity that has Nico’s jaw brushing his toes, Will dodges all eight of the knives lobbed in his direction. In one memorable manoeuvre, he rips his left hand from the reigns, holding them in his teeth, and uses it to shove Sherman down behind the wall of the chariot right before a knife would have lodged itself in his uncovered cheek. Out of weapons, he steers their chariot right next to Nike, allowing Sherman to sever their reigns and send them rolling to a sad, victory-less stop.

Without pausing to look behind them, they race on.

Athena’s chariot has a lead, but their chariot is built for stability, not speed. They’ve accounted for every possible sabotage and built accordingly. They have not accounted for, however, stubbornness and sheer force of Will. The Ares-Apollo chariot gains on them, helmets glinting, skeletal horses gaining faster, faster, faster. Both Sherman and Malcom, Nico believes, have their spears drawn, ready, as the space between them gets smaller and smaller, to fight barbarically for first — for honour.

Nico doubts even Rachel, powers of prophecy fully restored, could predict what happens next.

Either too furious to accept a loss or simply deciding to throw the game, one of the Nike charioteers crawls out from their carriage, darting onto the live track. They scan the ground, looking for something. When they stand in the dead centre of the track, body perfectly tense, gripping something glinting in their hand, Nico gets it.

Austin gasps, nails digging into Nico’s arm. “Oh, no.”

Before anyone can say anything, they take aim. They measure once, twice, and then let the knife loose with deadly precision, knife cutting through the air with ease and hurdling with impossible power towards to two finalists chariots.

If the knife hits the Athena chariot, it will slice clean through the axle. Architectural wonder it may be, the chariot cannot withstand Celestial bronze at terminal velocity, and it will give, and the chariot will crumple. In an effort to lesson the chariot’s load, the Athena charioteers have largely forgone armour. Their fall will be painful and disastrous; as deadly as Clarisse’s, if not moreso. A hit to the Ares-Apollo chariot will be similarly as race-ending, but both Will and Sherman are in full armour. It will be bruising, but not deadly. They will lose, but they will survive.

All they need to do to win is shift, just slightly, so that the knife hits the Athena chariot.

Will, like with all the others before it, seems to feel this knife coming. Unlike the others, he glances backwards, looking at the knife, looking back at the Athena chariot. Sherman follows his gaze, and seems to realize what Will has calculated a split second after he does. He shouts something — presumably an order to move, to shift, to sabotage.

Will hesitates.

The knife hits the Ares-Apollo chariot, slicing through the left wheel.

It careens around, unbalanced, dragged into a heap by untethered horses.

The Athena chariot pulls forward to victory, the remaining functioning chariots quickly following.

The Ares-Apollo canon is left broken and humiliated only a few feet from victory, the almost-first-place.

———

As soon as they come off the track, things get messy. Both Will and Sherman are covered in dirt and grime, striped with grease from the broken wheels, bleeding sluggishly from various scraps. Sherman has his non-flailing hand clamped to an oozing wound on the side of his neck, and Will is limping.

“—and I cannot fucking believe you, Solace! All I asked for was effort!”

“Oh, forgive me,” Will says sarcastically, finally close enough to hear. “In the hustle and bustle of being shot at, I made a couple errors.”

“That gonna be your attitude in battle? ‘Oh, sorry, there was a monster chasing me so I lost all focus —’”

“Battles are not usually fought on a chariot going a hundred fucking miles per hour!”

“That’s no excuse! You need to be —”

“What, Sherman, fucking what? What indisputable flaw do I have, oh great one, that needs to be so desperately remedied?”

It’s startling when Will’s composure cracks. When he goes from bitey and sarcastic, eye-rolling from his usual distance, to right in Sherman’s face. It’s eerie to see him at his full height, no slouching, reminding anyone watching that yeah, actually, their laidback medic is six-two, strong, capable, in more ways than what they’re used to.

Sherman, in usual Ares kid fashion, doesn’t even flinch.

“Your reflexes, for starters,” he says coolly. “No matter what you do, Solace, you’re always one second too fucking late.”

A collective gasp ricochets through the gathered campers. The tension rackets up so rapidly that Nico coughs, lungs suddenly constricted. Will rears back so violently Nico is half-convinced Sherman actual punched him.

Sherman, for his part, seems to realise he’s crossed some kind of line. The cold look on his face twists into a scowl, uncomfortable and apologetic at once. “Look, Will, I just mean —”

“You don’t get to say that to me.”

Will’s quiet voice seems to echo through the entirety of the valley, cutting through laboured breathing of charioteers, pegasus neighing, even the crashing of the waves in the distant shore — everything goes silent.

Nico likes to think he knows Will pretty well. He knows what he sounds like when he’s giggly, watching his siblings argue about nothing; when he’s excitable, rambling about his newest obsession; when he can’t choose between amused and stern at whatever dumb thing Nico has gotten himself into. He knows what he sounds like when he’s exhausted, too, overworked and done with everything; when he’s annoyed, when he’s hurt and sad.

But he’s never heard Will sound so dangerous.

“Of all people.” His words are articulated, deliberate. The usual warmth of his eyes is gone. He’s completely still in a way he never is outside of surgery — no shaking in his perpetually trembling hands, no bounce to his curls, none of the constant energy that seems to constantly exude off him. Still, cold. Icy. “You do not get to talk to me about being one second too late.”

Sherman looks stricken. Guilt is written across each of his features, and for a second he steps back — as if afraid.

“Will, I —”

The son of Apollo turns without another word, striding over to the distant tree line and disappearing into the woods. No one chases after him.

No one even moves.

———

Predictably, the silence does not last long.

“You fucking idiot!” Clarisse explodes, the second Will is out of eyesight. She bats Chris’s hand away from her, and he, surprisingly, lets her go easily — his usually understanding face has hardened. She hobbles towards her brother, remarkably quick with her clunky cast, and starts truly tearing into him. “I asked you to do one fucking thing! One!”

Sherman quickly gets defensive under the scrutiny. “Well, you didn’t make it fucking easy! Just because he’s your protege doesn’t mean he’s my fucking problem —”

Nico doesn’t stick around to listen to their argument. He searches around the gathered crowd until he meets Kayla’s eyes, flicking his head towards the woods. She nods frantically. Knowing he’ll make sure they have privacy, he takes off, aiming for the same place Will went, barely slowing down once he enters the forest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Will?” he calls, well aware he’s not going to get an answer. “Where are you?”

While there’s definitely no response from Will, he damn near jumps out of his skin when a dryad melts from her tree, shuffling towards him.

“Blond boy?” she asks, leaning close so he can hear her whisper. “Tall? Crying?”

Nico swallows. Fuck. “Yeah.”

“Headed down southeast, ways past Zeus’ fist.“

“Thank you,” he says, hoping she understands how much he means it.

She nods, then disappears back into her tree.

Following her directions, Nico jogs down beaten paths, heading in the direction that he is vaguely sure is southeast and mostly praying that he’ll find Will eventually. He shouldn’t have that much of a head start, since Nico left maybe five minutes after he did, but who knows. Will’s fast, and sometimes this forest seems bigger than it really is. It’s easy to get lost.

He searches for what feels like hours, and might actually be hours; sky darkening as the sun disappears into the lake. The temperature drops significantly. Nico is hoping that he won’t be spending the night sleeping in the dirt when he hears sniffling.

Heart pounding, he freezes, focusing on the sound. It’s muffled, sobs choked-off and sound hidden behind cupped hands. The echo sounds strange, too; it’s close, that much is obvious, but Nico almost can’t tell if it’s coming from the left or the right. Truthfully, it doesn’t sound like either.

On impulse, he looks up. Almost invisible in the branches of a large oak tree is Will, stained clothes blending in with the scratchy bark, leaves covering the rest of him.

Except, perhaps fittingly, his bright, golden hair.

Worried that calling out to him might startle him right off the tree, Nico begins to climb. He’s not great at climbing — he doesn’t have a natural sense of what is and isn’t a good foothold — but oak trees are easy. Every half-step has a branch, and this tree is old enough that the branches are thick, sturdy. He’s twenty feet up before he even realizes, barely breaking a sweat.

He pauses a few feet shy of his target, straightening until he’s standing on an almost flat branch, arm looped tightly around the trunk.

“Will.”

Will startles. He looks around frantically, struggling in the dark, until his bloodshot eyes finally land on Nico. He bursts into more tears, shoulders shaking as he sobs.

Alarmed, Nico crawls all the way up.

“Woah, Will, breathe, vita, breathe —”

He’s not sure what tree-sobbing etiquette is, but regular sobbing etiquette often involves some kind of comforting physical touch, so he goes with that. And Will, he knows, likes to be crowded, likes to be almost suffocated with the sights and touch and smells of other people, to remind him he’s not alone, even if he feels it. So Nico scoots as closely as he dares, legs wrapped around the branch, and slides one arm around Will’s back, one against his chest, and tugs him closely.

Will comes easily.

With a bit of manoeuvring, he’s tucked under Nico’s chin, shoulders hunched and shaking, enveloped entirely in Nico’s arms. He can feel a wet spot growing on his left sleeve, and honestly he should be at least a little bit disgusted, but he barely even notices. He’s too busy fighting the lump in his own throat, blinking back his own tears.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Will’s curls. “Let it out, Will. You’re allowed.”

Will wails, a deep, choking, broken sound, and Nico loses the battle with his own tears. He’s never heard Will like this. He’s never heard anyone like this, except himself, in the echo of this same forest, years ago. It hurts like biting ice.

“It hurts, they’re gone, they’re gone, and I hate them, I hate them so much —” he heaves, dragging in breath like it cost him to say it, like part of his soul was dragged out of his vocal chords — “and I hate myself for hating them, I hate, they’re gone, I’m never —”

He dissolves into sobs, again, words breaking into nothing understandable, crying around the same repetitions over and over again. Nico hides his crumpling face in Will’s hair, wincing at every broken cry, every hitched breath, every moaned word. His heart feels like it’s breaking into a million fractals. He’s never felt so out of depth in his life.

“Let it out,” he whispers again, for a lack of anything else to say. “Let it out, sweetheart, let it out.”

For a long time, Nico had no one to hold him.

When he lost Bianca, he was by himself. And when he thought he had someone to guide him, someone to fix him, he was wrong — he was vulnerable and easy to manipulate. He had no one to hold him until he was too bitter and too closed off to let himself fall apart, anyway, and losing Bianca stayed somewhere rotten inside him, a bruise that never, ever stopped aching.

Until Will.

Last December he had cracked like an egg. He hadn’t meant to — it wasn’t even in the back of his mind — but he’d opened the door to Will’s smiling face on the morning, cold and sad as it was, and just started bawling. Some part of him, some deep, buried part, stomped it’s way from the prison Nico had kept it in and took the hell over, yanking open the floodgates, forcing him to expel every last drop of shadowy, strangling pain that had stayed inside him so long. He thought he was going to die. His entire body shook and jerked like a rowboat in a deep ocean storm, and it had been Will’s lighthouse, his endless, light eyes, his warm hands, his firm hold that had held him steady until he’d dragged himself out to the other side. It was and is the most painful thing he’d ever done in his life. And the most important.

He doesn’t think Will has had anyone to hold him, before, either. Not ‘til right this moment. Not Chiron, not his mother, and certainly not an older sibling. Will has been running on empty for as long as Nico has known him. Longer.

“Let it out,” Nico whispers again, and holds him tighter.

———

By the time either of them move again, it’s pale, early morning, and they’re damp from the dew and Will’s tears. Nico is as stiff as the tree he’s sitting on, but doesn’t dare say a word about it.

“I don’t want to go back,” Will croaks, the first either of them have spoken in hours.

Nico tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, resting a gentle hand on his cheek. “Okay.”

“We can’t stay here forever.”

“We can stay a while.” Nico pulls away slightly, just enough so that he can cradle Will’s face in both hands, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. “I mean it, Will. As long as you need.”

“What if I’ll never have enough time?”

“Then I’ll stay with you until time runs out.” He presses a tentative, careful kiss to the centre of his freckled forehead; staying when Will shudders, leaning into it. Against his skin, he murmurs, “But you’ll have enough time, vita. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I don’t want to be strong.”

“So don’t, I gotcha.” He presses another kiss slightly above the first, and another, resting again at the crown of his head. “But you can be.”

They stay like that until Nico’s face starts to go numb, and even then he doesn’t go far, shifting so his cheek lays on the top of Will’s skull. He ignores the slight tickle of his curls against his nose, focusing instead on the brand of his hands on his waist, the shakey but constant inhales, holds, exhales, again, again, again.

“Clarisse is my friend,” Will starts. “She was as important to me as — as Cass, before the war.”

Nico hums. “But she betrayed you.”

“All of us.”

“And you resent her for it, a little.”

Will nods. “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s human, Will, Christ.” He moves them around so they’re both sitting facing each other, Nico’s eyes firmly meeting Will’s. “I will never fully forgive Percy for letting Bianca die. Never. It’s not fair to him, and I love him anyway, and I am choosing to move past it. But I will carry that burden. Am I disgusting for that?”

Will glances away. “No.”

“Will, you — look at me.”

He does.

“Clarisse actively chose her pride over her people. So did the rest of her cabin. She’s not fully responsible for that choice, and the blame, as always, lands on Kronos’ shoulders, but —” Nico laughs, a bitter, defeated sound. “Out of all of us, you lost the most. No one lost as many as Apollo. No one burned as many shrouds. You’re allowed to be hurt, allowed to be angry.”

“I forgave them,” Will admits. “I did it publicly and called off the stupid rivalry right after the war. It was the first thing I did as head counsellor.”

“Trying to do what Michael would have done?”

“Are you kidding me, he —” Will scoffs, swiping at the tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. “If Michael were alive, and he found out I forgave them after what happened to Lee, too Diana — he would have been furious. He would stop speaking to me. If I was trying to be like Michael, I might’ve refused them treatment.”

Nico tries to imagine that for a second — Will refusing anyone treatment. It makes something sour uncurl in his stomach, something unsettling.

“You would never refuse someone treatment. I didn’t even — I didn’t think you guys were allowed.”

Will shrugs. “There are no rules to our practice. I just never made refusal an option, and the kids are too young to know any different.”

‘The kids’ — as if Kayla and Austin aren’t as old or older than Will was when he was in charge, when he held the bashed pieces of his brother’s brain as it oozed out of his skull. As he sat, exhausted, hands shaking, next to Nico, and embroidered twelve shrouds. As if Yan and Gracie are his, rather than Apollo’s.

“You forgave them so your siblings wouldn’t grow up bitter,” Nico realises. “Oh, gods, Will.”

He shrugs again, picking at his nails. “For me too. Grudges aren’t healthy.” He tries for a teasing smile. “You’d know.”

“I would.” Nico tries to smile back. It’s easier than he thought it would be, although it fades back into something serious quickly. He reaches out, linking his hands with Will’s to stop him picking before he bleeds. “You can be selfish sometimes, you know.”

“Not in front of anyone.”

“You’re admitting it in front of me,” Nico points out.

Will hesitates. “That’s — different.”

“How?”

“You get it.” He looks down, voice quiet. “You get me. I can —” He meets Nico’s eyes again, a kind of helpless smile on his face. “I dunno. You’re safe. You’re okay with me, even when I’m ugly.”

“Even then,” Nico echoes quietly. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Will’s ear again, even though none were loose. His fingertips linger, and the skin under his touch warms. “Especially then.”

“You can, too, you know, I lo —”

“I know.”

Will exhales in relief. “Good.”

He slumps forward until his forehead rests on the swell of Nico’s shoulder, breaths warming the air between them. Nico tries to match his rhythm — in, out, in, out. Hold. Out, in.

“Can we — hide here, for a little bit? Just a little longer.”

“Of course,” Nico murmurs, squeezing his wrists. “I’ll hide you as long as you need.”

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pallastrology · 3 months

Text

observations on aquarius

artwork by jules pierre van biesbroek

aquarius moons, like other air moons, can treat their emotions kind of like a puzzle; they turn them over in their hands and really break down and analyse their thoughts and feelings. aquarius moons in particular tend to be very focused on the wider impact of their actions and emotions, which, while a testament to their kind and caring nature, can get in the way of them experiencing their full emotional range and the insight that comes with that.

a lot of people with aquarius dominance can go through life feeling dreadfully lonely. though (depending on individual placements) they often pride themselves on being different, or not needing to follow the crowd, deep down they can feel they don't belong, or aren't 'normal'. really, their uniqueness is what makes them beautiful, and while their journey isn't always predictable, they generally find their tribe along the way, and become people with a strong sense of self and steady values that guide them and their relationships.

aquarius on the ascendant tends to have a reputation for looking 'alien-like' or asymmetric, and while the second one especially can be true, my opinion is that a lot of aquarius risings have a doll-like beauty, with very fine and neat features, not unlike virgo risings actually. what sets them apart is that they are more expressive with their style, more congruent and more open to showing their true selves through their clothing. they are prouder and stronger that way, almost more dramatic.

mars in aquarius is a placement that has a strange relationship with anger and assertiveness. they tend to be very cool people, in that they're stoic, relaxed, grounded and pragmatic; they aren't as controlling or fearful as a fixed mars tends to be. but they can be quite detached from their anger and agency, and so if they aren't self-reflective, they don't see how it can affect those around them when they are angry. they are prone to anger at the state of the world and are sensitive to justice - or injustice, rather - but can be erratic in how they display this, at times seeming uncaring.

jupiter in aquarius is a placement that brings a lot of kindness, a lot of generosity, but a strict will and a clear vision. they are dreamers at heart, like a lot of aquarian placements, but if it's channeled properly, jupiter in aquarius gives the native the power and confidence to succeed. the other interesting thing about this placement is that the native tends to love to work; as long as the work means something to them, as long as it does good. they absolutely cannot work just to make money, it's bad for their souls.

aquarius in the sixth house can bring health issues that appear suddenly, are hard to diagnose or treat, or come and go. they may have unusual symptoms or reactions to things, and the phrase 'when you hear hoofbeats, think horses' doesn't tend to apply so well to them. somewhat nervous individuals, aquarius in the sixth house natives can be sensitive to lifestyle factors that help or hinder their health, and so they need a solid (if maybe a little unconventional) routine to really flourish.

aquarius suns are some of the funniest people i've ever met. they have a real deadpan, dry sense of humour and their serious delivery just makes the joke land better. although they may have unconventional taste in material, they don't tend towards the inappropriate and in fact are very even and fair in their roasts. maybe for this reason, they aren't the best roasters, but at least you know you won't be traumatised if an aquarius roasts you...

venus in aquarius gets a reputation for being distant, 'away with the fairies', even unromantic, but i don't think that's true at all. while they are a more grounded and cerebral placement for venus to be in, these natives are incredibly sweet. when they love someone, they will tell them so in a thousand tiny ways. they're the type to take their time getting to know every part of you, down to your microexpressions and innermost worries and favourites.

#pallastrology #astrology #astro community #astrology blog #astrology post #aquarius #aquarius observations #astro notes #aquarius notes #moon in aquarius #mars in aquarius #jupiter in aquarius #sun in aquarius #aquarius in sixth house #aquarius rising #aquarius ascendant #aquarius dominance

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johns-prince · 6 months

Note

if you don’t mind, what are some of your favorite soft mclennon moments?

JOHN: I used to try to get George to rebel with me. I’d say to him, “Look, we don’t need these fuckin’ suits. Let’s chuck them out of the window.” My little rebellion was to have my tie loose with the top button of my shirt undone. Paul’d always come up to me and put it straight. [x]

PAUL: There’s a story that I used to straighten John’s tie before we went on stage. That seems to have become a symbol of what my attitude was supposed to have been. I’ve never straightened anyone’s tie in my life, except perhaps affectionately.

The Times Profile of Paul McCartney - 1982 [x]

“And John and Paul thought back to the time they’d been in Paris before. Flat-broke, unable to afford a taxi, without funds for a decent meal. ‘Maybe we’ll buy the Eiffel Tower this time’, said John with a grin.”

“The Beatles in Paris.” Beatles Book Monthly Magazine No. 8 (March 1964). [x]

““Okay, okay,” I said, “don’t go on, John.” I felt a surge of embarrassment because my instrument was the cause of such hilarity. “Look guys, that’s enough. What have you two been doing while we’ve been struggling to get here? I hope you’ve done some practising and got the song list sorted out?” I was getting more and more annoyed as this episode was dragging on. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry Len. Paul and I have got it all sorted out. Haven’t we Paul? Paul! Paul! I said haven’t we Paul?” Paul McCartney looked up with a wry smile and paused. “Tonight will run just like clockwork. I am going to give the audience the best rendition of ‘Guitar Boogie’ they have ever heard this side of Garston.” “Hey, this is a new twist,” I said. “Paul just cracked a joke. He must have a sense of humour after all, John, shall we have him in the group?” John was enjoying the banter as ever. “Yeah, we’ll give him another try and if you don’t get it right this time, Jimmy,” Jimmy (James) was Paul’s first name, “then…” John waited to see the expression on Paul’s face. “Then we’ll,” again a pause, and by this time we were hanging on John’s next words, “then we’ll have to send him for some more guitar lessons!” Paul joined in the laughter and at that we were all back to normal.”

— Len Garry, John, Paul and Me: Before The Beatles. (1997) [x]

“One of my great memories of John is from when we were having some argument. I was disagreeing and we were calling each other names. We let it settle for a second and then he lowered his glasses and he said: “It’s only me.” And then he put his glasses back on again. To me, that was John. Those were the moments when I actually saw him without the facade, the armour, which I loved as well, like anyone else. It was a beautiful suit of armour. But it was wonderful when he let the visor down and you’d just see the John Lennon that he was frightened to reveal to the world.” [x]

“Whatever bad things John said about me, he would also slip his glasses down to the end of his nose and say, ’I love you’. That’s really what I hold on to. That’s what I believe. The rest is showing off.” [x]

“I remember being shocked one day when John started worrying about how people would remember him when he was gone. It was an incredibly vulnerable thing for him to come out with. I said to him then, ‘They’ll remember you as a fucking genius, because that’s what you are. But, you won’t give a shit because you’ll be up there, flying across the universe.’” [x]

“If John Lennon could come back for a day, how would you spend it with him?” “In bed.” — Paul McCartney answers questions for Q magazine, 1998. [x]

“John and I grew up like twins although he was a year and a half older than me. We grew up literally in the same bed because when we were on holiday, hitchhiking or whatever, we would share a bed. Or when we were writing songs as kids he’d be in my bedroom or I’d be in his. Or he’d be in my front parlour or I’d be in his, although his Aunt Mimi sometimes kicked us out into the vestibule!”

— September 26, 1997, “Paul McCartney - Meet The Beatle” by Steve Richards [x]

“We were recording the other night, and I just wasn’t there. Neither was Paul. We were like two robots going through the motions. We do need each other alot. When we used to get together after a month off, we used to be embarrassed about touching each other. We’d do an elaborate handshake just to hide the embarrassment… or we did mad dances. Then we got to hugging each other.”

— John Lennon, The Beatles by Hunter Davies [x]

Q: “What musician and composer do you respect most?” Paul: “No, I don’t know, really... John Lennon!” John: *mock-shy* “...Paul McCartney.” [x]

conversations with mccartney, paul du noyer [x]

“It was 8:30. I could hear people talking about the likelihood of a storm later on that evening. I can remember hoping that it would clear up before my cycle ride back to Wavertree. Up to now it had been an eventful day but very tiring and as a group, although committed to playing, we all wished that we could pack up and go home. All of us apart from John Lennon. I think that meeting Paul had whetted his appetite and by the time we went on stage for our session at 8:45 he looked refreshed and seemed to have a new sparkle, as though he had had an injection of renewed optimism and enthusiasm as he played and sang through our usual repertoire that evening. […] I went outside for some air and a smoke; John and Pete decided to come with me. We stood outside pulling on our cigarettes, enjoying the breeze that had risen with the oncoming storm. “Do you know, John,” remarked Pete as we stood outside, “I’ve never heard you sound as good as you did just then. I know you’re going to say that I’m not very musical but I could hear the difference. I can see that something’s happened to you. Even the skiffle numbers which I know you’re not that keen on sounded good. You seem to have put more effort into them.” “Pete’s right, John. I couldn’t help noticing it as well,” I said. John was silent for a few minutes, just enjoying his smoke. “I guess someone took the trouble to share what he knew with me and it’s just given me a little encouragement for the future, that’s all.” “Oh I see, you’re getting a little sentimental in your old age, aren’t you,” joked Pete, who had never seen his life-long friend in that light before. “Don’t be thick, Pete,” replied John, who seemed almost back to his normal abrupt self. “Come on, I need a drink.”” — Len Garry, John, Paul and Me: Before The Beatles. (1997) [x]

[x]

Paul's persistence and endless patience for John while he was dealing with the death of his mother Julia:

But Paul seemed to have limitless patience for John, sneaking away from his classes to drink coffee at the Jacaranda coffeehouse, or else spend the afternoon nursing pints and punching rock ‘n’ roll songs on the jukebox at Ye Cracke pub. Certainly, Paul preferred hanging out with his friend to grinding through lectures and assignments at his schoolboy’s desk at the Liverpool Institute. But the hours they spent together held an emotional significance, too. For even if they rarely spoke about the pain of losing their mothers, the mutual feelings of loss—and the rawness of John’s wound—gave them a connection that was as vital as it was unspoken. It was, Paul said later, a “special bond for us, something of ours, a special thing.” … “We could look at each other,” Paul said, “and know.””

…

John, however, had other things on his mind. Though the fall of 1958 and well into 1959, John was far too busy engaging in art-school life—if not exactly his studies—to think much about playing in a rock ‘n’ roll band. He had started dating another student, a quiet blonde from the relatively posh Hoylake district on the Wirral, named Cynthia Powell. She proved a warm, stabilizing influence, which helped mitigate John’s ongoing grief and rage.

He had also grown particularly close to one of the school’s most promising students, a blazingly talented painter named Stuart Sutcliffe, whose emotional portraits and densely wrought abstracts had already caught the eye of the university’s instructors, along with the gallery owners, artists and critics who orbited the bohemian section that bordered the campus. John had been drawn to Stu’s talent, too, and when his classmate invited John to move into his large, if downtrodden, flat around the corner from the college in a row of once-elegant homes on Gambier Terrace, the two art students became even closer. The flat became a hub for their college friends, a reliable address for drinking bouts and all-night parties.

Nevertheless, Paul made certain not to be a stranger. He was a regular around Gambier Terrace, often toting his guitar to spur a little playing and singing, and if circumstance permitted, a bit of songwriting. John remained an eager music fan, and generally enthusiastic partner for playing and singing. But his disinterest in the band, prompted at least in part by his deepening friendship with Stu, frustrated Paul.

…

John was moving on, and not in a promising direction. George, for his part, had grown sick of waiting and joined the jazz-and-skiffle centered Les Stewart Quartet, though he made it clear to Paul he’d be back with the Quarrymen whenever they resumed playing. Paul, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in playing with anyone else. For whatever combination of emotional or visceral reasons, he couldn’t seem to imagine a musical life that didn’t include John Lennon as his primary partner.

So he persisted, dragging his guitar to Gambier Terrace, making himself a fixture amid the empty beer bottles, overflowing ashtrays, shattered Vicks inhalers, and paint-splattered clothes.

If John didn’t evince any interest in being in a band, Paul would simply wait, guitar at the ready, until he did.

— Peter Ames Carlin, Paul McCartney: A Life [x]

#mclennon #john lennon #paul mccartney #just to name a few!#anthology of mclennon

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hanrinz · 11 months

Text

✩ ‧ ₊˚ TROUBLE YOU ! — SAE ITOSHI.

you have a bad habit of forgetting things. thankfully, your roommate, sae is there to remind you.

being roommates with sae comes with a lot of benefits, namely the spacious apartment you love a lot, not worrying about any loud sounds in the middle of the night (courtesy to your previous roommate, who obviously can't live without any music blasting through the walls) and finally, an attractive person you can look at under the same roof.

you can't say the same thing for him though.

especially, when times like this at this very moment happens and sae could only let out a sigh.

it was already 8 pm when you walked into the doors of the field, your hair a little disheveled, your phone and car keys in your hand as you look around the field—for him, he presumes.

and he was right, like almost all the times he remembers whenever you visit him here.

and the looks and knowing smiles of his teammates that were sent his way were rather annoying, especially when their captain would give him that look whenever you're around, "your girl is here, genius." is what he would always say and he'll only shoot back a glare.

and he turns his gaze back to look at you, and you're already halfway through the field, your eyes all bright with a sense of relief in it, and he might just stop and look at you.

and if he doesn't try to silent away the sound of his heart getting a little faster maybe he'll acknowledge it.

"sae!" you yelled, as you scurry off to him with a smile on your face. and he saunters to you with one hand buried in his pockets, meeting you across.

"hi," you breathe out, chest heaving from your little dash. after all, you did run through the entrance of the stadium all the way here, in the fields.

sae has a feeling of what was the reason that brought you here and he's sure what you're about to say next. he raises a brow in question as to what you were doing here and you were quick to pick up on that, like you always do.

"uhm, well..." you start off, with a sheepish look on your face, "i left my key at the apartment." you confessed, a hand coming up to rub on your arms, embarrassed at your clumsy mistake and it doesn't help that it's already the fourth time this month that you've forgotten the keys to your home.

"i figured as much," sae replied, turning his back on you as he walks over to the bench by the sidelines, with you following behind him.

really, how can someone forget something so important? he shakes his head from the thought.

"aw, come on. this will be the last time, i swear!"

"you already said that the last time." he deadpaned.

"i swear! this is the last time, sae. you won't see me here next month!"

he highly doubts it, but sure he'll humour you just this once. he grabs his duffle bag as he turns around to face you, his eyes trail from your eyes to your nose and your lips, before looking away from you just as quick as he would change his expression.

and you didn't point it out, he's grateful.

walking off ahead through where you came from awhile ago. with you still following him, confused.

"hey, where are you going? i only need the keys, sae." you questioned, while trying to catch up to his long strides.

he only gave you a glance before answering you, "we're going home."

"huh? what- wait you still have practice right?"

you were right, of course. but, he won't tell you that, it's not that someone would get mad at him for leaving earlier than usual, but even if someone did, he can't give a single fuck anyway.

and he's sure the guys on the field are giving him big thumbs up and snickering among themselves, he ignored them.

he doesn't answer you. still walking, a little slower now, matching your pace. spotting your car and he's thankful there's no camera or paparazzi on sight—not that he minds being seen with you, though.

because sae would rather lose a limb than be seen with someone else other than you.

"give me your car keys." he didn't even give you a choice, already stealing it from your hands. you didn't stop him, no. what's out there would be brave enough stopping the itoshi sae, when he sets his mind on things? the answer is none.

so, you let him.

maybe, sae has become accustomed to this occurrence. with you, by his side, in his mornings, in his days, in his times. because you bleed like an ink into his life and it seeps through him with color.

he doesn't mind you troubling him at all.

"this is the fourth time, y/n. don't forget your keys."

"i will, i'm trying!" you whined, sounding embarrassed, "it's not like you'd be gone soon, so it's okay for now, right?"

"what if i was away for a game, idiot?" he counter.

"well.. too bad, i'm coming over with you overseas, then."

sae doesn't mind you asking him, but you're just too much trouble for his heart though.

◞♡ omg rosie out of her burnout phase?? we couldn't believe it either :o likes & reblogs are highly appreciated!

#roses ‘r rosie #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi x you #sae itoshi fluff #itoshi sae fluff #itoshi sae #itoshi sae x you #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock fluff #blue lock #sae itoshi

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fairyhaos · 10 months

Text

how seventeen act with their black cat s/o

requested by anon : hi! can i request how seventeen would act with an s/o with a "black cat" personality? thank you! :>

notes: while writing this i realised i only Kind Of understand what a black cat personality is lmao. so, uh, just go w it u guys okay

masterlist

seungcheol

black labrador x black cat pairing all the way. when you're exhausted with no energy, he's being your protector. when he's upset and feeling terrible, you're his protector. mutual protecting, you know? but it also feels like the "i'm only my softest when i'm with you" feeling with seungcheol, like being in one another's presence allows you to truly and fully relax

jeonghan

he's still coddling and cooing over you no matter what. you could be the most tsundere, grumpy, annoyed person in the world at that moment but he's calling you adorable and asking you in a cute tone how your day was. it's a good thing that you're really really weak for him tbh, bc if anyone else was calling you a little kitten while pinching your cheeks then they are getting punched.

joshua

still as gentlemanly as ever. calls you extravagant nicknames like "my lord" or "my lady" bc he likes to tease that you having a grumpy nature is just bc you're a very picky person, like royalty. slides an arm around you and goes "is he bothering you queen/king?" whenever someone is talking to you who's obviously annoying you. when you're in a bad mood, he's attacking and tickling you until you fall into laughter again

junhui

tabby cat x black cat supremacy yeahhhh!! he's like the curious, innocent, playful cat to your black cat vibes. tsks when you emerge from your room wearing all black to go out somewhere, makes you go back inside and change one (1) piece of clothing into something with more colour. peppers your face with kisses and then demands kisses of his own too

hoshi

head over heels for you, but needs you to initiate everything. grab his hand while walking down the pavement, give him a kiss on the cheek at random times throughout the day. you don't need to tell him "i love you", though, because he knows that already. knows that you tolerating and even enjoying his hyper nature is an "i love you" enough

wonwoo

so basically, you're just two cats that don't go outside and amuse yourselves at home. it's not that you don't like going out, but when both of you are both content with staying indoors, what's the point? silent communication galore, having the ability to read each other's minds and simply knowing, without having to say anything, just how much you mean to each other

woozi

lowkey, he enjoys it because it means he gets to be the one to talk the most in the relationship. bro has a lot to say, okay, with the funniest opinions and adlibs and really does love talking. he's still a great listener ofc, and sometimes there are days where the both of you just sit in silence. which he finds absolutely brilliant, because he's actually found someone to sit in silence with who's just like him

minghao

the sassy duo. lowkey also the fashion duo, bc i can just imagine you two in matching sunglasses and matching fashion styles, sitting cross-legged and peering, unimpressed, over the rims of the glasses at whoever is being weird this time. the best thing ever is how you just Get each other's sense of humour, and i can imagine endless weird inside jokes between the two of you that make you grin over at each other during big gatherings

mingyu

golden retriever bf (1). bouncy and bumbling and excitable. thinks you're the brightest and loveliest angel in the world. sure, maybe you have your introverted moments and won't let him hug you but personal boundaries exist, right? he gets that. he's your Protector™ fr, even though he knows you're one badass mf that doesn't need protecting

dokyeom

golden retriever bf (2). loud asf. a ray of sunshine that would have blinded you if he wasn't also just adorably soft and sweet. the type to lean over and whisper "so, we don't like them?" when he catches sight of you glaring at someone while you're meeting up with friends. whines like a dejected puppy when you (jokingly) tell him to go away

seungkwan

is kinda sad that you're not all too keen on receiving his kisses and his hugs, but to make up for it he engages in all the other love languages instead until he finds the one that you adore the most. the most accommodating and attentive, bc you may not communicate your opinions that much, but don't worry because he's trained himself to be attentive to your every move

vernon

vernon is normally a listener, but like woozi, being with you allows him to talk more, and also allows you to laugh more. he has the craziest stories which make you smile after a hard day. he enjoys talking, when it's to you, who'll watch him attentively, humming and smiling and he enjoys that it's only him that you'll be so sweet and gentle with

chan

your Biggest Supporter Ever. you don't even need to be doing anything, he's just gonna support you no matter what. would fully believe you if you said that you were taking part in a secret space project to go to Mars. backs you up whenever someone is making you uncomfortable/annoyed/angry no matter the situation. you don't need to say the words "i love you" to him, don't worry, because he says it enough for the both of you.

request guidelines

reactions tags: @jeonginssa @magicaltonaru @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @turningcarat @zarara @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @iheartyujin @summery-bat @newgirlygirl @moonlitskiiies @ejspencer14 @mirxzii @wonranghaeee @saythename-chess @yonabutnotyuna @youthoughtiwasfeelingyou @crackedpumpkin @wqnwoos @sunshinekyeom-sang @ocyeanicc @zozojella @thesmellofcoffeeandrain @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @icyminghao @nananacomeonnnn @valenhui @sweet-like-caramel @hansolaria @gam3bo1z @marisblogg @evasaysstuff @odxrilove @kyeomyun @chansburgah @pepperonijem @jeonride @kellesvt

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haikyu-mp4 · 10 days

Text

Knight in a borrowed suit

word count; 1215 – f!reader wearing a dress, inspired by New Girl

He stood you up. After taking up a table for over an hour, sitting in the middle of the restaurant and on show for everyone to watch as you tried your best to stop the tears from escaping, you’re sure that he stood you up. With an elegant dress, hair dolled up and impeccable makeup compared to what you usually did, you had been so excited for this date with a man you truly thought was interested. The two of you had gone out once or twice before and you were hoping it could grow into something, make you forget about that one unattainable volleyball player your heart beat a bit louder for. But it seemed not even people without status were interested for long. Maybe you came on too strong? Did you laugh too loud? Whatever it was, you weren’t sure you deserved this humiliation.

The waiter came over again with the same pitiful smile, and you knew she would politely ask you to leave. With a straightened back and tears at bay, you pursed your lips so she wouldn’t feel too bad about it.

“I’m so sorry ma’am, but unless you want to order, we have to give up your table,” she said, trying to speak as low as possible so all the people eyeing you wouldn’t be too entertained.

“That’s okay, I appreciate your patience,” you said, putting your purse on the table so you could pay for the wine glass you had when a voice rang out through the restaurant.

“Wait! I’m so sorry I’m late.” Oh, you knew that voice very well. Your head snapped in his direction, a small tear finally escaping the brim of your eye to trickle down and caress your smile. A very thankful smile.

It wasn’t your original date, it was Miya Atsumu.

He smoothed his hands over his suit, trying to catch his breath as he came over to your side, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before moving to the other side and gesturing to the waiter. His hair was a bit messy, and his tie wasn’t very well tied, but he was handsome nonetheless. It was also Osamu’s suit, so it didn’t fit him like a glove. “Please excuse me and leave the menus. I’ll make sure to tip well for the wait,” he said, more professionally before finally sitting down. Your eyes had followed him the whole way, wide with wonder that he came to save you. It felt like you were in some romantic comedy.

About 1 hour earlier

Atsumu was never happy about that new manager asking you out, and much less about you agreeing to it. Could you not see he was going through a perfectly planned 14-step process of asking you out? You had known each other since the day he started playing for the Black Jackals and he felt like there was a spark between you. He found you beautiful even when you weren’t dressed up for anything special, and you always had a great sense of humour. Nothing could brighten his day quite like making you laugh, a feeling he would even compare to a perfect service ace.

So when he saw that slimy manager in the gym, laughing with his friend after seemingly picking something up when he was supposed to be with you, he had to stop himself from getting violent. “No way man, she was way too much. I swear I’ll hear her laugh ringing in my ears for weeks, and that ain’t a good thing.” your original date said to the other guy, and Atsumu took in a few deep breaths to calm down before running to the locker room. He hit speed dial and held the phone to his ear, happy Osamu picked up quickly.

“What?” he snapped.

“There’s no time to explain, I need you to get me a suit.”

Now here he was, sitting across from you with red ears and a slightly nervous smile. He had finally caught his breath when he looked at you properly, taking in every blink of your eyelashes and how your shoulders looked so kissable under the dress straps. “Wow,” he breathed out, feeling more breathless than he did after running all the way to the restaurant. “You look breathtaking.”

“Thank you, Atsumu,” you said affectionately, leaning your arms on the table in a desperate attempt to get just a little closer to him. You looked happy, he thought, but it was painted with uncertainty. “But… why are you here?”

Atsumu took a moment to answer, thinking back to what he heard before and trying not to let the angry emotions ruin this moment. “I’m taking a beautiful woman on the date she deserves,” he answered.

You didn’t need to know how he knew you were stood up, because now all you could think of was how real it felt. The universe granted you a chance to pretend Atsumu was there for you and not just because he’s a good guy.

It genuinely felt like that as you talked the night away, sharing food and ordering whatever wine they recommended as you talked about the things you never had time for at work. Your laugh was melodic to him, it’s what he imagined he would hear if he ever got into heaven. Unfortunately, you weren’t quite sold on him being there out of his own interest. So as you two stepped out of the restaurant at the end of the night, you said “Thank you for saving my date, Tsumu. You didn’t have to but I had a great time.”

Atsumu grinned, so hopelessly enchanted with your smile. “It was my pleasure, honestly,” he said, and it felt a bit too polite to you.

“If you want, I won’t tell anyone. You were probably just being nice,” you said with a forced chuckle, revealing more of your emotions than you planned.

“What?” he asked, grin diminishing as he tried to understand.

“You’re a good friend, I don’t want to assume there is anything more.”

“No!” It was now or never. He looked at you like you were the sun and he was the moon, desperately trying to reach for you and never quite making it; frustratedly. It left you speechless, staring at him with parted lips and trying to take in enough air to support your rising heartbeat. “I want to take you on more dates. I want to spend most of my time with you, actually. And I want to kiss you, fuck I want to kiss you so bad.” his eyes went to your lips and back up, and your pulse quickened even more, frozen like a deer in headlights from the sudden confession. Atsumu stepped closer, hands hovering over your hips like he wasn’t sure he could touch you. “I really really like you.”

“Tsumu,” you breathed out, a wide smile blinding him to the level that his eyes started watering from its light. “I like you too, I always have.”

Safe to say that the manager who stood you up would lose his job by next week, but you wouldn’t even look in his direction when you had Atsumu’s constant affection. Sometimes, the universe has a plan, and luckily, Atsumu’s 14-step plan was cut down to 3.

masterlist

#haikyu x reader #haikyu #haikyuu #hq x reader #fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #hq #haikyuu x you #haikyuu fluff #haikyu fluff #msby atsumu #miya atsumu #atsumu x reader #hq atsumu #atsumu miya #msby black jackal

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strlingsav · 1 year

Note

Idek if you will see this but i been reading your work and its amazing!! You’re genuenly so talented in writing. but could you maybe do a fic on Ghost and y/n jus having a steamy makeout sesh, don’t matter the context or backstory but just to include a lot of kissing. 🫣🫣

Thank you! 🤍 I can definitely do this!! Steamy make-outs are underrated.

Alone

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— You're left alone with Johnny's friend Simon.

Johnny had offered to help you move over the weekend, offering Simon's help too, in exchange for a case of beer. You were happy to oblige, eager for the extra help and a chance to see Simon again.

Johnny talked a lot about him. It was a given; they worked so closely together, and near-death experiences could really bring people together. You'd grown to know Simon through Johnny, enough to find yourself attracted to the brooding man.

Aside from your developing crush, you were glad Johnny had someone watching his back. Someone that seemed reliable and trustworthy. It was part of the reason why you'd so quickly accepted Simon's help. The way Johnny spoke of him only had you even more intrigued. Every story he told let you piece Simon together, bit by bit. You were starting to take interest in the puzzle of a man.

He was quiet, not much of a talker and his humour was dry. Most people would be off-put by his demeanour, but you liked it. Being so close with Johnny meant that sometimes, a break from the incessant talking was nice. Enjoyable even.

"Just leave it there, I can take it to my room," You said, waving your hand to dismiss Johnny carrying a large box full of sheets and blankets.

"You sure?" He asked, his brow quirked as he lowered it.

"Yeah, yeah," You replied. "It's not heavy. Won't need it tonight anyways."

Johnny nodded, leaving the box on the floor before joining you at the kitchen island.

You handed him a beer, taking a sip of the one in your hand.

"Thanks again," You said.

"Not a problem. Simon's done most of the work anyways."

"I expected as much," You hid your grin.

"Y'can find someone else to move your shite then," He scowled, moving around to sit on the chair. "You like it here?"

"It's not bad. Roomy. Only a few minutes from work."

You sat on the sofa, curling your feet up under you.

"Aye," He nodded. "Better than the last."

Simon stepped out of the spare room, rolling his shoulders before settling beside you.

"'S'all moved in there," He said, lifting his arm to the back of the couch.

"Thanks," You smiled softly. "Let me grab you a beer."

You came back with a beer in hand, passing it to him before sitting back down.

"Cheers," He nodded.

You looked around the room, still cluttered with boxes and random items you'd have to find a home for. Your head fell back, groaning softly.

"I still have a ton of shit to do."

"Wish I could stay an' help," Johnny said, setting down his empty beer. "I've got myself a dinner with my maw. I can stop by after."

"It's alright. I'll stay up and get it done before Monday."

"Maybe Simon could help ya?" Johnny's eyes shifted to Simon, who swallowed a sip of beer.

You avoided Johnny's gaze, knowing he'd be staring at you as your cheeks flushed, suspecting something of your bashful reaction. He'd sensed the attraction between the two of you; you were both too stubborn and proud to admit it.

Simon breathed in, "No plans tonight. If you need the help-"

"You really don't have to," You insisted, your eyes locking with his.

"Don't mind."

Johnny watched the interaction with a small smirk, enjoying the discomfort he created. You sighed, turning to Johnny with wide eyes and an expression that read, 'I'm going to murder you'.

"That's really nice of you," You smiled. "I'll owe you one."

Johnny left not long after, leaving yourself and Simon to unpacking the many boxes left in your living room.

It was silent between the two of you, hardly satiated by the quiet sound of the music in the background. You glanced over every so often, amused by the sight of him hunched over on your floor, rummaging through a box of plates and cutlery.

"Thanks again." Your voice was louder than anticipated, shattering the silence. "For staying to help."

He looked up at you, expressionless, though his eyes softened.

"Not much to do when I'm home," He said. "Beer and company ain't bad."

You nodded- a small smile crawled over you face as you tried not to read too much into his simple statement. You turned back to the box, taking a soft breath in.

"Johnny talks about you a lot," You said.

"He's a good mate."

"Seems to think the same of you."

"You known each other long?"

"Since college."

Silence ascended again, busying yourself with tidying and unpacking.

You blew out a harsh breath, looking over the array of boxes, half-opened around the cluttered living room.

"Don't think this'll be done by Monday," You huffed. "Let's just call it."

Simon smiled, not enough that you'd noticed, but he was amused.

He'd accepted Johnny's offer in hopes of spending more time with you. He despised civilian life. He didn't know how to function in a world without gunfire or imminent death. Despite that, he was okay doing mind-numbing tasks if he could sit and talk to you.

Part of him knew he owed Johnny a thanks for giving the two of you time together, though the other wanted to kill him for putting him on the spot.

You stood up, Simon following, and your foot caught on the nearest box. Simon's hand reached out to steady you, grabbing hold of your bicep before you fell forward.

"Y'alright?"

You nodded. Though inside, you could swear there was a tidal wave of nerves igniting with heat at the touch of his hand.

You stepped around the box, grabbing another couple beers from the fridge.

You rested your back against the island, sipping slowly, your eyes following Simon as he stood across from you. Your fingers nervously tapped the bottle, rhythmic, soothing- it didn't seem to work.

"You- um," You spoke up again. "You like this music?"

He could tell you were grasping at straws, looking for anything to fill the awkward silence. He wasn't one for idle chatter, and he didn't mind the silence, but he could tell his presence had you on edge. He knew you were trying to cover up the nervous habits you had; chewing your lip, bouncing your knee.

"Not bad," He nodded.

"Do you like being in the army?"

He furrowed his brows at the sudden subject change, an amused smile forming across his lips.

"That what you really want to ask me? 'Bout my work?"

"Just making conversation," You shrugged.

"Yeah, it's alright," He tilted his head. "You always so nervous makin' conversation?" He'd struck a nerve; your eyes flashed to his, wide and unblinking.

"Not really," You smiled. "Not really sure how to talk to you," You breathed out.

"I make you nervous?" He set the beer down beside him, moving slowly, predator-like as he inched toward you.

"You make everyone nervous," You teased.

It was a pathetic reach for comfort, for something to ease the building tension in your stomach as he stood before you.

"Don't think that's the case here," His lips were parted, stillness in the air. "You have somethin' else you wanna ask me, sweetheart?" He had his hands planted on the counter, trapping you within the confines of his body.

Sweetheart. The word rolled off his tongue, soft, smooth- it nearly made you melt. Your jugular pounded in your throat- he was flirting with you.

"Do you want another beer?"

He chuckled, low and dry. His head shook, before his eyes landed on yours.

"Would y'let me kiss you?"

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, your heart threatening to jump out of your throat, palms tacky with sweat.

"Yes," You said, barely above a whisper, void of any tone, focused solely on his lips as he brought himself even closer.

His lips touched yours softly, hardly enough to feel, though it created sparks in your abdomen. He was gentle, creating a fleeting touch that made you chase after his lips when he pulled back.

Your eyes opened to find his, searching your face, appreciating the flush on your skin, the lust-filled glaze over your eyes.

He didn't hesitate this time, his lips making firm contact with yours, still apprehensive but savouring how good you felt against him. He let out a satisfied but restrained sigh, basking in the utter pleasure, while his hand mindlessly moved to your waist, delicately holding on, pulling you just a bit closer.

You had to crane your neck, nearly stand on your toes to reach him, your wobbly disposition worsening when forced to balance yourself.

He noticed, pulling away and lifting you swiftly onto the countertop. You parted your thighs, making room for his torso, accepting him closer than before.

Your lips reconnected, feverish and greedy as you devoured the bitterness and surprising softness on his lips. For an army man, he had miraculously smooth lips, addictive and warm.

His hand held onto your waist, the other resting on the top of your thigh, holding you close, aching for the feel of your body under his grip. They engulfed you, swallowed you whole, erased any other thoughts aside from the heat swarming inside you.

Your own hands had travelled around his shoulders, feeling the taught muscles surrounding his neck, your palms gliding up to lay against the nape of his neck. He was solid- strong and authoritative-it made your stomach churn with excitement.

Your tongue grazed his bottom lip, a teasing stroke that made his grip tighten. Your back arched into him, letting your tongue caress his lip until he reciprocated, gliding his against yours.

Like lighting a match, the sparks in your body lit up, creating a burn in your stomach.

His hand slid down past your hip, grabbing a handful of your ass as he pulled you off the counter to his hips. You inadvertently wrapped your legs around him, still moving your lips against his as he walked past the pile of boxes to lie you down on the couch.

He towered over you, removing the restrictive jacket he had on, his biceps flexing as he yanked them from the sleeves. Your gaze moved to see the tattoos covering his arms, the way his T-shirt fit so perfectly over his well-worked muscles.

He, in turn, had his eyes glued to you. Your hair splayed out on the pillow, your swollen lips now red with irritation, your eyes in the dim light of the room, how the baggy T-shirt you wore fell taught against your breasts when you breathed in. He could see the swell of your breasts, your perked nipples through the white fabric, and when you reached to grasp his shoulders, he felt heat travel to his groin.

His hands trailed from your hips, diving beneath your shirt to feel your smooth skin, the dip between your ribs. A bit further up, he ran teasing fingers over your breasts, eliciting a quiet gasp from your parted lips.

"Simon," You whispered, a fleeting announcement of pleasure that echoed in his head.

"Bloody hell," He said, low and guttural. "You been drivin' me mad, love."

You grinned, "That so?" You quipped, eager to learn more.

"Since I met you."

You hummed with satisfaction, sitting up to press your lips against his, to wrap your hand around his neck and pull him into you. He chuckled into your lips, his hand settling above you on the couch.

Your eyes drifted shut, toes curling with the feeling of his lips leaving soft kisses across your neck, before he reached your lips again.

He pushed his torso further between your thighs, unintentionally grinding his pelvis against yours. You moaned softly into his mouth, nipping at the plump flesh of his lip. He breathed out, his hips driving into yours, hitting just the right angle to grind against your clit. Your whimpers against his mouth had his cock hardening against you.

"I don't have any condoms," You said shyly, a blush creeping up your neck.

"Eager, are you?" He leaned in, his nose gently nudging your head aside so he could kiss the smooth skin of your neck. "'S'alright- rather take you out 'fore any o'that."

His body was flush with yours, lips connecting with unbroken ferventness. Your hands pulled against his shirt, forcing him into your body, holding him hostage.

"Y'make it real difficult to wait, sweetheart."

Your eyes brows crested, yearning for him, in his entirety.

"Sorry," You sighed. "Better take me to dinner soon."

A knock at your apartment door made your heads turn. It must've been Johnny, back from dinner.

"Open up, kid."

#cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod mwii #mwii #simon riley #strlingsavwrites #ghost x you #ask strlingsav #aloneseries

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jessicaslittlelovesickmess · 3 months

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Burn Marks

Pairing: Larissa Weems x Reader

Warnings: Toxic!Larissa, mentions of pregnancy, angst, hopeful ending, hints of starving

Pt1

It destroyed you when she left you pregnant and with a hyper three year old who was full of questions of where her favoured mama is. It burnt your lungs with each lie you told her unable to state the truth afraid to scar the young girl the way you had been.

Soon enough your little boy Theodore had been born, named right after Larissa’s father who had the same blue eyes as her but your blonde hair. The more Delilah grew the more she shaped into Larissa the woman who had shattered your being.

Once Theo was old enough to attend Kindergarten you were off to rebuild the woman you once were, daily after the school drop off you hit the gym. You went back to school to study fashion something you had enjoyed, it was tiring but you wished nothing else.

At night the children would curl around you on the sofa as you read to them, a peace you had never felt before, a sense of security. Larissa had never tried to reach out not when Delilah had turned five or even ten, your children now sixteen and thirteen.

It took some time but finally you owned your own boutique while raising two children it was hard and sometimes you had to go without. Always making sure their little bellies were full, along the line you often wondered where Larissa was in life.

If she thought it was worth it

Now you sat across from her

“We’re here for our daughters enrolment”

Larissa shifted in her seat as she cleared her throat almost taken aback “right, I apologise” she nodded the air now thick. “So- uh how is she?” You shook your head “not quite the question Larissa” the woman couldn’t focus. Not when she had a straight view of your cleavage, not when you looked so great now she really began to regret.

“Look Larissa, I can help with Fundraisers whatever you need. Our daughters happiness means most so if you do anything to tarnish that” I threatened. “Everything will be paid in full by me and me only, I don’t want your charity nor your pity. You can fester in your guilt if you even feel guilty”.

“I said I was sorry Y/n” Larissa barked “I don’t care” you shrugged “you threw everything away! I gave every ounce of me up for you and you leave like our family was last weeks news”. You shot up from your seat “my body changing was only natural since I had your child! Me being tired was normal because I was working TWO jobs and RAISING OUR DAUGHTER, I WAS PREGNANT LARISSA!”

“I was pregnant and planning this wonderful life with you” your voice broke unable to face her “your actions burned me, they scar our children”. A sinking fell into Larissa’s chest “so tell me again how sad your life is, how hard it is now that you have to face your choices”

Call it Karma

“I loved you so fiercely that even two years after you left I would’ve welcomed you with open arms but no, we made our beds Larissa time to lay in them”

“I refuse to” the woman’s voice determined “well I have, I’m tired Larissa” you matched her energy “maybe I still love you”. You laughed at her words “love me? I thought you no longer love me isn’t that why you left? To find something bigger? Someone better? Or did you find only I would put up with your attitude?”

“You’re not being fair” Larissa stated only causing you to laugh “fair?” You faced her “I’m not being fair? Give me a break Larissa, fairness didn’t matter thirteen years ago when you up and split”.

Larissa knew you were right, of course you were you always had been and she knew she used you she didn’t feel bad about it.

“No you’re right but the past is the past Y/n or have you not changed?”

“Don’t humour me Larissa, I was forced to change. Our children needed at least one role model but you wouldn’t know what that’s like”

I was jealous she could pretend to be this great maternal principal when she was a horrible mother, she had abandoned her family. With a sigh I sat back down “it’s a crappy thing you did and I hope you can make amends with our children but for now any questions you have go straight to my assistant”.

Larissa cringed slightly “Your assistant?” You raised a brow “I’m not letting you back in so easily honey” resting against the back of your chair with a small smirk.

The blonde took it as a deal

#imagine #wlw #larissa weems x reader #angst #gwendoline christie imagine #larissa weems #gwendoline christie oneshot #larissa weems x female reader #larissa weems imagine #larissa x reader #wednesday 2022

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0san-ta0 · 20 days

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Late Night Missing You

synopsis ★ whilst arthur is off on a trip you start feeling lonely and resort to some unconventional methods of entertainment

pairing ★ fem!reader x arthur fredrick (arthurtv) author's notes ★ this is my first time writing an actual fic so it might be kinda shitty! feedback and tips are appreciated!! and i hope you enjoy!! <33 (NOT PROOFREAD)

arthur had been in sri lanka with chip and the boys for almost a week. although to you it felt way longer than that. sure, the facetimes, texts and voice notes were great but you couldn't help it as the loneliness had started creeping in by day 3. your usual daily routine had shifted slightly but your mind couldn't keep up, cooking enough for two or sitting on the couch waiting for arthur to walk through the door. your mood had been in the trenches and sitting alone in your apartment wasn't helping. you didn't want to bother your other friends this late at night. so you decided to have an impromptu stream, talking with the random people on your computer and drinking was sure to cheer you up.

you sat in front of your computer, a random video playing on your screen. you dared your chat that they coudn't send in a video to make you laugh, but if you did laugh that you'd take a shot. it had been about an hour of watching the most unhinged and random tiktoks and you were loosing horribly. a video of a young girl running into a wall flashed across the screen, sending you spiralling into a fit of laughter once again. maybe you felt bad about laughing but your sense of humour was wrecked at this point and coupled with the alcohol any odd video had you wheezing and reaching for the bottle of Bailey's infront of you.

"chat I swear I didn't mean too that doesn't count. i'm not taking a shot! at this rate i'll die of alcohol poisoning before midnight."

the comments started flowing in a majority of them about your new found adventurism, the other half was wondering where arthur was that he isn't supervising you. it was strange that he wasn't hovering in the background making sure you stayed hydrated or preparing your shots when he knew you for a fact that you were gonna laugh. your eyes glossed over the arthur comments trying not to let your mood shift too much, choosing to focus on the funnier comments.

"lilia284 thank you for the sub! and guys arthur is out of the country so..." you trailed off as the comments started on another tangent about where arthur was exactly.

"I can't tell you guys that but when it's released I'm sure you'll all be grateful for the lack of spoilers. now back to the videos and please no more children getting hurt I don't need to be clipped half drunk laughing at children. that's not good for my public image." then the topic switched to your most outrageous moments and you felt that you had successfully evaded the arthur topic and got your emotions in check.

restarting the video, it started with a man running and slipping down the stairs. your headphones playing at almost full volume you failed to hear the sound of the front door clicking open. filming had finished early and arthur wanted nothing more than to go home and lay in bed with you. walking into your shared apartment he looked around, searching for any sign of you before putting his suitcase down next to the door.

"y/n?" he called softly walking down the hall, poking his head into your dark bedroom before turning finding the light coming from your office door. he looked at the door and raised his eyebrows, you usually didn't stream this late perhaps you were doing some work.

then your voice came through, "this isn't fair that was a giggle, I don't deserve to drink for that you people just hate me!"

he stood outside the door confusion evident on his face, he took his phone from his pocket opening twitch. low and behold there you were front and center of his following page. he clicked the icon, just in time to see you poor a shot of Bailey's and down it.

another giggle escaped you lips as you placed the glass down on your desk, a smile making it's way to your lips. at this point you were more than buzzed and you could admit that comfortably. you turned to read off your donations and arthur saw his chance. he opened the chat and sent a 5 dollar donation to be read aloud.

'arthurtv $5 so this is what you do when I leave? I thought we got drunk together?'

your back stiffened slightly as you heard his name, you cleared you thought and smiled at the camera. "hi sweetheart!!" you waved at the camera and from outside arthur stood there smiling for a moment.

"I hope you're having fun and I miss you!" you mumbled, a pout making it's way to your face. then another donation came through.

'arthurtv $5 well if you really missed me you'd come outside!'

your eyebrows knit together as you look between the door and her stream then back to the door. your chat started flooding with messages about going to get your man and a lot of comments along those lines. you said a quick goodbye to your stream before shutting down your PC and turning to the door. arthur stood outside waiting for you to open it, a few moments passed before the door was flung open. you stood Infront of him a stupid smile on your face as you flung yourself into his arms.

"arthur I freaking missed you so much!" he laughed softly, running a hand along your back.

"so you chose to get drunk online?" he questioned raising an eyebrow.

"it was a better idea than laying on the floor and crying."

#arthurtv x reader #arthurtv imagines #arthurtv #arthur frederick

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drconstellation · 4 months

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First-Order Archangels

Part 1: Maybe You'll Spot An Archangel

GABRIEL: I told you you could ask. However, I am the only First-Order archangel in the room, or, you know, the Universe, so I'm not gonna answer so much. But you feel free to knock yourself out with all the asking.

While I was writing my meta series The Passion Of Jimbriel it became fairly obvious to me there was something more going on between Crowley and Gabriel in S2 than just the numerous pointers to Crowley's pre-fall angel status. They are acting as both parallels and foils to each other, and in places you can swap their characters and get the same story at a different time – and that just opens up a whole new window of context and insight into things. For pre-reading, see this meta from @vidavalor that nicely lists some obvious parallels. It doesn’t mention everything though, so I’m going to discuss parts in more detail.

A foil is a character who contrasts with the protagonist, to highlight or differentiate certain qualities between the characters. Crowley and Gabriel do this because they have come from essentially the same place, and share some story elements, but they still end up in different places.

There is a lengthy original discussion about Crowley's pre-fall angel status here, for pre-reading. It points out the obvious and some not so obvious points that ops have noticed in S2 telling us about Crowley's pre-fall status. Rather than just go through them all again, I'd like to look at some other scenes in S2 that also tell us something about both the similarities and the differences between these two high-powered entities as I go along. In addition, I’ve done a series of posts looking at Gabriel as a shoulder angel (links at the end of post,) because quite often he’s on the demonic left-hand side – which makes sense when you realize he’s a Crowley parallel.

Take the arrival of Gabriel to Whickber St and the bookshop. I’ve already mentioned this parallel story line a couple of times now, but lets look at it again in more detail. It mirrors the opening of S1E1 where the serpent climbs the wall of the Garden of Eden, morphs into a demon and starts to converse with the angel standing on the wall.

Back in the present day, we have a Gabriel, who also tends to present on the sinister-side, walking up to the gate of the present day Garden (the bookshop), which is still guarded by the same angel as it was 6000 years ago, and basically tells Aziraphale he has “fallen.”

How to we know this? It is a reference to the Fall of Man, when Adam and Eve ate the apple the serpent offered them, they suddenly became aware of their nakedness, and hid from God. Gabriel has already upset the love-apple tomato cart on his way to the door of the bookshop, its a sign of the chaos to come.

The fallen angel is not sure of his name, so he prompts with a question…

And asks for shelter under the (reluctant) angel’s wing..

But there is one thing he does know, the one thing that drew him to Aziraphale in the first place:

AZIRAPHALE: Then why did you come to my shop? GABRIEL: I don't know. I just thought I should. You know what it's like when you- when you don't know anything at all, and yet you're totally certain that everything would be better if you were just near one particular person?

Later, Aziraphale realizes that he must give Gabriel a new name to hide him – because fallen angels take on a new name, don’t they? Just like Crowley did.

Then we get a confession:

Which is what Crowley loves about Aziraphale as well - that bit of unpredictability, because you know how humour kind of works? It throws the unexpected at you.

Early on in S2 we find out they are both in trouble: first His Royal Smugness, then Our Hero himself. Our view is turned upside down, with the angel made the bad guy and the demon the good guy who needs to win. But both of them are being hunted by Shax.

Then we get one of the early clues pointing to Crowley's high status as an angel:

SHAX: A miracle of enormous power happened last night. The kind of miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could've performed. CROWLEY: Mm? SHAX: Somewhere very close to your friend's bookshop. Are you telling me you don't know what caused it? CROWLEY: How'd you know I didn't do it?

Shax stalks and threatens both of them, sometimes at the same time:

Another parallel Gabriel and Crowley shared in S2 were associating their identity - no, lets rephrase that - "essence" was one description I've seen - with boxes.

Gabriel arrives with a box that strategically covers his front, and quickly tosses it aside once Aziraphale opens the door to the bookshop. It lies forgotten until Gabriel mentions it a while later. Inside it is the fly from Beelzebub - an object from Hell - so it really needs to be 'invited' across the threshold of the bookshop by Aziraphale to be able to enter. The box initially appears to be empty, Once inside, the fly is free to roam. It has a message written on one side of it.

The same goes for the matchbox. Message included.

ah, wot? you say. Yep.

The matchbox represents Crowley, probably in more ways than one, but I'll just go through the stuff relevant to this meta here.

I notice I'm not the only op to connect the line from the Book of Job on the side of the matchbox with Crowley. The line is from Verse 41, which talks about Leviathan. Among the various shapes it is described to take is a great sea serpent. This deserves its own meta for further discussion, which I plan to do after this one, because yes, Crowley is Leviathan in disguise, but there is much more to it than that. But for now, just know that the matchbox is Crowley.

Once you know this, it makes sense that Muriel finds it - a discarded cardboard box by the front door to Heaven - and deals with a material object that shouldn't by rights exist in Heaven. Then a certain demon finds Muriel lurking outside during the siege on the bookshop at the end of S2E5, and talks them into letting the certain demon be escorted up into Heaven where he doesn't belong, where he's free to roam around - only he needs a guide because he's not sure where to go. Ah Muriel, you poke the Serpent, he's going to poke you back. Good thing he likes you, and it just was a gentle nudge.

Two empty boxes, two cases of memory-loss. That is what S2 seems to suggest to us at first glance.

Gabriel's seems to be the most straight forward in hindsight - find the fly and restore Gabriel to his original "Gabriel-ness." But its more complicated than that. When pushed to remember, his lilac eyes return and another voice can be heard speaking through him of the past. This happens twice, with the second one being part-prophecy. What is really triggering these episodes of channeling? Is it God or someone else speaking through him? We really aren't sure at this point in time.

Then there are questions around Crowley's memory. Did he have his memory wiped when he fell? Was it wiped repeatedly? Was it not wiped at all, and he just pretends he doesn't remember? Neil has even said he is an unreliable narrator about his own Fall, so who are we to trust at this point? Crowley does seem to understand in the end some of the problems Gabriel is having with his absent memories and that brings them to a temporary truce.

Both Aziraphale and Michael inspect their respective "empty" boxes, and neither notices anything obviously amiss. Gabriel's box just seems empty to Aziraphale, he takes no notice of the fly container in there, and archangel Michael tentatively inspects the matchbox brought to them by Muriel but nothing seems out of place there either.

Crowley's change in costume in Heaven during his little infiltration caper with Muriel is also another clue to his past status as an archangel. He has a silvery-gray suit, similar in style to Saraqael's to reinforce the link with them, but at the same time he is also mocking the other archangels and their elite status. We've assumed for a while now that the appearance of the tactical turtleneck signals that Crowley is up to something sneaky or spy related, but I'm starting to think it also relates to a bit of a power play (and Crowley certainly laid the power on for Mr Brown in the pub!) Looking back at S1, Gabriel's not adverse to wearing one either when he needs to be at his worst (or best. Your choice.)

The way one dresses is a way of expressing and reinforcing authority, and its something both Gabriel and Crowley do without much thought. They have been used to being in a position of power and/or independent authority for much of their existence, and I would say that even if Crowley is a few steps down now from where he started, and he's more cautious around those higher ranking than him than he used to be, he still retains that knowledge of what its like to be at the top.

Crowley's usual near all-black costume is a form of power dressing in itself. Whether is was in the past, when black was an expensive color to buy and maintain in clothing, or in the present day, we are still respectful of those in a stylish cut of black.

Gabriel's impeccable tailoring as Supreme Archangel also commands respect. So it's no wonder that one of Gabriel's first requests on regaining his memories was to ask for new clothes! He wasn't just being the vain archangel we believe him to be (although, I think there is still some of that) you also need to consider the elements of the reference characters that went into his shop assistant character: Granville, the belittled shop assistant nephew from the sitcom Open All Hours, who got stuck with all the shop duties from his uncle and felt like life was passing him by, and the silly Monty Python gumbies, that complained of hurting brains - lovable and much loved characters, but not ones you'd really want to be forever. We all want to be loved, but we want to be respected as well.

For all his fierce posturing around Gabriel, there is a brief moment in S2E3 where Crowley backs down and treats Gabriel as an equal - and that is reflected in a change of dress as well. His outside jacket off and sleeve-garters on, Crowley sports a look we haven't seen since S1 when he was home alone in his Mayfair flat. He patiently explains gravity to a curious Gabriel and then describes his "Operation Lovebirds" plan to his puzzled companion. He admits he hasn't "done weather in ages." It's just a quiet, charming moment, watching two ex-archangels get along together.

You're smiling, aren't you?

This meta continues in Part 2: Foils of War, where the differences between Gabriel and Crowley get explored in more detail, and how Aziraphale and Beelzebub act as mirrors to each other a few times as well.

This meta is part of a series on Gabriel: Gabriel as a Shoulder Angel: S1 Study S2 Study Part 1: Ep.1 The Arrival and Ep. 2 The Clue S2 Study Part 2: Ep.3 I Know Where I'm Going and Ep. 5 The Ball S2 Study Part 3: Ep.6 Every Day

First-Order Archangels Part 2: Foils of War

First-Order Archangels Part 3: Seeing Eye to Eye

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #crowley #gabriel #the only first-order archangel in the room #or you know the universe #aziraphale #garden of eden #fallen angel #his royal smugness #how will our hero cope #maybe you'll spot an archangel #book of job #vavoom

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moonyswritinq · 1 year

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conflicted bodies — sherlock holmes x male reader

❝ CONFLICTED BODIES ❞ — PART ⅠⅠ

PART Ⅰ — ❝ conflicted feelings ❞

SYNOPSIS ➢ After a drunken night of revealing one's feelings, Sherlock cannot go back on his words however much he'd like to. When you turn up to his flat, in need of his help, Sherlock is forced to face the consequences. However, the consequences aren't all that bad when it might lead to another night spent together.

PAIRING ➢ top!sherlock holmes x bottom!male reader

CONTENT WARNING ➢ 18+ SMUT, switch/dom!Sherlock, switch/sub!reader, edging, teasing, restraints, orgasm denial, fingering, p in a, handjob, rivals to lovers, mentions of alcohol & drinking, physical affection, romantic affection, cursing, slight gore and blood, mentions of needles and stitches, slight fluff at the end

WORD COUNT ➢ 5.3 k

AUTHORS NOTE ➢ this is my first and last time writing smut, cause i hate writing it. i’m sorry if it sucks, but at least it’s something? enjoy, you horny Sherlock whores! this is the last part.

MASTERLIST

non-male and minors DO NOT INTERACT !

Sherlock was pacing again.

He walked back and forth. Thinking. Contemplating. Deducing.

His eyes jumped between the clues hung up on his wall to the papers scattered across the floors. He tried to piece it together, to connect the dots. But… It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Who could be behind it all? Who could continue to effortlessly outwit him like this? He was convinced there were a simple answer to it all; an answer that laid right beneath his nose.

A forgotten cup of tea stood on a table close to him, its steam already gone cold. Beside it, was the sofa. His eyes jumped to it, immediately averting when his thoughts rushed to you. To the way you had felt in his arms. To the way you had kissed him. You were so soft and so warm against his skin. Warmth had pooled in the pit of his stomach.

He ignored the way his heart seemed to skip a beat, instead returning his focus to the case at hand. It had plagued him for quite some time, and he was no closer to solving it than before. It was the whole reason he had gone out to drink last night, at all. He just wanted one night of not having to think constantly. And ironically, it was what caused his thoughts to now be messier than ever before.

The memory of you was so fresh in his mind, still; he had to shut his eyes and rubbed them with the soles of his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get you out of his thoughts. And it wasn’t exactly pure thoughts, per se, either. Every time he remembered how your hands had felt against his skin, he felt warmth pool in the bottom of his stomach and cheeks began to burn.

Why?

That was the big question, wasn’t it?

Why?

He had loathed you for all of his career. It wasn’t exactly because he disliked you as a person, no. You were clever, funny, and, he could admit it, handsome. You were also very skilled at your job, something he often admired. It was just…

Sherlock sighed at the thought.

You were too good. Too clever, at times. You were a competitor to him. A rival. He saw you as someone he had to be better than, someone to beat.

Sherlock stopped his pacing, gazing out the window, the low afternoon sun shining in.

However, he supposed that his competitiveness stemmed from that he admired some part of you. Your cleverness. Your humour. Your handsomeness.

His drunken self maybe hadn’t been so far off from the truth, after all.

“Fuck.”

The second the word was uttered a noise rang throughout the flat, haunting his ears with it’s sound. The ring clock. Sherlock’s eyes turned to the direction of the door, waving it off without a second thought. Probably Lestrade or Mrs Hudson waiting to disturb him with something useless.

He didn’t have time for this!

Whoever it was had now turned to knocking on the door, forceful enough to make it rattle in its hinges. The sound made Sherlock stop in his tracks. Whoever stood on the other side of the door was adamant on disturbing him, and therefore, annoying him. With a defeated sigh he walked over to it and threw it open, fully prepared to berate whoever stood before him. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the sight of you.

Your tired form rested against the doorframe, barely being able to hold it up. Dark splattering of blood spread across your face, as well as reaching from your hands up to your arms. Sherlock’s gaze raked over your body, noticing the dark pool on your abdomen, to where your hand was pressed in a futile attempt to stop the flow. You could feel the stabbing pain of your wound slowly fading into a faint throb. The lids of your eyes threatened to droop closed from exhaustion and you had to force your gaze into meeting Sherlock’s.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Sherlock considered you, mind still occupied of the night before. Ultimately, he stepped aside to let you in, his gaze softening. At your wavering step he instinctively reached out, hands steadying you against him. It was his turn to support you into his flat, mindful of not putting pressure on your injury. The flat was as messy as you had left it that morning, if not more so. Sherlock helped you lower into the same sofa you had spent the night on, and you couldn’t keep the thoughts of the feel of him against you from invading your mind.

You groaned, leaning back against the soft cushions, still keeping pressure against your wound. Sherlock dared lift your shirt, peering at the dark red glistening in the golden candlelight.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What does it look like, detective?” You sucked in a breath.

His unamused glare pinned you to the spot. “It looks like you’ve been a fool.”

You rolled your eyes. “I got stabbed, genius. And now I’m bleeding. Need I explain further for you?”

Sherlock stood up without another word and made his way towards the kitchen with hurried steps. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting your head fall back against the cushions. Sherlock was right. You had acted foolishly and irrationally — probably because your mind was still fully occupied by last night’s events — which had led to your injury. And now you had turned up at the last place you wanted to be found at. Despite your better judgment, Sherlock had been the first person to come to mind.

He came back to your spot on the sofa with medical supplies in hand, and a bottle of whiskey. You were mildly surprised he actually possessed those things in his flat, but you guessed looks could be deceiving. With a careful hand, he lifted the ends of your shirt and fully exposed your flush skin to his eyes, and gave him access to the bleeding wound. Sherlock began to wash the area with a clean washcloth and water, and then with rubbing alcohol. You winced at the stinging sensation it caused you, and he poured some whiskey into a glass, handing it over to you with a curt nod.

“Cheers,” you said, downing the thing in one swipe. The alcohol burned in your throat, but numbed the pain a tad.

Sherlock pinned you with his observative gaze, letting the washcloth soak in a bowl of now bloody water.

“Good news, it wasn’t a very deep stab wound and you’ll recover quickly.”

“Reckoned as much,” you nodded.

“You’ll still need stitches.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

You glanced at your abdomen, before shifting to the needles beside Sherlock. You cocked your head, extending a hand with the palm up. Sherlock removed them from out of your reach, settling you with a glare. You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Can you even stitch wounds back together?” you asked.

Sherlock started prepping the needle, hands as steady as ever. “As a matter of fact, I can. And I reckon I could do a better job than you could ever do in a state such as this.”

You rolled your eyes again, but let him have access to your abdomen. Sherlock leaned closer, needle in hand, and his observative eyes jumped over your face as his fingers danced across the skin of your stomach. It made shivers crawl up your spine and you had to fight against your own mind to not think of how good that felt. You could still feel the remembrance of his touches the previous night and it was strange to now be pinned underneath his gaze in such a vulnerable state.

With a sharp pain that made your face contort into a wince, Sherlock started sewing your wound together. His eyes kept jumping between his work and your face, watchful of every change in your features. When he noticed no danger, his whole focus turned to stitching the wound. You took the opportunity to watch him, eyes glazing over every detail of his face. The nearby candlelight highlighted his sharp features, and maybe it was the loss of blood, but it presented him in an almost ethereal way. His hair was in better kept curls than how he had woken up that morning, and it fell perfectly to frame his face. You could only imagine how you looked in contrast to him: your disheveled hair, the bruises already forming on your skin, the blood splattered across your whole body, and your dirty clothes. Despite yourself, you felt the urge to reach out to him; to caress his chin and jaw; to trace the lines of his mouth and lips, wanting to drag him closer.

“It’s considered rude to stare.”

“A lot of things are considered rude, but that doesn’t stop you from doing them,” you said, but averted your eyes.

Sherlock blew out a breath in answer, choosing not to reply to your bait. His eyes flitted up to your face, before his hands stilled, removing them from you. You glanced at the wound, seeing rows of perfect stitching sitting securely in your skin. He took hold of a bandage and rolled it over your whole abdomen, securing the wound against further strain and harm. You nodded to him as thanks, hoisting yourself further on the cushions. A surge of pain shot from the wound and you winced, feeling the dried blood against your face.

“Are you in danger?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Not anymore.”

Sherlock’s unyielding gaze stayed on yours, trying to coax an explanation out of you. When your eyes strayed across the flat and avoided his glare, he finally cleared his throat.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” He didn’t quite manage to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

You turned your face to his, letting your gaze meet his. Sherlock’s eyes were hard in their stare, and his mouth set in a straight line. Sherlock’s leg kept jumping up and down, and his hands twisting with anxiety. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was nervous. Why?

You shook off the thought, taking a deep breath.

“You’re the first one I thought of, Sherlock.”

A frown formed on his face. “What?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. Did you really have to spell it out for him? He was a detective, for God’s sake.

“I got injured, and I immediately thought of you.”

You could see the moment he understood. The way his eyes widened, frown fading into raised eyebrows, mouth gaping, and leg stopped jumping. Despite your better judgement, you considered him safe, someone you could trust. And you hated your body for relaxing in his presence, your heart for beating so fast.

This was the moment you had been dreading. He would cast you out, shouting and swear words following your steps. He would never want to see you again, never to be near you again, even if it were only to taunt you. All you had built the previous night would come crashing down in a vicious mess as you desperately tried to crawl your way out of it.

When you realised he still hadn’t uttered a word you dared meet his eye. They were deep pools of emotion, swirling with their usual secrets. There was something else there, too. A softness that had never been there before. It was possible you had just never noticed it before, though.

He closed his eyes as a hand dragged across his face. When he met your gaze he released a breath and said, “Fuck it.”

Before you could gather your bearings, Sherlock’s lips met yours.

In less than twenty-four hours, Sherlock had kissed you twice. In less than twenty-four hours, he had caused you to question everything you knew about yourself and the man across from you. Sherlock brought forth feelings you didn’t know you had, and was an expert in making you show them.

The sudden kiss made a moan escape your lips, muffled by his soft lips. They felt the same as you had remembered them yesterday, but this time you could feel the emotions behind the kiss. It was like Sherlock wanted to convey all he wanted to tell you with a press of his lips. You wouldn’t let him. You demanded more.

You pulled away from him, falling back onto the sofa. His brows furrowed and eyes widened. He began to throw out a desperate explanation, his words a tangled mess. His voice died to nothing when your hand landed against his cheek, bringing his attention to your touch.

“Sherlock.”

His eyes met yours at the sound of his name, almost afraid to do so. “Yes?”

“Are you going to throw me out again?”

Sherlock winced as if the words had physically struck him. The morning was all too fresh in his mind, as hard as he had tried to forget it. All day, he had bargained with himself, trying to justify what he was feeling. However much Sherlock tried to convince himself, it was pointless. He admired all of you. He fancied you.

“I won’t throw you out again.”

“You didn’t show any signs of throwing me out last night, either. And yet…” you trailed off, letting him finish the sentence himself.

He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“What was that?”

He settled you with a hard glare. You could barely take him seriously, though. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with his breaths, and pupils were blown wide. He wasn’t drunk this time, but it might be the next best thing. Drunk off of me, you mused.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead he turned to the side, pressing his lips against your palm. You could feel his breath tickle the skin, the sensation sending shivers down your arm, allowing heat to rise to your ears. Such a simple gesture and it still managed to make you flustered.

“I was afraid,” he said.

A laugh almost escaped your lips. “The great Sherlock Holmes, afraid of me?”

His eyes were steady, humour gone from his voice when he spoke, “Yes. Afraid to confront my feelings for you. Feelings,” he rushed out to say, “that I very much have.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

You tugged his face forward, crashing your lips together. His tongue danced against your own, fighting for control. Not again, you thought. Carefully, you bit down on his lip, drawing a groan from his chest. He leant closer, encasing you between his arms as he lowered himself.

Sherlock’s hand pressed against your chest, making you sink further into the cushions. He pulled away, ever so slightly, to allow room for breathing. His lips brushed yours, barely touching, and you felt his breath fan across them, prickling your skin. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach as his hand ventured lower, tugging at the ends of your shirt.

The fingers that had earlier stitched your skin together now danced across it, tentative, and made shivers spread through your spine. With a frustrated sigh, you took ahold of his waist, digging your nails into the skin there. He moaned into your mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

“Wait,” he whispered.

You hesitated, scanning his face for any signs of regret. Instead, his fingers brushed against your bandaged side, his eyes flitting between it and your face.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You huffed out a laugh. So that was what all the fuss was about.

“I think that ship has already sailed.”

Sherlock’s gaze stayed on yours, still serious. But you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes kept jumping to your lips, his pupils blown wide, and breath ragged. He looked almost as intoxicated as you felt.

You settled his worries by pushing his hand further down, closer to your abdomen. You could feel the strain of your pants, pressing against a too sensitive area, waiting to be released. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he felt the bulge, before pressing firmer against it. You had to fight a moan.

“I have suffered worse,” you rasped, “Like your attitude.”

Sherlock only huffed a breath before crashing your lips together. It was frustration, a clashing of teeth, and a pulling on lips that made you submit to him with a moan. There was that fiery passion that made you weak in the knees. It was alarming how eager you were for him to take control over you.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom, hm?”

His low murmur reverberated through your joined limbs. You nodded with a jerk of your head. He pulled you to your feet by your hand, pressing you closer by your waist. The journey to Sherlock’s bedroom was a short one, but a difficult one as neither of you could keep your hands to yourself for very long. His tongue pressed against yours, as his hands travelled over your skin.

Sherlock removed your shirt, throwing it on the floor. You huffed, sending him the best glare you could muster at a moment like this.

“What?”

“It’ll get dirty.”

“I don’t have such a dirty floor.”

You meaningfully eyed the shirt laying against the mess of other countless items of clothing. To be truthful, you couldn’t care less about a dirty shirt when Sherlock was looking at you with those eyes. It only managed to rile him up, bring that flare you adored so much. Nonetheless, Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought you closer by your neck, pressing his lips to your jaw. Then to your throat. Then across your collarbone.

Gods knew he felt glorious against you, almost making you delirious with every touch of his lips. You couldn’t admit it to Sherlock, though. His ego would never recover.

He came back up to your face for air, breath fanning over your lips. Carefully, he pushed you against the bed so you laid against it, gazing up at him. His hair was dishevelled, eyes heavy lidded with dark pupils blown wide. He stretched to take off his own shirt and undid his belt, throwing it across the bed. He crawled against you, skin meeting skin. Sherlock’s warm breath prickled yours as he brought his face closers to yours. He looked divine, and felt it, too. His arms held himself up so he hovered over you, his muscles clearly defined in the streetlight coming from the window.

“My Gods,” he rasped.

You let out a chuckle against his lips. “I’m not faithful, but I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Again, Sherlock’s lips closed over yours. You couldn’t notice anything further than the feel of his mouth, his warm skin flush against yours, and the locks of his hair prickling your face. You could only imagine how he looked right now, so you did the next best thing and travelled your hands to his head. Sherlock’s hair was soft against your fingers, grabbing hold of it and eliciting a deep moan from his chest.

You grinned, yanking his head back. Sherlock gasped against your lips, before smiling down at you. Of course the bastard would be into harsher play. And you would be lying if you said you weren't also into it.

He kissed you again, letting his hand trail the side of your stomach, inching closer to the band of your trousers. You felt yourself getting impatient by the featherlight touches, yearning for him to touch you properly. Sherlock knew it, too, by the way his hand hovered over the visible pressure in your trousers. Instead of indulging you, he dropped his hand to let his fingers graze up and down the inside of your leg. It only added to your discomfort and you bucked impatiently.

Immediately, a sharp pain shot through your body, making you wince. The wound was too recent for you to move much. Sherlock noticed, stilling instantly. His eyes jumped between your face and your bandages.

“Are you sure you’re okay for this?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, drawing his lips to yours again. And again, you tried to move your hips for any sort of friction. Sherlock pulled away, sending you a stern glare.

“You have to keep still or you’ll wound yourself even worse.”

“Then stop being a tease and touch me.”

Sherlock considered you before smirking. “I’m not sure I can refrain from that.”

Without any hesitation, he took hold of your wrists and pinned your hands above you. Your eyes widened, feeling the tight grip of his fingers that wouldn’t allow you to move your arms. He glanced around, before reaching over you and tying something over your wrists. You tilted your head, seeing his belt holding your hands together to the bed frame. Tentatively, you pulled on it, feeling the leather dig into your skin. Sherlock’s hands grazed yours as he met your shocked gaze.

“You’re serious?” you asked.

He cocked his head, giving you a meaningful glare.

“It wont’t keep me from moving my hips, y’know?”

Sherlock smiled. “No, but it might teach you to stay still.”

His hands kept travelling south, making their way to your jaw and lifting it closer to him. You were rendered defenceless, your only option to meet the touch of his lips. You felt the flutter of your stomach, fully realising the control he now had over you. It was incredible.

As if he could read your thoughts, Sherlock’s lips curled into a mischievous smile, and you could feel the warmth of his fingers close over the skin of your throat. There wasn’t any pressure, but just the feel of it brought shivers up your spine and the strain of your trousers became impossibly tighter. You gave Sherlock a meaningful stare, cocking your head.

Sherlock shook his head, chuckling. “Let’s take these off, huh?”

Finally he allowed his hands to fall to your trousers, unbuckling them and dragging them down your legs. You lifted your hips for him, allowing him to take off your underwear, as well. The relief was immediate and you gasped at the colder air around your skin. You were now completely naked, wholly at Sherlock’s mercy, and the thought seemed to thrill him by the way his mouth hung open. His eyes jumped all over you, speechless, not seeming to be able to get enough of the sight. You smiled with smug pleasure.

Quickly, Sherlock removed his own trousers, hurrying to get closer to you again. He was more careful with his touches, allowing the feel of his skin warm yours and send your mind spiralling. Not in a million years could you have predicted to find yourself where you were right now — who you were with, and who was currently grinding his hips against your unclothed ones. The feeling made you see stars, so desperate for release.

Sherlock’s lips met yours, drawing your focus to how you couldn’t bring your hands to draw them through his hair. The thought frustrated you and you groaned into the kiss. Sherlock’s hand lowered, closing over your dick. You let out a gasp, tugging at the restraints. Sherlock’s lips danced against yours as his hand tugged, spreading the precum over your dick.

It was all you could do to not cry out in relief. Finally feeling some friction made you moan, pressing against Sherlock’s lips even harder in appreciation. He smiled into the kiss, allowing his thumb to press against your tip. You could feel the pressure in your stomach building, making you impatient and wanting.

Just then, Sherlock drew away his hand, leaving you wanting for more. You bit his lip in retaliation, letting him feel every part of your frustration. He sighed, lowering his hand to your bottom, the pad of his finger probing at your ass. He entered one finger, carefully feeling you out. He watched your face for any reaction and you closed your eyes, sighing.

Sherlock entered one, and then two, more fingers into. It felt amazing when he started stretching you out, carefully curling his fingers. His lips met yours, swallowing any sounds and moans you let out. It allowed you to just bask in the feeling of him. Every shift of his muscles, breath of his chest, and moving of his hips made you want to embrace the man. But you couldn’t, due to the cursed restraints. Still, that didn’t keep you from trying and from moving your knee to graze his growing arousal.

Sherlock moaned with you, pressing against somewhere sensitive inside you. Again, you could feel your orgasm coming, dick twitching, clenching around his fingers and biting Sherlock’s bottom lip. Your hips lifted against them, shooting pain through your body again. You cringed, but pairing it with the pleasure Sherlock’s fingers were doing made you moan. Soft words of praising or pleading left your tongue, the meaning of them so slurred to the point not even you could make out. You wanted him impossibly closer.

You groaned when Sherlock, once again, drew away. You were getting real tired of his behaviour. The man finally got you into bed, and you were starting to think he wanted to get you out if it. Sherlock was playing a dangerous game with you, and you swore to get him back on it.

“Please,” you whispered.

You didn’t care about your pride at this point, just that you would get what you wanted. The only thing you could think about was the absence of his touch. Sherlock seemed to realise what he was doing, a cheeky smirk forming on his lips.

“Please what?” came his coy reply.

“Please fuck me or I swear I’m going to punch you in your smug face.”

His eyebrows raised. “You can’t punch me.”

You glanced up at your restraints and then down at where his hands rested beside your legs. A smile tugged at your lips. “I could kick you.”

Sherlock breath fanned over your face, his lips grazing yours before pulling into a lazy smile. “Then I better give you what I want.”

He sat up to pull of his underwear, drawing your eyes to every detail of him. He was breathing heavily, his muscles pulled taut and hair in a dishevelled mess. Sherlock sank back close to you, embracing you closely. The warmth of his skin spread to yours, creating a sheen layer of sweat between you. You were way too aware of every part of you touching, every sensation turned tenfold.

Carefully, Sherlock hovered over you, his elbows holding himself up as he guided his hips to yours. You could feel the long awaited moment of his cock probing at your entrance, careful as he watched your face. You nodded, smiling.

Sherlock sighed as he sunk into you, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck. You moaned at the feel of stretching you out, trying to move him closer. Your hands were still restrained, but you could roll your hips into some resemblance of friction. Sherlock kissed your jaw, trailing his lips across your neck. It was messy but so full of passion you couldn’t seem to care.

“Please,” you muttered again.

Sherlock’s head lifted from your neck, tilting to look you in the eye. “You’re already getting what you want, what is it now?”

You tugged at the restrains, yearning to be able to run your hands over his back. “Just let me touch you.”

“You gonna stay still?”

“Can’t promise anything,” you smiled.

He glanced up at your wrists, before leaning over to set them free. The second you could move, your hands shot to take hold of his jaw, drawing his face to meet yours. The warmth of his skin was finally under your touch. You couldn’t help but to pull him closer, settling him even deeper inside you, and drawing a moan out of his chest. The sound made you crazy, bringing your arms around his shoulders, the defined muscles feeling glorious beneath your fingers.

As Sherlock continuously pulled in and out of you, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you, your nails raked over his warm skin. You were sure deep marks were left behind, but you weren’t sure if Sherlock was just ignoring the pain, or enjoying it. By the way his face turned to mark your neck with moans leaving his tongue in mutterings, you suspected the latter was true.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it either, the mixing of pain and pleasure. Your wound was still sore, and every grind of Sherlock’s hips reminded you of some sort of phantom of that pain. It left your mouth agape, left to just keep still underneath Sherlock, every touch of his lips sending goosebumps over your skin, and every sting of your wound adding to the surreal feeling.

For a third time this night, you felt yourself getting close, clinging to every movement of his hips, feeling the shift of his muscles as he held himself up. You muttered so, kissing the shell of his ear. Sherlock sped up, hitting your prostate even harder and faster, chasing his own release to match yours. The pain and pleasure became too much for you and your dick twitched in anticipation.

He dipped down to connect your lips, before drawing a deep moan from your chest as you climaxed, clenching his dick in the process. Sherlock almost fell against you in the relief of the feeling but caught himself as to not burden your wound, and stayed still as his own orgasm powered through.

Only when both your heartbeats had slowed and your breathing returned to normal did Sherlock meet your eye, kissing you slowly as he pulled out, the sensation feeling like too much for your oversensitive body. Every little movement was too much, and now that the pleasure had begun to subside the pain in your stomach was more prominent than ever.

Sherlock’s fingers trailed along your body, carefully bringing your mind back to him, to your body, and all the places you were touching. It was grounding your mind, allowing you to fully relax. He touched your bandages with a tender hand, trying to feel for any faults.

“You’re still good.”

“No thanks to you,” came your witty answer.

Sherlock sent you a deadened glare, trying not to quick back a no-doubt clever reply. Instead, he moved away, making you shiver in the cold air, and returned with a fresh rag to wipe down the sweat and fluids between the both of you. You accepted it gratefully, sitting up against the bedpost when finished. Sherlock’s hands surrounded your shoulders to steady you, still a careful air around him.

You brought his lips to yours in a sudden kiss, allowing him to relax. “I’m good, Sherlock. Don’t worry.”

He forced himself to take a deep breath and to sit down beside you, pulling the covers over your shoulders. You watched him with an amused glint.

“What?” he asked.

You shrugged your shoulders before smiling. “Nothing. Just not used to seeing you this nervous.”

“I’m always nervous around you.”

Sherlock met your eye with the most sincere expression you’ve seen on him. An eyebrow raised in his direction.

“You sure have a peculiar way of showing it. Throwing me out and tying me up—”

Sherlock huffed and scooted down to lay down against the bed, avoiding your amused gaze. “Will you ever let that go?”

You bent down to lay against him, your head by his shoulder, your breath fanning against his ear. “I don’t think so.”

Sherlock turned his head so that his lips grazed yours. “Careful, or I’ll have to tie you up again.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you whispered, pressing your mouth to his in a deep kiss. “Maybe next time you’ll be the one tied up.”

Fuck, Sherlock thought. There was no way in bloody hell he could ever go back to being just colleagues again, not after having known you so close to him. It was done. He was falling for you, and you both knew it.

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thestalwartheart · 3 months

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I'm writing the saddest Bond fic in the world, and because it'll probably never get finished, I'm going to bullet point it here because I need people to cry with. It's 5000 words at the moment. I think I need it to be about 30,000.

After the events of NTTD, Q is grieving Bond. Privately, he is also grieving that Bond being the one who got away, or at least the one who would not stay. They slept together once, in the aftermath of Skyfall death, and as Q says in the fic, it was "the pinnacle of my years-long journey into vastly unrequited love."

After snapping at Mallory during a meeting, Mallory schedules Q some psychology appointments. There are snippets of these appointments throughout the fic.

Q throws out all his plants. Replaces them with sculptural bits and pieces from around the lab.

Over a year on from Bond's death, MI6 recruits a new 004. His name is Edward Jones. He's tall and lithe, with auburn hair, an excellent sense of humour, and no outwardly visible baggage. He takes an interest in Q.

But Q refuses -- categorically refuses -- to ever get involved with an agent again. That was an unspoken rule before Bond died, and now it's non-negotiable.

Except Q is no good at sticking to the rules. He's just as bad as Bond was, really. Edward is charming, and though he asks Q to dinner, he doesn't press after Q refuses him. Instead, perhaps having talked to Nomi or Moneypenny, he is simply there. All the time. He becomes a shoulder to lean on and a friend, despite all Q's attempts to distance himself.

But then...Mallory asks Q to help on a project that will reverse the effects of Heracles, and Q snaps. Already feeling a colossal amount of guilt for telling Bond it couldn't be fixed, Q cannot deal with the thought of coming up with a cure when he cannot administer it to the one person who deserved to be cured.

Distraught, stressed and full of fury at everything, he sleeps with Edward that night. And -- shock horror! -- sex works as an excellent temporary coping mechanism, so Q keeps sleeping with him. Against all his rules, he's given into his heart again.

“Who was he?” asks Edward, one day, as Q is making breakfast. / “Who was who?”/ “Whoever you’re trying to forget when you’re with me.”

“You’re a bastard,” snaps Q, another day, when Edward pushes too hard. / “Is that me you’re talking to, or him?”

After the above fight/angry sex/make up sex combo, Edward goes away on a mission and gets shot.

Q, reeling, doesn't visit him in hospital. Though he wants to, he thinks it's smarter to stay away. Best not get too attached (Oh, Q! we're crying, you're already attached!!!)

Edward, unsurprisingly does not take this well. “Enjoy living with your ghosts, Quartermaster,” he says, before going home to heal and get very drunk.

And maybe it's the getting shot bit, or maybe it's that they're making progress on a cure for Heracles, or maybe it's Moneypenny finally shaking Q until something comes loose, but Q cannot sleep. He feels sick about Edward. He feels awful. What kind of Quartermaster doesn't visit an injured agent? What kind of friend doesn't? What kind of lover, casual or not?

Plagued with guilt and realising he feels more for Edward than he ever intended to, Q turns up at arse-o-clock in the morning, in the rain to Edward's flat. Amongst other things, he says:

“He was an agent. Another Double-0." and

"I'm so sorry." and

“I spent nearly a decade of my life hiding that I loved him, from myself, him, and anyone else who might have wanted to hear. It’s the biggest regret I have. I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.”

Hot, passionate, intense, slow make up sex.

After a few more missions, Edward tells Q, "I'm finished. I enjoyed the job, but I only loved it because it led me to you."

They take a visit to Skyfall, where Q runs into Kincade and talks to Bond's grave where he says, among other things:

"Hello, James. I hope you’re getting some well-earned rest." and

“I love him. Eve told me you would want to hear that. I’m not so sure. You always were a bit of a possessive prick about the other agents having what was yours.” and

“I still love you. I think I will until the end of my days. It’ll be a privilege to carry you with me. Whatever small part of you I had.”

Q is in a daze most of that night. In the morning, he apologises to Edward for all the tears, and Edward replies:

“Never — and I do mean never — apologise for loving someone, especially not as well as you loved him."

Cue the I love yous and sex.

They return to London, where the Heracles cure has hit a roadblock. Q tells Mallory he wants nothing to do with the project anymore. However it turns out, it wasn't his burden to carry in the first place. He wants to be free of it.

The story ends in a quintessential English garden: Kendal in the spring. It's years later, and Edward brings Q a cup of tea in the garden, where Q is trying to read Les Misérables and failing. Instead, he's taking notes in the margins on hummingbirds.

They look up to see a red kite soaring through the air. Q things wistfully of Bond. It's a dull hurt, now, not the scraping raw thing that it was when he met Edward. Bond would probably enjoy Q remembering him in the wings of a bird of prey; always free.

Q still loves London, but he thinks he can imagine another life, a few years away yet, watching the birds in the Lake District and working in his shed, with Edward reading a book at his side.

FIN.

#00q #q/omc #james bond #my fic

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readbyred · 1 month

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Hi :)

Heard you were accepting dps requests so what about a charlie fic

I feel like charlie is the type of person to flirt with everyone and ask anyone he finds attractive out except when it comes to the person he actually has feelings for so what about charlie x reader where reader has been waiting since before they graduated for him to ask her out and as soon as she decides to move on charlie gets all sad and jealous and confesses and yknow how it goes

Would love to see this in a fic ♡

Not a fic blog (maybe someday), but I can give you a headcanon (so, shorter and no dialogue) though… I did get a bit inspired, so its longer than my usual writing

I think as a teen he was the sort of person to try and prove he’s popular with people. It would feel bad to lump you in with that. Like, he actually liked you, so it's different. Not that he has no respect for people he flirts with, but he knows it isn't anything serious. He was just a teen guy trying to impress his friends and get the experience he was prevented from getting (with his strict school and all). Especially with his position in the friend group and all.

Still, he hoped to have something serious with you one day. One day when he gets the courage, when he feels like it will work out and he won't jeopardize the whole friend group because of his crush.

But that day didn't come when he was at Welton. Then he had other things to worry about, considering his departure from the school. It was a hard time for everybody. But no matter the odds the poets kept in touch, as much as they could. And that included you.

Only, as years passed you started losing hope. I mean, if he wanted to he would, right? It felt so helplessly pathetic to be waiting for Charlie when it seemed that he had never and will never return your feelings.

When you were younger, it felt like the end of the world. Like you were destined to be alone. Oh, how many nights you’ve spent with Knox, wallowing in self-pity after Chris left him. Just sitting there with your buddy, talking about how you should go to a monastery. Not out of a spiritual need, but because there would be no one ever to love you. Guess you were a bit dramatic back then. It took Pitts many tries to smack some sense into you but you matured eventually.

When college approached, you were ready to meet new people. Although you weren't in the same school together anymore, you made a promise with the poets to keep seeing each other regularly.

Meanwhile, you met Mark. A true romantic soul with quite a witty humour. And Jack who would always treat you so sweetly and had the same interests as you. And Adam who walked you to the dorms every day. And Matt who had so much passion for life. You opened yourself up to people. Started meeting up with others.

Suddenly, you’d bring up your dates every meeting. Not to rub it in, just to recall funny moments. Like when a rainstorm caught you and Jack in the middle of a walk and you raced to the dorms. Or how you and Adam got lost in the park at night because neither of you lived in that city before. Knox would encourage you to spill every detail.

Surprisingly, the more you talked about your love life, the less you heard Charlie talk about his. By winter break you haven't heard him talk about any girl in weeks. At first you didn't notice. Then you figured that maybe he just fell for someone who wasn't as easy to charm so he didn't have anything to brag about yet.

The thought of him being so head over hills for this unnamed person made something inside you feel empty. You knew the feeling well from high school and you detested yourself for still having those sorts of thoughts and feelings. But you decided to let it all fizzle out.

You had better things to think about too. There was a ball coming around. Some fancy tradition at your university. Before you knew it, you had quite a few invitations. The sweetest one was from Jack.

He told you to close your eyes and open your palm. Then, he handed you a handcrafted note asking if you'd like to go with him. Later that day you found another one in your pocket (so that's why he told you to close your eyes) telling you he’s grateful to have you in his life. It was perfect. And officially approved by Knox Overstreet!

When you recounted the story, the guys were pretty happy for you. Before anyone could get a word in, Charlie suddenly asked if you were planning to go with Jack. Sincerely, you affirmed. Why not? He was the sweetest guy and you certainly were done moping around. I mean, you knew that Charlie wasn't going to change his mind so you could as well see if you end up liking someone else.

To your surprise, Charlie wasn't as ecstatic as the rest of the poets. He was rather skeptical and even a bit snarky. Commenting on the guy and just being so… weird about it. It angered you to no end because softly rejecting you is one thing. But trying to get in the way of you moving on? That didn't sit right with you. But your drama queen days were over, so you didn't walk off or anything. Just huffed and looked for a way to change the topic.

At the same time Charlie was thinking. Before college it was easy to reassure himself that he had all the time he wanted to make you his. And all the time he wanted to decide if he would do that at all. Everything was easier back when you didn't talk about any guys. Ever. Now he felt like he had to do something. Damn the risk of ruining the friend group. Damn the fear of rejection. And damn Knox for encouraging this mess.

The last thing you expected was for Charlie to get up suddenly. The poets all looked at him confused. When he stood up, his eyes met yours and he asked you to talk with him outside. Honest to Gods, you had no idea what that was about. But he was being dramatic (more so than usual) and something about the determination in his eyes told you to follow your friend outside. It was snowing and only buildings around you somewhat shielded you from the cold wind.

Charlie didn't waste time choosing words. For the first time when talking to a girl, he was completely raw. Just as it hit him, he blurted out his confession. No overplayed charm. No smirks and winks and cheap tricks. Just him. Charlie Dalton telling you that he likes you. That he had liked you for some time. That you should just, please, think about it.

As the last word fell from his mouth, a heavy silence fell between you. Silence colder than the wind and the snow. But Charlie stood there, undeterred, waiting to see the answer in your eyes. Even at his most frantic, he was confident. He understood that he did what he did, what it meant, and that he grasped this last chance by a miracle. There was no turning back now.

Your response first came muffled, as if the falling snowflakes were absorbing your voice. But finally, you confessed. Not without telling him, how long he made you wait. And how stupid he was acting, if he really just ignored his feelings for this long.

Your talk was tender, full of relief. But, as it happens with Charlie, as soon as the talk of real feelings was out of the way, he dragged you back inside, to announce your happy ending.

You couldn't believe he wanted to brag to your friends at a moment like this. But you just stood there, watching him with a smile. Some things never changed. Charlie certainly didn't. And you wouldn't have it any other way

#fun fact none of those ppl are made up #I just described a few guys from school that I've been talking to #same with the note situation lol #what makes it funnier is that I am in fact going with Jack and he heavily relates to Knox #so while I gave you the watered down version you can imagine the pizazz this guy had when inviting me #that's why I had to add the Knox approved part #they are literalky the same person #dps x reader #charlie dalton #charlie dalton x reader #dead poets society x reader #x reader

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sihtricfedaraaahvicius · 1 year

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warnings: None, really. Well, maybe my bad sense of humour.

pairing: modern(ish)!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: Sihtric ends up in 2023, and he's blaming you for it.

word count: 2k

Note: I am not sure if anyone will enjoy this, but if you do, make sure to let me know and I could continue the story if there is interest!

part 1. [part 2]

Boy, have you lost your mind?

You had just wrapped up your ritual and were packing all your belongings. You loved being in the woods, just before sunrise, to clear your mind and set intentions for the day. You carefully packed your candles, your grimoire and your black obsidian rune stones. You have asked your spirit guides for a sign, anything, that would reassure you that your life would get back on track again. You were stuck in a rut and your spirituality was really all that kept you going.

Just as you got up and walked away you heard someone approach, panting heavily, and you froze to the sound of it. It was still rather dark, the sun was about to rise, and you always knew that being a woman alone in the woods could be risky. It might be 2023, but some people still behaved as if it were 828. You listened to the footsteps approach until you saw a figure walking your way. You didn't dare speak and you had already grabbed your keys and pushed them in between your fingers in case you had to defend yourself.

'Oh thank the gods. Can you tell me where I am?' the voice said, out of breath and got closer as it spoke. The first rays of sunlight crept through the trees and you saw a young and quite handsome man approaching you. His hair was dark, short and braided, which you thought was kinda cool, it reminded you of that show on tv you never finished. Something with Vikings. You saw his clothes were dark, almost leather looking, to which you frowned. And as he got closer you saw he had an axe attached to his belt, and you stepped back quickly.

'Don't come any closer!' you yelled, 'I… I have a weapon!'

The man stopped a few paces away from you with a puzzled look, and threw his hands up to show you he wasn't going to harm you.

'Woman, I also have a weapon, but I wish you no harm,' he said firmly, catching his breath, 'just tell me where I am.'

'Woman?' you shrugged, 'I beg your pardon?'

'Lady, tell me where I am!'

'Lady? You always approach women like this?'' you snapped.

'What?' he asked, confused.

'What do you want?'

'I need you to tell me where I am!' he snapped back at you.

'Do you not have a phone? Google maps?'

'What?' he asked, even more confused than before.

'Oh, for fuck sakes,' you sighed, 'this is Galloway Forest.'

He looked at you and then around him, as if he had no idea what you just said.

'How far from Winchester are we?' he asked.

'What? Winchester? The place in England?' you asked.

'How far?' he demanded.

You sighed irritatedly, 'hold on.' And you reached for your phone in your pocket, and the man in front of you suddenly reached for his axe.

'Wow! Dude! What are you doing!?' you yelled.

'What are you doing, lady?' he hissed.

'I am grabbing my phone!'

'What kind of a weapon is a phone? I have not heard of such things!'

You looked at him in pure disbelief.

'Boy, have you lost your mind?' you asked. You looked him up and down, took a breath and rolled your eyes. 'Oh, I get it. Is this some cosplay thing? I mean, it looks really good, but I think you're way too into it.'

'Lady, I do not know what you speak of.'

'Then why are you dressed like that?'

'Like what?'

'Like that,' you gestured at him, 'like some kind of viking?'

'I am no viking just because I am a Dane!'

'Oh, wait, so you're from Denmark?'

'Where?'

'What do you mean where?'

You both just stared at each other, completely lost and both startled. The sun was creeping higher and started to show more of you and the surroundings.

'Okay, look, I'm sorry. I think we started off wrong, but you scared the shit out of me. Can we just start over?' you asked.

He looked at you confused, but he nodded in agreement.

'Okay, what is your name?'

'My name is Sihtric, lady.'

'Okay, Sihtric, hi. My name is (Y/N).'

You held out your hand to him, to which he looked confused. He gave you a nod and a slight smile, but he still looked cautious and he never shook your hand.

'Okay, well, rude,' you muttered under your breath. 'So, you don't seem to know where you are,' you said, 'do you remember how you got here?'

Sihtric looked around and fell into his thoughts.

'I do not,' he said quietly after a while.

'What is the last thing you do remember?'

'I was with Uhtred and Finan. We had just visited a sorcerer. I felt tired and we decided to set up camp. I must have fallen asleep.'

'A sorcerer?' you asked, 'you mean like a witch or occultist?'

'What do you know of witches?' he quickly said.

'No, I mean, I am into that stuff. Mainly occultism,' you smiled and you opened your bag. You took out your grimoire and showed it to him. His eyes scanned the cover of your book, which was decorated with Norse symbols and a pentacle. Sihtric quickly took a step back when he saw the pentacle, not understanding its meaning.

'Are you a sorceress?' he asked, slightly suspicious.

'I wouldn't call it that, no,' you chuckled, and accidentally dropped your bag as you tried to put the grimoire back, allowing all your items to fall out. Sihtric watched the candles roll to his feet along with some runes.

'You are a sorceress!' he said, and he quickly jumped back, 'did you summon me here?' he asked, and his tone was angry and frightened.

'What on earth are you talking about? Something is really wrong with you.'

'You have to bring me back! Have you cursed me? Why?!'

'Excuse me?'

'How did you bring me here, lady? What did you do?'

'Look,' you said as you grabbed the last candle, 'I am done playing this game. I'm sure you can find your own way home. I am not dealing with this shit today. Nope.' And you turned to walk away.

'No!' Sihtric said, and you heard a sudden desperation in his voice.

'What do you want from me?' you nearly begged as you turned back to him.

'I just want to go home,' he said.

'Yeah, well, me too.'

You looked at him for a moment. You did not want to be around this man, but you also felt you couldn't just leave him like that. Something was off, but you didn't know what.

'Are you hungry?' you asked after a pause.

He looked up at you, clenched his jaw and let out a sigh, 'maybe.'

'Let's just… have a seat somewhere, get some breakfast and we'll figure this out, okay?' By his expression you understood that he didn't fully know what you meant, but he agreed regardless.

'Where do you keep your horse, lady?' he asked.

'My what?' you turned to him, 'I can't even afford a car, let alone a horse. I'm not rich.'

'Rich?' Sihtric mumbled to himself as he saw you walk away from him, and he quickly ran up and followed you.

You took him to the nearest donut store, as a lack of better options, and you sat him down at a table in the corner. Luckily, there was no one else around, as it was 7:30 in the morning by now. Only the cashier gave you a confused smile as you placed your order, to which you said that you also couldn't explain the man in armour.

You walked back to Sihtric and sat down, shoved the bag of donuts to his side of the table and you took out your phone.

'So, you want to go to Winchester?' you asked, looking at your phone as you took a mouth full of your donut. When Sihtric didn't reply you looked up at him, and you caught him staring very confused at your phone, then at you, then at the donuts and then to the place around him. He opened his mouth but not a word came out.

'Are you okay?' you asked and frowned.

'I just,' he paused, 'I do not understand.'

You squint your eyes at him. If he was acting, he was damn good, but you felt it was becoming more unlikely with each passing second. He looked seriously confused, almost even afraid. Could he have memory loss? Or maybe he was just not from around here? Was he actually from the past? You wondered all these things in a split second.

'What year do you think it is?' you then asked.

'Before I fell asleep it was 895.'

You stared at him, trying to see him break character, but it never happened. Instead, he looked down at the bag of donuts and slowly opened it, only to inspect the donuts with a very confused look.

'You're serious, aren't you?' you asked.

'I am telling the truth, lady, I swear on Thor's hammer,' Sihtric said and he reached for the pendant around his neck. You looked at him and couldn't help but start to feel for him. You didn't understand him, but you started to believe him. And you finally saw him, after much consideration, take a bite from the donut, to which his face turned sour and you couldn't help but laugh.

'You don't like it?'

'I… I am not sure,' he said hoarsely after he swallowed. He looked at you and then also slowly broke into a smile. You both chuckled for a moment.

'Sihtric,' you said, 'I want to help you. But you have to believe me, I don't know how to bring you back home if you are not from around here.'

You gave him a compassionate look, but his smile faded and he took a deep breath.

'You should not play with forces greater than you, if you do not know how to restore order,' he said.

'What?'

'Who did you work with? Loki?' he shrugged, 'did you cast a spell to cause chaos? What did you do to bring me here? And why?'

'Sihtric,' you said firmly, 'I did not do anything.'

He really started to annoy you at this point, and you were at your limit. 'I have no powers, I did not call upon anyone except for my spirit guides to ask them for guidance, nothing more. And I sure as hell did not ask for some weird, but unfortunately, quite hot medieval looking dude to show up in the woods to fuck around with my day,' you whispered angrily.

Sihtric looked taken aback.

'Then why were you the first person I saw?'

'Oh, I don't know,' you hissed, 'maybe because it was 6 fucking 30 in the morning!'

You composed yourself after snapping at him, 'I don't know what to do with you,' you said, 'I have places to be later, I can't stick around with you. Do you have a place to stay? Or any money for a place?'

'I have silver. And my arm rings,' Sihtric said as he proudly pointed at them.

You looked at him, impressed at the size of his arms but still very confused and annoyed, and you let your head fall into your hands. 'Yeah, sorry. But silver and arm rings will not help you here.'

You looked at each other for a while without saying anything.

Were you going to leave this, clearly lost, man on his own, with no money or anything else that could help him. Or were you going to do the stupidest thing you could think of? Of course you chose the last option.

'Okay, listen,' you said, 'you can stay at my place, but just for this afternoon. I do have some appointments to go to later, so you will have to stay alone. And I swear if you try anything, and I really mean anything, you will wish that you never woke up today.'

'I already wish that, lady,' he said. But he thankfully accepted your offer. And with heavy feet you walked him back to your house, wondering what on earth you were going to do with him.

#sihtric x you #sihtric #sihtric kjartansson #the last kingdom fic #sihtric x reader #the last kingdom

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gr00vyminibus · 1 year

Text

𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

Izogie x Black fem reader —

— Even if you thought Izogie was unbearable, your body always disagreed. Or, a tangible love between the two of you blooms on your father's farm.

will include; reader being stub-BORN, izogie is a clown, your clown though, reader claims they dont like Izogie, bad. Heavy on, betrayal of emotions, smut, watching a person masturbate, fingering (mostly to themselves), clit play, first time, and fluff at the end.

“How are you and my daughter getting along?” Your father smiles at Izogie.

“Quite fine, does she speak of me?” She flashes a smile back shaking her wet hands off. Your father does little chuckle.

“She says you annoy her greatly”

“She has no humour! all I do is tease her” Izogie can feel a playful side-eye directed to her.

“Can you go see if she's done with that half acre of corn, I also need some water” Izogie nods and brings a metal bucket out with her on the path of a sparkly river. She cuts through the the plants and hears a soft melody in the distance. Instantly assuming that it comes from you. Her hands push past long leaves that soon reveal you, skin shining like glitter under the sun.

Izogie was so in awe of you that her feet were planted in her spot.

You ring out your frivolous curls and turn around ready to leave but instead you jump back when you spot Izogie staring at you.

“My god, stop doing that!”

“Doing what? it's not like you own this river. I have to get water for dinner anyway” you hold onto your chest as she crouches down, scooping some water in the big bucket.

At the feeling of your eyes glued on her, Izogie glances up, the smallest sight of her teeth bareing from the side. Her eyes scan you down shortly, judges of amusement paneling in her eyes.

You snap ushering her to speed up her task, “it doesn't take centuries to scoop water! hurry up!” she rolls her eyes.

“do you want me to fall into the river?”

“yes, as I matter of fact.” you swim to her and she quickly yanks the bucket from the water, trying to equal it's weight so the liquid doesn't spill. As she grins down at you frustrated face, there comes a loud calling of her name.

“well I am off, be sure to tend to that corn or your father will be angry” before you can retort she's on her way calling back to her uncle.

You don't miss the sight of her biceps flexing to hold the bucket and that makes you curse quietly, swimming to get your clothes.

Dwanu was a good friend of your father and planned to start coming over so the two could exchange agricultural secrets. You could imagine the two cackling over foolish things back at the house. Though, the neice Dwanu talked so fondly about was not who you thought she was.

Izogie was buffer than you thought, having toner muscles than the men in your village. There was something about her that felt laddish and when you both were left alone her mouth seemed to ruin everything you thought of her. Izogie brags and teases a lot, she was also competitive and felt the need to show her many skills at any chance given.

If she'd turn off her chatter maybe you would befriend her.

Whatever.

You tell yourself to stop thinking about it and dry off with a towel, soon making your way back home.

•••

“Amen.” the whole table echoes this praise as you uncross your hands and grab for a wooden bowl. You can't help the way Izogie's presence makes you feel, conflicting your senses in so many ways you wished it wouldn't. Even the subtle heat of her body which you can clearly feel is taking over you.

But she didn't have a clue, just sat in her seat and ate dinner, more indulged in the plate of food than the verbal back and forth between your father and her uncle.

The way her lips sucked the sauce off her thumb made you feel like the top of a beer mug, layered with lots of bubbly cream that slowly dissipated. Your eyes went through the arm hole of her shirt, gaping slightly at the sight of her obliques tensing up.

She laughed at your father's antics for sucking his teeth, just like you did.

“Swesi do not be angry that you cannot grow your tomatoes like mine, it requires great skill to get them ripe and juicy and-”

“Ntchu, Dwanu hush didn't you come over to ask me how to grow corn fresh?!” Swesi's accent flows strong like a tipped barrel full of water.

“You are not the king of farming-”

“The people say I am!” You can't help but let out a small laugh as well. Izogie glances at you, face propped on her knuckle. Mauve gums make the slightest appearance in your smile and in a way it makes it cuter.

She also sees that the loose strap of your gown has fallen and pulls it up. She knows what she's doing and if your father and her uncle weren't here you would attempt to wrestle her.

Your hand comes up straight after fixing it more as she smiles to herself and returns to her plate again.

“pass the milk, please” your father sighs and you blink.

“we have none father.” he gets ready to say something before he snaps.

“you are right, i meant to get some yesterday but I forgot”

“i have to go by the market as well, we should go together?” Dwanu furrows his brows before scooping a spoon of beans into his mouth. Your father asks if they should leave now and Dwanu confirms that they should.

“well you two we will be leaving, protect eachother and cause no trouble, I must say this knowing you too” your father raises his brow comedically.

“of course, I will protect her.” you were so tired of Izogie's shananigans that you just give her the most dirtiest look you could muster, her ignoring it just fueling the twist of your face.

“be kind to one another as well” Dwanu chimes in slipping his feet into some flats.

“Right, me and dwanu are off.” When they both leave Izogie follows on their way out and waves them good bye until there in a far distance. You put your plate up and make your way to your room but Izogie's voice stops you.

“Hey, I have to wash my clothes, don't step out of the house until I come in. I don't know what will get you beyond these fields.” you step up to her, chest to chest as you dig a finger in-between her chest.

“I am not a child, I am older than you.” you walk off and the way your hips sway have her swooning, she adores the way you speak to her even when it's coated in an attitude. Izogie calls after you and you roll your eyes at the smile being heard in her voice.

“I'm going out now!” she chuckles and grabs some gloves and a bucket from the the porch. When you arrived pulled back the curtain to your room, settling on your quilt and sighing. It was long day and you wanted to relax.

•••

Izogie clipped that last piece of clothing on the line before walking back to the house. She pushed the material that covered the entryway to the side and looked around. It sounded too quiet and the atmosphere was too dark. Not a hint of candle lights or the sound of moving against a quilt. Izogie wouldn't go to bed without checking on you.

The path to your room wasn't far anyway but when she reached it the faintest thing was heard, she tilted her head curiously to test if it was her imagination. Both hands resting on either side of the door way.

“mh.” Izogie parts her lips slightly looking in every direction she can't see before focusing in on your voice, for a second she feels ashamed for eavesdropping but can't bring herself to move. The way ecstasy dripped from your voice sounded so sweet.

Every whiny breath and moan flew through her ears like a song, why would Izogie want to leave this gentle entraption, that was you.

Something like this was only possible in her dreams.

The moment Izogie met you she couldn't think. Honest to the gods the way you looked at her made her feel small, at a feeling so foreign she wanted to reject it which led to her constantly taunting you.

Deep inside she wanted you to read her and make her confess, because bottling up these emotions she hid didn't necessarily feel good.

So as Izogie listens to you touching yourself, the images in her mind make her body feel loose, fluid-like. Her protective walls are melting down until the obscene thoughts of her mind are bared to succor.

Another moan comes but it's louder than the rest and Izogie's eyes get large. She finds herself settling on her knees, biting her lips as only muffled sounds meet her ears. Would she be wrong if her hand traced across the waistline of her shorts, placing her thumb inside to brush across her curls.

Izogie leaned forward as she mindlessly peeled the curtain back, your body was shown covered with a dainty beige material over your waist and chest, she felt breathless.

The hand in her shorts traveling further as her eyes did the same down your neck. Parts of your body are glowing from the moonlight, the argent shade overlaying your warm cocoa skin.

Izogie's eyes flickered up to your hand sliding from your mouth, a connecting string of spit that she desperately wanted to lick up, even biting her lip to suppress her groans about it. She wanted include herself in your pleasure so badly, wanted to handle you the way you liked and learn your body with her hands and her lips, and her toungue.

She shut her eyes at the thought stroking her clit as she momentarily put her head back. The long shirt that pooled around her working wrist was lifted up by her free hand, the task of her rubbing her clit becoming easier. Izogie let out an involuntary moan and quickly yanked her hand away, rushing to the guest room.

You sat up in panic, quickly wrapping the material over your whole body. Your curtain was still as you took your hand to it, dragging it to the side and sighing in relief as there was no one there, maybe it was your imagination and once Izogie finished washing clothes she immediately hit the bed. You hoped as much.

•••

In the guest room, Izogie needed to tend to her throbbing as soon as possible. The temperature in the room felt tropical and in a snap of a finger all her clothes were off. She wanted to reach that state you'd been so close to obtaining, remembering how you touched your clit and resuming the circles.

Her body shudders slightly, elbows not serving her anymore to which she lays flat against the cover relaxing her legs apart. Thick brows furrowing when a shock makes her moan.

You walk down the hallway and approach Izogie's room to see if she is asleep. Not much thought occurs when you peel back the curtain, the sight making your jaw drop. In the faint light her body glows and her pussy is drenched in an luminescent fluid you thought of licking up.

Izogie's switches her hand over her mouth for inserting a thumb. That makes her think of penetration, what if she were to..

Her fingers prod at her entrance and insert a finger, hissing lowly. It's tight but the pain feels somewhat satisfying, Izogie finds herself wanting more and inserts another one moaning loud again and you believe she doesn't care anymore.

Your thighs get stickier the more she lets out those sinful noises including the wet ones coming from her pussy. Nibbling on your bottom lip unmercifully.

“god—”

She glances at the curtain and jumps, cursing loudly. Instead of taking her fingers out she keeps them in, as she covers her most intimate body parts with a blanket.

Your expression feigns alarm, “oh!” your feet only go three meters before she's calling you.

“stop!” you oblige and watch her place a cover over her. She looks flustered, an expression you wanted to see more often instead of her arrogant facade.

“you spied on me?" She stares at you intensely, ironic how you two were both interrupted from your masturbations. “how long have you been watching?”

“not long!” Izogie looks skeptical and brought her legs closer to her chest.

“.. what were you doing before?”

“... relaxing.” she doesn't expect for you to tell the fake yet unfake truth and sputters for words, the action making you chuckle and shrug.

“it's normal, no?” she reluctantly shrugs also struggling to ask you a certain question now that you're here.

“Is it.. normal to..... offer help during this?”

“What, touching yourself?”

“yes.” Izogie sighs out and you decide to play with her a bit.

“I guess, what? Do you want my help? Seems like you have it figured out."

“this is not.. the time to tease-” a smirk forms on your lips, "it is the perfect time to tease you my sweet izo. I just wanted to check if you came back inside and here you are, pleasuring yourself..." A moment of silence passes when you trail off. Izogie is beyond embarrassed but your tone strangely didn't give off any ridicule.

It was low and soft as your eyes were observant through the shadows. Observing each shift and movement of her body. Izogie realized quickly that she didn't have to be the core of your taunt, she could be shameless and flip this situation in her favor. And that is what she was going to do.

"Yes, as you've seen.. I am pleasuring myself. Judging by the way you're still standing and staring at me you must want to see more?" Then you snap out of every little thing thats kept you afloat. The anchor of confrontment pulls you down and you hold the side of the entrance to keep from buckling at her bold statement.

"You're disgusting.. "

"Says the girl who's still in my room, knowing i was doing something privately to which you had no right to know?" Izogie frowns and gets comfortable against the wall, fully covered by now.

"... when did you get inside the house." You blankly asked and she sucked her teeth, "I got in a while ago."

"So you saw me?" You began walking and let the flap go as she visibly froze. "I saw you?"

"You watched me too.. and–" you get on your knees, glancing down at her legs that are still tightly squeezed close.

“let out an interesting sound when you realized what I was doing, Izogie.” Your tone is sultry and she bites her lip from it, heart pounding as she slowly spread her thighs to make space for you.

"You are un-believable, you don't even mind me being here do you?" You scoot closer as inhales through her flared nostrils and presses against the wall.

"I mind a lot."

You chuckle “sure.. just tell me you want me here.” Izogie never broke from yours until she flickered her eyes to your lips.

"And make your ego swell? Please." She rolls her eyes and you finally scowl, body raising to go.

"I didn't say leave." She held your wrist and from then on you showed her a lot of things that night.

•••

Her lips fell open to let out deep breaths. You wanted to pounce on her whole visual and make her reach the finish line but you can only praise her.

“good, good. You can go faster if you want” in regards to the fingers inside of her.

“I'd finish to soon— mm”

“y-yeah- go at your own pace.”

Her pussy swallows her long fingers bit by bit, squelching when she reaches a tight abyss. Izogie wets her lips just to bite them over. You would have never thought to see her like this, ever.

“can you touch me too?” she mumbles.

“only if it's okay?” she nods her head, shakily breathing as she begins to stop. You feel the insides of her thighs and scoot closer to her.

“can I get on your lap?” Izogie hums permission and you settle there, reaching a hand to cup her mound. She closes her eyes leaning her head on your chest. Two fingers give attention to her swollen clit that jumps at the contact.

“do you feel what I'm doing to you?” you ask breathing throuh your nose to calm yourself down, she drags her head up and looks at with the most irresistible eyes. Her plump lips blowing around an —I do— and it's hushed. Only for you to hear. You can't control yourself anymore and grip her tricep circling it faster as her thighs shake.

“Your near, aren't you?”

“Mhm” you nod and feel proud of yourself for unraveling her. Hands float over your sides and grip your ass, the aggression making you emit a quick yelp.

“can I— touch you?” you give the green light and she lifts the wrap up, fingers searching for your clit and then rolling it the same you pace were going in on her. You moan loudly and rise off your knees a bit.

“mm. mm.” she hooks an arm around your waist, strictly holding you close as she abused your clit with focus.

“yes!” her mouth is pressed against your breast and unconsciously sucking your nipple through the material. You stroke her head and quickly slide some of her juices on her cunt to make the slides easier.

“I'm close- cumming-” When you still, her pace doesn't stop. You're cumming all over her hand and you know it, you must grab her wrist and tell her that it's too much before she apologizes, that being cut off by her own gasp. Now she's finishing herself, arching her back off the wall before tensing up her core. She holds your elbow gently and you stop, rubbing your fingers on your wrap.

“How was that?”

“I just gave my virginity to you.”

“oh, me too.” as your highs come down you can't believe it but it's true, both of you just had sex and there's stars in Izogie's dim lit eyes that sparkle the more she looks at you. She's just staring until you get closer and peck her lips. Her eyes shut closed and then she grabs your face for something much longer than a simple peck.

She's still in the middle of rebooting so her motions are slightly sloppily and then you feel a thick tongue licking and lapping at your lips, before she uses her own to slowly enclose around yours again. Izogie hopes she's kissing you right, you transfer the most lightest whimpers through her throat and it's lulling her unbeknownst to you.

When you're out of breath you pull away and she settles for kissing your cheek and temple, moving down the slope of your neck.

“thank you” she mutters.

“of course, I'll be here whenever you need me”

“whenever I need you?” she hums in your shoulder and you can tell, slumber is bound to take her conscious any moment from now.

“Ɛɛn, ayi ce.” yes, my heart.

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